Old West Universe
RESCUED
When Shadows Fall

by Desertsage, Deb and Joby

Webmaster Note: This story is 1.79 Meg. It may not be possible to download it into a phone or tablet.

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Part 1

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

"Damn it, Buck!" Chris said angrily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vin turned to Josiah.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part 2

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

To Flourish -- Four Corners Needs a Doctor

There are many tales about towns in these territories that were born, flourished, only to die and pass from memory. We cannot let Four Corners become one of these forgotten towns. Lest not forget our history and how we have persevered.

The town is booming. We have banks, merchants, a newspaper, hotels, and we offer the services settlers seek as they pass through daily. Unfortunately, all this bounty could not save Mrs. Cotter, formerly of Collinsville, Illinois. Her family came to town urgently in need of medical treatment for the fever she had acquired on the trail. The only healer was not in town because he was tending to Mr. Robert's serious accident at his ranch. There was no one in town who was able to diagnose and treat her medical condition.

Four Corners is flourishing but basic services still need to be established. Our first efforts need to be directed at obtaining the valuable, professional services of a physician.

Four Corners needs a doctor. Mr. Jackson has been an invaluable asset to Four Corners but even he admits to the limits of his medical knowledge and when he is called from town, there is no medical assistance available here. There was no one for Mrs. Cotter. A failure this town must address.

+ + + + + + +

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+ + + + + + +

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As he walked, Chris caught snatches of conversation.

"There's no doctor in this town."

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

"Former slave. Stretcher bearer during the war."

"You mean a darkie is the only healer!"

"Fifty miles to a doctor."

"Heard three folks died at the mine."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Has the talk begun?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

+ + + + + + +

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nathan has always been good enough."

"Mr. Jackson has exceeded all expectations."

"He saved a lot of lives."

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

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

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

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

Mary nodded.

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

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

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

"WE NEED A DOCTOR HERE!"

Part 3

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

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

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

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

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

"WE NEED A DOCTOR HERE!"

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

+ + + + + + +

"Son, don't move?"

"Where's the doctor?"

"There is no doctor."

"JD!" Buck yelled.

"Folks move back."

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

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

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

"He's the doc."

"Yeah, right," the man retorted skeptically.

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

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

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

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

Chris had just arrived and looked pointedly at Mary.

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

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

"It was nothing."

"Now, it wasn't nothing."

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

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

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

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

Several men chuckled at Buck's lesson.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You embarrassed him."

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

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

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

"Hmmm, Mr. Larabee?"

"Let 'em go."

"Pardon?"

"You heard me. Release the prisoners."

"Are you sure?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thank you gambler."

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

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

Part 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+ + + + + + +

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

"Did you ask him?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And?"

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

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

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

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

+ + + + + + +

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

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

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

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

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

Only it hadn't been simple at all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part 5

Something was wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It matters to me," sobbed Belle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part 6

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey, Andreas."

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

"What's for dinner?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nathan opened the door.

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

"No need for that," Nathan quickly averred.

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

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

"It sure ain't for me."

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

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

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

"Will they be okay?"

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

"Is Casey with her?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Thanks, Doc."

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

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

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

+ + + + + + +

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

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

"Casey," JD called out.

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

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

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

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

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

JD dismounted. "Casey, is something wrong?"

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

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

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

"Not just a little bit?" JD teased.

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

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

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

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

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

"So, what's for supper?"

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

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

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

"Is that an invite?"

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

"Thank you, Casey."

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

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

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

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

Part 7

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

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

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

It was Josiah.

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

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

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

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

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

"Miss Belle doin' all ri-"

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

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

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

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

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

The horse snorted and led on wearily.

Part 8

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

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

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

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

And she swept the front porch.

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

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

Swish, swish, swish.

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

"Casey, what're you doing?"

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

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

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

Casey smiled tentatively at JD.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"This all looks great," JD enthused.

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

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

"JD, please, please just go away."

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

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

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

Casey shook her head vigorously denying the statement.

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

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

And he let her cry.

And he let her cry.

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

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

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

"You can tell me."

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

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

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

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

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

Part 9

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

"Hey, Josiah."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He the one tore your sleeve?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything froze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lookin' to find what?"

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

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

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

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

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

Part 10

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then--all hell had broken loose.

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

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

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

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

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

+ + + + + + +

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

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

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

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

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

Part 11

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Buck?" Chris asked harshly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He _ruined_ me," Belle said dramatically.

Chris straightened. "How?" he asked harshly.

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

"Did he rape you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part 12

Where the hell was he?

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

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

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

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

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

Buck was gone.

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

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

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

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

"That bad?" he drawled.

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

"Josiah?" asked Vin after a long while.

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

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

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

"She says what?"

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

"Buck wouldn't--"

"She swore out a complaint. Formally."

"But, Chris--"

"I have to arrest him, Vin."

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

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

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

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

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

"He's left town."

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

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

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

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

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

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

He walked out.

+ + + + + + +

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

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

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

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

"Or?"

"Or he comes after them."

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

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

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

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

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

Part 13

"Ma, I'm back."

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

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

"Yes, you may."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mary arched a brow at Gloria, my call.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Cholera at Eagle Bend."

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

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

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

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

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

"And your wife?"

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

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

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

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

Part 14

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

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

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

+ + + + + + +

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

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

+ + + + + + +

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

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

+ + + + + + +

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

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

+ + + + + + +

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

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

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

"AAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!"

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

+ + + + + + +

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

But he didn't fire.

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

+ + + + + + +

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

+ + + + + + +

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

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

+ + + + + + +

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

Damn! Damn, damn, DAMN!!!

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

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

Part 15

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Piece a' cake.

Part 16

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

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

+ + + + + + +

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part 17

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

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

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

+ + + + + + +

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

+ + + + + + +

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

+ + + + + + +

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

AAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!

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

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

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

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

+ + + + + + +

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

Then, the vomiting started again.

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

Nathan lapsed into unconsciousness again.

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

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

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

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

Part 18

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+ + + + + + +

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part 19

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

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

+ + + + + + +

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

+ + + + + + +

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

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

+ + + + + + +

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

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

+ + + + + + +

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

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

+ + + + + + +

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

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

+ + + + + + +

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

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

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

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

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

Please, please, please.

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

His pleas were not heard.

+ + + + + + +

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

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

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

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

+ + + + + + +

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

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

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

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

+ + + + + + +

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

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

+ + + + + + +

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

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

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

Ezra was probably about $400 ahead.

+ + + + + + +

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

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

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

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

He could play all night.

+ + + + + + +

Doesn't this guy ever quit?

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

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

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

The three players checked and cards were called for.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+ + + + + + +

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

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

+ + + + + + +

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

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

Part 20

Moonrise.

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

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

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

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

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

+ + + + + + +

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He means to stop him," added Thompson.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We take them in."

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

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

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

Part 21

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well shit! You coulda'--"

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

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

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

"That arrow was Crow," he said softly.

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

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

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

"They ain't here, Buck."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part 22

"There he is."

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

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

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

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

"Sure takes you long enough," hissed Sullivan.

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

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

"Good luck picking your shot from here."

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

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

"Consider yourself poorer," said Thompson softly.

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

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

"That was a lucky shot!" he yelled.

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

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

+ + + + + + +

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No," he said soberly.

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

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

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

Buck laughed. "Must be the company."

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

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

And it was August.

Part 23

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey, pard."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+ + + + + + +

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

Wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But you don't know where?"

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

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

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

+ + + + + + +

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

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

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

+ + + + + + +

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

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

Part 24

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

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

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

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

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

"I'll meet you at the saloon."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+ + + + + + +

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

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

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

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

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

"Mr. Jackson hardly seeks my company."

"So, you haven't seen him?"

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

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

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

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

"You haven't seen him?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part 25

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

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

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

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

JD smiled broadly. "You needed the sleep."

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

"I took care of 'em."

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

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

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

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

"No, I was waiting on you."

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

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

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

"Casey, you know I don't cook," JD sounded almost panicked.

Casey couldn't stop laughing. JD retaliated by grabbing her and started to tickle her. Casey wriggled against him. "JD," she gasped.

"Uncle."

"Never," Casey was doubled over from laughing and giggling. She shrieked as JD picked her up. "Uncle, uncle." JD immediately released her. Casey eyes sparkled, "what would you like?"

"Flapjacks."

"Sure." Casey turned to collect the ingredients thinking she felt quite good. She could ride and throw knives better than JD and she could cook. Dang, she was feeling downright superior.

In short order, breakfast was on the table. Casey looked over the spread she presented. Not bad, if she did say so herself. But JD was generous with praise and they had an enjoyable breakfast. The first time in days, Casey had any appreciable appetite.

"Casey, I got to go back to town today?"

Casey's face fell, "Why?"

"I've been here two days. I have responsibilities."

"But wouldn't Buck or one of the others come get you?" Casey was valiantly trying to tamp down her panic.

"Yes, they would," JD patiently explained. "But I have duties I must tend to, and I can't expect the others to do the job I'm paid for."

"Fine, that's just fine," Casey knew she sounded childish, "Do what you have to do."

"You're coming with me," JD stated matter-of-factly.

"I am certainly not."

"You can't stay here alone."

That caused Casey to pause. Before two days ago, she would never have thought twice about being here alone. Now, the thought filled her with dread. But she had promised herself she'd never go to town again. Tears pricked the corner of her eyes, she felt trapped between worse and worser.

JD reached across the table and took one of Casey's hands. "I would feel much better knowing you were in town with me."

"You would feel better."

"Yeah, I would."

Casey considered what to do. She pulled her hand away and ran it through her hair, obviously agitated. "JD, I just don't think I can." She ran out of the cabin to escape the pressure from JD.

Casey's breaths were coming in short gasps; she felt she was suffocating. What was she to do? Casey calmed herself and weighed her options. She could go to the Andrews' farm and stay there. But her aunt would surely ask her a lot of questions that Casey had no intention of answering.

She could stay here. Alone. Unprotected. That was worse than facing her aunt.

She could go to town. Why was it she wasn't doing that again? Because there were bad people there. Okay, girl, you can stay here alone or go to town where you have JD and Buck, or any of the seven for that matter. Casey was fast realizing just how much she owed Buck Wilmington. She had been so distraught that day he brought her home; she didn't ever probably thank him. That was it. She'd go to town and thank Buck, and that way she wouldn't be alone.

As Casey returned to the cabin, JD was standing on the front porch. He looked at her pensively but he didn't say anything more.

"I've decided it's best if I go to town with you." Casey felt better just saying it.

JD nodded and said solemnly, "I'll saddle the horses."

Casey was thinking JD Dunne was pretty smart. One wrong word from him, she would've stayed here alone. She went to the bedroom to collect the things she needed to take with her. Casey resolutely prepared herself to return to town. Boy, was she nervous. Come on, girl. How bad can it be? JD will be there. Buck will be there. And they'd make sure it would all be okay. She'd be protected. She'd be safe.

Part 26

Belle woke and stretched to work out the stiffness of her muscles. She really missed her feather bed and considered how soon she could return to it in California. By the amount of sunlight in the room, she estimated it was mid-morning. Down right early. There was really no hurry to get out of bed except there was no man to keep her company. It was a rare morning indeed that she didn't have company. It was far too lucrative not to.

Belle went to stand in front of the mirror. She was a blue-eyed brunette with a perfect alabaster complexion. She removed her silk gown and admired her petite figure. She was perfect. Patrons traveled hundreds of miles to admire the beauty and her acting ability whilst she was on the stage in San Francisco. And many a gentleman paid handsomely to keep her company. But it was never the money. It was the adoration.

Belle pursed her lips considering the man in her living room. In different circumstances, like if he was rich and lived in San Francisco, she would very much like to keep time with Josiah Sanchez. He was a stunning man. Maybe not in the classical sense, but he had a face of character and an eloquence unmatched by most of his contemporaries. And he adored her.

As it was, Josiah Sanchez was an erstwhile preacher in a territorial outpost. He wasn't even the most powerful man in town. He was part of a gang of seven regulators hired by some judge to maintain law and order in the region. And at the princely sum of $1 a day. But for all his bad features, he did adore her. Hell, she didn't have to work hard at it. One had to be flattered as he came to her defense, even if he would never do in the long run.

Belle walked over to consider her wardrobe. She really did need those new dresses she had commissioned upon arriving to town. Maybe Josiah Sanchez wasn't her future, but she could enjoy his attentions in the meantime. Maybe to help ease the pains of her sojourn in this backwater. To adore her. Belle pulled a periwinkle blue dress from the trunk, an appropriate dress for the territory and flattering to her coloring.

After she was dressed, Belle admired herself in the morning. She took several deep breaths and then allowed her eyes to tear slightly. She was ready.

Belle carefully opened the door. Josiah was awake and sitting on the settee. Belle scurried across the room to kneel at his feet. "Oh Josiah, did you stay here all night protecting me?" The smell of alcohol was heavy on his breath but Belle made every effort not to wrinkle her nose in disgust.

Josiah gently took her hand and urged Belle to stand. "Miss Belle, I am your servant."

"Oh Josiah, I am unworthy of your service."

Josiah bent and kissed the back of her hand. "No, Miss Belle, it is I who failed you."

Belle dropped her head and allowed a tear to escape her eye. "There was no way you could've known what . . .", Belle drew a ragged breath, "what type of man he was."

"No, Miss Belle, I did. It was my failure."

"Maybe I will have it in me to forgive."

Josiah's head bowed deeply. "I would be most unworthy but rest assured, you will never want for protection."

"You are so gallant, Josiah. Please let me make some coffee and a light repast for you."

"No, Miss Belle, you do not need to do this for me." The misery in Josiah's voice was unmistakable.

"I insist. You would not deny me anything I want?" Belle inquired hurt.

"I deny you nothing," Josiah quickly averred.

"Then, I insist." Belle turned and entered the kitchen, pleased with the start to the morning. She was really good, extremely good. Belle bowed to the stove, thank you my fans. Belle lightly laughed at her silliness. As she prepared the coffee and breakfast, she worryingly bit her lip, now, to figure out a way for Josiah to take her to town. She will just die of boredom if she didn't get out of this house.

Josiah came into the kitchen and sat at the table. He had made some effort to freshen up and was halfway sober.

"Here you are, my gallant protector." Josiah bowed and held a seat for Belle. Belle sat down and served Josiah. After a few minutes, she let her head bow and gave a half-sob. "Josiah, do others think badly of me?"

"I don't know how they could," Josiah responded puzzled.

"I am a fallen woman, shamed," Belle answered in a very small voice. She watched Josiah's reaction to that statement from hooded eyes.

Josiah leapt to Belle's defense. "I will assure you that not one bit of gossip will reach your ears."

"Oh Josiah, my gallant protector," Belle took one of Josiah's hands and looked adoringly into his eyes. "I just didn't know what I was going to do. I am in desperate need to pick up some dresses from the seamstress. I had thought to ask you but then I would . . ." Belle let out a ragged breath, "I would have to be here by myself."

"No, no. You can't not stay here alone," Josiah firmly stated.

"Thank you, Josiah," Belle bowed her head trying to hide her elation, "may we go immediately after breakfast?"

"I will hitch the carriage now."

Belle danced a little jig in the kitchen when Josiah went to the barn. She really did need to give some thought as to how she could further exploit the circumstances.

The ride in to town was without conversation. Josiah was morose and Belle's machinations prevented her from attempting conversation.

As they approached town, Belle stiffened and bowed her head. "Oh Josiah, how will I ever survive this?"

"Now, now, Miss Belle." Josiah drew the carriage up to the storefront of the seamstress.

"What will I do if that horrid man . . . Oh Josiah, will you check for me and guarantee he is behind bars and can't hurt me?"

"I will guarantee it. Do not leave the store until I return."

"I promise, Josiah."

Belle watched Josiah Sanchez storm down the boardwalk, patrons scattering to clear his path. A satisfied smile crossed Belle's face, fuse lit.

Now what else can I do? Belle spied the young couple down the street. She recognized the young man as another of the seven men hired to protect the town. Belle watched the young man, JD Dunne that was his name, animatedly talk to a young lady that he obviously cared for. Even from this distance, Belle recognized that the feelings were mutual. Dunne then walked off and the girl continued down the boardwalk in her direction.

Think I need to talk to that young lady about the company she's keeping and the company her boyfriend keeps. After all, Belle knew just what Buck Wilmington was capable of. Belle smiled in anticipation.

Part 27

The sun was nearly straight overhead now, erasing any lingering shade among the rocks and heating their surfaces. Soon they would be too hot to touch with bare skin, too hot for a wounded man to lay on without something under him. Vin looked over at Buck, laying on the rocks where Vin had tried to ease him down some after he'd collapsed earlier. Buck had gone down so hard and so fast -- apparently trying to scale the rocks for some reason -- that Vin had been worried he'd hit his head. But there didn't seem to be any bruises or knots, so he kept hoping it was the combination of blood loss and so much exertion that had done it. Vin shook his head, thinking about it. How on earth the weak man he'd seen at the campsite had gotten him on a horse and all the way over here -- it seemed impossible even to imagine. But Buck had done it, and now he was paying the price. Vin lay his hand on the rock nearest him and felt the heat radiating into his palm, then looked again at Buck.

The gunman must have taken his coat off the night before, probably to use under his head, because he didn't have it on now. Vin sighed and started pulling at his leather coat one-handed. He shrugged off the left sleeve fairly easily, but the right one -- Vin bit his lips as he tried to ease the coat back and down, off his bad arm, but he had to stop when his vision began to swim from the pain. He closed his eyes to let the worst of it subside, then started again. Gently, an inch at a time, he worked the worn coat loose, and then finally it dropped heavily to the sand and rocks beneath him, and Vin sagged, dizzy and exhausted, relieved it was over.

It was several long minutes before he was able to move again, and then it seemed like there was half a territory between himself and Buck instead of only ten or twelve feet. Vin squatted carefully, stiffly, trying to keep from moving any part of his chest or right arm, to pick up the coat with his left hand. He had to brace himself against the rock in front of him with his left shoulder to get up again. Damn! Beads of sweat broke from the effort, to run in thin rivulets down the sides of his face. He pushed himself off the rock, took a single step, staggered, then forced himself to take another step and a third before he dropped to his knees with a low cry in spite of clenching his teeth against it, his breath coming fast and things starting to spin again. At least, he thought, at least I'm here now. All I have to do now is get it under 'im so he don't burn up, so he don't . . .

Vin's thoughts trailed off into a dimness that he recognized as dangerous, and he shook his head to clear it. Buck. Buck was laying on the shining granite under that blistering sun and Vin had to get something under him or he'd die from the heat without any chance at all. The tracker looked at his friend's unconscious form and wondered how on earth he was possibly going to raise the man's head and back to slide the coat beneath him. He closed his eyes as a deep stab of pain caught him off-guard and dropped the coat to clutch at his own shoulder with a gasp. He curled his head to his chest, holding his breath against the pain as it shook him like it would throw him to the ground, until the spasm passed and he could see again. Do it right now, he thought. I gotta' do it right now or I might not make it.

He knew there was no way he could lift with even his good arm; the pain from the slug embedded in his shoulder was so overwhelming that the slightest movement threatened him with an unconsciousness that would spell Buck's death as well as his own. He hadn't forgotten for a moment that there was still a bounty hunter out there somewhere, and that he had a long-range rifle with a damned good scope. So he did the only thing he could think of to do. Very carefully, as gently as possible, Vin sat down and extended his legs in front of him, to slide one foot beneath Buck's neck and lift it from the stone. The man's head hung back off Vin's ankle as he raised it, and the younger man scooted forward a fraction, clenching his jaws and holding his arm and shoulder to keep them still as possible, as he shoved the coat towards Buck with his other foot. Slowly, inch by inch, he pushed the leather beneath Buck's neck and head, and then beneath his shoulders and the upper part of his back.

There was no way to get it any farther. Vin sighed, and let Buck's head and neck back down, onto leather now instead of bare stone, and hoped it would somehow be enough. He looked up at the sun again, and thought he really ought to try to get the last of the water into Buck somehow; he had lost so much blood. But he found his head dropping against his own chest, then realized with a start that he had nearly let himself slip away. Couldn't do that, he thought. Couldn't--

What was that? A movement had caught his eye, and he rolled to a sitting position, looking outward from the rocks. He saw it again, unmistakable: a man had run from the cover of the trees to a rock a little distance out from there, advancing. Earlier Vin had taken Buck's pistol and reloaded it awkwardly, then tucked it in the front of his own gunbelt. Now he slid the heavy weapon out with his left hand, and balanced the butt of it on the stone. He squinted to see through the sweat that kept running into his eyes, and thumbed back the hammer, waiting. Five long minutes went by, and Vin carefully slid farther down the outcrop, trying to see better. He was ready when the man jumped up suddenly to race to another place of cover that was nearer, and Vin did his best with Buck's pistol to at least make the bastard think twice about getting any closer. Then a sudden sound behind him made him whirl around so quickly that he caught his breath and slid down the stone to the ground as the pain slammed into him again. Even as he was trying to raise Buck's pistol in a shaking hand, he could see it was too late, though.

A black-haired man in buckskins was standing over Buck, a gun to the unconscious man's head. His eyes were on Vin, and there was something about the feral expression on his face that made the tracker freeze. It was, Vin realized with a sinking feeling, an expression of furious joy, even though there was no smile. The man was actually happy to be inches away from killing Buck in cold blood, and hoping for the opportunity to do so.

"Drop your weapon this moment," he said, "or this man is dead. Now."

Vin laid the pistol on the sand. "Leave 'im be," he gasped. "He ain't nothin' to you."

"Oh, I think he is," hissed the stranger. Vin heard rapid footsteps running up behind him, and knew it was the man he'd been watching and trying to stop.

"No." Vin felt like the air was growing thicker and harder to breathe as he fought to stay conscious. "He ain't wanted for nothin'. Only me. Leave 'im here."

The man who had come over the stones into the small cleared area chuckled, and Vin craned his head to see that this one, redhaired and bearded, was eyeing the man in buckskins with a smirk. "What do you say?" the redhead asked the other man, cocking his head "Shall we see if there's a bounty on Mr. Tanner's friend, too?" He looked down at Vin, then. "Or shall we just kill him and leave him for the buzzards, and take only Mr. Tanner with us?"

The black-haired man laughed coarsely. "Depends," he said, "on how much trouble they are."

Vin tried to push himself up higher on the rock behind him, and winced. The man in buckskin started towards him, his eyes suddenly going dead. He flipped his pistol around and raised the back of it towards Vin, but the other man stopped him.

"You are so uncouth," he said. He actually looked faintly disgusted. "It's a lot easier than that."

And raising one foot, he casually set the sole of his boot against the wound in Vin's shoulder and pressed firmly and heavily upon it. Vin jerked, and a spasm of anguish ran across his features that vanished as he slumped to the ground, unconscious.

Sullivan frowned. "What's all that shit about wanting a bounty outta' Wilmington?"

"No reason to let him know there's anything more to this than he thinks there is." Thompson grabbed Vin by his feet and dragged him unceremoniously over to the stone where Buck lay. "Get their horses. I'll start tying their hands."

"I'm gettin' tired of you always giving me orders." Sullivan stared into Thompson's eyes for a long moment, and then turned without another word and headed for Tanner's and Wilmington's horses as well as their own. Thompson looked after him for an even longer moment, then bent to his task.

Twenty minutes later, Vin and Buck were on horseback and tied to their saddles in ways that would make sure they got where they had to go. Sullivan had tied their feet to the stirrups, and then their bound hands to the saddle horns. He shook the ropes to make sure everything was secure, and then ran a long lead line from one horse to another and tied it off to the D ring on his own saddle. Thompson was stowing his gear and securing his own rig as Sullivan worked, and he mounted as the other man finished checking everything and looked up.

"I still think it would make more sense to pack them like gunnysacks," said Thompson.

"It'd kill 'em," said Sullivan, as if he didn't care. "They're supposed to get there alive, and it's too far for that kinda' travel." He lifted Vin's limp head by his hair and looked into the slack face, then dropped it again and laughed at the way the tracker lolled down over the gelding's whithers. "Besides, this is kinda' fun." He looked up at Thompson and his face grew hard. "I like it, you know. I like to think about men I hate, in this kind of fix."

Thompson returned the gaze evenly, knowing the threat when he heard it. He gathered the reins on the dun mare and backed her, to leave.

"Be careful you don't find yourself on the wrong end of it one of these days," he said softly. He whirled the mare, and rode away.

Part 28

"Well, everything looks quiet enough." JD's eyes were running quickly up and down the street as they rode into town. Casey looked at him and shrugged as casually as she knew how.

"Looks like always," she said. Like always, she told herself. Like all the times before. I've been here a hundred times and nothing ever happened and it's gonna' be like all those times today.

"Yeah, but lately those cowhands have been really causin' trouble. The herds can't be all that far away yet, so . . . Casey? You all right?"

"Yeah." Casey swallowed and pushed her face into a weak smile.

They had ridden up to the hitching rail near the hardware store, and Casey leaped lightly to the ground and tied her horse before JD could say anything more. He dismounted and came around to stand in front of her as she stepped up onto the boardwalk, and he wouldn't move until she looked up at him. When she did, he searched her face with dark eyes filled with concern.

"I'm all RIGHT, JD," said Casey, and she shoved past him and raised her chin to hide its trembling, and cocked her head back at him from the walkway. "I'm gonna' go see if Mrs. Potter's got in the bolt a' calico Aunt Nettie ordered. You go do whatever it is you gotta' do."

"Yeah, but Casey--" JD extended one hand to her, but Casey tossed her head and felt the devilment rise in her, and her eyes snapped.

"An' I gotta' look at her Godey's Ladies' Book and see what the new fashion is for the dress we're makin' out of it. I wanna' make the waist low like this, but Aunt Nettie--"

"Uhhh . . . that's ok, Casey. That stuff . . . it, uh . . ." JD shuffled nervously in a way that made the girl smile inside without letting him see it. He blanched suddenly as he realized what dangerous territory he was on. "That is," he said, starting to stammer, "That is, it really don't matter what the dress LOOKS like 'cause it's still on you an' . . . uh, I mean . . ." His face was starting to turn red, and Casey laughed but tried to look at him archly.

"Oh, JD," she said, "just go on an' find your friends."

JD smiled as relief flooded him. Well, at least this time he hadn't managed to wind up insulting her. "I'll see ya' in a little while, OK?"

"Yeah." The girl nodded, smiling, and JD turned and hurried off down the boardwalk, then crossed the street towards the hotel. Casey watched him go for a long moment, and then decided that maybe a little time visiting with Mrs. Potter wasn't such a bad idea after all.

+ + + + + + +

JD stood in the street near the boardwalk outside the hotel, and looked up and down the length of it one more time. He was just sure Vin had to be there somewhere, cocked back in a chair tipped against the wall in the shadows. Had to be. He always was, this time of day.

But he wasn't.

And neither was Josiah. Or Chris. One or both of them tended to join the tracker this time of day. They exchanged genial barbs and teased JD when he showed up, and . . . where _were_ they? JD's face pulled together in a puzzled scowl as he turned around to scan the other side of the street. Nothing.

Well. Buck would know. And he was usually in the jail this time of morning, yawning and scratching himself awake even though the others had already been up for hours. Why on earth his first footsteps in the morning tended to drag him to that old beat-up desk in the sheriff's office, JD couldn't imagine. But they did. The young man squared his shoulders and stepped up on the walkway. He hoped he looked a lot more nonchalant than he felt.

The door was standing open, just a fraction. JD stopped dead when he saw it, and something inside him shivered and it seemed he had to grab it in two hands to keep it from breaking into terrified bits. It's just come opened, he said to himself, probably from Buck banging it so hard it bounced. But it took him a moment to get enough courage to reach out and put his hand on the latch, and when he slowly pushed on it the hinges squeaked like the place hadn't been used in years. JD closed his eyes, for a moment half expecting to see cobwebs hanging off the beams when he went inside. He shook his head, mad at himself, and pushed his way in quickly and shut the door behind him with a snap.

The ring of keys was hanging on the nail. The stack of wanted posters was on the corner of the desk where it belonged. The jail cells were empty. The cots were bare of linens and the basins stood dry on their shelves.

JD walked slowly around the room, his boots thumping out hollow soft sounds on the floorboards. He felt the hair starting to stand up on the back of his neck. The sheriff's office was often empty, although it had recently been filled to overflowing with drunken trailherders and brawlers. It really shouldn't be a problem that no one was here. The young man slipped off his bowler and held it to his chest in an unconscious gesture of trepidation and looked around the room with widening eyes, his heart hammering. So why did this feel so bad? Even dangerous? Nathan. Mary. SOMEONE had to know what was going on. It was all ok, and when he found out he'd laugh and laugh and Buck would make fun of him.

JD was outside again, and this time he didn't think about who might see him hurry and think less of him for being such a kid. The Clarion office wasn't far. The door was unlocked. Mary wasn't there. Billy wasn't there. The press was still. JD stood in the dark room looking around with the feeling growing that something horrible was sitting just out of his line of sight, watching him. His eye fell on a tear sheet laying on the typesetting table, and the banner caught him like it had been smacked into his face with a hammer. He leaned towards it with a gasp, read the first few lines, and shook his head. No, no. Why would Mary say such a thing about Nathan? What was going on?

Part 29

Casey was nervous when JD left her to look for the rest of the seven, but she figured that this was broad daylight and therefore better than the last time she'd been to town. But the real reason she agreed to separate was that she hoped it would give her a chance to find Buck. She sure didn't want to talk to him with JD around. She knew she probably had to tell JD some time. People who cared about each other weren't supposed to have secrets, but she just wasn't ready. On the other hand, she really wanted to look into the face of someone who knew her terrible secret and still didn't think she was a bad person. Actually, she just wanted to look at someone who _knew_. She wanted to thank him too. Though she could never thank him enough. She knew he'd say it was nothing, that he hadn't even rescued her, that she'd done that herself. But he'd made her feel a little safer, a little stronger. Because he'd looked at her and his eyes had looked the same as always, she'd felt, at least while he was there, as if things would be okay.

"Excuse me."

Casey's heart startled and she almost jumped right out of her skin when she heard the voice behind her. Then she realized it was the soft voice of a woman speaking to her. Still, her hand was on her chest when she turned around. The woman was not someone she'd ever seen before. "Yes?" she said, making it a question and hoping she managed to cover the tremor in her voice.

"Are you...I thought I saw you with that young Mr. Dunne," the woman said. Though she was a small woman with delicate features, she had a rich dramatic voice.

"I..." Casey began. She cleared her throat and tried again. "I'm Casey Wells. Yes, ma'am."

The woman clasped her hand, which was holding a lace handkerchief, to her chest. "I know you don't know me." The woman's voice trembled. "I just thought...I thought you should know." And to Casey's amazement, the woman began to cry. Very softly, and somehow managing not to become all red and blotchy like Casey herself did when she cried, but almost delicately. Real womanly, Casey thought. She didn't quite know what to do. "I hope...," the woman said after a few minutes. "You see, my name is Belle Corydon." And she paused to look at Casey in an expectant way. When Casey didn't say anything she continued. "That Mr. Dunne, he...he...oh dear," the woman dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. "He is friends with a man named Wilmington is he not?"

"JD and Buck are real good friends," Casey said with pride.

"Oh dear," Belle said heavily. She sighed and buried her head in her handkerchief for a moment.

"Ma'am?" Casey looked around for someone else to help her, but there was no one she knew on the street. "Are you all right?"

"No!" Belle raised her head suddenly and Casey jumped back. 'No, I'm not all right." She grabbed Casey's arm. "I'm ruined. Do you understand what that means?"

Casey wasn't exactly sure she did, but she nodded anyway.

"I'm _ruined_," Belle repeated. "There is no future left for me. But I can't bear to see anyone else hurt. And I thought...well, it's my duty as a woman to warn you!"

"I'm not sure..." Casey began.

"He _raped_ me." Belle said emphatically. "He came out to my house and raped me. Buck Wilmington. You should know. A sweet girl like you isn't safe."

Casey's face had gone pale. What was this woman talking about? Buck couldn't. He _wouldn't_. He had been her savior. She _knew_. She took a step backward and thumped into the wall of the dry good's store. She backed up tight against it, hoping this woman would just shut up and go away. "You must--"

"Oh, I'm not saying anything about your young man, your Mr. Dunne," Belle was well and truly wound up now. "I'm sure he's a very nice young man. I'm sure he just doesn't know any better. But I'm telling you...and it's for your own good. You must stay away from Buck Wilmington. Keep Mr. Dunne away from him too. I mean a man who would attack a woman in her own home when the sun is barely up. What kind of a man is that? I ask you?"

"I..." Casey waved her hand feebly in front of her. Belle had moved right up in her face and, though she wanted to just get away, she had nowhere to go. "I don't think..."

"That's right," Belle said approvingly. "A nice sweet girl like you shouldn't even know about such things. And," she reached out and grasped Casey's hand. "I would never tell you, but it's so _dangerous_ in a town like this. Right in my own house. Just two days ago. What do you think of that?"

For a minute, Casey didn't say anything, she just looked dazedly ahead of her. When had everything gotten so mixed up? A week ago she'd been plain old Casey Wells who thought she could handle anything. Then, suddenly she'd been scared-to-death Casey who couldn't even stay at the house by herself. And now...who was she now? She looked at Belle, who was standing there next to her practically trembling. She _did_ look scared, Casey admitted. But then, she thought of Buck. And she knew. She just _knew_. It was only Belle's words overwhelming her. It was being in town like this. It was too much. She couldn't think. But she had to hold on to what she knew.

"NO!" Casey shouted it at her. "Get away from me!"

Belle jumped back, startled.

"You're just wrong!" Casey yelled. "You have to be!"

Belle studied her carefully. "I don't think so." She paused and hid her head in her handkerchief for a moment. Casey could see her hand trembling. "I could tell you details."

Suddenly, Casey couldn't breathe. She could feel that man again with his hands on her, grabbing at her. She didn't say anything to Belle. She just ran, thinking that the first thing she had to do was find Buck and let him know what this woman was saying about him.

Belle watched her run. And she smiled.

Part 30

JD didn't even remember going from Mary's to Nathan's. He just found himself running up the stairs three at a time, nearly colliding with Mary on her way down.

Mary!

Thank God. Someone. Anyone. "Mary!" gasped JD. She looked up like she'd been shot, even took half a step back and tripped on the stairs, nearly falling. Her hand flew out to the railing to catch herself, and JD put a hand beneath her other arm and tried to smile in his relief. He should feel relieved, right? Here was Mary. Mary was here.

"Excuse me, JD." She tried to go around him. He caught her elbow and wouldn't let it go.

"What's goin' on?" He was breathless from running all over town.

"Nathan." She looked back up the stairs, and a shadow ran across her face. She looked at JD and her gaze focused and she looked suddenly sad and scared at the same time. "Nathan's sick," she said in her soft voice. She started to turn to leave again, but JD wouldn't let her.

"What d'you mean 'Nathan's sick'? Mary, what's goin' on?"

"I don't know." She shook her head. "Ezra's taking care of him. Maybe dysentery or something, I don't know. He told me to go get water. It's --." She looked JD in the eye again. "I have to go." She tore her arm from his gentle grasp and hurried down the stairs. JD stood looking at her, then looked up the stairs again. He turned and climbed the rest of the way, then knocked lightly on the door to Nathan's room. There was a sound of brisk footsteps from inside, and then Ezra's voice speaking through the closed door.

"Mary?"

"No, it's JD."

"Go away, JD. Consider this place off-limits until we know whether or not Mr. Jackson has succumbed to a contagion."

"Ezra--"

"I cannot talk to you while Nathan suffers. If you see Mary, ask her to send up a washtub as well. Tell her to have the workmen leave everything on the landing."

"But Ezra--"

The footsteps left and JD heard scraping of furniture, a low groan, the sound of things being moved around. Several burly men arrived with full buckets of water sloshing from each hand, and JD put his hat back on sadly as they looked at him for the answer to the question they hadn't asked. "Set 'em on the landing, here," said JD. "Knock on the door to let 'in know you've brought 'em."

He left as the men knocked and Ezra spoke again through the door, his voice muffled as JD trailed down the stairs to the street, his heart indefinably heavy.

He never was able to figure out what it was that impelled him, finally, to the livery stable. But the closer he got to it, the more the sense of dread grew in him. By the time he saw that Buck's grey wasn't in its stall, he already knew it. And Vin's gelding: gone. He went on down the line, his eyes feeling like they had sand in them. Chris's black. He could be at his shack, of course, but . . . Not with the other two gone as well.

JD Dunne came out into the sunlight of what had been a pretty morning not too long ago, and realized there was only one person left who might be able to give him some answers, to tell him what was going on, and maybe why he hadn't screwed up worse than he'd ever screwed up in his life before by not being here when whatever it was had happened.

Josiah.

JD turned his steps for the church. No Josiah; the preacher wasn't there. They _couldn't_ be dead. The thought that had been trying to ambush him all along leaped out and JD blocked it even as it sprang. No. They just couldn't. Their horses would still be at the livery if they were dead, right? But they were gone. And Josiah was missing, too, but his horse was _there_. And Ezra or Mary would have _said_ something. They were just gone, was all. It was all right. It had to be all right. It had to be.

JD's steps dragged as he wandered to the saloon, thinking to maybe get out of the heat for a little while at least. He pushed open the doors with slumped shoulders and sagging step, and then felt almost an electric shock of joy when his eyes fell on Josiah's burly form in the back of the room. JD couldn't help the smile that he knew wreathed his face as he dragged out a chair and slammed his hat to the table. Josiah!! He waited expectantly, face beaming. The dust settled. Poker chips three tables over clicked on the table there as a man said softly "call." JD felt his face relax, then fall.

"Josiah?" His voice sounded like a kid's even to him. He cleared his throat and sat up straighter in his chair, brushing his hair back with one hand as he did so. "Josiah!"

The big preacher looked up slowly, and JD gasped at the sullen expression on the man's face. His eyes were bloodshot, small, banked with dull rage. "Lea' me 'lone," mumbled Josiah. He looked back down at the table, and at the beer mug in his fist.

"I can't -- I --" JD looked around the saloon furtively. Was anyone else seeing this? He looked back at Josiah and lowered his voice. "Josiah. What's goin' on?"

"Go 'way."

"Look, that's the second time today someone has said that to me." JD's voice rose a fraction, he looked around nervously again, and he leaned closer to the big man. "First Ezra an' now--"

"I said 'get lost'." Josiah's voice was not loud, but it carried a menace that made JD pause. He swallowed nervously.

"No," he said.

Josiah looked up again, and a flash of anger raced across his face. He remained silent, however, and JD leaned forward even farther. "Since when is Nathan sick? Where did Chris an' Vin an' Buck go? An'--"

Josiah's head snapped back and he sat up straighter in his chair. "Buck left?"

JD stopped and looked at Josiah, puzzled. "Yeah, with Chris an'--"

"I should've known it. The bastards." Josiah started to scrape back his chair, but JD laid a hand on the man's enormous arm and stopped him. He swallowed hard at the look Josiah planted him with.

"Tell me what happened," JD said.

"I'll tell you what happened." Josiah was standing up as he spoke, his words low and dark and roiling with alcohol and the heat of August and the dark, stale room, and the lost love of a good woman. "That son of a bitch, Buck, despoiled my Belle."

"What?" JD stepped back in front of Josiah as the man started to leave, his question not one of disbelief but only of complete confusion. "You're talkin' like Ezra, Josiah. What the hell do you mean?"

"I mean he _raped_ her, boy. When you an' I were at the Delano Mine." Josiah nodded grimly at the look of utter shock that dropped JD's jaw and made him blanch. "Yeah, suddenly his not comin' with us looks a little different, don't it?"

Josiah pushed past JD, and the younger man turned to run sideways at his heels as he left the saloon. "No," he was saying as he tried to get in front of the preacher, "Buck wouldn't do that, Josiah. Somethin' don't add up here. There's somethin' . . . Josiah? Josiah. . . " He trailed off as the preacher went on without even slowing, as if JD hadn't been there, hadn't said a thing.

Casey. He needed to find Casey.

Part 31

Ezra shuddered, as he briefly felt overwhelmed by all that he had to do to take care of Nathan. It was one thing to rely on yourself. It was another to be a member of a team, a gang, and together be strong. But the absolute situation that Ezra avoided was one person depending on him. Nathan Jackson was relying on Ezra Standish and Ezra was feeling wholly inadequate to the task.

Ezra's strategy if you want to call it that, was to clean Nathan and then, clean the bed. Then, diagnose Nathan's condition. Then, treat him if at all possible. You know, Ezra, praying couldn't hurt -- maybe that should be first on the list. Ezra laughed shortly, it was almost a sob -- it had been a long time. He closed his eyes, Dear Lord . . .

Ezra walked over to the small chest and rifled through Nathan's belongings to find a bandanna. Ezra tied the bandanna and covered his nose and mouth. Wouldn't be quite fitting to have to clean up after yourself as well as Nathan. He removed his red jacket, waistcoat, and tie, carefully folding them and placing over a chair back. He rolled his sleeves.

Ezra quickly stripped the bed and opened the door to pull in fresh linens. He covered the mattress with a sheet. He stripped Nathan and moved him to the bed to bathe him.

Ezra had ordered a quarantine and was pleased to see barriers established as he dumped the bed bath water.

With Nathan initially cleaned, Ezra urged and cajoled Nathan to walk over to the tub. Ezra bathed him again. His hand paused as he encountered the raised scars on Nathan's back. No man deserves . . . Ezra couldn't complete the thought.

Ezra assisted Nathan to sit in a chair and dried him. He stripped the bed again and placed fresh sheets. "Come on, Nathan," and he assisted him back to bed. But the movement had resumed the stomach heaves and Nathan started vomiting again. Ezra held the pot and when the vomiting stopped, wiped Nathan's face and offered some water so he could rinse his mouth. Nathan's breath and vomit had a strong, garlic odor. Ezra cataloged the symptom but didn't know what it meant. He had nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, but no fever. He had stomach pains but no other pain apparently. Ezra wished he knew what it all meant.

"I'm gonna kill JD," Nathan muttered but he was not lucid and Ezra could not question him on it. JD, what did JD have to do with this?

Ezra surveyed the room; it was filthy with vomit and diarrhea. Ezra emptied the pots and got down on his hands and knees to scrub the floor with chloride of lime. Several times Ezra had to stop to tend Nathan with his frequent episodes of vomiting and diarrhea.

Ezra pulled some carbolic acid from the shelf and diluted it and carefully washed his hands and forearm. He also wiped out the basins he had been using. He briefly considered opening the door and window for ventilation but rejected the idea until he could figure out what was going on.

Ezra pulled a frustrated hand through his hair and wished he had paid more attention when Nathan worked. But it truly was never his forte. How do you figure this out? Ezra's eyes swept the room and he noted two medical books and a leather journal on the shelf. Ezra had given Nathan the journal, though Nathan didn't know that, to record his observations, pearls of information that he gained as he took care for more and more patients. Nathan might not have formal schooling but someone had taught him to read and write, actually Ezra wouldn't be surprised if he taught himself, and Nathan had started to keep meticulous records of lessons learned from doctors, medicine men, and patients.

Ezra quickly leafed through the book, easily reading Nathan's neat script. He found several references to care for the vomiting and diarrhea. Ezra found a tin-labeled willow bark tea and put a kettle on to boil. He woke Nathan and urged him to drink. He also gave Nathan some paregoric for the pain and diarrhea; at least he seemed to be resting now. When Nathan had kept the first cup of a tea down awhile, Ezra woke him to drink more. He knew he desperately needed to give Nathan fluids.

Ezra used a page from the journal and wrote down Nathan's symptoms. Fever - no, vomiting/diarrhea - yes, abdominal pain - yes, delirium - yes, garlic odor to breath - yes (Ezra didn't have a clue whether any or all of that was important). Ezra pulled down the medical books and started looking at the symptoms to see if he could find a match or eliminate some contagious diseases, thereby safely lifting the quarantine.

"STANDISH," Ezra heard a man's yell, though muffled by the door. A knocking on the door quickly followed the yell.

Ezra opened the door, "Mary, you must refrain from visiting for both yours and Billy's sake."

"There is a crowd downstairs. You better talk to them before we have a riot on our hands."

"STANDISH!"

Ezra stepped onto the balcony, there was at least fifteen people below on the street.

"We want answers."

"What disease is the quarantine for?"

Ezra raised his hands to quiet the crowd. "Nathan Jackson is the patient. He is alive but obviously very ill and until we can diagnose his exact condition, the quarantine is a safety measure." There were murmurs of approval at his announcement. "Are there any other sick people?" There were several "no's" which Ezra found reassuring.

"I will keep you all informed of any changes." Ezra turned away from the rail as the crowd broke up.

"Mary, are you aware of any others similarly afflicted?"

"No, nothing. And I would have heard."

"I agree. You best leave now until we know what we're dealing with."

"How is Nathan?"

"He's resting now. I just wish I knew what was wrong with him."

"Would you like me to wire some doctors?"

Ezra almost leapt at the suggestion but realized he couldn't. "My inclination is to tell you to do that, but we could spread misinformation about a possible epidemic and cause panic. At this point, until we can figure out what we're dealing with, I think it's best we not send any wires."

Mary nodded her head in understanding. "What can I do to help?"

Ezra was thinking help_me to take care of Nathan but instead told Mary, "you can go home and care for your son." She really shouldn't be here and risk giving the disease to her son.

Ezra looked down at Mary and saw the obstinate angle to her chin. Ezra chuckled thinking he at least tried to do the right thing.

"Please remain outside, I'll be just a moment. I was using Nathan's books to see if I could figure this out."

Ezra returned to Nathan's room where Nathan still seemed to be resting. He grabbed the books and showed Mary what he started to do.

Ezra and Mary sat outside at the small round table set against the wall of the balcony.

"You wrote down Nathan's symptoms." Mary observed. "Garlic breath? Are you sure he hasn't been eating too many meals at Andreas's restaurant?"

Ezra chuckled then paused, "You know, I did see a plate from the restaurant in his room. But I don't think it's that. Okay, my thought was to look up the diseases we suspect and then see if we could eliminate them as a possibility. So let's start with diphtheria." Ezra handed Mary one book as he looked in the other.

"Here it is: a thick coating in the nose, throat, and airway; difficulty breathing, heart failure, paralysis, death."

"That's a definite no. Typhoid? No, he has no fever or chills. Which also rules out scarlet and yellow fever." Ezra ran down the list of possible causes. "Cholera?"

"Symptoms include a mild, watery diarrhea to an acute diarrhea, with characteristic rice water stools. Onset of the illness is generally sudden, with incubation periods varying from 6 hours to 5 days. Abdominal cramps, nausea, vomiting, dehydration, and shock; after severe fluid loss, death may occur." Mary read from her book.

"That could be it. But does it make sense that Nathan is the only patient?"

"I've never heard of that. Generally if it's one person, there are many victims."

"Maybe that's it. Maybe he didn't acquire it in town. He was at the Andrews' farm and Delano Mine?"

Mary was already shaking her head no. "I saw Seth Andrews late yesterday afternoon and he was telling us they were all fine. And Milton Delano is in town now. He's worried about sabotage at his mine, not any disease outbreak."

"What else could it be?"

"Food poisoning?"

Ezra scratched his head in frustration. "But it still comes back to why only Nathan?"

"I'll check around town and make sure no one else is sick. I'll also stop in and talk to Andreas. Anything else I can do?"

"No, thank you my dear." Ezra voice was resigned. He heard Nathan stirring and immediately got up to tend to him.

Mary quickly left and immediately went to the restaurant. The dinner crowd had yet to arrive and it was still quiet.

"Guten tag."

"Good afternoon, Andreas."

The burly chef smiled broadly at the widow. "Are you here for an early dinner?"

"No," Mary smiled at the amiable chef, "thank-you. Nathan Jackson has taken ill with vomiting and diarrhea and we are trying to figure out what is wrong."

"Herr Doctor is sick. That is a shame." Andreas was obviously sympathetic to Nathan's plight but a shadow suddenly crossed his face. "Wait, do you think I had something to do with it?" Andreas was clearly offended. "I take special care in all my food handling. Washing. Cooking. Storing. While just the other day I threw out a pot of food that was off."

Mary perked at that last comment. "Andreas, when was that?"

Andreas paused. "Day before yesterday. But I didn't serve anyone from that pot except myself."

"You ate the food."

"Well, I tasted it. It was my Swabian Liver Dumplings - just not up to my usual standards. I threw it out. But I have not been sick at all."

"And Nathan didn't eat any . . ."

A look of dismay crossed the cook's face. "Oh wait, Dunne was in to get the doctor dinner. He served him and left the money on the counter. He could have given him the food from that pot." Andreas was clearly disturbed that he may have caused Nathan to be sick.

"It's not your fault Andreas. Thank you for your help. I will make sure that everyone knows it was not your fault."

Mary hurried from the restaurant and headed to the telegraph office. Since it was clear this did not appear to be an epidemic but one patient, Mary felt it was appropriate to wire a family friend who was a physician in Denver. She described the circumstances of Nathan's illness, his symptoms, and asked for any recommendations in caring for him. While she was waiting for a reply, she visited in several shops but it was clear that there were no other cases of the sickness.

As Mary left the hardware, Wyatt, the telegraph operator, came running up. "Ma'am, the doctor is at the telegraph office in Denver and wishes to talk to you."

Denver: Mary ::Stop:: Your friend's condition is grave ::Stop:: Garlic breath plus other symptoms suggests acute arsenic poisoning ::Stop:: Do you have any idea when he could have ingested the poison ::Stop::

Four Corners: Two days ago ::Stop::

Denver: Need to flush poison from system ::Stop:: Have patient drink at least one liter of fluid every hour for the next eight hours ::Stop:: Wire at 0700 with status ::Stop::

Four Corners: Understood flush poison ::Stop:: 0700 hours ::Stop::

Denver: Poisoning appears acute but not immediately lethal ::Stop:: Imperative flush poison from system ::Stop:: His condition is life-threatening ::Stop:: Good luck ::Stop:: regards, Dr. Franklin ::Stop::

When she received the final reply, Mary collected the wires and hurried back to Nathan's room.

"Poisoned?" Ezra was shocked.

"I wired Dr. Francis in Denver. He said that the garlic odor to his breath is a classic sign of acute arsenic poisoning. He said to get as much fluids into Nathan as possible to flush out the poisoning. I think he got the poisoning from a dinner from Andreas's restaurant. Apparently Nathan was the only person to eat from that pot before Andreas threw it out. But why would anyone want to poison Nathan?"

"They didn't," Ezra stated flatly. "Nathan wasn't the specific target. The town was and anyone who ate at the restaurant."

"Can you imagine having to care for so many people with this?"

Ezra looked over at Mary, the realization of how big a catastrophe had been averted. "No, I can't."

"Who would do this?"

Ezra shook his head at a loss. He had no idea. Not who? Not why?

Heavy footsteps could be heard approaching. "Mr. Delano, this is a quarantine area." Although Ezra realized, it probably could be lifted now.

"Heard that you are in charge."

Ezra's eyebrows raised at that comment. Mary looked up at him and valiantly tried to hide her amusement.

Ezra smiled wryly, not hardly, he thought, but "what is the nature of the problem, Delano?"

"What are you're gonna do about the sabotage out at my place?"

"Mr. Sanchez and Mr. Dunne were already at your mine investigating these charges."

Delano spit out, "and found nothing. You don't understand. There have been accidents, unexplained explosions, cave-ins. It is not my imagination. Somebody's after me and they're doing a good job of it."

"Mr. Delano, do you have any evidence?"

"No, NO. Just my gut."

"All I can offer to do is to investigate if there are further incidents," Ezra tried to placate the owner of the Delano Mine.

"Hell, of a lot good that will do. Any further *incidents* puts me out of business." Delano turned and stomped off.

Ezra sighed deeply.

"You're doing a great job," she reassured him.

Ezra smiled wryly. "Not hardly. I am not the man for this job." Ezra wiped his eyes and asked Mary in frustration, "where is Mr. Larabee? This is his job."

Mary shook her head. "I saw him ride out mid-morning."

"Mary, do me a favor; look for the others and send them here."

Mary nodded and left to do his bidding.

*Shit.* How the hell did I wind up in charge? Never mind one man relying on me. Now there was a whole town. Let me dump this into someone else's lap. Someone who won't let all these people down.

Part 32

Buck woke reluctantly, awareness returning one slow step at a time.

First, there was the motion, a steady rocking, back and forth, back and forth. Then, there was the sun, the heat pounding down on his shoulders and back. Not much breeze, but after a minute he could hear sounds. And another minute after that he could even figure out what they were--the slow clop, clop, clop of horses hooves, the shift and sigh of leather saddles, a breeze ruffling cottonwood trees some way off along a river. A long time passed like that. Or, maybe it wasn't a long time. Maybe it just was...

Then, suddenly, there was pain, like a bright flash of white out of nowhere. Centered in his leg, but radiating out in a sharp, tight spiral. His breath came too quick and he couldn't control it, couldn't even figure out a point to focus on. Wake up, he thought. Wake up! And then, his head jerked as if he had been falling for a long time and he'd only just now been able to catch himself, and he was awake.

'Hell!' he thought. Every time he woke up it was like he'd stumbled on a completely different place, a place with no bearing to the last place he'd been. No way to make any sense of it at all. He was on his horse, and his hands and legs were tied. He pulled at the knots around his hands experimentally, but they'd been tied tight and expertly. There was a man he'd never seen before riding ahead of him and a lead going back from his horse to...he looked back and his body sagged in relief...Vin. The tracker looked terrible in Buck's opinion, sagged low in the saddle and swaying slightly with each step his horse took, but he was there and he was alive, which was all Buck asked at the moment.

He closed his eyes and started to drift again. He'd give anything for some water right now...and he was so tired...NO!...he snapped his eyes open. Pay attention, Buck, he told himself. Where are we? Where are we going?

They were headed northwest as far as he could tell, which sure wasn't Texas. Bounty hunters, Vin had said. But why both of them? And where the hell were they going? Buck turned his attention to the man on the horse in front of him. There was nothing particularly out of the ordinary about him. He wore buckskins and a slouch hat and he had a pistol strapped to his hips. The gun looked well-used to Buck, with a shiny spot on the butt where his hand had rested for minutes passing into hours. He held himself tightly as if he were waiting for something he could feel just around the next bend. Buck couldn't see his eyes, but he could imagine them--sharp, alert, scanning everywhere, missing nothing. Buck had never seen the man before in his life. He wondered if Vin had and he stole another glance back at the tracker. Vin was shaking his head slowly from side to side, sitting up a little straighter. Looked like maybe he was coming around.

"You're awake."

The man's voice was low but it carried across the desert air with a sharp clarity. Buck looked at him. His eyes were as he'd imagined them, though there was something deeper, some nameless black emptiness inside them that made Buck's stomach twist. He tried to strain at the ropes that bound him to the saddle without being obvious about it, but the man saw him. "Won't help," he said, and he never smiled.

Buck just looked at him, but he didn't say anything. Give them nothing, not what you feel, not what you think. Nothing. The man frowned when he didn't respond and his eyes narrowed. He looked away, searching the flat brushy area around them, for what, Buck had no idea. Then, he looked back at Buck and turned his head a little more to look back at Vin, bringing up the rear.

He was not a large man and Buck figured he could take him, all things being equal. Unfortunately, at that moment, all things weren't even close to equal. So, he waited. He tried to shift in the saddle so his leg was more comfortable and that sent a thin, sharp slice of pain shooting up his leg. He couldn't quite hide the tight grimace and he turned his head away from the man in front of him. He studied the landscape, looking for markers, trying to figure where the hell they were and some vague notion of where they were going.

"Can't begin to figure it, can you?" the man's low voice drifted back to him again.

Buck looked at him from under the brim of his hat.

"No," the man continued. "You've looked around and you've studied me and the sky and the tracks on the ground and you just can't see what any of it means." He pulled lightly on the lead rope and Buck's horse broke into a tired jog. Buck could hear Vin groan behind him as his horse sped up too, but he resisted the urge to look over his shoulder at him. When Buck's horse was up even with his own, the man pulled back and for a moment they were riding abreast. The man looked at him, Buck could feel those hooded eyes studying him as he continued to look out across the desert. The mountains were drawing closer and Buck figured if they kept on this line they'd reach them by nightfall. He tried to think about what that meant. And he tried not to think about everything else.

+ + + + + + +

Sullivan watched Buck and tried to figure what kind of man would just look away like that. I have the power, he thought. You have nothing. He looked down at Buck's leg. The bandage was bloody and blood had spread and dried down half his pants leg. Sullivan looked at his face. It was tight and closed and dangerous. And that, Sullivan liked. His horse stumbled and he reached out as if he were off balance and slammed his hand down on Buck's leg. He could feel the leg tighten, the muscles spasm and a sharp hiss escape Buck's lips. "Sorry," he said, settling back in the saddle and pulling his hand away. Buck said nothing. Sullivan glanced over at him. Who the hell are you, he thought. Don't you see that I hate you? I have the power. He saw blood leaking out from under Buck's bandage and he watched it and thought about what he would do when it finally came time to kill this man.

Buck's horse was drifting back along its lead and Sullivan grabbed it and pulled it back abreast with his own. "You want to know, don't you?"

"I reckon," Buck said quietly. He looked at Sullivan and Sullivan could see that his eyes had gone dark and flat, though there was pain at the edges that he couldn't quite conceal. It made him feel better. There had to be a way to get to this man, to make him understand fully what it meant to have Sullivan hate him.

"Maybe you could buy your way out of this," Sullivan suggested. "Maybe you could offer me enough money and I'd let you go."

Buck seemed to be turning that over in his mind. "You'd just turn us both loose right here?"

"Maybe."

"All right."

And his voice was so quiet that it made Sullivan angry and he had to suppress a flash of rage. 'Hate me, you son of a bitch,' he thought. Out loud, he said. "How much would you pay for something like that?"

"How much do you want?"

Sullivan looked at him. "More than you could ever pay," he said.

Buck smiled and if Sullivan hadn't been able to see his eyes he'd have almost thought they were having a friendly conversation. "Yeah," Buck said. "That'd be about what I'd figure."

"Would you pay with a life?" Sullivan asked suddenly. "I could just shoot your friend back there. You could just say the word."

"I get the impression," Buck said, turning and looking at him straight on. "That your problem, whatever the hell it is, is with me, not him."

'Aaahhh,' thought Sullivan. "What makes you think I have a problem."

Buck turned away again and Sullivan felt a rage pass through him that he hadn't felt in a long time. "You just seem like the kind of man who has a problem," he said.

"And you seem like the kind of man who can't wait to die," Sullivan said and he loosed up on the lead rope and let Buck's horse fall behind him again. 'Stew on that for awhile,' he thought, turning his horse a bit more sharply to the north.

+ + + + + + +

Vin felt as if he had been stomped on by a horse. A dozen horses, all stomping on one spot, his right shoulder. He'd been aware of his surroundings for several minutes, the scent on the hot breeze, the murmur of voices, the movement of his horse. Especially the movement of his horse because every step set up new agony in his shoulder and it was all he could do from one minute to the next to hang on. He tried to move his hand up to his shoulder, but it wouldn't move. That was odd, he thought, though he wasn't sure he was too concerned about it. He tried to think back to what had happened...

Buck.

He'd found Buck. And he'd told him about Belle and Chris and...nothing seemed clear to him. Everything was murky. Why couldn't he think straight? He forced himself to open his eyes. But when he did it didn't help. Everything looked exactly as he had pictured it when his eyes were closed. Buck was riding up in front of him, and the man who'd held a gun at Buck's head. Both of them were riding together and talking. What did that mean? Why was he back here on a lead rope behind them with his hands tied and his legs tied and they were up there chatting just as friendly as could be? Didn't make any sense. He closed his eyes again, trying to hide somehow from the pain that was his shoulder, but he jerked them open again almost immediately.

Something about the land didn't look right to him. Something about the sun. What was it? He thought on it for a minute and he realized that they were traveling toward the mountains. Not toward Texas. He looked around again, with more interest this time. There was low brush and the sign of desert animals and birds. Headed toward the mountains. That didn't make any sense. Nothing was making sense. Maybe he was just wrong about everything. About Buck and Belle and Chris and the bounty hunters and the Indians. Everything. Buck had been shot with an arrow. That was a fact. And he clung to it like it was the only thing he knew. And the arrow he'd been shot with had been Crow. And the bag. The beaded bag he'd picked up. That was real too. Wasn't it?

He closed his eyes and tried to find a way to make the rhythm of his horse's movement and the pain in his shoulder merge in some way that would make it easier to handle. And in spite of everything, and because he hadn't had any sleep in almost two days, as they walked slowly through the desert, one step at a time, he fell asleep.

Part 33

John Bland wasn't happy. Not in the slightest. So when the low rap sounded on his hotel door, he scowled and thought for a moment of ignoring it. The rap sounded again, more insistently, and the man sighed then and pulled the door opened. He wasn't at all surprised to see that it was Hammersmith, although the look of aggravation on the gambler's face was unexpected. Bland simply turned away as Hammersmith came on into the room, shutting the door behind him, and walked over to the window to look down at the street outside.

"Why the hell hasn't the 'epidemic' broken out?" Hammersmith took his hat off with an angry gesture and threw it on the bed.

"Nice to see you, too, Vincent." Bland spoke without turning from the window. There was a long moment of tense silence, then he shrugged, still looking at the street. "I can't figure it out," he said, "but it _should_ have happened by now. I did it right."

Hammersmith frowned. "Well, something's up with that newspaper woman."

Bland turned away from the window at that, his face flushing in anger. "Her again? That bitch just keeps causing one problem after another. What now?"

Hammersmith smiled slyly. "She's far too beautiful for that appellation, my friend." Bland shook his head disagreeably and Hammersmith continued. "She broke up my game with Standish a while ago and he hasn't returned."

"So?"

"So I fear she's found out something. She came into the saloon to get him, and she wouldn't do that over something trivial." Hammersmith walked over to the other side of the window where Bland was standing and made the other man look at him. "Things have gone well so far, but this part of the plan having to do with Jackson is--"

A light tap on the door to Bland's room made both men turn quickly. Hammersmith drew his sidearm as Bland went to the door and opened it just enough to look out. He gestured to Hammersmith then as he let in Belle. The petite woman slid into the room in a rustle of crinoline and silk on a cloud of lavender scent, and Hammersmith smiled at her.

"Hello, Belle."

"Hello, Vincent." She smiled at him as she sailed over to hold out her hand to be kissed, then turned in a graceful arabesque and made a pouting face at Bland. "John, dearest, aren't you going to offer me a seat?"

"Sit down," said Bland.

Belle smiled as if Bland had held out a small throne for her and eased herself daintily into the room's only chair. "Thank you, I'm sure," she said. She looked from one man to the other, and then leaned forward with a sharp gleam entering her eye. "I'm ready for one of you to arrange my carriage to go back," she said. "My part in things is done, and I can't take one more moment of this dreadful place. And besides, I'm out of money." She leaned back in her chair, produced a slender fan from somewhere and snapped it opened. She began to fan herself lightly and rapidly, her eyes running from one man to the other as she did so.

"Just a moment, Belle." Hammersmith nodded to the woman and smiled urbanely. "Let John and myself finish our conversation first, and then we'll see what we can do."

Bland snorted. "It's not like you can't hold your horses for ten more minutes," he added, shooting an angry look at the woman. She arched her eyebrows.

"Of course, Vincent. As for you, John, I wish to remind you that I have had to be here MUCH longer than anyone else. I've been two whole months seducing that ox of a preacher . . . " She paused and smiled to herself as she corrected what she'd said: "_handsome_ ox of a preacher, and I deserve to draw my pay and go back to San Francisco now." She fanned herself harder and looked up towards the ceiling in a theatrical way. Bland laughed shortly and turned back to Hammersmith.

"You were telling me about the Travis woman," he said.

"Yes." Hammersmith shook himself. "The main point, though, is why the 'epidemic' hasn't hit. I have heard of no one sick."

"What about the rest of the plan? Could they be onto us? Could they have stopped things somehow?" Bland stared hard at Hammersmith as the gambler's face darkened at Bland's words. Hammersmith chewed his lip thoughtfully.

"Wilmington, Tanner, and Larabee have all left town," he mused aloud.

Bland's face sharpened. "You're sure about Larabee?"

"Yes." Hammersmith made a sharp gesture of irritation and pulled off his jacket, then sat on the foot of the bed. "I saw him leave an hour or so ago, Striker not far behind him."

"What about the others?"

Belle chuckled. "I've written a note to my paramour that should keep him in his cups for days, if not weeks," simpered Belle. "I'll give it to a boy to take to the barkeeper in the saloon for delivery, as I leave town. You can forget Sanchez doing anything while it might still matter."

Hammersmith nodded. "I had Standish taken out of action until that Travis woman came to get him. I suspect it's too late for them to do anything at this point, even if she's somehow gotten suspicious, but--"

Another knock sounded on Bland's hotel room door, and Belle rolled her eyes. "John, if you're going to have us interrupted, arrange for some room service," she said. She snapped her fan shut suddenly when she saw the way the other two reacted, though, and watched with alert eyes as Hammersmith stood and faced the door with a drawn pistol as Bland cautiously opened it, then swung it wide with total exasperation. Thompson walked in, looking puzzled.

"What the hell," he said.

"If you'd told me it would be a party, I would have worn more appropriate attire," said Belle, laughing.

"Thompson!" Hammersmith holstered the weapon he'd drawn, as Belle snapped opened her fan and resumed fluttering it. "What the hell are you doing back?"

"Lookin' for Striker."

"He left about an hour ago," said Hammersmith, "after Larabee. Why? What's happened?"

"See!" Bland had shut the door and run the bolt home this time. "I TOLD you something went wrong!"

"No, no." Thompson turned to regard Bland with an icy gaze. "Everything is going very well. Merely a shift in which plan we're executing. I need to let him know."

"Explain." Hammersmith folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall.

"Tanner found where Sullivan ambushed Wilmington, and he figured it out in a heartbeat."

"Damn!" Bland sat down heavily on the side of his bed and scowled. Thompson merely looked at him, then turned back to Hammersmith and continued.

"Wilmington had lost enough blood that Sullivan wasn't sure he'd make it all the way to the reservation, so we couldn't just kill Tanner and count on Wilmington finding his body. We had to wait and see what happened."

"So what happened?" Hammersmith's eyes were dark and steady.

"Tanner found Wilmington before he got to the reservation and talked him into coming back to town."

"So you took them in, instead." It was a statement, not a question, and Thompson nodded.

"It was the backup we had planned on," he agreed.

"What if they get away? Or if they got away?" Bland was pointing a stabbing finger into the air. "For all you know, by now Sullivan--"

"I don't think so." Thompson smiled in a way that made Belle stop fanning herself as a chill ran all the way through her. "Neither Wilmington nor Tanner was in any condition to run off by the time we got them in hand."

"But they're still alive," said Hammersmith sharply.

"Yes." Thompson looked Hammersmith up and down appraisingly. "I do know how to follow orders, Hammersmith."

"Well." Hammersmith regarded each of the others and then lifted one well-manicured hand and began to tick off his fingers one by one. "Wilmington captured. Tanner captured. Both on their way to Michaels. Larabee out, and Striker behind him." He looked at Thompson. "You can go after them in a moment," he added. Then he continued. "Sanchez drunk for another week at least. That leaves Dunne, Standish, and Jackson. We need a status report on each of them."

"Jackson should be up to his damned eyeballs in a plague by now," groused Bland, "but he ain't, and I don't know why."

"Has anyone seen him lately?" Hammersmith looked around the room and no one replied. They looked at each other, suddenly realizing they had no idea where the healer was.

"Jackson was your business, Bland. Go out there and find out where he is, and why, and come report to us." Hammersmith stared at Bland a long moment, until he leaped to his feet angrily and left the room, slamming the door behind him. Hammersmith looked at Thompson and shook his head slightly. "It's too bad," he said, "that truly _good_ men are so hard to find." He looked at Belle. "Have you anything to add, my dear?"

Belle sat back in her chair and began to run her little fan again. She'd been relieved when Bland left the room; the man was a fool to treat Thompson and Hammersmith like underlings, or even equals, and for a moment she'd thought she might find herself party to a scene of violence. "First, I have a little question for Mr. Thompson." She said. She lowered her fan and eyed the tracker over the top of it. "How on _earth_ will you find Mr. Striker?" She managed to sound breathless with curiosity, and Thompson smiled indulgently but with a hard cast to his eyes.

"His horse has a special mark on one of its shoes," he replied simply.

"Oh?" Belle looked at Hammersmith and saw that he was as surprised to hear this as she was. "And are the shoes of all our horses likewise marked so you can find us when we are lost?"

"It makes it easier for me to fulfill my responsibility," said Thompson. "Seeing as how I don't get much time to learn new horses as people come and go."

"I see. You are most clever, Mr. Thompson." Belle eyed the tracker appraisingly, then began to flutter her fan rapidly again and looked at Hammersmith. "Well, my report is that I took a chance I saw to run a wedge between the youngest one and his ridiculous lady love. As well as between him and his galoot friend."

Hammersmith smiled. "Really?" He looked at Thompson and relaxed against the wall behind him again. "Do tell."

"Oh yes," said Belle. "I saw that little urchin by herself near the dry goods store, and gave her a tearful earful of my woes. Warned her to be wary of letting her young man hang around with such a bad influence."

"And no doubt made her wonder if any of it had already rubbed off on Dunne?"

"Mais oui," smiled Belle. "What else?"

The door opened and Bland came in, panting but looking triumphant. "I found out," he said. "It's all over town."

"What?" Thompson turned around to look at Bland.

"Jackson is sick with some 'unknown disease'," said Bland, "and Standish is takin' care of 'im 'cause there's no one else around to do it." He grinned hugely. "I didn't get the town, I got the damned 'doctor' himself instead!"

Hammersmith and Thompson burst out laughing, and Belle lifted her fan in front of her mouth.

"And tied up Standish in the process!" Hammersmith went to Bland and clapped him on the shoulder. "I don't know how you did it, but it doesn't matter." He turned to the others. "We've got them all out. All that's required is for Thompson to let Striker know of the change in plans, and we're ready."

Belle stood up. "So I _can_ have my carriage readied?"

"Yes." Hammersmith turned to Bland. "Get one of the others to hitch up her rig and drive her to Michaels'," he said.

"Why me?" Bland was suddenly petulant.

"Because _I_ have to go after Striker," said Thompson, heading for the door. He paused to look around the room. "See you all at Michaels'," he said, and then he left.

"And because _I_ have other things to check on before we all pull out of here," said Hammersmith.

Bland nodded and left, and Hammersmith turned to Belle and regarded her for a long moment. The woman stood up and walked close to him, laying one ring-fingered hand on his rough shirt. "These clothes really don't suit you, Vincent," she cooed.

"It won't be much longer." He lifted her hand from his chest. "I'd rather you didn't do anything that would get me killed later, Belle, if it's all the same to you. Michaels is a bit on the jealous side."

Belle pouted, then stepped back and smiled. "It was worth a try," she purred. She raised the folded fan to touch Hammersmith's chin lightly as she passed him on her way to the door. "I'll see you again soon," she said. "Any last words before I go?"

"Sure; remember to stay away from the stage line," chuckled Hammersmith.

"Oh yes." Belle's eyes crinkled in a smile. "Well, that should be entertaining at least. Will I get to see you in some stage of undress that approximates that of a savage?" Her eyes danced, and Hammersmith mock-bowed to her.

"I bid your leave, Madam," he said, "your carriage no doubt awaits you."

He picked up his hat from the bed as the woman slipped out into the hallway, and decided to head for the blacksmith's first. He didn't like the idea of Thompson being able to trail him.

Not in the slightest.

Part 34

By the time she'd run halfway down the street Casey realized that she had no idea where to find Buck. She stopped dead, causing a man walking out of the telegraph office to almost trip over her.

"Sorry," she said distractedly. She listed off on her fingers the places where he might be if he were in town and not out doing something: the jail, the saloon, the boarding house, and, well...her cheeks flushed bright pink, probably places she wasn't going to be able to look anyway.

She ran to the jail. No one there. She stood on the boardwalk a minute. His room or the saloon? She didn't really want to look for him in the saloon. There was too much chance that he was at a table with Chris or Josiah or Vin. She'd save that until last, she figured. But if she had to--she squared her chin--she'd go in there and drag him out and tell him. He really needed to know what Belle was saying about him. He needed to stop her. She had no business saying anything like that. Casey headed for the boarding house. She felt nervous--exposed somehow--walking up the stairs to the second floor, which was silly since no one could see her. She found his room--JD had pointed the window out to her once when they were walking around town--and knocked hesitantly on the door.

"Buck?" she called out in a small voice. "Buck? You in there?" There was no answer. She turned away. Then, she turned back and looked at the blank door. Acting quick enough that she wouldn't think too much about it, she twisted the knob and pushed open the door. She looked at the room and felt a chill run through her. It had been cleaned out. There was an empty dresser drawer sitting aslant in the middle of the bed. A few pieces of clothing still lay folded on a chair, but there was something about the room; Casey could tell. Buck wasn't planning to come back here.

Casey put her hand to her mouth. What was going on? Buck gone? That couldn't be right. He'd have said something to her the other day. Wouldn't he? She ran back down the stairs to the livery stable. His horse was gone. Vin's was gone too, she noticed. And Chris's. Maybe they'd just gone out after horse thieves or rustlers or something. But why would Buck take everything with him? That didn't make any sense at all.

She ran again, this time not knowing quite where she was running to. She rounded the corner just up the street from the Clarion and this time she ran smack into JD.

"Uummph!" JD said. He grabbed her elbow. "Casey! What are you doing runnin' like that?"

"Oh, JD! Where is everybody?"

JD's eyes widened to hear the question that had been running continuously in his head echoed on Casey's lips. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"Well," Casey stumbled as she tried to come up with a reason she might have been looking for Buck. "I mean, I was just at the stable and Vin and Buck and Chris's horses are all gone. That's all I meant."

JD took her by the elbow and led her to a small bench beside the Clarion news offices. He took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair. "Somethin's goin' on, Casey. Nathan's sick. Josiah's over at the saloon drunk and he says...he says that...aw, hell, Casey, I can't--"

"Buck didn't rape that woman, JD!"

JD looked at her open-mouthed for a minute. Then, he realized his jaw was hanging open and snapped it shut. "Casey!" he exclaimed, shocked at her just saying it out like that. And how did she know anyway?

Casey stuck out her chin at him. "Well, he didn't!"

Suddenly, there was a voice behind them. "JD! Casey! Are you two all right?"

Both JD and Casey turned to see Mary on the boardwalk behind them. "Mary!" JD jumped to his feet. "What in blazes is going on around here? What's wrong with Nathan? What about--"

Mary touched his elbow and turned him toward the newspaper office. She gestured for Casey to follow. "Come on," she said. "Come inside. I need to tell you what's been happening."

Within a couple of minutes the three of them were sitting around Mrs. Travis's kitchen table. Everyone began talking at once.

"What's all this with Buck?" JD demanded.

"He didn't do it, JD," said Casey.

"And where is everyone?" JD talked right over the top of her. "Josiah says Chris and Vin and Buck all left. Because of some rape charge?"

"Well, not together," Mary said. "I saw Chris leave this morning."

"Buck cleaned out his room," Casey said, almost tripping over her tongue as she tried to get all the words out at once, "and Vin's wagon is still here so I don't think they were going to the same place at all."

JD looked at her. "How do you know?"

"I saw Vin's wagon."

"No, about the other. About Buck. How do you know he's cleaned out his room?"

Casey looked uncomfortable.

"_What_ rape charge?" Mary asked abruptly.

JD and Casey looked at her. JD spoke first. "Josiah says that Buck raped his woman friend, Miss Belle, two mornings ago when we were at the Delano mine."

"And I--" Casey stopped abruptly as a look of utter shock crept over her face. "No! That can't be right, JD. The time, I mean. Josiah couldn't have said--"

"What are you talking about, Casey? Buck didn't _do_ it!"

"No, I _know_ that. But--" she thought back on her conversation with Belle. 'Two days ago,' she'd said. 'Before the sun was even up,' she'd said. Buck had been with _her_! "Oh my God," Casey said, her hand going to her mouth.

"Casey!" JD said, suddenly concerned.

"Casey, honey, are you all right?" Mary asked.

Casey took a deep breath. "It's just...I...I _know_ he didn't do it. Buck wouldn't. I mean I know he's...but he's also sweet and kind and..."

"Casey!" Now, JD was jealous.

"Well, he just wouldn't." Casey finished firmly.

Mary had been studying the two of them, but clearly thinking on the conversation so far. "Casey, did you say that Buck had cleaned out his room?"

"Yes, ma'am. I mean everything wasn't gone, but you could tell. I don't think he's coming back."

"What were you doing in his room?"

"None of your business, JD," Casey said sharply. She _had_ to tell now, didn't she? But, oh, please let there be another way!

"And Vin's wagon is still here. And Chris left alone this morning." Mary rested her chin on her hand as she thought.

"Maybe one of them told Nathan or Ezra something," JD suggested.

Mary sighed. "We think Nathan may have been poisoned."

"What!" Both JD and Casey said it simultaneously.

"When?" JD demanded. "Is he going to be all right?"

"We don't know yet," Mary said softly, thinking sadly that she'd had no chance to make things right with him about the editorial.

"Who poisoned him?" Casey asked in a really quiet voice that caused Mary to reach out instinctively and grasp her hand. "Why would anyone do that?"

"I don't know, Casey. I just don't know." For a moment there was silence around the table as they each thought about the sad state of affairs.

"Well, Ezra _must_ know something," JD said with the certainty of youth. "I mean, _someone_ has to know something and he's the only one left."

"We'll ask him then, JD," Mary said, though she was not at all certain that he would have any additional information for them. She also knew, however, that the only way to find out a thing was to keep poking and looking and asking until things became clear. Maybe no one had all the pieces, but maybe someone could put them together if they tried.

The three of them left the newspaper office to head over to the clinic. Mary knew that Ezra was busy, but she hoped he could spare the time to talk to them for a few minutes. She was driven by a sense of urgency and foreboding, a feeling that too much time had been wasted already. She wished the others were here or able to help. They needed Vin's sharp mind, Nathan's quick analysis, Buck's deadly energy, Josiah's calm influence, and Chris's cool assessment of every piece of information. There was only her, though, and JD and Casey and Ezra. She hoped somehow Ezra had information they could use.

JD kept looking at Casey as they walked. She hadn't said yet how she knew about the rape and there was something about the way she looked sideways at him, about the way she'd hesitated back at Mary's that made him think there were things that she wasn't saying. And she's so sure, he thought, about Buck and all. Something wasn't right about it. He just couldn't figure out what.

Casey was practically jumping out of her skin in her hurry to get to the clinic. She had to tell now. She _had_ to. But she kept hoping this was a joke somehow. That Buck and Vin and Chris would come walking up any minute now and tell her it was just a bad dream or something.

"Hold on there. Hey! Hold on!"

JD, Mary and Casey stopped and turned to see Mr. Delano from the mine bearing down on them. Mary's heart sank. Didn't this man know when to quit?

"I want to know what you're going to do." He poked his finger at JD. "You were out to the mine. You saw what was going on. You can't just ignore things."

"Mr. Delano," JD protested. "We looked everywhere. Josiah and I didn't find anything--"

"Look!" Suddenly all his bluster was gone. "If the mine goes under, or I have to sell out...it's my life!"

Mary knew what it was like to be threatened with the loss of something you'd worked so hard to build. She had a great deal of sympathy for Mr. Delano, but the truth was, there just wasn't time right now. "Mr. Delano," she said, "We really have to be going."

"Wait a minute," JD said. "Maybe we--"

"You don't understand! We've just found a new vein. My geologist says it may be the apex! I've got to be able to mine it out. I've got to!"

"Apex?" JD asked. "What is that?"

"It's--"

"JD!" Mary's voice was sharper than she'd intended, but the more she thought about what they'd discussed in her kitchen the more worried she got. Urgency was beginning to eat away at her good sense. She wanted answers. "I'm sorry, Mr. Delano. We really need to go now." Then, she hurried JD and Casey away, though she could hear Mr. Delano behind her, still trying to talk.

At the clinic, Mary knocked on the door softly and after a few minutes a tired-looking Ezra came to the door. "Mrs. Travis," he said.

"How is Nathan doing?"

Ezra took a deep breath. "I don't know. He seems to be resting a little easier perhaps. I've been giving him as much water and tea as he'll drink."

"Could you come out and talk for a minute?"

Ezra looked past her and saw the worried faces of JD and Casey. Good lord, he thought, what's happened now? He came out onto the balcony, leaving the door slightly ajar so he could hear Nathan if he needed him. There was a small round table set against the wall and the four of them seated themselves around it.

"Now," Ezra said once they were all settled. "What is going on?"

Mary took a deep breath and told him what they knew: the rape charges against Buck--"But he didn't do it," Casey interjected--the departure of Buck, Vin, and Chris. As well, as what he already knew: Nathan's poisoning and Josiah's drunkenness. She even mentioned the Delano mine again, the two rowdy trail crews, the bank robbery earlier in the week and the reports of trouble from the Indian reservation, thinking it was important at this point to keep all peculiar happenings in mind. There were too many things going on and they knew too little to ignore anything.

"Do you know where _any_ of them might have gone?" Mary asked as she finished.

Ezra had been listening intently and watching each of the people sitting before him at the table, a habit so ingrained that he did it automatically. He noticed Mary's hesitation before she said Chris's name, Casey's flinch when the trail crews were mentioned, the way JD looked at Casey with a question in his eyes when she protested the charges against Buck.

Ezra rubbed his hand across his eyes. "Mr. Tanner was planning to go out to the reservation for a festival of some kind. I expect it would last several days." He felt a small twinge of relief that Vin, at least, could help him with the huge mess that everything was becoming.

"Maybe he knows where Chris or Buck went." JD offered.

Ezra looked at JD for a long minute, knowing that his next question would upset the young man, but also knowing from the looks on certain faces that there was information here that he did not yet have. "Can you be absolutely certain that Mr. Wilmington did _not_ leave town to avoid arrest?"

"He didn't rape that woman!" JD rose halfway to his feet.

Ezra held out his hands in front of him. "Easy. Easy. It's a question that needs to be laid out on the table with the rest of them. Otherwise it could prove our undoing down the road."

"Well," JD said grumpily. "He didn't do it. So, why would he run?"

"How do you know he didn't do it?"

"Because I know Buck. He wouldn't!"

"Yes," Ezra said, gently persistent. "But what evidence do you have?"

"He didn't _do_ it, Ezra!" Casey said sharply. "Isn't that enough?"

"Casey, my dear girl. While it's very sweet of you to defend Buck and no one ought to doubt your testimonial, I'm afraid it won't help Buck much in a court of law."

"But...I just want..why isn't it enough just to trust him?" There were two bright spots of color high on Casey's cheeks and Ezra could see desperation flare in her eyes as she looked back and forth from one to the other of them. Her breathing had sharpened too and he waited for a minute to see if she would continue.

When she didn't, he laid his hand over hers and said quietly, "My dear, is there something you want to tell us?"

To Mary and JD's surprise, Casey buried her head in her hands. She stayed like that, absolutely silent for almost a full minute, then her head jerked up and the words burst out of her. "Buck was with me!"

"WHAT!!"

The dead silence that followed this statement was broken by the simultaneous sounds of JD's shout and his chair falling over and slamming onto the floor. "I knew it!" JD started to pace. "I knew there was something. I figured just give her time. I figured you'd tell me eventually. But...You! And...and...him!" He stopped and looked at her, pulling his hand through his hair. "Casey, I don't get it."

"You don't understand! I--I came into town that night." She looked at Mary and Ezra and JD for some kind of understanding. This was coming out so much worse than she'd hoped. This wasn't at all how she'd wanted to tell it. "I know it was stupid, but I just wanted to see...I mean there's all sorts of action here..." She hung her head. "I was stupid for coming. But then, these men from one of the trail crews, grabbed me and threw me in the alley..." Her voice trailed off at the look on JD's face, but Mary put her hand on her arm and encouraged her to continue. "I got away from them and I hid for a really long time, until it got quiet, but then I was too afraid to go home. And I thought...well, I couldn't tell you, JD." Casey looked at him beseechingly. "And Buck...he helped me. He took me home and he made sure I was all right and..." she looked at each of them, encouraged that at least they could still look her in the face. "And that's how I know he didn't rape Belle because _that_ was why he didn't go to the mine. Because he was helping me!"

There was silence for a moment when she finished. JD walked to the end of the balcony and stood looking out over the town, one hand pulling his hair back from his face.

After a minute, Ezra said, "Thank you, Casey."

Casey buried her head in her hands again. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm so sorry."

Mary put one arm around Casey's shoulders and hugged her. "You were very brave to tell us, Casey. It will help."

"No," Casey said, not looking up. "It's all gone so wrong."

Ezra looked at her and then past her at the worried look on Mary's face. He thought about the way things were right then: Nathan sick, Josiah drunk and wanting to murder Buck, Buck gone, Chris gone. And for once he didn't have anything to say. Casey was right. It had all gone very wrong indeed.

Part 35

Chris was having trouble finding Buck.

The sun was well on its way toward the western horizon and he had already visited three small towns strung out along the border. He hated this. But it had to be done, if only to prove to himself that no one could ever be trusted. It wasn't that he had actually expected to find Buck. After all, Chris was more than twenty-four hours behind him. But he'd expected to find some sign of his passing. Vin, maybe, could drift into a town and drift out again with no one the wiser. But not Buck. Someone would remember. Some saloon girl or gunslinger or local troublemaker would remember him, with either fondness or hatred, depending. But there was no one.

Had he guessed wrong about where Buck would go? There was an easier path. He could turn around now and head back to Four Corners and send telegrams to all the local law enforcement with Buck's description and the charges. He could attach a reward. Someone would spot him. Someone would turn him in. But as angry as he was with Buck right then, as much as he couldn't banish the thin thread of doubt about who he was and what he might have done, he wasn't quite ready to take that last irrevocable step. And it would be irrevocable. Once he sent out Wanted posters on Buck Wilmington then it was over. It didn't matter then if the rape charges were false and Buck was cleared. There would be no friendship left between Chris Larabee and Buck Wilmington. If Chris knew anything, he knew that much. And despite everything, Chris wasn't yet ready for that.

He turned his horse to the east and headed for the next town.

+ + + + + + +

Striker sat his horse on a nearby hill and watched Chris Larabee wrestle with his conscience. Having trouble finding your friend, Mr. Larabee? Gee, I wonder why? And he laughed. And it was lucky that there was no one to hear such a soul-killing, cruel sound, the kind of laugh that destroyed faiths and emptied hearts. No one needed--ever--to hear a laugh like that.

Striker turned his horse and headed toward the next town in Chris's wake. On a whim, he legged his horse into a lope and cut down across the countryside. This was all very well and good, he thought, waiting for the word of a disaster already executed to reach Mr. Larabee, but Striker wanted to have a little fun.

+ + + + + + +

Chris rode into yet another small town--he wasn't even sure of the name of this one--just about dusk. He knew he wouldn't find anything here; he could already feel it. He was hot and dusty and tired and vaguely considering the possibility of never going back to Four Corners again. Let 'em all go to hell, he thought. He snarled at the man at the livery who only tried to offer him a price on extra grain for his horse and stalked off down the street.

This town was somewhat bigger than the others he'd been in, though not much more prepossessing. It reminded him of a somewhat smaller version of Purgatorio and Chris wondered briefly if Buck had perhaps headed to that notorious outlaw town. But, he quickly dismissed the idea. There were plenty of women in Purgatorio and men who would gladly fight over dreams of riches or imagined slights or sometimes nothing at all. But Buck didn't like Purgatorio. He'd told Chris once that a man ought never go back to a place he'd once died in. So, if he wasn't there and he wasn't here, then where the hell was he?

Chris gnawed on that problem as he got a room for the night, ate supper at the only place in town that looked like the food wouldn't kill him and walked to a nearby cantina. The place was fairly empty, but it was still early evening, barely dark outside. There were several men playing a desultory game of cards at a back table and a few others scattered around the room. Two of the working girls were sitting together at a table, their heads bent together talking about something quietly and seriously. Chris thought briefly about asking them if they'd seen Buck, but then he shook his head and walked to the makeshift bar. It could wait. He wasn't going anywhere until morning anyway.

He leaned both elbows on the bar and signalled to the bartender to bring him a bottle of whiskey. He poured himself a glass and drank it quick, liking the sharp harsh taste of it as it ran down his throat. He poured a second glass.

"You from around here, mister?"

Chris turned and looked at the man next to him. He was wearing a dusty grey duster, had short brown hair, dark eyes, and an open sort of face. There was something...not quite right about him, but Chris couldn't put his finger on it. He continued to look at him for a minute before he answered.

"Nope," he said and turned back to his drink.

The other man leaned on the bar as well. He was, Chris noticed, nursing a beer. "Me either," the man said. "I've been wandering around a bit the last couple of months. Been kind of looking for the right place to settle down. Where you from?" he asked.

Chris looked at him again. The man seemed unperturbed by Chris's closed expression. He continued to look at him curiously. "Four Corners," Chris finally said, turning away again and swallowing the rest of the whiskey in his glass. He poured another.

"Really." The other man nodded and looked at his own drink. "I've heard talk of that town."

Chris looked at him.

"Yeah," the man said pensively, looking at the cracked mirror above the bar. "Way I heard it, those seven regulators over there, the ones they think so highly of, are starting to self-destruct."

"What do you mean?"

The man shrugged. "Just what I heard. Gambling and women and whiskey. Only a matter of time, one fella told me, before one of 'em ends up in jail or gets himself killed by one of the others." The man studied Chris for a minute. "Seems like a town someone might want to stay out of." Chris picked up his glass, drained the contents and left, pushing the swinging saloon doors in such a way that the motion continued for several minutes after he was gone. Behind him, at the bar, Striker smiled.

Part 36

The sun had dropped behind the mountains to the west, leaving a shell-colored sky glowing softly over a darkening land. Buck craned himself around in his saddle to see if he could see Vin, riding behind him. The tracker had gotten quieter and quieter as the afternoon had worn on, and his posture had said volumes about why. He'd been putting every ounce of strength he had into trying to keep from jostling his shoulder any more than was necessary. Nearly two hours ago their captor had led the horses through a steep ravine as the terrain had grown rougher, and Buck had heard Vin cry out harshly as his gelding bounded up the far side when the lead line drew taut between the horses. He'd turned around then to see that the tracker was slumped over his own tied arms in a way that made it all too clear that he'd lost consciousness again. He hadn't regained it since.

The horses stopped walking all of a sudden, and Buck turned his attention back to the man who'd been leading them. He was dismounting to walk back to the grey and he laid a dark hand on the animal's withers. He looked up into Buck's face, his own face shadowed in the falling evening light.

"You're way too chipper," he said softly. Buck was silent. He pressed his lips together and lowered his eyes to the man's hand that was so close to his own tied ones. The man was silent a long moment, then he shrugged. "I was gonna' offer you some water, but if you're gonna' be surly . . ." He watched Buck closely, and a frown raced across his face when the gunman still ignored him. A knife flashed in his hands suddenly as he sliced through the knot that held Buck's bound hands to the saddle horn, and his eyes glittered dangerously. He stepped back to his own mount to jerk a canteen loose, then went to Buck and shoved it roughly into the man's tied hands.

"Drink," he said. Buck took the canteen silently, but he didn't begin to uncap it until the man had walked on back to where Vin was. Buck turned to watch as he opened the container, his own eyes growing sharper.

The man jerked Vin's head up to look at him, then dropped it with a snort of derision. He turned to look at Buck.

"I ain't got all night," he said. "Drink some a' that and pronto."

Buck lifted the metal canteen and let the tepid water run into his mouth. He thought he'd never tasted anything as good, ever, and closed his eyes in spite of himself. He kept expecting the man to come knock the water from his hands, but instead he let Buck drink for several moments. Then he advanced on him and took the open canteen back with a snarl. He raised it to Buck.

"Gotta' leave some for your friend, right? Don't want him dyin' on the trail, either." He walked back to Vin and then looked at Buck. "Alive or dead, it says. No matter to me, but my boss cares for some reason." He threw water suddenly into Vin's face, and the tracker coughed and gasped at the contact, then groaned. The black-haired man laughed unpleasantly and grabbed Vin by his left shoulder and sat him up straight in the saddle. The tracker groaned again, more loudly, but shook his head slowly as he regained his senses. A quick flash was their captor slicing Vin's bound hands loose from the saddle horn, too, and he shoved the canteen into his hands. "Drink," he growled. He turned on his heel and walked back past Buck to his own horse.

Buck looked at Vin, barely sitting up and sagging off-center, his head already starting to loll to one side. The opened canteen in his bound hands was tipping slowly, and Buck looked quickly at their captor again.

"You want him alive, you're gonna' have to help him drink," said Buck softly. The man in buckskins impaled Buck with dark eyes that let go only to run down to Vin. He reached around Buck to grab the lead rope that led from the grey to Vin's black gelding and pulled on it so that the tracker's horse came up closer to the grey, then pushed and shoved the black so that the two animals were side by side.

"I'm gonna' check the backtrail," he said. "You nursemaid him." He walked off about twenty yards, and then turned to call back. "I hope you ain't dumb enough to try to ride off all tied together like that." He slipped into the dark and was gone.

Buck wasn't that dumb at all. He looked at Vin, and gently pulled the canteen from the tracker's hands. Vin turned his face slowly to look at Buck when he felt the movement. His eyes were distant, and Buck raised the canteen awkwardly to his friend's mouth with a flash of worry twisting his gut. "Drink some a' this," he said in a low voice. "It'll help."

They spilled some of the water doing it, but somehow Buck got some into Vin's mouth, even with both his hands tied and the tracker unable to help at all. He did it three times, and each time it seemed to him that Vin visibly perked up a little more, and then drank a little more as a result. The tracker shook his head, then, and his voice was hoarse.

"You need some a' that," he whispered.

Buck smiled. "I've had some," he said. "What I want now is a beer chaser." He looked around the darkening hills and then looked back at Vin.

"You lost a lotta' blood," observed the tracker. "Won't do anyone any good, you keel over. Drink what's left."

Buck looked steadily at Vin, then nodded. "We'll split it," he said. He took another long swallow, then helped Vin get some more. A few more turns emptied the canteen, but Buck had to admit he was feeling better from it. Vin was looking a little better too.

"Where's our jailer?" Vin was looking at the cedar trees nearby and frowning.

"Went to check the backtrail."

Vin's eyes flashed as he looked at Buck. "Any reason?"

"No." Buck shook his head. "I think he's just bein' careful. No sign a' anyone back there. Anywhere."

Vin nodded slowly. "Gettin' kinda' into the mountains," he observed casually.

"At least it's cooler," sighed Buck. He looked upslope to where more distant mountains crested over the top of the foothills they'd been climbing. "Looks like we're goin' on up, too."

Vin sagged again slightly in the saddle, and Buck looked at him quickly. The younger man grinned faintly.

"Just restin'," he said.

"Yeah, well don't 'rest' yourself right outta' the saddle, ok?"

Vin sighed. "Ain't likely, trussed up like this." He lowered his face suddenly, and shuddered all over, and Buck saw him pale even as low as the light was getting. After the spasm passed, the tracker remained half-sagging in his saddle, his head down.

"Vin?" Buck's brows drew together and he bent to try to look into the tracker's face. Vin sighed, a long sigh that was almost a moan, and his breathing changed.

"Just wish it'd cool off," he murmured, "now the sun is down."

Buck felt fear steal into him. It had been getting cooler for several hours now. And when the sun had gone down, the evening breeze blowing down out of the mountains was almost too cool. He looked at Vin more closely, noticing for the first time that there was a slight flush high on the man's cheeks. The bullet wound in Vin's shoulder hadn't bled enough to clean it out, Buck knew, and the slug was still in there. But still . . .

"Tea time's over!" The black-haired man's voice cut into Buck's thoughts sharply, causing him to jerk in surprise. He looked quickly to see that the man knew it, had seen Buck's consternation and had enjoyed it immensely. He walked up to the two men and looked at Vin for several long moments as though weighing what he saw there. Then he lifted the cut end of the rope he'd taken the knot off, and pulled enough of the coil loose to refasten the tracker's hands to his saddle horn. Vin watched him numbly, it seemed to Buck, almost with disinterest. The man did the same for Buck, then went to his own horse, remounted, and flipped the lead rope to get Buck's grey moving again. Vin's black moved out with it at first, but then dropped back to follow in single file.

Buck craned around a final time, to see Vin's head sagging lower again, his head nodding in time to the gelding's footfalls.

Part 37

Why did you leave, Buck? Huh! Why did you leave?

JD was struggling to make sense of it all. Casey went to Buck and not him. What did that say? Good enough to spend time with but if she needed protecting or help -- what Casey? I'm not good enough. Just the kid. Don't know nothin'.

Why did you leave Buck? You know you didn't rape Miss Belle even if you didn't know Casey would provide you an alibi. Would you have told me? Did you even consider maybe telling me what happened to Casey so I could be there for her? No. Oh, no! Didn't do that--did you, Buck? Let me ride off to the Delano Mine. She's my girl! MY GIRL! Not yours. You didn't go after Josiah's girl--you went after mine. You could've told me -- I could've taken Casey home.

There was a sick, almost bitter taste in JD's mouth. He felt his best friend, his brother betrayed him. He was doing a walking patrol of town without any real purpose. Every step was the dagger being pounded further into his heart by his best friend.

JD finished one circuit of the town and started a second. Why did you leave? Is there more to the story that you're not saying?

JD slowed his pace -- more to the story, gotta make sense of it all. What all had happened . . .

The trail crews -- been in town a week, just lookin' for trouble and not thinking twice about directly challenging the authority of the Seven. Nothing came of it but it was almost unrelenting.

The bank robbery -- almost a week ago. JD remembered the eyes of one of the robbers, almost shocked dismay when he realized he was up against seven men. Cost him his life, as well as his partners. They were pretty well known in these parts now, so why rob the bank without making sure the seven were gone or at least have a plan. What was their plan -- didn't make sense. But JD was sure that at least one of those robbers wasn't expectin' all seven of them to be there.

Delano Mine cave-in -- was Delano paranoid or was someone really after him?

And who would want to kill Nathan?

Just didn't make sense. A lot had been happening. Were we looking for something where there is nothing? Just could be a bad week.

JD found himself much more alert on his second pass of the town. He stopped in the stores that weren't closed. Talked to other pedestrians. Stopped in the hotel and restaurants. Anybody sick? Any problems? Fortunately, time and time again, the answer was no. The town was actually reasonably quiet. But in the peaceful quiet of the evening JD's heart was in turmoil.

Buck accused of rape. A false charge but he ran. And where was Chris? Was he going after Buck? What would happen when Chris found Buck? Would Buck let Chris bring him back? Dread filled JD's heart. No, Buck wouldn't let Chris bring him in; he'd die first.

+ + + + + + +

Casey was dejected when JD walked off without even acknowledging her.

Mary wrapped an arm around Casey's shoulders. "Casey, you stay with me."

Casey just nodded her head, not lifting her eyes from the weathered boards. Her foolish decision to come to town and experience the excitements was costing so much more than she ever expected. JD hadn't tried to talk to her as they left Nathan's but she saw his eyes; he'd never look at her the same again. His eyes were old now, their innocence lost. You know my disgrace and you will never look at me the same way again.

Tears welled in Casey's eyes and she would have never made it to Mary's without her guiding hand. Mary gave Casey a squeeze, "I'll be right back, I need to get Billy from the Potter's."

Casey wasn't even sure she answered Mary. Her heart was so heavy. Her mistake cost JD. Her mistake cost Buck and Josiah. How many more would pay?

It was beyond Casey to realize the price she was paying.

Mary pondered how she could help Casey as she quickly walked down the boardwalk to retrieve Billy. None of this was her fault but Mary was certain Casey didn't view it that way. In fact, Casey could prove Buck's innocence and that was extremely important. Ezra had a good point; evidence would clear Buck, not our instincts about the quality of the man.

As the bell over the door rang, her son leapt up and ran across the room into his mother's arms. "Hi ma."

"Hi yourself." Mary gave her son a tight squeeze and looked up at her friend. "Thanks, Gloria."

"You're welcome, but you know he's no problem. Anytime, you need to leave him here. I heard Nathan is very ill." It was a grave statement as well as a question.

Mary nodded pensively. "I wired a physician and he gave us instructions on how to care for him. He isn't worse but unfortunately I don't think he's much better."

"I'll remember him in my prayers."

"I will too," Billy added soberly.

Mary gave her son a squeeze. "Come on, son, time to go home. Thanks again, Gloria."

"Mom, who's taking care of Nathan if Nathan can't take care of Nathan?"

"Mr. Standish is, honey."

"Where's Chris? He could help."

"Chris rode out this morning and hasn't returned."

"Oh." They walked quietly for a couple of minutes. "Ezra is Nathan's friend. I'm Nathan's friend. I could help," Billy volunteered demonstrating a lot more maturity than anyone should at six-years old.

"We'll see. Right now, Casey needs us. She is going to be staying with us and she is really upset. So if she starts to cry or is not herself. Don't' you worry. It's not your fault."

Billy nodded his head in understanding. Mary couldn't imagine herself being prouder.

They entered the Clarion offices and Mary carefully locked the door. She had seen that man Bland on the street. He gave her the creeps. Billy had walked through to the back but Mary stood by the door to watch the street. She didn't see anything untoward. Mary shook her head and laughed ruefully, you're seeing conspiracies around every corner, girl.

Mary walked back to the living quarters. Billy had been watching Casey.

"Hi Casey," Billy greeted her warily.

Casey lifted her chin, her face a study of desolation.

Billy broached the awkward quiet, "you gonna stay with us?"

Casey nodded her head and attempted a weak smile.

"I'm glad."

"Billy, time for bed."

"Good night, Casey."

"Night, Billy," Casey's voice was a very quiet, hoarse rasp. She valiantly tried to smile as the boy came over and gave her a hug.

Mary tucked her son into bed after he said his prayers. She smiled when Billy sent up an extra plea for Nathan and Casey. He settled right down and was quickly asleep. Mary left the door open a crack and returned to the kitchen.

"Casey, would you like to talk?" Mary asked tentatively.

Casey shook her head violently no.

"That's fine. I'm going to start pulling the papers for the last week and go through my files and see if I have any other information that can help."

Casey dashed the tears from her eyes. "I can help," she offered quietly.

Mary smiled, "I'd sure appreciate it."

Mary quickly pulled the papers for the past week. "Casey start with last Monday and read each paper. Write down any unusual event, no matter how farfetched and we will see if it's important later."

They each sat down and started to write down events. The bank robbery. The Delano Mine cave-in and Delano's insistence that someone was after him. The trail crews - Casey's attack, several episodes of drunkenness, disorderly conduct, and gunplay. The talk of needing a real doctor. Nathan's poisoning. Indian troubles - reports of butchered steers, old Sam's claim they killed his sheepdog, and the report from one scared drummer that he was chased by braves through the reservation. The accident at the Robert's ranch. The rape charge against Buck.

Mary raked a hand through her hair frustrated. There just didn't seem to be any pattern except that the events of the past week had kept the seven regulators very busy. "Casey, I don't see a pattern here. Let's get some rest, maybe it will be clearer in the morning."

Mary lay awake for a long time after settling down. Mary was wishing Chris Larabee were here to quell the inner anxiety that she couldn't seem to tamp down. If he were here, Mary wouldn't have a doubt that some way, some how; it would all be all right. Chris, Mary silently pleaded, where are you?

+ + + + + + +

Bland crushed the cheroot under his foot. He stood observing the women who had entered the office of the newspaper. He was infuriated that at every turn this woman interfered with his plans to disgrace the healer. All in all, his part had been a failure. He couldn't even find solace in the fact the healer would most likely die.

Hammersmith eased up beside Bland, "John."

"Fucking bitch," Bland spit out.

"Yes, I'm sure that it would be most pleasurable." Hammersmith felt himself tighten at the thought. "What is the problem?"

"She wired Denver. Doctor there told her about the arsenic poisoning. Even suggested ways to treat it."

"Might the healer survive."

"Not likely."

Hammersmith smiled at the answer. "Well then, your work is done here. I suggest you return to The Compound while I handle things here."

"Handle things or handle her."

"She is not the target. Best you remember that."

"I think Michaels underestimated this woman."

Hammersmith looked across the street appraisingly. "You just might be right," he responded softly. "I'll make arrangements concerning the stage coach operation and keep an eye on the gambler."

"Well, I think I'll move out now. Rather pass through the reservation at night."

"John," Hammersmith responded disgusted, "we're creating the Indian troubles."

"You just never know."

Stupid idiot. He's probably at higher risk having his horse trip in the night than any Indian threat.

Well, the plan to create panic through poisoning people failed. Hammersmith surveyed the quiet street. Gonna have to do something to shake this town's complacency.

+ + + + + + +

"Come on, Nathan, gotta drink." Ezra put his arm under Nathan's shoulders and helped lift Nathan so he would drink some more liquid. He kept pouring the liquid into Nathan's mouth and in the last hour, as much as went in, he seemed to be voiding out. Ezra had to think this was a good sign.

"Drink up."

Nathan pushed the cup away. "Wanna sleep," he mumbled.

"No sleep, drink." Ezra used a very firm voice.

Nathan's head lolled back and Ezra let him lay back down. He'd try again in a bit.

Ezra had been at it for over five hours, trying to force fluids into Nathan. Nathan was fighting him now and Ezra was getting frustrated. He was also a little jealous. He wanted to be the one lying in bed instead of trying to force himself to stay awake. He knew it was stupid, Nathan was fighting for his life, but damn, what I wouldn't do for a little sleep.

It was no surprise Ezra was desperate for sleep. In the past three days, he had maybe 10 hours of sleep. He was tired, short-tempered, and wanted to be anywhere but here.

Nathan stirred. "Come on, Nathan, gotta drink." As he pleaded and cajoled, he managed to get Nathan to drink another quart of water.

"Gonna kill, JD."

Ezra sighed. Nathan seemed fixated on JD, which Ezra couldn't quite understand. He delivered his crafted comeback to the proclamation. "Why do you want to eliminate our young associate?"

"Hey, Ezra, that you?"

Ezra eyes widened in shock. Nathan's eyes were closed but it was the first words Nathan had spoke that weren't associated with killing JD or wanting to sleep. "How you'd know?"

Nathan chuckled deeply.

After a minute, he commented, "Man, I feel bad."

"That is not surprising. We suspect you've been poisoned."

"That's nice." Nathan's eyes fell shut and he settled back into a deep sleep.

Ezra was almost ecstatic over the brief conversation with Nathan. It was a conversation, not random incoherent thoughts. Come on, Nathan. Come back.

Come back. Ezra wished they'd all come back. Nathan from the hell of this poisoning. Vin from the reservation. Buck from wherever he'd run to. Chris from wherever he'd gone. Josiah from the deep bottomless pit of despair and liquor. And JD from . . .

There was a rap on the door interrupting Ezra's morose thoughts.

"Hey, how's Nathan?" JD whispered.

Ezra sighed deeply. "We talked briefly."

JD's eyes lit up, "that's gotta be good, don't ya think?"

"I certainly hope so. Any problems on rounds?"

"Nah," JD waved his hand dismissively. "Ezra, can we talk?"

Ezra glanced over at Nathan who seemed to be resting quietly. He inclined his head to the table and chairs outside on the balcony. Taking a moment to collect himself, Ezra pulled the covers over Nathan. Ezra felt bile rise in his throat, the kid was looking for advice from him. Aw hell. And he thought medicine wasn't his forte.

Ezra settled into a seat and nodded at JD.

JD nervously rubbed his tongue over his lips. "I'm . . .I'm mad at Buck."

Ezra nodded his head. "That he ran or that he assisted Casey in her distress."

"Both." JD lolled his head, "neither."

"You need to be able to articulate the problem."

"Huh?"

"Buck is your best friend." Ezra patiently explained and JD nodded. "Casey is your paramour." JD smirked and then, nodded. "Your best friend came to the able assistance of your best lady." JD nodded solemnly. "When she requested his assistance." JD nodded. "Would you have him do less?"

"But . . ." JD started to protest.

Ezra stopped JD with his hand. "Would you have him do less?" Ezra firmly repeated.

"No."

Ezra continued. "Buck left town." JD nodded his head. "But not to run from rape charges." JD nodded his head.

"How did you know . . ." JD started to protest.

"He wouldn't rape a woman." Ezra stated it as a fact and JD nodded his head again. "And he has an alibi." JD smiled. "So he didn't run from the charges."

"But why did he pack up and leave?"

Ezra swallowed hard, loathe to answer but he owed JD his own solution to the puzzle. "I suspect it has everything to do with a certain Mr. Larabee."

"But why?" JD exclaimed, obviously hurt.

Ezra bit his lip. "Chris and Buck have been friends for over twelve years. But it is a relationship based on you cover my back, I'll cover yours." JD smiled at Ezra's description. "What would happen if Chris wasn't there to cover Buck's back?"

"He wouldn't do that!"

"I don't mean in a gun battle, but . . ." Ezra was searching for the right words, "what if Belle accused Buck and Chris didn't immediately defend him?"

JD's eyes darkened when understanding dawned. "He'd be real upset."

"Yes, indeed."

JD started to stand and extended his hand, "Thanks, Ezra."

Ezra looked at the hand but didn't grasp it with his own. "Sit, JD," Ezra said solemnly. "So you agree, a friend is there for a friend."

"Oh, yeah. I forgot that the other day."

Ezra frowned at JD's answer.

"When I fell off the horse and Buck started making fun, Nathan was by my side but I accepted the hand of a stranger and ignored him. I had to make it right. I brought him a hot dinner and apologized," JD explained.

"No wonder he wants to kill you," Ezra said under his breath.

"Kill me?" JD squeaked.

"We suspect that Nathan was poisoned with arsenic put into a pot of food at Andreas's restaurant."

"I poisoned Nathan."

"No, JD. Some person wanted to poison many people. It was an unfortunate set of circumstances that Nathan was poisoned."

"Does Nathan think that?"

"Yes," Ezra lied. Ezra justified it by thinking he'd have plenty of time to explain it to Nathan.

JD started to rise again. "JD, sit. There's one more thing. A friend is there for a friend."

"I understand that, Ezra," JD responded, irritated.

Ezra continued gently, treading softly as not to raise the young man's dander. "You need to be there for Casey. Casey is feeling shamed, violated, and unworthy."

"I don't think that."

"The only," Ezra stared hard at JD, "the only person who can convince Casey of that is you."

"A friend is there for a friend."

"Yes, indeed."

"Thanks, friend." JD started to stand and extended his hand again.

Ezra shook it firmly, "you're welcome, friend."

JD impulsively hugged Ezra.

Ezra slowly put his arm around him and squeezed. JD pulled back and looked down sheepishly.

"Want me to take a spell with Nathan?"

"No, I think it's best I press on." Besides Nathan might kill the kid, Ezra thought mordantly. "He is quite obstinate as a patient but I have successfully forced fluids into him. It's probably best I continue with this."

JD nodded. "I'll make a final pass of town and then get some sleep. I'll be at the jail if you need me. Good night, Ezra and thanks again."

"Good night, JD."

Ezra solemnly watched JD walk away. His hand shook. He wearily stood and re-entered Nathan's room. His distress hadn't eased but he was satisfied that he may have successfully assisted the young man.

Eara entered the room and shook Nathan's shoulders. "Come on, Nathan, gotta drink." Ezra put his arm under Nathan's shoulders and helped lift Nathan so he would drink some more liquid.

"Drink up."

Nathan pushed the cup away. "Wanna sleep," he mumbled.

"No sleep, drink." Ezra used a very firm voice.

Ezra was able to get Nathan to drink another quart of fluid. He assisted him to urinate and then assisted him to lie down. "Wanna sleep."

"Yes, I think we all do. Good night, Nathan."

"Good night, Ezra."

Part 38

He slept uneasily, dreaming of death and pain, and waking to find the pain, at least, was real. One moment he would be running or firing a gun at an enemy that was everywhere all at once, and the next he would be hearing the wind high in the pines and looking at the night sky and trying to remember which night it was, and whether or not he'd found Buck yet. Then the horse would stumble or it would break its gait as it navigated the steep slope and it would all flash bright as an explosion and turn him inside-out, and he'd slide into the dark again and then later wake up and not know for sure if he'd been dreaming or just sick from the pain not ever letting up and never stopping and getting worse with every step.

At some point, the moon was there, white and distant, the pines playing ball with it in their dark branches, and Vin stared at it and tried to remember why it was an important thing. Something about going faster, and now he could see the trail and head for the reservation. He sighed. The festival he was missing, and Chanu and Kojay were looking for him and the man with the high-powered rifle was siting in on them and he had to get there. Then the wind blew cold against his back and rattled the lead rope where it ran through the bridle hardware and made it jingle, and Vin woke up enough to know he'd been dreaming again, and he shivered.

He wished he still had his coat, although he couldn't figure out how he'd be able to get it on with his hands tied if he had it. He found himself turning it over in his mind for a long time, putting it on and wrapping it around somehow and feeling its warmth and then waking up to that cold wind again, over and over. He began to dread falling asleep, because it was so disorienting when he woke up halfway and then fell asleep again and then snapped into painful awareness when the horse jarred him. It made him start to feel sick, and he ached all over, and his head ached, and the fire inside his shoulder and his chest and his arm grew until his nightmares were of wildfires and the trees on fire and lanterns that had broken in barns and set all the hay on fire. And again, he woke up. And looked at the moon in dull surprise as he found out again that he was in the mountains, tied to his horse, being led somewhere and not even caring where it was any more.

And somewhere towards morning, when he opened his eyes and saw that the sky was growing paler and the stars were fading, he began to ask them to stop. He didn't know if he said it aloud or in his head, and it didn't matter if only they would. Just for a minute, just so the pain would stop for a moment, just one blessed moment so he wouldn't go out of his head with it, and it began to match the beat of his horse's hooves on the soft pine needles and the throbbing that went all the way down into his gut and he clenched his teeth and thought stop please stop please stop please. Stop. He heard his own voice, distant and in the tops of the pines, then, touching long fingers to the moon to see how long ago it had passed this way: stop please stop. And he heard Buck saying something somewhere and he wondered what it was and the moon was saying it now, too: stop please stop.

And Vin slept, and woke, and morning was so slow coming. The night, he thought dully, would never ever end. It was stuck. And as long as it was night, he was stuck, riding and hurting and cold and dreaming and waking.

Stop, he thought. Please.

Stop.

Part 39

It was just after dawn when Sullivan finally stopped again, near a shallow mountain stream. Buck had been awake almost the whole time and he was hungry and cold and so tired he could barely keep his eyes open. He was worried about Vin and once he'd tried to talk Sullivan into stopping, but the man had just kept on riding as if he couldn't even hear him. His leg ached, too, but next to everything else, it didn't seem that important.

He bent his head and watched Sullivan from under his hat. Who was this guy? And where was he taking them? Buck almost didn't care anymore. But then, he glanced at Vin, who was slumped over in the saddle again, mostly out of it, but obviously really hurting from the wound in his shoulder. Somehow, Buck thought, he had to figure a way to get Vin out of this. Somehow he at least had to get him home.

Sullivan dismounted and looked at the two men he'd been hauling into the mountains all night. Tanner was still out of it. He wasn't going to die yet, that was all Sullivan cared about. He had his orders. He looked at Wilmington who was studying the rising sun as if it were the most interesting thing he'd ever seen. 'Damn you,' Sullivan thought. 'I'll get to you somehow.'

He pulled the lead rope that led from his horse to Buck's loose and tied it to a sturdy tree branch. Then, he unsaddled his own horse and led it down to the stream. Once it had drunk its fill, he led it back to a small grassy area and hobbled it so it could graze for a bit. They were still a good day's ride from their destination and they'd started out with tired horses. Much as he hated it, if they wanted to make it the rest of the way through the mountains, he'd have to let them rest and eat.

He looked back at his two captives on horseback and let the purifying hate run through him again. It was what kept him strong, the reason he'd survived all the years he had and he knew it. Hate was more important than anything and anyone who didn't admit it was a fool.

Buck watched Sullivan unsaddle and water his horse, though his eyes kept drifting shut and he was shivering, whether from the cold mountain air or from all the blood he'd lost he didn't know. He licked his dry lips and drew in a deep breath. 'Gotta stay awake,' he thought. 'Gotta be ready.' Sullivan came toward him with his knife out again. There was a dark gleam in his eye and for a moment, Buck thought that this was it; Sullivan was going to stab him to death while he was tied helpless to a horse. Sullivan stood by his left stirrup and looked at him for a minute. Buck looked back, knowing that nothing showed in his face. With a tight grimace that Buck couldn't quite read, Sullivan reached out and cut the ropes tying Buck's leg to the stirrup. Then he walked around and cut the ropes on the other side. He reached up and cut the knot that tied his hands to the saddle horn, but left the one tying Buck's hands.

"Gotta rest the horses," he said. "Don't try anything." Then, as if to prove that he had nothing to fear from the wounded man, he turned his back on Buck and walked back to Vin's horse.

Buck tried to stretch his stiff fingers. He could barely move his wrists and he could feel where the rope had rubbed the skin through the long night. He grabbed the saddle horn, shifted his weight to his good leg and swung out of the saddle. If he hadn't been hanging on, he'd have collapsed on the ground right there. He hung onto the saddle while black spots danced in front of his eyes and gasped for breath as if he'd run a mile in heavy boots. Damn! He'd been pretty fine sitting in the saddle compared to how he felt right now. Like a stampede of cattle had run right over him. Damn it! He didn't have time for this. He shifted more of his weight to his good leg and tried to stand straight. The blackness rushed right over him and then faded a bit, leaving a loud roaring in his ears as a reminder of what would come if he moved too quickly. Just then, Sullivan yanked the saddle out of his hands and Buck fell to his knees, sending a sharp black pain through his injured leg clear up to his chest.

"Sorry," Sullivan said, and Buck heard it as if through a long narrow tunnel as Sullivan led his horse away.

For a long time, Buck just stayed there, his head bent as he tried to will strength back into his limbs. He hated being weak. Hated it more than anything. But right now there was nothing left in him. He could breathe. He could breathe. He could breathe. He could breathe....

Sullivan looked at him in disgust. 'You're nothing,' he thought. 'Nothing. Why can't I get to you?' And that failure blazed in his mind like lightning across a stormy sky.

He looked over at Tanner. He'd cut his ropes five minutes before, but the man hadn't even moved. Hell! Why had he gotten stuck playing nursemaid anyway? He reached up, grabbed Vin by the front of his shirt and yanked him forward and off his horse, barely breaking his fall as he pitched onto the ground. A loud groan escaped Vin's lips, The horse danced nervously sideways. Sullivan pulled Vin over to a nearby tree and released him. He collapsed with a sharp cry and Sullivan looked at him and laughed.

"Feeling poorly?" he said. "Hell, don't blame me." Vin tried to raise his left arm to his right shoulder and, because his hands were tied he moved both arms before he was aware of it and another loud low groan escaped him. Sullivan laughed again. He reached out to grab the man's shirt collar and set him upright again.

"LEAVE HIM ALONE!"

Sullivan was completely unprepared for Buck when he slammed into him and he fell, tumbling away and scrambling to regain his feet. Wilmington was just standing there in front of Tanner, looking down at him. Sullivan launched himself at Buck, knocking him flat and punching him, hard, twice in the stomach. Then he jumped to his feet with a feeling fairly close to satisfaction and looked down at the man lying on the ground.

Buck turned onto his side, retching, as the sharp blows to his stomach re-ignited the ache from where Josiah had bruised him two days ago. He drew in great gouts of air and it still wasn't enough. Breathe, damn it! Breathe! He struggled to his knees, his heart racing so fast he thought sure it would give out on him and he wanted nothing so much as to just lie down and be done with it. But he didn't. He pushed himself up on his left leg, struggled for a moment to get his balance, and climbed shakily to his feet. Only then did he look at Sullivan.

"Leave him alone," he said again, looking the man directly in the eye. And then, he just stood there and tried to keep breathing, hoping Sullivan didn't know just how damned hard that was.

Sullivan, with his fist clenched, took a step toward him, then he stopped. He looked from Buck to Vin, who lay slumped against the tree, not seeing much of anything. Then he looked at Buck again and his fist uncoiled and he almost smiled. 'I have you now,' he thought. 'I have you now.'

Instead of attacking Buck, he turned away with a light footstep to lead Vin's horse down to the creek and then hobble it in the grass with the others. Buck watched him and wondered exactly what it was about the look in his eye that suddenly seemed to promise no compromise or quarter.

Part 40

A shudder wracked his body. Damn, he was cold. But sometimes it took just too much effort to move. Guess he would forgo sleep now, he was wide-awake. He surveyed his surroundings. A funny light danced off the walls gently providing soft illumination to the room. You think it would be a warm light, but it wasn't. The light of the moon never is. At least he assumed that was the light source.

He tested his movement. He lifted his head and was pleased. He rotated his shoulders and moved his legs. They felt odd, unused even. He felt like he was emerging from a black hole. A dark hole where he was alone, in desperate need, and no one was there for him.

Recollections flooded Nathan's memory. Intense pain. The unending retching and vomiting. The stench of the diarrhea. The nightmares. And he'd been alone, in desperate need, and no one was there for him.

A shudder wracked his body. Damn, he was cold. But sometimes it took just too much effort to move. Guess he would forgo sleep now, he was wide-awake. He felt a heavy blanket being laid over him. Better, that was so much better.

Nathan's eyes looked up to his savior. It took him a moment to place him. Maybe because he was the last person he expected to be there.

"Ezra."

"Mr. Jackson."

"You get stuck with the night tour," Nathan was shocked at the quality of his voice: dry, raspy, unused.

"Mmm, something like that."

"How long have I been out?"

"Two to three days," was Ezra's quiet reply.

Two days . . . Nathan mulled over that bit of information . . . Three days! Nathan was suddenly wide-awake and panicked.

What about his responsibilities? What about his patients? He had to check on Roberts' leg - he could still lose it to gangrene - better that than his life. What about the Andrews' baby? Was the baby feeding? Moving normally? What of the mother - had there been any complications? Who had needed him and he wasn't available - like that lady on the wagon train. Who had needed him - the healer?

Nathan tried to get out of bed but firm hands at his shoulders pressed him down into the bed.

"Lay back down, Mr. Jackson," Ezra's voice brooked no protest but Nathan still tried to get out of bed.

"Mr. Jackson, lay down. That is an order."

"You wouldn't understand. I have duties, responsibilities that I must tend to," Nathan protested and struggled against Ezra's hold.

Ezra suddenly released Nathan and slowly backed away from the bed. His hands were forward; almost as if they were trying to clutch hold of the most valuable prize and it wasn't within reach. His eyes had a look of almost intense pain and shame. When he spoke his voice had a quality of forlornness, "You are so very right," he bowed his head, "I wouldn't understand."

Ezra brusquely shook his head and seemed to recollect himself.

"You are absolutely in no uncertain terms, not getting out of this bed," Ezra firmly stated, "you've been poisoned . . ."

"Poisoned?" Nathan gasped.

"Poisoned," Ezra confirmed matter-of-factly. "We have pushed fluids attempting to flush the poison from your system. It appears, I dare say, that you are making every appearance of recovering. We have been consulting with a physician in Denver and we are to wire with your status in approximately an hour."

"How poisoned?" Nathan was shocked at the implications of that statement. What had he done to deserve that?

"We believe it was arsenic poisoning put into some food that Andreas prepared."

"How can you know that?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"How_can_you_know_that?" Nathan enunciated each word slowly and clearly.

Ezra seemed surprised by the question, so Nathan explained. "Arsenic is colorless and tasteless. How did you even suspect poisoning?"

"It was Mary Travis. She spoke with Andreas and then wired a physician friend in Denver. Through discussions with the physician, they figured out you were poisoned."

"I'm forever in Mary's debt."

Ezra didn't answer for a moment. "Yes, indeed," he confirmed.

There was a light rap at the door. Ezra walked around the bed to answer it.

"Hey, Ezra."

"JD."

JD tried to peer around Ezra to the bed. "How's Nathan?"

Ezra opened the door wider and flourished his arm to draw JD into the room.

"Nathan," JD exclaimed as he saw the clear, alert eyes of the healer.

A broad smile crossed Nathan's face. "That bad, huh?"

"Yeah," JD's glee turned quickly. "I was sure we were going to lose you," JD stated somberly.

JD looked back at Ezra indicating the door with his eyes; Ezra took the hint and stepped outside of the room.

JD walked over to the foot of the bed. He was clearly agitated and he pulled his bowler hat off his head and clutched it in front of his chest. "Nathan, it was my fault."

"JD, it's all right," Nathan reassured the young man.

"It's my fault. I poisoned you," JD looked directly at Nathan's eyes.

"No, you didn't JD. You didn't poison me." Nathan spoke with the assurance that this was indeed a friend who would never hurt him.

"I brought you the food," JD started pacing in the small confines of the room. "If I hadn't forgotten what a true friend you were, I . . I . . .I would have never pushed you away." JD had paced to the wall pivoted and started across the room again. "And if'n I never pushed you away, I wouldn't have had to make it up to you. And if . . and if . . . I didn't have to make it up to you, I wouldn't have brought you dinner." JD had paced to the other wall pivoted and started across the room again. "And if you hadn't eaten the dinner, you wouldn't have eaten the poison." The words were tumbling out of JD and as he became more agitated his pacing got faster.

Nathan wasn't quite sure he was following JD's logic and he was getting tired just watching JD pace the room.

"JD, it was an accident. It was an accident. There was no way you could have known."

"I'm so sorry, Nathan. I'm so sorry, Nathan. I'm so sorry, Nathan," JD was repeating it as a mantra as he paced across the room.

Nathan was getting a tad irritated. "JD, stop." JD halted mid-stride. "IT WAS NOT YOUR FAULT."

Nathan looked directly into JD's eye, "absolutely, positively, not your fault."

A tentative smile crossed JD's face. "You truly believe that."

"I truly believe that, friend."

JD laughed with relief and Nathan smiled broadly.

"Though gotta tell you, JD, might be a long time before I let you deliver a meal to me again."

JD gasped and his eyes flashed at the door, "gosh, do you think Ezra thinks that? I brought him breakfast."

Nathan started chortling. He inclined his head to the door, whispered conspiratorially, "go see."

Part 41

Ezra gently closed the door so Nathan and JD could have an opportunity to talk. The cool, fresh desert air was refreshing. Ezra strolled over to the railing of the balcony to admire the first light of day. The sky at the horizon was a delicate pink and the sky a clear, translucent blue unmarred by clouds. Ezra only saw mornings like this if one of his card games ended around dawn. Ezra laughed at himself. He half-thought he should make an effort to see more sunrises - nah! He'd stick to sunsets.

Ezra turned to sit at the table against the wall when he saw the tray of food. He pulled back the napkin and saw a hearty breakfast laid out - eggs, sausage, fried tomatoes, bread, and a pot of coffee. Ezra quickly poured himself a cup of coffee. He considered the food -- the_food_JD_brought. What did Nathan say -- arsenic is colorless and odorless. Well, I'm famished. I'll take my chances and Ezra started to eat the breakfast. He savored the first bites, absolutely delicious.

Ezra heard light footfalls on the stairs and knew it was Mary Travis. He stood as she reached the landing.

"Good morning, Mary."

"Good morning, Ezra. Please sit, finish your breakfast. How is Nathan?" Ezra thought Mary looked as fatigued as he felt. Not that she wasn't lovely. But there was a paleness to her face, a droop to her shoulder, and a weariness to her posture that conveyed the stress and its toll over the past few days.

Mary sat across from Ezra at the table and poured herself a cup of coffee.

"He's alert, lucid, no vomiting or diarrhea in the past six hours," Ezra summarized Nathan's status with almost no emotion. Maybe if he didn't believe too strongly in the good signs, then nothing untoward would happen.

"That's marvelous." Mary obviously thought it was good news. There was a joy, almost elation fully conveyed in just two words. "We'll need to wire Dr. Francis in about a half hour."

"I'll do that. JD is with Nathan right now. It will give me an opportunity to do a tour of the town and make sure no other calamities have befallen us." Ezra wiped his mouth with a napkin and carefully folded it.

Mary reached into her pocket. "Here's your money back. I wrote out a detailed list of expenses."

"Thank you," Ezra folded the money and placed it his pocket not even glancing at it. He didn't look at the expense list but folded it a couple more times and placed it on the tray.

At that moment the door opened a crack, "Mr. Dunne, thank you for the breakfast. It was excellent."

JD opened the door wide and was smiling broadly, "you're welcome, Ezra."

"I'm going to wire, Denver and make a patrol of town. I should be about an hour. Stand by here, please," Ezra ordered.

"Sure, no problem." One thing about working with JD, he was always eager to be of assistance without complaint. Ezra was fast appreciating that quality in the young man.

Ezra entered the room to retrieve his jacket and hat. He looked over at Nathan. "Took your chances with JD's food?" Nathan inquired.

Ezra smiled broadly flashing his gold tooth. "Somehow I don't think they'll make the same play twice." Ezra nodded at the glass on the nightstand, "still need to drink plenty of fluids." Nathan nodded. "I'll be back soon."

As Ezra reached the boardwalk, he surveyed the street. No one was about except Yosemite who waved as he went to open the livery. It was very quiet - not noiseless, there were voices in conversation that could be heard through open windows, the smell of bacon being prepared for breakfast, and the thwack of an axe as wood was chopped. Maybe that's why Mr. Tanner loved to sit in a chair on the boardwalk in the early morning - before the bustle, before the noise, and enjoy the quiet. A little peace. Maybe, just maybe, there was something to be said about sunrises -- nah! Give me the night, give me the action.

Ezra decided he had enjoyed too much action these past few days and was facing another very long day. He would take advantage of the quiet and clean up and attire himself in fresh clothes. He went to the hotel and went up the backstairs to his room for the clothes. He wasn't particularly interested in going through the lobby and having to answer questions about Nathan or about Vin, Buck, Chris, or Josiah for that matter. Wouldn't be quiet then. Ezra wasn't certain he could contain his discontent with at least three names from that list and give a full discourse on his frustration. Much better to enjoy the quiet.

Ezra returned to the bathhouse and arranged a bath. He removed his clothes. His skin was clammy and sticky and his nose wrinkled at the smell of the carbolic acid that he had washed down with in Nathan's room. He shaved and then slipped into the bath and let the hot water relieve the tightness of his muscles. He scrubbed down with soap, only to do it a second time. He noticed he lost weight and that his stomach was slightly concave. Breakfast this morning had been his first decent meal in four days. Not that he couldn't eat but there was just other things to do -- like play poker. He hadn't taken time to eat during that marathon session. The lucre of money was far more satisfying than an excellent meal. Ezra could honestly say he didn't miss those meals.

When Ezra was satisfied at his cleanliness, he relaxed back promising himself 5 minutes before he needed to get dressed and go to the telegraph office. He closed his eyes and reflected on the past few days. It had not only been meals that Ezra had missed but other matters as well, which he were quickly regretting. What was the exact status of his comrades-in-arms?

Chris Larabee had rode out of town yesterday, apparently without conversing to anyone about his intentions. You're the responsible one, Mr. Larabee, it hardly speaks well of you.

Buck Wilmington left two days ago, avoiding answering to a rape charge, which he was fully cognizant that he was innocent of. So why did he leave? Ezra's surmised that he had some type of disagreement with one Chris Larabee.

Vin Tanner was at a festival at the reservation. Hey, someone had to be having a good time though Ezra couldn't prevent the slightest twinge of envy.

Josiah Sanchez's lady friend accused Buck Wilmington of rape. Josiah was now drinking himself into a dark hole where no light was apparent. Ezra's predicament was that he needed the older man's counsel. How do you wrench him back from a personal hell to aid his friends and community?

Nathan Jackson was poisoned but wasn't apparently individually targeted. The plan had been to intentionally inflict many townspeople with a dreadful malady. Why? Why Four Corners? There was no possible way that Nathan could have handled it. Ezra was so relieved that catastrophe had been averted.

JD Dunne was uninjured and available for duty. As was Ezra Standish. Were they adequate to the task? What else could happen that hadn't already?

The problems of the past week had been numerous: the bank robbery, the trail crews, the Delano Mine Cave-in, the rape charge, and the poisoning. What did it all mean? Could it really just be a very bad week? The only problem was that Ezra had a lot more ominous feeling about this all. Almost a paranoia. He felt like there was a bulls-eye on his chest and the shooter was sighting the target. The problem with all this was Ezra hated the unexplained. On their face, except for the rape charge and poisoning, the other events weren't out of the ordinary, so was he afraid of his own shadow for no reason? Ezra chuckled self-deprecatorily, what evidence was there that Ezra had any reason to think he was a target? Rather conceited, don't you think?

Ezra sighed deeply, although he hated to do it, Ezra forced himself out of the bathtub. He had to wire Dr. Francis. As he dressed, Ezra cataloged Nathan's status. He had forced 10 liters of fluid into Nathan. He was in no pain, the vomiting and diarrhea had ended six hours ago, he was alert and lucid. Good signs. Ezra tried to tamp down his hope. Wait to talk to the doctor. Just wait.

Ezra entered the telegraph office. "Mornin', Mr. Standish," Wyatt, the operator and stagecoach manager greeted him. "Little early yet."

"Yes but could you please let Denver know we are standing by."

"Will do."

As Wyatt tapped out the message, Ezra prepared the first message on Nathan's status.

"Mr. Standish, can I ask you something?" Wyatt looked up from the telegraph at the gambler. The man hardly looked threatening.

"Certainly," the southerner drawled.

"What did you say to Old Pete yesterday?"

"Whom?" Of all the questions to be asked, Ezra didn't even know what this one was about.

"Stagecoach driver. It was all I could do to get him to leave yesterday. Said you needed to supervise his driving. What did you say to him?"

Understanding dawned and the gambler chuckled quietly. "Told him if he didn't ride through town at a sedate pace that I would personally ensure he understood the pace I required."

"How were you going to do that?" Wyatt asked, puzzled.

"Why I was going to ride the stage through town at the appropriate pace while Pete ran along side tied to the stage," was Ezra's elaborately casual response.

"So, you want the horses to be walked. That wouldn't be so hard. I mean Old Pete, he was really scared," Wyatt seemed oblivious to the full import of what Ezra's threat.

"Then, I was going to run the stage through town at the pace Pete drives while Pete ran along side," Ezra dead-panned.

Wyatt jerked his head up to look at the gambler and saw that he was serious. Wyatt slowly nodded his head, "yup," he drawled, "guess don't need to worry about the stage runnin' folk over no more." Both men smiled broadly.

Wyatt was pulled away by the clacking of the telegraph. "Denver's on-line."

Four Corners: Patient status ::Stop:: Alert and lucid ::Stop:: No pain, vomiting, diarrhea ::Stop::

Denver: Can the patient urinate ::Stop::

Four Corners: Yes, in copious amounts ::Stop::

Denver: Any other victims ::Stop::

Four Corners: Negative ::Stop::

Denver: Recommendation, continue to push fluids ::Stop:: Clear fluids today ::Stop:: May start solid food tomorrow ::Stop:: Rest till stronger ::Stop::

Four Corners: Thank you for your assistance ::Stop::

Denver: It is gratifying to hear of patient's recovery ::Stop:: Do not hesitate to wire if further questions ::Stop:: regards, Dr. Francis ::Stop::

"That mean Nathan going to be all right?" Wyatt asked.

Relief flooded Ezra, "indeed, it appears so." Ezra let himself believe it, truly believe it.

Ezra flipped some coins onto the counter. "Thank you, Wyatt."

As Wyatt noticed the amount left, he called out, "yes sir, anytime sir."

Ezra returned to the boardwalk. There were more people about now. Ah, so much for quiet. He began a leisurely circuit of the town. He kept his ears open, hoping to hear any gossip of concern. He looked assessingly at patrons on the street. Nothing untoward was apparent.

Almost done with his circuit, Ezra paused in front of The Clarion's office. He slowly surveyed the street. Ezra kept expecting to see some kind of problem, some event, some happening that would confirm that all was not all right in Four Corners. Unfortunately, it was not readily apparent. So what was . . .

Ezra felt a tugging on his pant's leg, at about the level of his knee.

Ezra spotted Billy in his peripheral vision, "Yes, Mr. Travis."

"Hi Ezra," was the eager reply.

Ezra smiled graciously and looked down at the boy. "And what can I do for you?"

"Ma said you were taken care of Nathan. Is he better?"

"Yes, yes, he is. Much better," Ezra reported thankfully.

Billy nodded his head, more like an adult than a six-year old. He apparently had some request but it didn't appear to be forthcoming so Ezra pressed the issue. "Was there something else?"

"Yes, please." Billy eagerly responded. Ezra chuckled, he hadn't lost his insight of others. "In the morning, Chris or Vin walk me to Potter's. But they're gone," Billy started to explain.

"And why do you go to Potter's in the morning with them?"

"They walk me to work," Billy stated matter-of-factly.

"Work," Ezra half-choked on the word.

"Yeah, I sweep and help for a penny a day." Billy looked up and down the street, apparently satisfied his mother wasn't about, he yanked on Ezra's leg to bring him closer, "though gotta tell you, I mostly take it in trade," Billy whispered conspiratorially.

"I see now. Mmm, peppermint sticks." Ezra restrained himself from laughing at the young boy's antics.

Billy carefully surveyed the street again, "Licorice," he whispered.

"Well, our secret and I certainly can escort you to work."

Ezra turned and started towards Potter's. Billy fell into step beside him. Ezra felt a small hand worm its way into his. Ezra smiled and they walked hand-in-hand the rest of the way.

"Good morning, Mrs. Potter."

"Good morning, Mr. Standish and Billy," Gloria Potter smiled at her two visitors.

"Billy, your mother was in and you are going to spend the day with me."

"That's fine," he piped up, already starting to swing a broom.

"Mr. Standish, how is Nathan?" Gloria Potter inquired, obviously concerned.

"He is recovering and will probably be up in a few days," Ezra was pleased to report.

Gloria Potter beamed at the excellent news. "Our prayers are answered."

"Indeed." Ezra smiled at the shop woman's reaction. "Mrs. Potter, if you could communicate this news about town, I would be indebted."

"It will be my pleasure."

"Good day." Ezra turned to exit the store, satisfied that word of Nathan's recovery would be adequately communicated and that Billy was in good hands, "bye, Billy."

"Bye, Ezra."

Ezra stepped again onto the boardwalk. He was surprised when he spotted Hammersmith approaching him. Thought he would have moved on when the action died.

"Mr. Standish." Hammersmith looked Ezra over speculatively.

"Good morning, Mr. Hammersmith," Ezra was looking the man over as well. Hammersmith played like a professional. Sought games like a professional. But yet here he was unshaven in cowboy dress. That was what always bothered Ezra about Hammersmith. He always expected to see him in a tailored jacket, a fine linen shirt, tie, brocade vest, and gabardine trousers. And yet he was a dusty cowboy.

"Ready to resume our game? I'm sure I can convince the banker and several others to join us," Hammersmith commented with suave assurance.

"No."

Hammersmith looked at Ezra incredulously, "No?"

"I have duties and responsibilities that I must tend to. I'm afraid I won't be available for the foreseeable future."

Hammersmith bit the inside of his lip to prevent himself from gasping for air like a beached fish.

"If you'll excuse me."

"Certainly," Hammersmith managed to respond.

Ezra tipped his hat with two fingers and Hammersmith unconsciously found himself returning the salutation.

Hell. He had been so sure. He had Standish pegged. The game. Always the game. That's what was important in life. Not duties, and certainly not responsibilities.

Yet there he was, returning to the healer's clinic. Standish was not behaving as expected. How could he have miscalculated so grievously? And just what could he do about it?

Yes, Hammersmith had his responsibilities to his boss. Most assuredly Hammersmith would complete them. But Standish would be his. Hammersmith would best him. There was no doubt. Absolutely no doubt.

Hammersmith wondered about the boy he had seen with Standish. Hammersmith recognized him as the editor's son. The lovely widow who had brought the saloon to a complete quiet when she entered.

He could exploit that. Shame to draw the lovely woman into the game. My dear, you really should keep better company.

Hammersmith savored the possibility. Indeed, Standish would be his and the lovely blonde would be the key.

Part 42

Thompson had found Striker's track about an hour after he'd left Four Corners the day before. He'd followed it easily and steadily south to the small town of Telem Flats. It had taken him an hour to determine that Chris Larabee had been there, but was now gone. Damn! He'd smiled to himself, though, when he left the small town. This'd be simple, he thought. It wasn't easy to forget a glowering man in black stalking from saloon to saloon looking like he'd kill the next man that looked at him. People seemed glad to tell him; probably hoped he'd shoot Larabee in the back or something. 'You have no idea,' Thompson had thought as he'd mounted up and ridden on. By the time he hit the second town, the pattern was clear to him. Larabee had no idea where Wilmington was; he was running on instinct. Searching all the small border towns it looked like, trying to spot the man. 'Well, damn!' Thompson thought, 'you're going to have to do a hell of a lot of looking to catch up with him.'

Thompson stopped trying to follow Striker's track and struck back to the road. But by the time he'd reached the third town it was full dark and he'd figured he wouldn't get much farther without resting his horse. Larabee probably hadn't got much farther himself, he thought, not much worried about getting outfaced by a scowling gunslinger in black. After verifying that neither Striker or Larabee were actually in town, Thompson treated himself to a big steak and a couple of glasses of beer before retiring for the night.

He was up before dawn and on the road again, figuring if he was lucky he could catch Striker in the next town about four miles up the road. It was just after sun-up when he rode into town, a solitary figure on a dun colored horse, his hat pulled low against the wind. The stable owner was just pulling open the big barn doors when he rode up. He'd just dismounted and was leading his horse to the nearby water trough when Chris Larabee walked by him. Thompson was startled for a moment. He'd been prepared for most anything, he thought, but not for Larabee to walk right by him at quarter after six in the morning. He recovered quickly, though. 'Hell!' he thought, 'I certainly guessed right on that. One town after another right down the border.' And he allowed himself a slight smile at how easy it had been.

He watched Larabee out of the corner of his eye as he pulled his horse out of a stall and started saddling up. Figuring Striker would be along shortly, Thompson tied his own horse to a nearby rail, loosened the cinch and sauntered back behind the livery stable to wait.

He'd just finished rolling a cigarette when he heard it, the soft, almost imperceptible sound of Striker's footstep. He grinned, inside, where no one could see. "Morning, Striker," he said in a cool voice.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

And that was Striker too. No, how did you find me? No, everything all right in town? Just, 'what the hell are you doing here.' Thompson slipped into the same brusque mode. "Change in plans," he said, striking a match and lighting his cigarette.

Striker's flat eyes narrowed. He didn't say anything though, just waited for Thompson to continue. "Sullivan shot Wilmington. That part went right according to plan as far as I can tell." Thompson took a long draw on his cigarette and let the smoke out slowly. He knew just how far he could play Striker without getting in trouble. Sometimes it paid just to let the man lie, but other times, like now, he just couldn't resist.

"Did Tanner catch up to him? We knew that might be a possibility. It was your job to take care of things."

A frown flickered across Thompson's face. 'Take care of things,' he thought. 'You're damn lucky to have me is what.'

"Problem was," Thompson said with a drawl. "Wilmington damn near bled to death."

"That shouldn't have happened," Striker snapped. "Didn't Sullivan shoot him in the leg like we discussed?"

Thompson shrugged. It wasn't his job to defend Sullivan. Let the arrow-shooting son-of-a-bitch do it himself. "Wilmington pulled it out."

"Hmmm," said Striker, thinking that they should have anticipated that. They'd counted on his hot-headedness after all. But then, that was why they had so many contingency plans. "Tell me more," he demanded.

Thompson shrugged again, covering his irritation at being reduced to a messenger boy for Striker. "Tanner caught up with him. They looked like they were heading back to town. I shot Tanner and Sullivan and I took them. Sullivan's taking them in."

Striker looked at Thompson so long that Thompson finally had to give in and turn away. He tried to make it casual, as if he chose to turn away, but he figured Striker knew the truth. Striker always knew everything.

"We may as well take Larabee," Thompson finally offered. "There's no sense waiting."

Striker turned away and looked across the flat empty space beyond the edge of town. Thompson tried not to fidget and was annoyed with himself that he even had to make the effort. Finally, Striker looked back, his eyes narrow and mean-looking in a way they hadn't been a moment before. "You're right," he said. "There's no sense waiting at all."

Part 43

At first Vin couldn't figure out what had changed. It wasn't the presence of anything so much as its absence: like the sudden emptiness when cannon stopped firing all at once in a battle and you nearly fell over without all that noise to hold you up, the thundering having become something you'd been leaning against so long you'd gotten used to it. And what was missing now, Vin slowly realized, was motion. He was sitting still.

Thank God, he thought several times, thank God. He felt his mind pulling back all the scattered bits of himself, drawing together again into a single thinking person, and he tried to swallow but couldn't because his mouth was too dry. He realized his eyes were opened and looking at a mountain meadow rimmed with steep rocky ledges with pinion pines along the crests. The sky behind the trees was pale but full morning, and a cold breeze ruffled through the meadow swirling the long grass and then dashing out of sight as he watched, unmoving.

Unmoving. He closed his eyes and sighed. Not moving, sitting perfectly still, he could handle it. It burned and throbbed like hell, but he could handle it. Vin opened his eyes again and turned his head very slowly and carefully just far enough to see that Buck was to his left, leaning against the same tree Vin was apparently against, his hat off and his hair rumpled. His normally ruddy face was almost porcelain-pale, his mustache like coal against it. Vin caught his breath suddenly, afraid that Buck had died, reached out a hand to touch him --

Mistake. Big mistake. He heard himself gasp as the damn thing exploded again, though he couldn't for the life of him figure out why. He felt his face hit the ground, tried to keep his own body from jerking uncontrollably against the pain so it would calm down and get better instead of worse, and then felt strong, steady hands on his good shoulder and on his back, helping him get it under control again. He lay there several long moments, his eyes closed, panting. Slowly everything settled down, and finally he opened his eyes to peer sideways through a little forest of pale grass to a concerned and nearly upside-down face that was looking at his own. It struck Vin as funny somehow, that mustache upside-down with several of the long black hairs hanging longway-round, and he chuckled very, very softly and then grimaced at the way that felt in his throat.

"You think if I help you, you can sit up now?" Buck's voice was gentle but wary.

Vin nodded wordlessly, and then felt Buck's hands on his left shoulder, slowly lifting him from the grass where he'd lain. It hurt, but Buck was slow enough and careful enough that it didn't blow up again, and then he felt the rough bark of a tree trunk behind his back and neck and sighed in relief that it was over and he could be still again. He swallowed, sore throat or not, and tried to lick his lips.

"Here," said Buck, "he left us a canteen. But DON'T--" he broke off to put his hands firmly on Vin's as the tracker thought of reaching for it, "try to move your hands, Vin."

Vin looked at Buck, then down at where Buck's hands were on his. They were tied. Buck's hands were tied together, and so were his. He blinked, feeling dully surprised, as he began to remember. How long had it been? Buck's voice interrupted his confused thoughts.

"When you try to move your good arm, Vin," he was explaining carefully, "it moves your bad one, too. You gotta' not move your arms at all if you can." Vin looked over at Buck, turning his words over and fitting them together until they made sense.

"Hell," he said at last, and closed his eyes with a heavy sigh of resignation. Buck let go of his hands, and then he was holding an opened canteen to the tracker's mouth.

"Go slow so we don't spill it." His own voice was hoarse. "And don't move your hands, OK, Buddy? Just keep real still."

The water ran down inside Vin, cold and heavy as a rainstorm, and took the dry stickeriness out of his mouth and throat. "Where are we?" he rasped out as Buck recapped the canteen.

Buck shrugged, and Vin noticed dark smudges of fatigue beneath eyes that were unusually dull. "Keep goin' farther into the mountains, it looks like," he said softly. He looked around the clearing and then at Vin. "We're stopped at a stream right now, an' he's grazin' the horses."

"Where?"

"Over there." Buck nodded towards an area bounded by several tall pines that had grown up between the stream and the nearby ridges. Vin struggled a bit to see the place Buck had indicated more clearly, but gave up when he realized he couldn't do it unless he was willing to aggravate that slug in his shoulder again. Damn, he wished there was some way to get it out!

"Don't suppose there's any way you could dig this thing outta' me." Vin's voice was so weak that at first Buck wasn't sure he'd heard him. Then he realized what the tracker had said and shook his head.

"I don't . . . think there's any way I can do that, Vin." He looked at the younger man, who was slowly slumping farther over on the tree he was laying against.

"Just look an' see," said Vin softly, "Maybe it lodged close to the skin somewhere."

Buck sighed thoughtfully. Maybe so. But he didn't think . . . he looked at Vin's flushed face, the sheen of sweat on it, and caved in. He could at least look, he thought. Carefully moving around to Vin's other side, Buck lowered the leather suspender and then pulled back the edge of the tracker's shirt with his two bound hands. The bandanna he'd placed there earlier had shifted and fallen while the wound was still bleeding, leaving it unprotected. Buck winced when he saw how swollen the area was, and how red. The wound itself, a large hole an inch or so below the collarbone, was seeping a clear fluid but not bleeding now. In fact, it looked like after the first few moments it hadn't bled much at all. Vin's voice startled him.

"Any chance a' gettin' it out?"

Buck bit his lips looking at his friend's chest and shoulder, then very gently bent him forward to look at his back. He was searching for the tell-tale darkness of a slug just beneath the skin, and found himself uncertain of whether or not finding it would be a good thing. He didn't have any--"

"Well, what's this?"

Sullivan's voice surprised Buck so thoroughly that it was all he could do not to jerk Vin in a way that would have caused pure agony. Instead, he lowered the man back against the tree behind him, and pulled the shirt closed. He had to be careful, he thought. Very careful. He didn't look at Sullivan or at Vin either one, but kept his eyes on the ground as he answered.

"Just seein' if it needed more bandagin' on it," he said.

Sullivan squatted on his heels ten feet away from the two men and eyed Buck steadily, with a calculating gleam that Vin noticed with a sharp tremor. Who the hell was this guy?

"And does it?" asked Sullivan, his voice silky.

"No." Buck's voice was flat and emotionless. "He's fine."

Sullivan's eyes slid from Buck to Vin, and his gaze sharpened. "That right, Tanner?" He shifted his weight on the balls of his feet. "You fine?"

Vin was silent, his eyes never leaving their captor. The moment had the uneasiness in it of facing off with a coiled rattlesnake. The dark man in buckskins didn't care about the answer anyway; he wanted something else. Vin just didn't know what. He glanced at Buck and saw in the gunman's tense posture that he did know -- or had a damned good idea. He was mad and holding it in as tight as he knew how.

"You know, you cost me fifty bucks." The man in buckskin broke off a long piece of grass and pointed it at Vin as he spoke, then set it between his teeth. "Fifty. I oughta' take it out a' your hide."

Neither of the wounded men said a word or seemed the least bit intimidated; if anything, Tanner suddenly looked slightly disdainful, and Wilmington kept his eyes on the ground as if Sullivan wasn't even there. Sullivan's face darkened. "We're gonna' stay here a coupla' hours," he said very low, "so I'll just make sure you ain't workin' one another's bindin's loose an' then I'll let you boys visit if that's what you're set on." He stood to lean down over Buck and grab the ropes around his hands, between the man's wrists, to tug at them experimentally. "Nope, still tight as a drum," he said cheerfully. He leaned over Vin, his eyes on Buck. One hand reached down to grab the ropes on the tracker's hands in much the same way, but then he jerked upward suddenly and with force, and shook the ropes as if to test their knots. The hoarse cry that burst from Vin's throat was matched by a roar from Buck as the tall man threw himself at Sullivan.

Sullivan was ready for him this time, though. It was almost too easy to shove the man off-balance onto his injured leg, but there was still plenty of satisfaction in the way his eyes lit up with fire inside as he tried to conceal the pain of his landing. Hate me, thought Sullivan. You're starting to get it now, Wilmington. He looked at Vin, half-off the ground with his hands in Sullivan's grip, his breath coming in strangled gasps as he tried to get his weight under him to take the pull off his wounded shoulder. Sullivan watched him struggle a moment, then opened his hand and let go. Vin fell heavily to the ground, groaning, and rolled to his side with sweat running into his eyes and matting his hair to the sides of his face. Buck looked at him, then looked up at Sullivan standing above them.

"His ropes are still tight enough, too," he said. He held Buck's smoldering gaze for a long and satisfying moment before he broke it himself and turned to head down to the stream. Maybe it wouldn't be such a loss, he thought, that he couldn't kill them and had to deliver them pretty much as they were now. Breaking Wilmington's reserve was proving an interesting challenge after all.

Part 44

It took a long time after Sullivan left them for Vin's breathing to stop running in and out of his shuddering chest in ragged gasps. Buck sat with his tied hands on the calf of the other man's leg, afraid to touch his arm or shoulder, as Vin lay on his left side half-curled, his face clenched every bit as tightly as the rest of him was. Buck just sat there, maintaining the light touch to let the other man know he wasn't alone, and watched for Sullivan so he wouldn't be taken by surprise again. Finally he felt Vin's leg begin to relax under his hands, and a quick glance showed him that the tracker's features had eased and that the short, quick breaths he was taking were becoming smoother. After a few more minutes had passed, Buck scooted backwards so he was closer to Vin's head and looked down at his profile against the ground.

"How about a little water?" he asked gently.

Vin nodded slightly, then turned his head just enough to look up at Buck with clouded eyes set into deep hollows. The gunman leaned over him and then looked carefully all around for Sullivan once more before he spoke again.

"Let's get you sittin' up like we did before, ok?"

Vin nodded again, and pressed his lips together as Buck lifted him slowly, the tracker's torso still rigid as he fought the pain, and settled him against the rough red bark of the tree they were both starting to think of with some affection as at least something they could put their backs against safely. Buck uncapped the canteen and waited for Vin to relax a little more, then slowly and carefully gave him some of the water. He took a drink himself, wishing it was a whole barrel or that he could go to the stream and throw himself down on his belly and--

"Who the hell is that guy?" Vin's voice was still tight, and he coughed very softly. But he bit his lips and looked intensely at Buck for an answer, and the gunman shook his head slowly.

"Ain't got the slightest idea," he said. "I thought maybe you knew 'im."

"Nope." Vin sighed and settled lower as his muscles unclenched a little more. "First time I saw 'im was when they took us, back when you were out."

Buck thought a moment. "They?" He looked at Vin, whose eyes met his.

"There was two of 'em," he said. "Other fella' had red hair an' a red beard, cut close."

Buck looked thoughtful and then ran a hand through his hair with a puzzled expression. "Where would he have gotten off to?" He looked towards the stream and his eyes got a far-away look to them, and then he looked again at Vin. "Did you say they were _bounty hunters_?"

"That's what I thought," said Vin. He closed his eyes a moment and shivered, then looked again at Buck with a slightly paler face. "But I can't figure it out. The pieces don't add up."

"You were tellin' me . . ." Buck's voice trailed off as he tried to lay his hands on the memory. ". . . .that you didn't think it was . . .Indians."

"It wasn't." Vin sounded so positive that Buck just waited for him to go on. "The things I found where he attacked you--"

"HE?!"

"Yeah, just one man, Buck. He was layin' there for ya' a while, too." Buck looked down at his tied hands thoughtfully, listening. "He left stuff scattered there, stuff those people don't just leave behind. I figure to make you an' anyone else who found that place think it was Indians." He paused a long time, and Buck looked at him suddenly but saw he was just getting his breath back from having talked so long. Vin swallowed, and went on. "But it's the wrong kind. Crow. Not from around here." He opened eyes that were suddenly very tired and looked at Buck quietly. The tall man knit his brows.

"So they -- _he_ figured to make me think I'd been attacked by braves from the reservation so I'd go runnin' over there mad an' shoot the place up." Buck looked at Vin and the tracker nodded. Buck grinned slightly, a little lopsided. "Came damn close to doin' just that," he admitted. Vin smiled and put his head back against the trunk with a deep shuddering sigh.

"Thank God you didn't," he breathed.

"Well, you gotta' admit after the day I'd had--" Buck broke off, suddenly remembering in a rush of lead weight that thumped down in the middle of his gut just what sort of day he _had_ had. How in one moment everything he'd wanted to believe in had come crashing down on his head. He closed his eyes and then heard Vin's voice from beside him, soft and hoarse.

"Why _did_ you leave, Buck?"

"Huh?" Buck opened his eyes and blinked at Vin. What kind of dumb ass question was--

"It made it look like you knew what she was gonna' say, you runnin' like that."

Buck squeezed his eyes shut suddenly and felt a whole new kind of pain run down his insides like lightning. He wasn't sure for a moment he could even speak. Finally he looked away from Vin and his voice came out tight and hoarse.

"Is that what you thought?" he said softly. "Is that what Chris thought?"

"No." Vin's voice was steady. "I don't know any man I could be more certain of it about. You don't have it in you to do that to a woman."

Buck looked quickly at Vin, feeling a rush of something he didn't have a name for. Then he thought of Chris, of Josiah, and his face hardened. Vin saw it.

"Why'd you leave?" he asked again.

Buck was silent a long time. When he spoke, his voice was distant. "Son of a . . . whore," he said, so softly that Vin could barely hear him. The last word was little more than a breath of air. Vin remembered, when he heard it, remembered then the way Josiah had roared that: "Admit it, you son of a whore!" He studied Buck's face and waited for the rest. Buck turned his wrists up and down as if he thought he might loosen his bonds, his gaze on the ropes but his eyes unfocused. "I was a skinny kid," he said at last. He chuckled lightly, without any joy to it, only shame. He looked at Vin and his eyes filled with pain. "It wasn't right," he said.

Vin nodded. "It wasn't," he agreed.

Buck closed his eyes and swallowed hard and waited while dizziness pulled at him like a little whirlwind, and then went away. He sighed. "I don't get it," he said. "It just don't add up. Is this one a' the guys you saw? Is one of 'em the one that shot me?"

"Yeah, this guy was there when they got us. I don't know if he's the one that ambushed you, but I'd lay money on it he is. That buckskin stuff he's wearin', it's cut like they do 'em up north."

"Like Crow." Buck looked at Vin, and the tracker nodded. "OK, so what about the other man? And what's this all got to do with bounty huntin'?"

"Don't know." Vin's forehead drew together. "Somebody was trailin' me when I left town; I found his sign just before I got to the river an' saw what'd happened to you. I made a false trail into the sand flats on the south side a' the river, so he _should_ be--"

"Still tryin' to figure out where the hell you went," Buck finished. Vin looked at his friend steadily, there being nothing to say. "So who's the man with the red beard?"

"A damn good shot," growled Vin.

Buck's eyes softened. "A lotta' good that's gonna' do 'im when WE catch up to the bastard."

Vin laughed, a weak and pained and tired laugh, but it made Buck smile and that was enough. He lifted his bound hands and laid back against the tree, and mock-threatened "I'm gonna' kick the SHIT outta' him." He looked at Vin and then added, "An' I'll hold him so you can get in some licks, too, cripple that you are."

"Gee thanks, Buck." Vin lay his head back against the trunk of the tree and closed his eyes.

Buck settled down and tried to pretend that his leg didn't feel like it had a hot anvil sitting on it. "Any time," he said, "I help old ladies, too."

Part 45

Nathan nursed the glass of water that Ezra had left for him. Poisoned. He had been poisoned. What did Ezra say? He didn't think they'd make the same play twice. Who is they? He had reassured JD that the poisoning wasn't his fault. Purely chance. And only him. Why would 'they' want to poison anybody? Why hurt so many people? What kind of man plans to hurt so many? Must be an awful powerful reason. In Four Corners, Nathan thought skeptically. Sure, Four Corners was gaining influence in the region with the new train service, exchange, telegraph, stage, hotel, restaurants, and newspaper. But Nathan couldn't imagine why anyone would target this town. Nathan shook his head; he couldn't make sense of it.

Nathan needed to drink lots of fluid, he knew that, but he shuddered at the effort, he felt like he was going to float away. He forced himself to finish the cup. Nathan had to admit, all things considered, he was feeling pretty good. He sat up more in the bed and moved his arms and legs, and though he felt weak, he was otherwise okay. How long had it been? Flashes of nightmares struck Nathan. He had been so sick. The pain. The vomiting and diarrhea. He couldn't help himself. And he was alive today. Nathan sometimes you are just damn lucky. If Mary hadn't figured out about the poisoning, Nathan would be facing his last day. Nathan had faced last days before. On the run. In the war. The lynching. Now, the poisoning. Four lives, Nathan. Nathan was using up his lives fast lately. Cat has nine lives. Nathan somehow figured he didn't have that many. How many? Maybe seven. Nathan smiled. He liked the number seven a lot. He owed his life to them. And more. Nathan looked around his room. Somebody had gone to a lot of effort to clean up. Nathan was sure of it. Yeah, he liked the number seven a lot.

Mary and JD came into his room. Nathan looked assessingly at Mary Travis. She looked tired. Real tired. Guess, that was my fault. Mary had been a friend before he met any of the seven. He knew she had been there for him -- again. Yeah, seven -- he liked that number.

"Hi, Nathan," Mary greeted Nathan softly.

Nathan reached out his hand and Mary took it, "thank you, Mary, thank you for all you did."

Mary was softly shaking her head, "I did so very little."

"Ezra said it was you and the doctor in Denver that figured out I was poisoned, I'm sure it made all the difference in my recovery," Nathan squeezed Mary's hand reassuringly.

"It was the very least I could do." Mary's eyes darkened and she looked away from Nathan. Nathan half-thought he had another JD thing on his hands -- false guilt. Okay Mary, I'd love to know why you feel guilty. Nathan pressed the issue.

"What is it, Mary?"

"Nathan, I wrote an editorial this week calling for a doctor for Four Corners," hurt flashed Nathan's eyes, Mary hurriedly explained, "I had the best intentions. You had been so busy trying to keep up with your duties for the Judge and providing healing services. Well, I just thought."

Nathan nodded his head slowly, understanding the issues that brought this about. "I understand. Not like I've been available the last few days. And a real doctor could do things I can't."

Mary protested, "no, Nathan. There are so many things that you do and the community is so grateful. I let myself get influenced by talk and didn't realize the full implications of what I wrote. I'm sorry, Nathan. This community will never forget the debt they owe you. I won't let them."

Nathan nodded solemnly, "thank you, Mary." Nathan smiled and squeezed her hand again. "I surely appreciate that." In that quiet moment, the air was cleared between them.

Nathan straightened up in bed, "so, let's move on to more pleasant topics. Where is everybody? What have I missed?" Nathan asked eagerly. Both Mary and JD stiffened at Nathan's questions. Now what?

"What do you know?" JD asked.

"About what?" Nathan retorted sharply. "I know nothing. I had returned from the Andrews' farm and you brought me dinner. I went to bed and as you know, got very sick. Has anybody heard from the Andrews?"

Mary responded, "Seth Andrews has been to town and said both mother and baby are doing fine."

Nathan smiled with relief, "that's good news."

"Nathan," JD interrupted, his face pale, "that was 3 days ago that I brought you dinner."

"WHAT?" Nathan was shocked that he couldn't account for so many days. He had been sick for several days. Ezra had told him that. But to have no awareness of anything else left Nathan feeling lost.

"There's been so much going on," Mary reported. She was making an attempt to be calm but was failing at the effort.

"That's putting it mildly," JD commented under his breath.

Mary reached into her pocket. "I have the list of events from the newspaper that Ezra asked me to make." Nathan considered reaching for it. It was like Mary -- get the facts, write them down. It was what she did for a living. Ask the questions -- then, answer them. But Nathan had more pressing issues.

"Wait, wait a minute. First, just tell me where everybody is?"

"Buck, Vin, and Chris are gone. Josiah is drinking . . . a lot," JD reported somberly.

Nathan processed what JD said. "Let's start with Josiah." Nathan had known Josiah the longest. He was generally the easiest for Nathan to talk to and figure out. "Is he in town? I take it this has something to do with Miss Belle?"

"How did you know it involved Miss Belle?" Mary asked puzzled.

"Because with Josiah, it's always about some woman when he drinks like this," Nathan responded; he'd seen it enough times. Miss DuBois was the latest in a series of woman for Josiah. Nathan knew that when Josiah met the right woman, that would be it for him. He'd find a peace and contentment the preacher had long thought lost to him. But he always managed to find the wrong women in the wrong places.

A rap on the door interrupted the conversation. JD opened the door and let Casey in. Casey ignored JD and hurried to Nathan's side. Nathan restrained himself from rolling his eyes. Now what was with those two? A sweet smile crossed her face, "hi Nathan, are you feeling better?"

"Much better, thank you." Nathan responded quietly. He inclined his head to catch a glimpse of her face that she was hiding from him. He frowned at the state of the girl. She was very pale with dark circles under her red rimmed eyes. "Casey, you all right?"

"Me. Me. Oh sure, I'm fine. Really," Casey lied -- Nathan knew it.

"Casey, did you take Billy to Mrs. Potter's?" Mary injected herself into the conversation. Nathan smiled to himself -- Mary, the fixer.

"No, he's with Ezra but they were headed that way," a relieved Casey responded to Mary's rescue from the awkward situation.

"Tell me." Nathan demanded firmly but quietly. Everyone in the room froze. Nathan could feel the chill. What the hell had happened? He looked at the threesome. Casey's eyes were downcast and she looked ready to cry. JD was obviously agitated but kept quiet and still. Nathan looked to Mary -- he pleaded, tell me.

"Casey was in town, four nights ago when you and Nettie were at the Andrews' farm." Mary gently explained. "Some hands from the trail crews tried to . . . well, they tried to have their way with her."

JD's stillness ended with the last statement. Agitated, he restlessly shifted his feet and started clenching and unclenching his fist.

"Really, it wasn't nothing. I got away and Buck rode me home in the morning," Casey's quivering lip belied her statement, the true impact was clearly evident -- on her_and_JD. When she started to talk about Buck, JD slammed his fist into a wall. Both Mary and Casey jumped and shied away at his display of anger. Tears fell from Casey's eyes.

There was a light rap on the door and Ezra entered. His eyes circled the room assessing the climate. They were all upset, especially Casey. Mary silently urged him to say something to break the stalemate.

Ezra smiled pleasantly, "Mrs. Travis, Billy is at Potter's."

"Thank you for walking him," Mary nodded her approval. "What did Dr. Francis have to say?"

Ezra frowned at Nathan - what the hell is going on here? Nathan subtly nodded his head - not now, we'll talk later. Ezra understood and made a show of pulling a collection of telegrams from his pocket. "He believed Nathan would recover. He recommends continuing to push fluids, clear fluids today, and he can try solid food tomorrow. And rest. So maybe we should allow you to get some?"

"Oh no, you don't." Nathan was willing to let the issue of Casey rest but that was all. "That's all I've been doin', is restin' in this bed. I want to know what's goin' on. Start with Josiah and Miz Belle," Nathan folded his arms across his chest obviously waiting for one of them to inform him.

Ezra looked at the others but they all swung their eyes expectantly at him. Ezra sighed deeply -- me again. This was really getting old. He wasn't cut out for this.

"Well. From what we have been able to ascertain from Casey and Josiah, Miss Belle accused Buck of raping her at her house the morning Josiah and JD rode out again to the Delano Mine to investigate the cave-in."

"WHAT?" Nathan exclaimed, "Buck would never."

"He didn't," Casey exclaimed. Nathan's eyes swung to Casey. "He couldn't of possibly. He was taking me home and stayed well into the morning."

"As Miss Wells has explained, Buck has an alibi," Ezra explained.

"But why wouldn't Buck just say that?" Nathan asked puzzled.

"That's my fault," Casey's voice conveyed her misery and guilt, "I was real upset and I made him promise not to tell."

"So Josiah believed Belle. So where's Buck?" Nathan asked.

"We don't know." JD joined the conversation, "he rode out two days ago."

"Wait a minute. Why? Miss Belle's charges are false. Buck wouldn't break Casey's confidence but he was never one to run," Nathan was trying to make sense of Buck's actions.

"I assume it's because he had some disagreement," Ezra suggested.

"With Josiah?" Nathan asked.

"WITH CHRIS," Ezra, JD, and Mary chorused together.

Ezra looked at the two other, "you think that too?" and both Mary and JD nodded their heads.

"Chris has been on edge these past few days. Even minor annoyances were irritating him out of proportion to their import. We could hardly carry on a civil conversation," Mary explained. Of the five people in the room, she was the only one who had spent any significant time with Chris.

"They've known each other a long time. Buck didn't just leave. He packed and left. He didn't intend to come back. Only Chris could make him do that." A look of pain flashed JD's face. Ezra could feel the young man's pain. Jesus - how had it gone so wrong.

"So where's Chris?" Nathan asked.

"I saw him ride out yesterday morning," Mary responded.

"Do you think he went after Buck?" Nathan asked Ezra.

"Since Mr. Larabee didn't have the common courtesy to let any of us know his plan -- that's pure speculation," Ezra couldn't prevent a little of his disgust at Chris's desertion creep into his voice.

"You said Vin was gone too," Nathan commented. "Is he at the reservation at the Green Corn Festival?"

Ezra smiled ruefully. Of course, Nathan would remember the name of the festival.

"Yeah, he rode out two days ago," JD responded.

"Anybody go get him?" Nathan asked.

Ezra stiffened at the question taking it as an affront to his management of the situation, "we're a little short of hands."

"What about Josiah?" Mary asked.

"He's indisposed," Ezra commented dryly.

"Don't you think he should know the truth about Belle and the charges?" Nathan asked.

Ezra turned that over. He agreed. Josiah did need to know. Ezra was missing Josiah's counsel and if there were more threats or worse to come -- they needed him.

"More importantly, we need his gun."

"You'll have to sober him up," Nathan shook his head warily.

"No offense, Ezra, but I don't think the two of us can do it_and_survive," JD skeptically pointed out.

Ezra looked over at Nathan. "I agree. We need some way to lure him out of the saloon. Then we can sober him up"

"I can do it," Casey volunteered quickly.

"Absolutely not," JD vetoed.

"JD," Casey whined.

"No, I won't hear it," JD rebutted. JD was ignoring the others in the room and his eyes only focused on Casey. "I won't let you get hurt. I won't even allow you to be put in that position."

"I'll do it," Mary volunteered.

"No, I need to." Casey averred. She turned to the others to plead her case, "none of this would've happened if I had told or hadn't made Buck promise. This is my fault."

"Casey, I'm not going to let you do it," JD flatly stated.

"JD, it's not your place," Ezra inserted himself into the discussion.

"Not_my_place," JD objected.

"JD, we don't have time for this." Ezra sharply cut off further protest from JD. He took a deep breath to calm himself. He needed to convince JD, not antagonize him.

"It's going to take all four of us. I agree with Casey. I think she has the best probability of successfully getting Josiah to leave the saloon. We'll only get one shot at this," Ezra ended his argument. He looked over at Nathan and with his eyes told him to agree.

"Nathan?" JD also asked the healer if he approved.

"I agree with Ezra," Nathan confirmed.

JD nodded his head but obviously was unhappy with the decision. He looked hard at Ezra. Ezra nodded at him -- I know, nothing can happen to Casey.

"So what's the plan?"

Four sets of eyes looked expectantly at Ezra. Ezra softly chuckled mirthlessly -- me again. He surveyed the foursome. You all are desperate. And he looked over at Casey who seemed particularly frail. Mary and her fatigue -- she'd collapse if he didn't relieve some stress from her. Nathan in bed -- the sallow skin, the sunken eyes, the hollow cheeks; the poisoning had taken a severe toll. And JD -- a lot was depending on him - -- it would have to. Ezra could not do this alone. And more than anything else that's what he wanted. To be able to do this alone. But it wasn't possible. It was going to take all of them. No choice. You better make this one good, Ezra.

So, what the hell was going to be the plan?

Part 46

It was, thought Ezra, precisely like baiting a bear -- something his mother had taught him NEVER to do. "Bait them any way you like, Son," she'd said more times than he could remember, "but never _ever_ bait a bear; they take the bait and the rest of your arm with it." She'd been thinking about possible marks who had political clout and friends in high places, but if she'd seen Josiah as he was now, he'd surely have made her list. Ezra sighed. This plan wasn't LIKE baiting a bear. It WAS it. That's what he was doing.

And he was sure he was going to regret it.

Mary slipped in the back door of the sheriff's office and paused when Ezra turned quickly to look at her. When she saw him relax, she came on across the room to where Ezra was looking out the window at the street.

"Any sign of him yet?" Her voice was barely a whisper, and Ezra smiled slightly.

"My good lady, even if our illustrious Mr. Sanchez were on the very boardwalk outside, I doubt there would be a need for you to whisper." Mary's face broke into a shy smile, and she looked down at her hands quickly and then back up, her eyes sliding to see out the glass herself. Ezra laid a manicured hand upon the woman's shoulder, very carefully so as not to exceed the bounds of propriety, and she looked up at him with a sad expression. "He'll be along shortly, I'm sure," said Ezra. "Then it will be all right."

"I hope so." Mary's voice was small this time, not whispered. Just small with fear for all the things she didn't know. She thought suddenly of when Steven -- she pulled her thoughts up, but they went on turning, showing her again the similarity: things going on under her nose that she'd not even been aware of, a man she cared for learning about it and trying to deal with it and being on the ropes from the very beginning. She sighed, and squeezed her eyes shut against the fear that pinched her heart.

A sudden satisfied "ah!" from Ezra snapped her mind back to the present, and Mary looked at the man to see him wave her back from the window. "Go," he whispered. "Get clear until you hear me call you." Mary nodded and hurried to slip out the same back door she had come in. As she did, she heard Casey's voice from the street, high and sweet and sounding far too excited.

"No, she's THIS way, Josiah!" Casey was saying. "Come over HERE."

"Casey!" JD's young voice calling from a little farther down the street.

"Just a minute, JD! Miss Belle needs to see Josiah, an' he's-- WHOOPS!"

A heavy thump from the street in front of the sheriff's office made Mary put one hand to her mouth. She heard the grunts of the young people tugging at the big man, then, and their low voices: "C'mon, Josiah." "Get up now, Josiah."

"Where i'she?" The big man's slurred voice rumbled like an oxcart, and Casey's eager one danced over it nervously.

"She said she'd wait in the jail. She said to hurry, Josiah. She's -- she wants to see you powerful bad."

More heavy thuds, this time of slow steps coming up onto the boardwalk. "Th' jail." The steps halted. Mary could almost see the big man's face turning to stare at Casey's. "Why th' jai--"

"She really needs you, Josiah." JD's voice, breaking in. No doubt he was stepping bodily between the girl and the big man who seemed so intimidating right now, friend or not.

A long silence, and Mary held her breath. Then heavy footsteps again, shuddering the building now, and the sound of the front door opening, and other steps and Ezra's light voice. Casey flashed suddenly into sight as she ran around the building into the alley to take Mary's hand into her own. The women looked at each other wordlessly at the sudden roar from inside.

"BELLE!! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH BELLE?!?!?"

"Mr. Sanchez, if you would be so good--"

The wall shuddered again, this time as Ezra was slammed into it bodily. JD's voice, quavering, rose over the sound. "Now, Josiah, don't you make me--"

>>SLAM<<

Mary and Casey stared into each other's eyes and nodded very slightly, then let go of each other's hands and ran quickly out of the alley and to the front door of the jail just as Josiah stepped into the opening. He drew up sharply as he saw the two women, and a look of confusion ran over his features.

"Casey?" His voice was soft, puzzled, had dropped nearly to a whisper.

The girl shook, but she stepped closer to him. "Did . . . did you find 'er, Josiah? She was really lookin' for you."

"No." The big preacher shook his head. "I looked but . . . Where'd you say she was, Casey?"

"In there." Casey pointed, and Mary saw the girl's finger trembled so that it could hardly point straight. But it pointed back into the office, behind Josiah. He pulled himself up straighter, a look of total bewilderment passing over his face, and put one hand on his head.

"Funny," he said to himself. "I di'n't see --" He turned around to disappear inside again, shuffling into the dim interior. The women followed cautiously, and then Casey stepped across the threshold into the room as Josiah walked all the way to the jail cells and turned around to look at Casey again, and asked plaintively, "WHERE'd you say she is?"

"In there." Casey pointed into a cell with one hand, the other behind her back clenched in a tight little fist. Ezra and JD, sprawled in a tangled heap on the floor near the back door watched in silence, not daring to breathe.

Josiah turned his big head around and looked into the empty cell. Then he looked back at Casey, clearly confused.

"Don't you _see_ 'er?" Casey's voice was shaking now. Josiah shook his head as though to clear it, and put his hands to his face. Then he looked at Casey again.

"I don't," he whispered, "I don't see 'er, Casey. Are you _sure_ . . ."

"Miss Belle," said Casey, her chin raising bravely and her eyes on the cot in the jail cell, "Miss Belle, here's Josiah like I said. You two can talk an' I'll be back later." She looked at Josiah. "Well," she said encouragingly, "go on in an' talk to 'er."

Josiah turned full around to look at the empty cell. Then he took a step towards it. Then another. It brought him to the open doorway, and he hesitated only a moment before stepping across it and into the cell. Ezra and JD were on their feet so quickly that Casey was shocked and startled even though she'd known what they would do. They slammed the jail cell door with a bang that made Casey's ears ring, and locked it even as Josiah whirled to grab the bars in his hands and began to yell, "Lemme' outta' here, Ezra! EZRA! Open this door!

"Get the first bucket," said Ezra in a hurried voice, to JD.

JD blinked, nodded, and grabbed the first of several full buckets of water that were lined up against one wall out of the way. He handed it to Ezra, who shook his head in almost a shrug. "I apologize in advance, Mr. Sanchez, but . . ." And he heaved the water from the bucket into a long arc that crashed against Josiah's face and chest so hard that the big man staggered back from the door, shaking himself. Ezra threw down the empty bucket and it clattered as it rolled across the floor to bump against the wall.

"The next one, Mr. Dunne. Please."

Josiah had recovered enough that he was standing at the door again, muttering imprecations that had significantly less heat to them than they had before. Ezra took the second bucket of water from JD and drenched his friend again.

Josiah stood in the jail cell and stared at Ezra, who still held the empty bucket in one hand. The floor was running with water that sloshed against the wall and then rolled out under the bars . The big man put one shaking hand to the side of his head, and blinked slowly. He looked at JD, then at Mary and Casey , and then he sat down upon the soaking cot in his dripping clothes, water running in streams down his face, down his arms, pooling on the floor beneath his boots. And then he put his head in his hands and bowed it.

Mary swallowed after a long moment. "I'll get the coffee," she said softly. She left the room with Casey at her heels. Ezra and JD remained where they stood. When the women returned with a large tray, Ezra pulled the door opened to admit them, then took the tray from Mary as JD came over to hug Casey reassuringly.

"Drink this." Ezra held out a tin cup of steaming coffee to the man sitting on the edge of the cot. Josiah looked up silently, reached out one hand, accepted the coffee through the bars, and began to drink it.

Josiah drank five cups of coffee in the space of an hour, and Ezra marveled at the man's capacity -- in more ways than one. Then Josiah looked up once more at the gambler, his eyes bloodshot but no longer distant or confused, and he spoke in a low, unutterably weary voice. "What," he said, "do you want from me?"

Ezra frowned, and slid a chair nearer to the bars. He sat down. "I'm afraid there are some rather serious things going on, Josiah. We need your help to find out what's happened, possibly to save the lives of some of our companions."

"I don't know anything," moaned Josiah tiredly. He put his face in his hands again.

"I know." Ezra sighed. This was perhaps the hardest thing he thought he'd ever done. He knew how it felt to find out you'd been used and betrayed by a woman who you'd thought loved you. "Josiah, I am afraid I have some bad news about Miss Belle."

Josiah's head snapped up, and fear shot through his eyes.

"I'm afraid she lied to you, my friend. And I fear it was--"

"Oh . . . No." Josiah's voice was not angry, not loud. It was rough, torn at the edges, ripping apart in the space of a single syllable. Ezra paused, giving the man the space he needed for the room to stop spinning. Then he went on.

"I fear it was to further some sort of plot," continued Ezra. "It seems there is irrefutable proof that Buck was not at her house at the time she claimed he assaulted her."

Josiah's brows knit. He was listening, at least, thought Ezra, and that was good. He took a deep breath and went on, glancing once at Casey and seeing her nod back to him.

"Buck was with Casey. Rescuing her from two trailhands who tried to -- well. And then he took her to her aunt's ranch and stayed there with her until she was no longer terrorized." Ezra stopped speaking, and the room was silent as Josiah stared at nothing, his eyes glazed.

Casey walked up slowly with small steps nearly to the bars, and looked in sadly. "It's true," she said in a small, tearful voice. "Buck was with me, only I asked him not to tell anyone, 'cause I was . . . ashamed. . . ." Her voice cracked and she sobbed, and Josiah looked up at her quickly.

"Oh Casey," he whispered. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry someone tried to hurt you." He stood up and went to the bars, and somehow Casey found herself enfolded in his arms, her own threaded through the bars and as far around his torso as she could get them. She found herself sobbing as he hugged her.

"I didn't know," she was crying, "I didn't know until yesterday. I'd a said somethin', but I didn't know."

Josiah held Casey and looked over the top of her head at Ezra, and his eyes looked like all the sorrow in the whole world was there, and he said: "Why would she lie to me like that, Ezra? Why did she do it?"

"I fear there are very serious reasons," replied the gambler. "We all need to put our heads together, and quickly.

Josiah stepped back from Casey and wiped a tired hand across his face. "I think," he said, "that I need a meal. And some dry clothes." He looked at Ezra, and Ezra looked at him.

"Thank you," said Ezra soberly.

"God forgive me," rumbled Josiah. JD was rattling the keys as he opened the cell door. "God forgive me."

Part 47

Chris rode slowly out of town just about an hour after dawn. By now he knew that continuing along the path he was on was useless. If Buck were going in this direction, Chris would have encountered some sign by now. The problem was, that meant Buck wasn't acting like the man Chris thought he knew. And if he wasn't the man Chris knew...well, that opened too many possibilities that Chris just didn't want to get into. So, he told himself, one more day. He'd hit two more towns along the border road and then he'd swing back toward Four Corners checking out all the towns along the way. It was remotely possible Buck hadn't gone very far at all, just holed up somewhere nearby to drink and stew and head back into town when he was ready.

Of course, if that was true, then where was Vin? There was no sign of him either. No sign at all. Chris hated anything that didn't make sense. And this didn't. None of it.

'You could let it go,' a voice whispered inside him. Let it go. Let Buck ride away. Let Vin ride after him. Not arrest Buck. Not believe Belle. Walk away from the man out of friendship, not anger. But hell, he thought as a flash of that familiar anger ran through him right then, if he had a friendship with Buck that meant anything, why had Buck left town?

He wondered for a moment if Vin had returned to Four Corners since he'd left and he figured he'd better send a telegram when he got to the next town. It was remotely possible that he was winding himself up in knots for nothing. He looked up at the clear sky above him. There was a morning breeze blowing out of the northwest and for a brief moment the air was cool. About a mile south of him was the river. He could see tall cottonwoods standing out against the sky. He'd try a couple of towns on the Mexican side of the border, he thought, on his way back. Just to see.

The sound of a horse approaching rapidly interrupted his thoughts. A red-haired man on a dun-colored horse galloped around a curve in the road. He reined in hard when he saw Chris.

"Hey, mister!" He shouted from a distance of about ten feet away. "Am I glad to see you! Didn't think I'd find anyone on this road." He turned his horse back toward the way he'd come and waved Chris forward. "Come on! You gotta help me." He kicked his horse into a trot and then pulled up again when it became clear that Chris wasn't going to follow him. His horse danced nervously back and forth. "Come on!" the man shouted. "There ain't no time to waste!"

Chris's hand rested lightly on his pistol as he studied the man in front of him. There was something vaguely familiar about the color of his hair or the cut of his beard, though Chris wasn't exactly sure what it was specifically. "Hold up," he said sharply to the impatient man. "What do you want?'

The man let his horse dance back toward Chris. His eyes flashed with a quick, calculating light that put Chris on edge. Then the man took a deep breath and his whole posture seemed to slump in defeat and Chris thought maybe he'd been mistaken about the flash.

"Look, mister," Chris could hear a soft trembling in the man's voice. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude, but you gotta help me," he pleaded. "It's my wife. And...and my son. They're trapped. The cabin...I couldn't--" He reined his horse around hard again. "Come on! _Please_! You gotta help me." And then he was back off down the road again without waiting for Chris this time.

And Chris had only time to think, 'What the hell? Gotta be careful,' before he was following him at a gallop almost against his own will. His horse settled quickly into a smooth ground-eating lope as he tried to catch up with the man on the dun horse.

They rode like that for a couple of minutes. Then, Chris saw it, over the ridge to the south, smoke rising on the morning air. 'Oh my God!' he spurred his horse and passed the other man as if he were standing still. He could smell the thick scent of something burning, taste the acrid smoke on the back of his throat. Wife, the man had said. Son. He forgot careful. He forgot suspicious. And he rode.

The small cabin was already burning steadily when he rode into the clearing. Chris reined in his horse and leaped off before it had stopped completely. Water, he thought in panic. Where was the well? And it didn't even register that there were no horses in the corral. He ran toward the house and as he approached he could feel the heat from the rising flames. There was still time, he thought. He could still make it.

'My God!' he thought. Why weren't they screaming? There should be screams. Why couldn't he hear them screaming?

"Mr. Larabee," came a quiet voice behind him.

Chris's head had barely started to turn sideways when something dark and heavy slammed into the side of his head. The world flashed white, then black, then disappeared.

Chris Larabee was lying on his back on the dusty ground and Striker was standing over him when Thompson finally rode up. The fire, which had mostly been brush around the small, old cabin was already starting to die.

"Damn, Striker," Thompson said as he dismounted. "You're a mean man, you know that?"

Striker shrugged. "Worked didn't it?" he said. "Man like Larabee, you can't be too careful. You got to hit them where it hurts them." He turned dark eyes to Thompson. "If you don't know that, sooner or later, you'll be in trouble."

'Yeah, yeah,' Thompson thought. 'Tricks'll only get you so far. The rest is all skill and I got that.' "You want me to take him?" Thompson asked. Not because he wanted to make the long trip to take Larabee in, but because he figured Striker would tell him to anyway and he wanted to beat him to the punch.

"No." Striker's response was short and flat. "I want you back in town. Tell Hammersmith the status here. Tell him the rest proceeds on schedule. Got that?"

"Got it," Thompson said blandly, though his eyes glittered. He helped Striker load Chris into the saddle and tied his hands and feet, like he'd done with Wilmington and Tanner the day before.

"Cover his eyes," Striker said.

"What?"

"He'll wake up before I get there. I don't want him to know where we're going or who I am. The less he knows the better." He looked straight at Thompson again with that flat calculating stare. "Never let anyone know any more than they have to," he said, then he mounted up, took the lead rope Thompson handed him and trotted away from the clearing.

Thompson spent a few extra minutes checking to make sure they'd left nothing behind. As he prepared to ride out, he took one more look back at the scorched and blackened cabin. He wondered what the cabin's owner would think when he came back. And then he wondered if Striker ever even thought about things like that at all.

Part 48

Josiah wanted to crawl into a dark hole somewhere and die. He looked at himself in the mirror and wondered why it was even worth trying to clean up and become someone again. His shirt looked as if he'd slept in it for three days, sweat stains under the arm, dirt and grime on the front where he'd obviously fallen flat on his face. Unshaven, unkempt, just generally a mess. His head ached and his stomach felt queasy. It felt even more queasy when he looked into his own bloodshot eyes and tried to think clearly about what had happened.

What _had_ happened? Belle had lied to him. Lied! She'd cried and begged him for forgiveness. She'd left him that damned letter saying she'd been wrong, the shame was too much to bear and she had to leave him, though she didn't want to. And it had all been lies! How could she have done it? How could he have believed her? He scrubbed his hand across his bristly chin. This town was in trouble. His town. Partly because of what he'd done to Buck. He winced just thinking about it. He couldn't crawl in a hole. He couldn't slink away from this. Things had been done that couldn't be undone, maybe. But they could sure as hell be paid for. And if there was one thing Josiah knew it was paying for his sins.

He turned away from the mirror and pulled his suspenders down off his shoulders. First, he needed to get cleaned up, get the stink of stale whiskey out of his bones. Then, he needed to find out just exactly what had been happening while he'd been, well, distracted was probably the best word. Then, he needed to just do what needed doing until this whole thing was turned around and made right again.

+ + + + + + +

Mary wanted answers. What she had so far were questions. Last night she had listed off for Ezra all the events in town over the last week. What was important and what was not? Was someone trying to damage the seven men who protected the town or was this just a week where everything happened at once? Where had Buck gone? Where had Chris gone? Who had tried to poison Nathan? Who was Belle and why had she lied about Buck? Had something happened at the Delano Mine or was it just another accident?

She and Casey had searched through the papers for the last week, but they'd found nothing. Difficult to believe they would have found anything since Mary wrote and published the paper herself. Presumably she'd know if there was anything significant there. But they'd been looking for patterns and sometimes patterns could only be seen by looking back.

Mary also got weekly papers from most of the surrounding towns. Thirteen papers in all, reporting on events for nearly a hundred miles altogether. She'd read them every week and pull articles for her own readers. In her turn, she sent a copy of her newspaper every week to the other weekly newspapers. This morning, she'd set Casey to the task of searching through those papers for the last month. It was a grimy dirty task, but Casey had set to with enthusiasm and Mary suspected she was pathetically glad to be doing anything that didn't take her out into the crowded streets of Four Corners.

Mary's instructions were to look for anything that had to do with poisoning, rape charges, mine accidents, and Indian troubles. She hoped in the broader circle they might find some sort of pattern.

"Mary?" Casey's hesitant voice spoke behind Mary, who was trying, not very successfully to work on an article for the paper.

Mary turned to face her. In Casey's hand were a sheaf of papers. Her hair had straggled loose of its tie back and she had a dark smudge on one cheek from the newsprint. "Have you gotten through all those papers already, Casey?" Mary asked.

Casey shook her head. "About half of them maybe. But I found lots of things. I want you to look and see if any of them are important."

Casey's voice sounded so anxious that Mary wanted to take her in her arms and give her a hug, but she sensed it would be exactly the wrong thing to do at the moment. Casey felt responsible for Buck leaving town, for things falling apart and she needed time and space to see that things were not exactly as she saw them. In the meantime, Mary could give her work to do and find other ways of helping her take her mind away from it. She smiled at the girl. "Show me what you have."

They spread the articles out on the layout table. Casey laid each piece of paper down carefully so they all laid flat in front of the two women. "Okay," Casey said. "Some of these might not be important, but you said anything and since we don't really know..." Her voice trailed off.

Mary touched her on the arm. "You did exactly what I'd hoped, Casey. Now," she turned briskly back to the newsprint laid out for her. "Tell me what you've found."

Casey smiled shyly and pointed to the first article at the very top left corner of the board. "This is about a mine that sold up last year and the new owners." She looked sideways at Mary. "I know the part about selling the mine isn't new, but you said anything on mines and the _article_ is real new." She looked up at Mary who nodded for her to continue. "Then there's three articles about poisoning, but I don't think..." She pointed. "These two are about cattle poisoned at a watering hole. I think it's actually the same water hole, or, I mean, the same cattle, just in two different papers. And then, there's this one about food poisoning at the hotel in Fort Laramie."

"Food poisoning?" Mary asked sharply.

"Yes." Casey frowned. "But I don't think it's the same as what happened to Nathan because it says they traced the cause to bad meat."

"The poisoning was supposed to be related to bad meat," Mary said thoughtfully. "You'd better save that one, Casey," she said. "Just in case."

Casey nodded and then pointed to another article. "This one's about a mine cave-in over at Sweetwater. It wasn't too bad. No one was hurt and they say in the article the reason it caved in, but you said to look for anything. And this one," she pointed at another article, "is about another mine owner that sold up and moved back East. The article says a lot of the little mines are selling out to bigger ones as the West gets more settled." Casey looked up at Mary. "Does any of this mean anything?"

Mary shook her head, frustrated. "I don't know, Casey. I just don't know."

"The only other thing I found," Casey's voice trembled a little. "Was this article about a woman who was attacked over in Eagle Bend. They don't say she was...you know...but the way it reads, I thought...."

Mary squeezed her shoulder. "You've done really well, Casey. I don't know if any of these articles are important, but they're just the kind of thing we need to look for. Would you mind going through the rest of them. See if you can find any more like the ones you've found already."

Casey nodded, bobbing her head up and down. "Okay," she said. "Okay, I'll do that." She left the articles she'd found so far, lying on the layout table. Mary studied them for a few minutes after she'd left then shook her head in frustration. What was going on? What did they need to know?

+ + + + + + +

JD wanted something to do. Casey and Mary were at the newspaper office going through old articles and JD couldn't hardly see the use of that. He didn't really care about all the whys and wherefores of what was going on, all he wanted was a direction. If someone could just tell him where Buck had gone or where Chris had gone he could ride out there and ask questions. He could _do_ something. All this waiting and pondering and looking for clues was wearing him out.

He walked to the livery and found the blacksmith there as well as Yosemite, talking about a horse at the stable that needed new shoes. JD asked Yosemite and the smithy, since he was there anyway, if they remembered either Buck or Chris riding out. Yosemite allowed as how he couldn't remember Buck leaving at all, though he had a vague memory of Chris coming in in the late morning the day before, saddling up and riding out. He hadn't said a word, much to JD's disappointment. Only notable thing that had happened lately, Yosemite told him, was when that fancy lady friend of Josiah's had ridden out of town in her carriage.

"You never heard such a ruckus," the livery man said with a chuckle. "The cushions had to be just so. Her bags had to be packed in the exact way she ordered them. Her driver was a big hulk of a man. Never said a word. Just did everything she asked. Said the journey would take three days and she didn't expect to be shaken out of her boots every inch of the way. Woman like that could drive a man to drink," Yosemite said with a laugh.

'_Did_ drive a man to drink,' JD thought as he thanked the man. He turned to leave then turned back, more in desperation than anything else. "Isn't there anything else you can think of?" he asked. "Anything? It doesn't have to make sense."

Yosemite shook his head though he looked for a moment as if he was trying to grasp an elusive memory. "Nope, sure can't say as I can think of anything, JD. 'Cept for the trail crews, and, you know, that other, it's been quiet down here."

JD sighed and he was about to turn away again when the smithy spoke up. He was normally a silent man and JD had to admit he couldn't exactly remember his name. "Hold on there," he said quietly. "There was one thing."

"Yes?" JD said, trying not to sound too eager.

"There was a fella in just the other day. Brought his horse in and wanted it reshod."

JD couldn't hide his disappointment. "Is that all?"

"Well, his shoes were good. Practically brand new. Told him he didn't need new ones, but he insisted. Was real adamant about it. Checked 'em over real good too. Before he'd let me put 'em on. Said he didn't want any cheap 'marked' ones."

"What'd he mean by that?" JD asked, interested in spite of himself.

"Somebody'd marked his horse's shoes." The smithy said with a quiet confidence. "I expect he didn't want me to know that, so he went on about cheap shoes with defect marks on 'em. But it was clear that someone wanted to be able to follow his horse and they'd put a mark on one of the shoes so they could do it."

"Do you still have the shoe?" JD asked.

"Sure do?"

"Could I see it?"

"Hell, you can have it."

"Great." And JD waved goodbye to Yosemite as he trotted off down the alley after the smithy. He supposed it didn't have anything much to do with the matter at hand, but it was interesting in its own right. Maybe someday JD would want to mark some horse's shoe himself.

Ten minutes later, horseshoe in hand, he was back on the street and his frustration returned. There had to be something he could do. He'd crossed the street and headed back toward the newspaper office when he spotted Mr. Delano across the street heading toward a restaurant. "Hey! Hey, Mr. Delano," JD called.

Mr. Delano, an average looking man of middle years, turned. JD could see worry in the new lines on his face and the tiredness in his eyes. JD trotted quickly over to him. "Heading back to the mine?" he asked.

"After I eat," Delano said. "I find it difficult to stay away for long. Especially..." he let his voice trail off. The contrast between the blustery man of yesterday and the obviously tired and defeated man of today surprised JD and he realized that he'd really like to do something to make him feel better.

"You know we really tried to find something out at the mine," JD said earnestly. "Me and Josiah. We didn't just pretend to look. There just wasn't anything there."

Mr. Delano laid a hand on his shoulder. "I know. I've been a mining man for twenty years. If there'd been something there I suspect I would have found it. But I hoped another set of eyes..." He sighed. "Mining's a rough business, JD. Accidents happen. You lose good men. But this is different. I know it. I just wish I could figure out how."

On impulse, JD said. "Mrs. Travis is looking through the newspapers to see if she can find anything about the mines and...about other things that have been going on. You should talk to her before you leave. I could take you."

Mr. Delano looked off at the horizon for a moment as if considering what JD had said. After a minute he turned back. "I can wait an extra hour before I head back," he said. "I'd be pleased to go with you."

He and JD fell into step together as they walked off toward the news office.

+ + + + + + +

"Mary?" Casey's shy voice interrupted Mary again. This time she'd been in the middle of writing next week's editorial and had completely lost track of her surroundings so that she jumped when Casey said her name.

"Oh, Casey, you startled me!" she said, then she smiled and brushed a lock of hair off her forehead. "Did you have something for me?"

"I've finished going through the papers," Casey said. "I have a few more articles if you'd like to look at them.

Mary got up from her desk and joined Casey at the layout table where she'd already spread out the new articles. There were only three more. "Here's another one about a mine that was sold. It says the mine was not in good shape and the owner had to sell up and move. Just like the last one," Casey said. "I know it's not like cave-ins or anything, but I thought..."

Mary studied the article. "This mine is on the other side of the reservation," she said as she read the description of the mine sale and the mine owner's comments. Mention of the reservation reminded her. "Did you find any articles about Indian troubles?" she asked.

Casey shook her head. "The only other article I found that I thought looked anything like what you wanted was this one." She pointed. "It's just about the trail crews coming into towns and tearing things up. I guess it's an editorial, really, not an article. But..." Casey looked away from her at something really interesting on the back wall.

"Casey..." Mary begin.

Just then the front door slammed open causing both Mary and Casey to jump. JD came in, closely followed by Mr. Delano. "What did you find?" JD asked as soon as he'd stepped through the door. "Anything? Casey, you look like you've been playing in an ink well," he said abruptly.

"Oh, JD," Casey said with a frown, forgetting to be nervous of Mr. Delano. "_I've_ been working. Unlike some people who just take off every chance they get."

"Oh, yeah, right. I have obligations, Casey," JD said. Suddenly, he recollected that there were others present. "Did you find anything?" he asked again.

This time it was Mary's turn to frown. "We don't really know, JD. Why don't you come and look. You, too," she said by way of invitation to Mr. Delano.

Casey pointed at the articles spread across the table. JD looked at them quickly and said, "Well, I don't see anything here. They're all about different things."

"The pattern certainly isn't obvious," Mary said. "Still...with so many things happening in town in the last week."

Mr. Delano looked up abruptly. "There have been more problems than just the mine? What's been happening?"

Casey and JD stumbled over themselves to tell him about the bank robbery and the trail crews and the Indian troubles. JD explained about Nathan's poisoning. He started to tell him about Belle and the rape charge against Buck, but Casey kicked him and finished up by saying, "Well, and some other stuff too."

"Do you think it's all connected?" Mr. Delano asked.

"Frankly," Mary said, "We don't know. I really don't think so, but when you don't know what's significant, you have to question everything."

"Hmmm..." Mr. Delano said. "Hmmm." He appeared lost in thought for several minutes, then he stood. "You know, I think it's time I started back to the mine. I've been away too long. I want to thank all of you for listening to me."

"Mr. Delano?" Mary asked, curious about the change that seemed to have come over him. "Did you discover something? Is there something important in the articles."

"Hmmm," Mr. Delano was obviously still distracted. "Oh! No, I don't think so. Although," he said after a pause, "if you wanted to look into something, well, I didn't know Emerson, the man who owns this mine," he indicated the article about the most recent sale that Casey had found. "Had sold up. Hadn't heard anything about it. And you can see he's across the reservation from me--a good long distance in miles, but he's one of the closest mines to me--so usually I know. You might just check it out. In fact, you might check all of them out. All the mines you've got here. They're close enough that it might have some bearing." He rose and settled his hat back on his head.

"And you, Mr. Delano?" Mary asked. "You seemed to think of something. Was it important?"

"I don't know," Delano said. "I'm not even quite sure what it is. But your remark about questioning everything. It's a good one. And I think maybe I need to go back to my mine and look at everything again. Maybe like I'm seeing it for the first time."

He tipped his hat to Mary and Casey and shook JD's hand and then he left rather quickly, leaving Mary and Casey and JD to look after him somewhat bemusedly. "What's got into him?" JD asked.

Mary looked toward the door thoughtfully. "You know, JD," she said, "I think he's realized that just because there doesn't seem to be an answer that that doesn't mean there isn't an answer." She looked at the two young people in front of her and she consciously straightened up and wiped her hands on her apron. "And I think he's right. We can't give up. And we can't believe that just because the answer isn't obvious that there isn't an answer. Casey, could you write down the names of those mines? I'm going to telegraph them and see if they can give us any information that might help. Then, I want you and JD to talk to everyone you can find and see if any of them saw or talked to Buck or Chris before they left town. We need answers."

Part 49

"Wake up, you two!"

Sullivan's voice was distant but sharp, and it brought Buck groping up through the heaviness of deep sleep to late-morning sunlight. He shook his head, wondering how he'd slept so deeply when things were so dangerous and uncertain. Sullivan called out again, closer.

"HEY!! I said WAKE UP!" He was leading Buck's grey towards the tree, and it was saddled. Buck groaned and looked at Vin, next to him. The tracker was slowly stirring, waking. Buck laid his tied hands on Vin's left arm, next to him, to shake him a tiny bit, afraid that if he didn't wake up Sullivan would be only to happy to "help" him. He frowned when he realized that Vin's arm was warm to the touch, even through his shirt.

"C'mon, Vin." He shook the other man again very gently. "Wake up so Sullivan ain't got an excuse t' do nothin'."

Vin moaned slightly as he pushed himself higher against the tree, blinking. Sullivan stopped about 15 feet away from the two men and stood looking at them with a closed expression. He had the reins to Buck's horse in his right hand, and a wad of rope in his left. He lifted it to gesture to Buck and then the grey.

"Git on," he said flatly. "Now."

Buck fought to get to his feet, his bad leg protesting the movement by sending a long sharp flash of pain from his ankle all the way up his side. He gasped, caught himself on the tree with his hands, and fought to get his balance as dizziness grabbed him and spun the clearing suddenly. He heard Sullivan's voice again. "Ain't got all day, Wilmington."

Suddenly there were hands on his arm, dragging him, and Buck was at the grey's side and being shoved up into the saddle. His bad leg was stiff from having sat under the tree so long, and when the knee bent in the stirrup he had to bite his lips to keep from reacting audibly. But he wouldn't let Sullivan see or hear anything of it; he wouldn't give the man the satisfaction. Not one bit. Buck lowered his head and concentrated on his breathing, determined not to pass out. No way this bastard was going to win. None. He felt his foot jerked and moved around as Sullivan tied his foot to the stirrup and its leather, then after a few moments the same thing on the other side. This time, it was the leg that was injured, and Buck couldn't help but catch his breath when Sullivan roughly shook his foot around by the heel as he wrapped the bindings and lashed them down. He heard Sullivan laugh very softly, opened his eyes, looked at him hard.

Sullivan stopped and looked back. Then he reached up, his eyes still locked with Buck's and quickly lashed the man's tied wrists to the saddlehorn again. "Hate me yet?" he asked softly. Buck just stared at him, then looked away casually and studied a rocky escarpment to the east. Sullivan's face darkened, and he jerked the grey to the tree and tied it to one of the branches, then stalked off.

When he was out of earshot, Buck looked down at Vin and called to him. The tracker looked up from where he sat, and Buck saw that his face was slightly flushed again, like it had been the evening before. His eyes were dull. "Buck," said Vin hoarsely, "I don't think--"

"It'll be ok, Vin." It wasn't what Buck had wanted to say exactly, but he knew he didn't want Vin to put out-loud words to what he had been thinking just then. He looked at the tracker's pained features and wondered how the hell Vin was going to make it even another mile. "We gotta' be gettin' close," he said, "to have stopped so long here."

Vin just turned his face away with a weariness that made Buck feel suddenly scared, and he looked to see that the tracker was watching Sullivan, who was approaching again with his own horse's reins in one hand and Vin's in the other. He walked up to Vin, dropped both sets of reins to ground-tie the animals, and looked at the tracker almost genially.

"We got a ways left to go," he said softly. "Time for you to get back up here."

Vin looked at Sullivan but didn't move for a long time. Then, slowly, he bent his legs and shifted his weight to one side, starting to try and push himself up the tree to stand. He pushed his back against the trunk behind him, his face tight and his neck corded with the effort of trying to do it without moving his tied hands or his shoulder. Finally he was standing, leaning back against the tree, his head tipped back and his eyes fixed on Sullivan. His shirt was still askew from when Buck had checked the wound, and the suspender on that side hung down over his arm in a slack loop. He stood there, breathing heavily, his face more deeply flushed than before. Sullivan crooked his finger at Vin and his voice was softer, slick with menace.

"Now. Come here," he said.

Vin shook his head slowly. "No." His voice was so soft it was barely audible in the late morning stillness. Sullivan drew back in mock surprise.

"No?" He advanced closer towards Vin, half circling as though the wounded man leaning against the tree might suddenly attack him.

"Bring my horse here," rasped Vin. "I can't get there."

"Oh, but I think you can." Sullivan stopped walking and leaned indolently on one hip, looking at Vin. He turned then, to look at Buck, who sat his tied horse to one side and almost behind him. "Don't you think he can?"

"Go t' hell," growled Buck.

"Oh, we're already there," said Sullivan. "All three of us." He looked back at Vin. "You come here," he said flatly. "Now."

Vin shook his head again very slightly, and Buck saw that the hair along the side of Vin's face was wet, that sweat glistened across his forehead. He realized, suddenly, what even standing up was costing the tracker. He threw a sharp look at Sullivan and realized with a sense of helpless rage that their captor knew it, too. Sullivan took two steps back suddenly, drew his pistol, and pointed it at Buck. "You come here, or I'll kill this useless man now," he whispered. "Then I'll be free to play nursemaid to you, ok?"

Vin closed his eyes, and Buck gritted his teeth. Nothing he could say would make it anything but worse. He knew it. But that didn't make it easier to keep his mouth shut. When Vin pushed off from the tree with the back of his good shoulder and took a single faltering step towards the black gelding, his face closed up with renewed pain, and Buck had to bite his lips to keep from cussing Sullivan seven ways from Sunday. Vin managed to get several more steps before he went down, heavily, and his impact with the ground broke loose a choked cry. Sullivan bent over the tracker and shook his head.

"You didn't get very far," he said. "Get up."

'Leave him alone,' thought Buck. 'Come and get me, you bastard. I'm the one you want.'

Sullivan holstered his gun, suddenly, and grabbed Vin by the arms and dragged him to his feet. Vin recoiled reflexively against the pull, but Sullivan just jerked him the harder towards the black, then shoved him up into the saddle, cursing when Vin nearly toppled out of it the other way. Sullivan lashed his wrists quickly to the saddlehorn as Vin bent nearly double in pain, his breathing ragged again and breaking off into gasps as Sullivan jerked his feet into the stirrups roughly, and tied them. He finished and looked at Buck with a dark, defiant expression in his face, even as Vin was still reeling behind him. Sullivan went to his own horse then, and ran the lead rope back through the hardware on Vin's horse first this time, then to Buck's. He glanced up at Buck as he fastened it off, but the other man looked away again.

Fine, thought Sullivan, we'll see.

He mounted up and led off at a jog, satisfied at the sharpness of the cry that burst out behind him when he did, and then he pulled on the lead rope that went to Tanner's horse so that the black came abreast of his own mount, the grey close enough now that he knew Wilmington could hear and see everything. Tanner was to his left. Which meant that his wounded shoulder was right there in easy reach. Sullivan turned back in his saddle to look at Wilmington. He looked him right in the eye, and then he looked at Vin and said cheerfully, "Only another eight hours to go!" and heartily clapped the wounded man on the shoulder.

The sound he got for his trouble was like a mountain cat's cry, and Sullivan turned back so that his eyes held Wilmington's again, ten feet behind the two of them. He knew Tanner had passed out and was slumped over his saddle now, but he didn't care. He looked at Wilmington and knew the answer, but he wanted to ask anyway. "You hate me yet? Eh? You hate me NOW?"

"Why?" Buck felt like he could explode the ropes right off him if he tried. Vin's agonized cry had seared him like it was his own pain, and he wanted only to tear Sullivan to pieces, bit by tiny bit.

"Because I am paid to hate you," said Sullivan. "Don't you understand? So it has to work both ways. To make sense." He released the lead rope to Vin's horse so that the gelding dropped back, and then he slowed to a walk as he led the string up a steeper slope and more deeply into the mountains. Buck looked at Vin slumped over the gelding's whithers, in front of him, and wondered how the hell either of them could make it through eight more hours of riding like this. Then he started working on the thing Sullivan had accidentally given him: that he wasn't a bounty hunter after Vin, at all.

Who had paid Sullivan to hate Buck? And why?

Part 50

"You know, Casey, you look awful."

"Oh, OH . . . thanks a lot, JD. I really appreciate that." Casey was clearly offended and ready to flounce away.

JD beseechingly reached out to Casey. "Casey, you know that came out wrong. Please . . . please, sit with me."

Casey reluctantly returned to the table in Mary's kitchen. Using the news stories Casey compiled and the names of other mines from Delano, Mary had gone to wire surrounding towns gaining information on the status of the mines in the region and to see if there was any word on Buck and Chris.

In the meantime, JD and Casey had again talked to as many townspeople as possible seeing if they could get any information on Buck's or Chris's leaving. All they had been able to find out was that Miss Molly, the new seamstress, had seen Buck stalk along the boardwalk with packed saddlebags two days ago. That was apparently just before Buck left town. She related how she had tried to greet him but thought he hadn't even seen her. "He was truly frightening," Molly said, "dark and threatening. I've never seen him like that."

JD had. And it took quite some effort to make his easy-going friend act like that. But never, never had he'd seen Buck in a situation forced to defend his own honor. And Buck chose to leave. JD had to wonder if he'd ever see him again.

Yosemite, the liveryman, was positive Chris had left late yesterday morning. When JD talked to him a second time, he also thought he remembered a man, about Chris's height, trim build dark hair on the boardwalk intently watching Chris leave. Been around town a few days, mostly playing poker. Yosemite didn't know if it meant much but he thought he was unusually interested in Larabee leaving town. Yosemite thought he'd make trouble with Larabee gone but nothing seemed to come of it. Yosemite had shrugged, dismissing the observation as not important.

And that had been it. How could two of the best-known men in Four Corners just leave and no one seemed to have really noticed? Probably because it wasn't that unusual. Damn, JD wished they had said something before leaving. The not knowing was wearing.

It had been that way with Casey. He knew something had happened but it was the not knowing. Well, he knew now. Some bastards had hurt her like no man should. Sure, it could have been worse. But it was bad enough. JD looked over at Casey and thought if he said 'boo' the girl would shriek with terror. She seemed so fragile that JD wanted to wrap her in a cocoon and let no one touch her, let no one frighten her, let no one hurt her. That's why he hadn't wanted her involved this morning. A drunk Josiah could be frightening, depending how deep he was in his cups. And JD didn't want Casey frightened anymore.

JD looked over at Casey and smiled gently. She smiled tentatively back. "It went well with Josiah, don't you think?"

JD moved stiffly, exaggerating some slight injury from when Josiah had knocked him to the floor, "oh yeah," JD grinned mischievously, "don't hurt much at all." He looked over slyly, "you know, you could kiss me and make me forget about all my pains."

Casey's laughter tinkled like piano keys, "Oh JD, you're silly."

JD sobered. "You did good, Casey."

Casey nodded and a smile fleetingly crossed her face before it was that quickly gone. You'd have thought it was an illusion if you weren't watching her closely, the smile was that brief.

JD scooted his chair closer to Casey and grabbed the front legs of her chair and scraped it across the floor pulling her in front of him. He wanted to gently tip her chin so she'd look at him but he was afraid that would be pushing her, so he restrained himself. Guess he'd have to try to tell her. He was never good at that.

"Casey," JD broached the subject tentatively, "I want to help. I want to protect you and not let you ever hurt again."

Casey shook her head sadly never raising her chin from her chest. "JD, you can't possibly do that for me."

"I can try," JD earnestly believed that.

Casey smiled skeptically. She started to look around the room, anywhere but at him. JD could see the slight quiver of her lips and was afraid she'd start crying again. Damn it, Casey, those men aren't worth one of your tears.

"Casey," JD paused till Casey looked at him, "Let me help you."

"How JD?" Casey plaintively pleaded.

"Put your hand up, palm facing me."

Casey frowned at JD, not sure what he meant to do. JD smiled encouragingly and nodded at her left hand. Casey raised her hand. JD hesitated a minute, then slowly raised his own hand lightly against hers. He let it rest there a minute and looked at Casey. She still seemed confused but not frightened. Definitely not frightened. JD increased the pressure against her palm. Her eyes widened and she slightly gasped but didn't draw away. JD licked his lips and kept applying pressure till Casey either had to counter that pressure or let him push her hand back. Casey chose to counter the pressure. JD smiled and spread his fingers and Casey's fingers followed, pressed against his. He folded his fingers over her hand and she followed.

JD's smile broadened. He gently rubbed his thumb against her hand. She started to say something and JD shushed her and gently shook his head no. Her breath had quickened and her mouth had opened slightly. JD watched her lick her lips and saw the soft glistening of moisture on them.

"Casey?"

She nodded her head.

Still holding her hand, JD pulled ever so slightly on her hand encouraging her to lean forward and come to him. Her eyes never left his until they were so close JD gently pressed his lips to hers. He pulled on her hand and increased the pressure. Casey took the cue and pressed her lips more firmly to his. JD cupped her head with his other hand at the back of her neck and tilted his head to . . .

"Casey, JD." They quickly broke apart and pushed their chairs away from each other.

Mary entered the kitchen. She was so intent on sorting through telegraph messages, she suddenly stopped and looked at them intently. Mary slowly looked over at JD, then Casey. It almost appeared she was going to say something but decided against it. "We've got to go and meet the others. I just wanted to pull one file and I'm ready." Mary stepped back to the front office.

"Guess, we'd better go," Casey's voice was husky.

"Casey?"

"Later, JD." Neither realized they just weren't going to have a later.

When they arrived at Nathan's clinic, Josiah had returned from the church, Nathan had shaved and cleaned up, and Ezra was there too. And that was it. No Buck. No Vin. No Chris.

Casey and Mary sat in the two chairs in the room. Nathan was in bed but sitting up. Josiah was leaning back against the wall, nursing another cup of coffee. Both Ezra and JD stood also.

"I was just bringing Josiah and Nathan up to date on what we know about Chris and Buck. They both agreed that one of us needs to ride out to the reservation and get Vin." Ezra quickly summarized the conversation that had gone on before they arrived. "Did you find out anymore about Buck or Chris?"

"Not much," JD reported, "only to confirm when they actually left. Miss Molly told us she saw Buck with packed saddlebags two days ago -- real upset. Yosemite confirmed Chris left about 24 hours later. He thought he saw someone watching Chris but nothing seems to have come of it."

"I wired towns about mining problems but checked to see if there was any word on them. Nothing," Mary related, clearly discouraged.

Ezra sighed deeply. "Shit," he said under his breath, not loud enough for the ladies to hear. "Well, if we're going to find them, we'd better retrieve our tracker."

"I'll go get Vin, Ezra," JD volunteered.

Ezra nodded his head. "Thank you, JD." One thing about JD, he was always eager to take on a task. Ezra really appreciated that quality in JD over these past few days. Ezra sure didn't want to do it. Although they seemed harmless enough, he wasn't comfortable on the reservation and would rather not go there himself.

Ezra surveyed the room and everyone seemed to be in agreement with the plan to get Vin. "Okay then, let's put our heads together about what has been happening. Mary?"

Mary pulled out her notes. "Casey and I put together a list of events that have happened over the past week in town. Casey then went through newspapers from the surrounding towns for the past month and we tried to see if there was any pattern to the events. This is what we got. The only bank robbery in the area in the past month was here. The Delano Mine cave-in and Delano's insistence that someone was after him. Several mines in the area have either been sold or had accidents. The trail crews - Casey's attack, several episodes of drunkenness, disorderly conduct, and gunplay. The talk of needing a real doctor. Nathan's poisoning. There was one other poisoning related to bad meat. Indian troubles - reports of butchered steers, old Sam's claim they killed his sheepdog, and the report from one scared drummer that he was chased by braves through the reservation. The accident at the Robert's ranch. The rape charge against Buck."

"Any reports of any Indian troubles in surrounding towns?" asked Nathan.

"No, not at all." Casey piped in, having done the research.

"It almost seems that . . ." Ezra started to say something and then the room got very quiet.

"Ezra?" Nathan asked.

"The bank robbery. The trail crews' actions. Both seem to test our response. Your poisoning. Buck accused of rape." Ezra listed events specifically targeted at the seven.

"I attack Buck over a false charge by a woman who had now left town." Josiah couldn't look at the others as he explained what happened with Buck.

"Chris is gone. No explanation. No word." Mary commented.

"It's unexplained. Doesn't seem related. It just seems like someone is after us and they're doing a good job," JD mused.

"It might seem like that but do we have any evidence?" Nathan asked.

"No, NO." JD shook his head disgusted. "Just my gut."

Mary stiffened sharply at JD's last comment and Ezra rose from his relaxed pose against the wall, frowning at Mary.

"When did we hear that before?" Mary asked Ezra.

"Delano," Ezra replied. Four sets of confused eyes looked at Ezra. "We had almost the exact same conversation with Delano about the mine cave-in and his insistence someone is after him. Mary, what do you have on the mining stories?"

Mary spread a map out on Nathan's bed and the rest gathered around the bed. "I've marked the mines in the area that have been sold. Almost all of them had some type of accident and/or deaths prior to being sold. Near Sweetwater, there was a mine cave-in. There was an article about the owner of Apex Mining and how many of the small mines in the area have sold out. They include Kirksen, Mitchell, and Jefferson -- they all had problems before selling. Emerson sold out -- he had a mine on the far side of the reservation from Delano." As Mary related the stories she pointed to the locations of the mines on the map.

"So the only mines in the area that haven't sold recently are Delano Mining and Apex Mining," Nathan observed as he looked at the locations of the mines and the stories.

"So Apex is the only one not having troubles?" JD asked.

"Well, not that they told me. But I had to wire the mine. The only road access is from the northwest over here so they don't come to Four Corners," Mary explained. "I do have a theory why these mines are being taken over."

"Please enlighten us," Ezra invited.

"This article was in my files. The federal government passed a law called The Apex Law. According to this law, a miner can pursue a vein an infinite distance if the apex was in the surface boundary of his claim."

"What's an apex?" Casey asked.

"It's the top of a vein," Josiah explained.

"What happens if the miner doesn't have the apex?" Casey asked.

"If it is subsequently discovered that the claimant erred and the apex is not located in his boundaries, then he loses the right to follow the vein," Mary read from the article.

Ezra let out a low whistle. "So you have a rich vein and don't have the apex, you lose all rights to mine the vein. Not only that, whoever owns the apex has the right to mine it on your claim. I'm sure this law is leading to some very expensive and confusing litigation."

"You know, it seems Mr. Delano may have a point about him being a target," Josiah commented.

"He's been begging for someone to go out there again," Mary added.

"It seems with this new information that his mine should be investigated again," Ezra agreed. Ezra looked over at Josiah. There was no way the man could make the six-hour ride to Delano's today. That left either him or JD. JD was the logical one to send to Delano's but he was going to the reservation. Aw hell, that meant he'd have to go retrieve Vin from his party.

"I think JD should ride over and take a look around there again," Ezra nodded at JD. "He knows the lay of the land and wouldn't be starting from scratch initiating a further investigation." I thought the leader got to pick his assignments, Ezra thought disgusted. But it didn't make sense for him to go to Delano's.

"Fine by me," JD agreed, "but I was supposed to get Vin."

"Yes, well, I will have to go retrieve him," Ezra volunteered resignedly.

"Will you be leaving now?" Mary asked.

Ezra nodded. "JD can get to Delano's before dark and I can make the round trip to the reservation and be back today if I don't delay. We best move out. Nathan you need to drink and get rest." Ezra looked over at Josiah. "See that he does that." Nathan rolled his eyes at that last comment.

Ezra moved to leave and looked pointedly at JD. JD wasn't paying attention to him apparently having a quiet word with Casey. She nodded at whatever he said.

"JD," Ezra called out impatiently, "we have got to depart now."

"Yeah, yeah," JD responded distracted as he moved closer to Nathan's bed to look at the map again. "I was just thinking. We already know Delano is having trouble at his mine. Maybe one of us should make a visit out to Mr. Apex?"

"That's a good point, JD but let's even see if we can even find evidence at Delano's," Josiah observed, "then, we can look at other mines if we need to."

"Isn't it funny that Mr. Apex has a law named after him?" JD commented.

"JD, apex refers to the top of the vein, not Mr. Apex," Josiah explained.

"Who is Mr. Apex?" Ezra asked.

"The owner of Apex Mining," JD answered.

"He's not the owner of Apex Mining," Ezra contradicted JD.

"So who DOES own Apex Mining, then, if it's not Mr. Apex?" JD asked confused.

"Michaels," Mary answered.

"Sterling Michaels."

Part 51

Damn, damn, damn. If it wasn't one thing, it was another, and Ezra had gotten to the point where he was about fed up with it. He'd been gracious. He'd been gallant, even. He'd been a nurse, a scrubwoman, a confidante, a clerk, and a sobering influence. He started to smile wryly at the thought, then frowned again. If only . . . oh, never mind, he told himself crossly. Just never mind. Just ride on out to the Godforsaken Indian reservation and drag Mr. Tanner out of whatever heathenish ceremony he was partaking in -- by the collar of that dead animal he facetiously referred to as a coat, if necessary -- and get him back into town to take over this entire mess. Ezra had done more than enough already. MORE than enough. He nodded to himself as he rode along at a brisk jog, his brow furrowing in indignation at the very thought of the way everyone was starting to impose on him, just because he'd had the decency and breeding to step into the breech in a crisis. It was temporary! Gads, didn't these people understand _temporary_? And now they were all excited about this mining business and . . .

Ezra's face grew serious and he legged the horse into a slow lope. He didn't even want to think about the possibility of what they were turning up turning out to be true. How could it be, really, that someone was doing something so insidious? It was a ridiculous notion. He knew how much effort and money it took to pull off a complicated scam, and this one would be . . . well! Ezra shook his head and smiled to himself, showing his gold tooth. It would be insanity even to contemplate.

Yet, Chris was gone. And Buck. And someone had poisoned Nathan. Why?

Ezra couldn't get the question out of his head. Every time he ran around the impossibilities and unlikelihoods of the whole thing, it always came back to that. If there wasn't a scheme of some sort, if there hadn't been some secretive and concerted effort directed against them, then why had Nathan been poisoned? And by whom?

He was relieved to see the tops of several lodge poles appearing above the low rise ahead of him on the trail, and took off his hat as he slowed the gelding to a walk. He wiped the back of his coat sleeve across his forehead and looked up at the sun, grimacing at the very thought that he was out here in the heat, instead of inside some decent, civilized--

"Ho." A man had stood up next to the trail, materializing it would seem out of nowhere, and Ezra drew rein in some surprise. He hadn't remembered anyone being stationed as a guard or sentry here before.

"Hello," he said. He felt suddenly awkward, and smiled ingratiatingly. "I'm looking for Vin Tanner, who's--"

"Wait here," said the man.

"No, I--" But before Ezra could say another word, the man was gone as silently as he had come. Ezra looked around the vicinity and thought seriously of continuing onward, but decided to wait at least a little while. The last thing he needed was for Tanner to come flying out of some hovel in a rage over his having . . . well, actually he couldn't remember ever having seen Tanner in a rage. Perhaps a cold fury. Or a tight--

"You are Standish." The familiar timbre of a voice he knew as Kojay's interrupted Ezra's musing and he looked to see that the man was standing on the trail practically in front of him. He didn't, Ezra thought, look particularly welcoming.

"Yes." Ezra dismounted and grinned nervously. "I need to speak with Mr. Tanner."

"He is not here."

Ezra blinked, opened his mouth, and then shut it again. He cocked his head and waved one hand in frustration. "There must be some mistake," he said at last. He looked very intensely, puzzled, at Kojay. The man merely looked back at him, and shrugged.

"He is not here," he repeated.

"When did he leave?" Was it growing hotter by the minute? Ezra ran a finger around the inside of his shirt collar.

"He has not been here at all." Kojay just kept staring at Ezra in a manner that was beginning to approach rude. The gambler sighed in exasperation.

"I _know_ he came here to your festival, to that - that - _corn_ thing," said Ezra, "so don't tell me he never--"

"Vin Tanner has not been here," said Kojay. He folded his arms across his chest. "I have been worried because of it. I thought perhaps trouble between our people was growing faster than I knew."

"Well, no, I--"

"But now you make me worry that he is the one in trouble," Kojay continued. "I think he must not be in town, either, if you come here looking for him."

"No," said Ezra. He was starting to dislike where this line of thinking was going. A lot. "No, he's not in town. You're right."

"How long ago did he leave?" Kojay's eyes were steady and clear, and Ezra found himself held by them suddenly, unaccountably, wondering when _was_ the last time he'd seen Vin. In the saloon, he remembered, with Josiah. No -- it was the next day, in the morning. With Chris. "Vin's gone," Chris had said. Ezra frowned slightly, his gaze drifting inward as he remembered.

"Three days," he said softly, almost to himself. He raised his eyes again to Kojay's. "He left town day before yesterday."

"That is not good." Kojay turned to the man next to him, the one who had been standing watch, and spoke briefly in their own tongue. The man gestured subtly with his chin as he replied. Kojay asked him something else, it seemed, and the man replied shortly and sprinted back towards the village. Kojay turned back to Ezra. "Please forgive my lack of hospitality," he said softly. "We are at a time in our ceremony that is very sacred, and that cannot be interrupted by an outsider. But there are some hunters we need to speak with. He has gone to get them."

Ezra nodded as if that made sense to him, and waited. It was only a moment before two young men were standing next to Kojay, their dark bodies lithe and shining with the sweat of some exertion. A rapid exchange took place, and then Kojay spoke again to Ezra.

"They were out yesterday morning, early," he said. "Over that way." He pointed with one gnarled finger, to the east. "They heard the sounds of guns shooting, maybe five miles away."

"Where were they then?" Ezra slapped at a fly that was hovering annoyingly around his ear, and tried to remain dignified.

"At the edge of the reservation. That was why they could not go see what it was," explained Kojay. "They said it sounded like it came from the base of that ridge there." He pointed, and Ezra saw the long ridge of desert and scrub, and he sighed. Great, more riding. He looked at the hunters, and made one last effort to get out of this apparent trap and go home before it was too late to get any supper.

"Why do they think it had anything to do with Mr. Tanner?" he asked.

Kojay had started to turn around, but at that he faced Ezra again, and he was very still. Ezra toyed with the reins in his hands, looked at the ground uncomfortably, and then cleared his throat.

"Yes. Well, I'll be off to check it out then." He put his foot into the stirrup and swung up as he coughed lightly. "Just . . . check it out on my way back to town," he mumbled. He glanced out from under the brim of his hat to see that Kojay hadn't moved a muscle and was regarding him with the same silent, expectant look he'd had a moment before. Ezra turned his horse, and headed for the ridge.

So much for dinner, he thought.

Part 52

"Mary asked me to bring this up to you."

Josiah opened the door to Nathan's room wide enough to take the broad tray from Casey's hands, then pushed the door shut behind her with his foot after she came in. The girl smiled shyly at Nathan in the bed as she went to the table next to it and began to take things off and set them on the floor. "Just a minute and I'll fix a place to set the tray. There's supper here for both of you." She glanced at Nathan. "Mary told me to let ya' know she made it herself this time, so you don't have to worry."

Nathan chuckled and pulled himself up higher against the pillows that were propped behind him. "I ain't worried about that," he said, "but I sure hope she sent me somethin' my stomach can handle. I'm hungry, but . . . "

"Chicken broth." Casey looked at Nathan again and smiled when she saw him nod with satisfaction. "Here, Josiah. You can set it down here now." The big man slid the heavy tray to the table and Casey started pulling off the heavy cloths Mary had placed over the covered dishes to keep everything warm. Nathan straightened up even higher on the bed when he saw the bowl of broth Mary had fixed him. She'd set it on a large china plate and laid a spray of snapdragons next to the bowl, and Nathan looked up at Casey and grinned.

"That's gotta' be the prettiest lookin' bowl a' broth I ever seen," he said.

"Mary said it showed how glad she was that you're gettin' well." Casey blushed, and then handed Nathan the dish and a napkin. She turned to Josiah to see that he had pulled up a chair and was sitting in it regarding Nathan with an expression of pure joy on his face. He looked up when he realized Casey was staring at him, and a sudden flash of grief and shame ran across his face and he looked down at his hands. "She sent you fried chicken, Josiah. An' mashed potatoes, an' . . . " Casey's voice trailed off and her young face knit together as Josiah ran a hand through his silvering hair and stood up with a deep sigh. He wandered to the far side of the room as if unsure of where he was going, then turned around to face Nathan and Casey and leaned against the wall behind him with his arms folded across his chest. Nathan looked up from sipping the broth.

"Gotta' eat," he said. "It'll help finish gettin' all that alcohol outta' your blood."

"How can you care about that, Nathan?" Josiah's voice was soft and rough, and it made Casey sink down gently onto the foot of Nathan's bed.

"I thought . . . I thought things were gonna' be ok now." Her voice was young and filled with sad longing, hope sliding from her fingers as she realized it might have been her own imagining.

"I don't know." Josiah rubbed the back of his neck.

"Can't get better unless you eat somethin'," observed Nathan. "Start gettin' things back to normal."

"Normal." Josiah laughed softly, shortly. He came back to the chair and dragged it out a little ways, sat down, rested his elbows on his knees and looked at the floor. "I've done a lot a things in my day, but . . ." He sighed, and then rubbed his face with a tired hand. He roused himself to look at the tray and then at Nathan. "I shoulda' offered you some a' this coffee," he murmured. "You want--?"

"Thanks." Nathan handed the nearly-empty broth bowl to Casey, who smiled delightedly when she saw how well he'd eaten. He reached across to take the cup of coffee Josiah poured and held out to him, and nodded to the preacher as he closed his eyes in satisfaction to sip of it. "Ezra 'n' Vin'll be back soon." He opened his eyes and looked at Josiah. "We'll get it all figured out."

"Figured out ain't the same as put right." Josiah shifted uncomfortably in the chair and looked up from under his brows at Casey with a shamed light to his eyes. "I'm right sorry you had to see all that," he added.

"I just wanted to help," said Casey in a small, troubled voice. "Things are so . . ." She leaned forward from her perch on the foot of Nathan's bed and an earnest look crept into her face. "Josiah, can I ask you somethin'?"

The big man nodded silently, but looked again at the floor between his feet.

"Why'd you believe her . . . over Buck, I mean?"

Josiah shook his head wordlessly, then exhaled long and sadly. "I wish I knew," he said.

"Is it 'cause she's, you know, someone you like?"

"I s'pose that's part of it." Josiah looked up slowly at the girl.

"Do you . . . _love_ her?" Casey's voice was a little breathless. She'd never asked a real grown-up man such a question before, and for just a moment she thought her Aunt Nettie might come flying in the door to grab her by one ear and drag her out for being too big for her britches. But what happened instead was that Josiah's eyes grew limpid, and he said in a choked voice:

"I thought I did. Now, I don't know." He turned his sad expression to Nathan. "Why would she lie to me like that?"

Nathan turned the coffee cup in his hands as he thought. "You know what Ezra thinks." It was all he wanted to say right now. No need to kick a man who was already down. Things would come out in the wash soon enough if they were there.

"Josiah?" The big man looked back at Casey, who had scooted to the very edge of the bed. Her eyes had gotten large with wonder and determination. "Did you ask her to _marry_ you?"

"Yes I did, Casey." Josiah smiled sadly at the look of amaze and thrill that raced across Casey's face at his words.

"An' . . . an' did she . . .?"

"She said yes." He stood up and rubbed his head again, stretching his long back and closing his eyes. Then he looked at Casey again, and then Nathan. "That's why I thought I could trust her. We was gonna' . . . we was gonna' announce it this comin' Sunday. At the end a' services."

"That sure is odd, her doin' that an' then sayin' what she did about Buck." Nathan's eyes were unfocused as he thought about what Josiah had said. Casey looked at him with her heart racing way up high in her throat like it was a runaway yearling colt. Josiah had asked Belle to marry him! And she'd ACCEPTED! Casey clenched her little hands into fists and reminded herself that a wedding probably wasn't going to happen, though.

But it nearly had. A wedding. JD would probably have been best man or something. He'd have worn a nice suit and maybe handed Josiah the gold ring. Well . . . maybe it could still be, though. Maybe the kinds of things that had happened didn't destroy that. A wedding could still happen, JD could still stand up in a nice suit, looking handsome, holding a gold ring. She bit her lip.

"Josiah?"

The big man smiled at the girl, sat down and drew his chair closer to her. He looked into her face kindly.

"What is it, Casey?"

"Do you think . . . Will you still . . . I mean, you know, get married?"

"No."

"No?" Casey's eyes unfocused as she puzzled out why Josiah wouldn't . . . and then they widened in horror as realization flooded her with shame. Both men saw it crash over her little head in a tide of paling as she shrank in on herself, although neither could quite understand why. The girl felt like she was choking suddenly. How could she have forgotten, just because JD had been nice to her. Just because Vin was coming back and then Buck and then Chris and they'd all be here again. That wouldn't change what had happened to her, not at all. Nothing could. And if Josiah . . . Then JD . . . Tears rose to stand in her eyes and her voice shook. "It's because . . . because of what happened to her, ain't it? She was right. If a woman--"

"Casey?" Josiah had reached out to lay a hand on the girl's shoulder, but she kept going as if he hadn't said anything.

"--gets . . . you know, 'ruined' . . . by another man, then she can't, that is she isn't, she's never--"

"Casey, Casey. Casey, Stop." Josiah shook the girl gently by her shoulder and took one of her hands in his other one. Her voice trailed off and she looked at him with a pain in her eyes that he thought might have driven him to drink if he hadn't already been there. Then it hit him: he HAD been there, and Casey had seen him there, and she knew why. And he'd acted like-- "No," he said quickly, suddenly. A wedding, he thought. She's got it all tangled up. "No, Casey. You've got it all wrong."

"But--"

"Listen to me a minute. Please." He glanced over to see that Nathan was watching both of them with a concerned expression, and he nodded almost imperceptibly to Josiah now. "Go on," his nod said, "talk to her. Do something."

"First," he said, "it didn't matter to me at all, what Belle said had happened."

"But--"

"You said you'd listen." Josiah let go of Casey's shoulder and took both her small hands in his now. He felt like he was holding the girl's whole life in his clumsy hands all of a sudden, hands that could plane wood but that . . . He shook his head. No, he wouldn't go there, not now. Casey needed him now. "The reason I was so upset was because she wouldn't listen to me. I told her it made no difference, but she wouldn't hear of it. It was her refusin' me that made me so upset, not that she'd said she'd been . . . you know." The big man paused. "Well, that an' the idea that someone had hurt her. And that it mighta' been someone I'd trusted." He looked into the girl's eyes again. "But that's somethin' else entirely. If she'd been willin' to see it my way, it wouldna' mattered so much. I still loved her. I still wanted to marry her."

"But Josiah," Casey's voice was as small as he'd ever heard it. "Other people, they'd've thought . . . they'd've known . . ."

"Casey, there are two things about this. About this type of thing. It's not right or fair, but you've gotta' see it. A woman gets hurt two completely different ways when a man hurts her like that. The first way is whatever happens at the time. Do you understand what I mean?"

Casey looked away, her gaze skittering across the floor to take refuge in a dark corner of the room. "Yes," she breathed softly. "Bruises an' stuff."

"Yes," said Josiah. He had to work to make sure the anger that flared in him at her words didn't show. She'd never realize, right now, that it was directed at the men who'd hurt her a lot more than he'd realized up until this precise moment. She'd think he was angry at her. He kept his face calm, but repeated the word once more. "Yes. An' the second kind is a hurt against what the woman thinks of herself."

Casey kept looking at the corner, her hands limp. Josiah took a deep breath. 'God,' he thought, 'I could use a little help here, please.' He looked over at Nathan suddenly and raised one eyebrow in an unspoken question. The other man understood him immediately, and nodded with a solemn expression.

"Think a' Nathan a minute, Casey."

"Nathan?" That brought Casey's eyes back to Josiah at least, he noticed. She looked at him puzzled, then glanced over to Nathan's face.

"Yeah. Nathan. You know, he could say he's ruined as a healer now."

Casey's face snapped back to look at Josiah's with alarm. "What? Why?"

"'Cause he got so sick himself, and it was from someone poisonin' him. He could say, an' others might say, that if he fell into somethin' like that he wasn't fit to heal others. You know: 'Physician heal thyself.'" He threw another quick glance at Nathan to make sure he was on safe ground with a man who still had to feel pretty sick, but the dark man's eyes were soft with affection for the girl as he sat listening, and he nodded to Josiah to continue.

"That wouldn't be right," said Casey, confused by the line of discussion. "It wasn't Nathan's fault that--" She drew up short, suddenly seeing what Josiah was trying to point out to her. She cocked her head sideways and started to say something, but each time she did, the answer came right into her lap all by itself.

Other people might still say something about her, though. Just like they'd been saying things about Nathan before the poisoning, and might still say them now. Didn't matter what people said.

It didn't change the fact that those men had hurt her. Had scared her. Well, Nathan had still been poisoned. Someone had tried to kill him. That was scary, too.

People would know what had happened, that they had touched her and thought about her body in certain ways. But people knew what happened if you got poisoned, too. Everyone in town knew that Ezra'd had to touch Nathan in certain ways to save his life. It didn't matter. That's how it was. If you didn't know that, then you had no business being out west. Best go back to Boston or New York.

There were women who would die of shame if it happened to them, and there were probably people who would die of shame if they'd been poisoned. But they weren't the kind of people she knew or cared about. They weren't the kind of people her friends cared about.

The girl's eyes cleared some as she looked into Josiah's face. He could see she was still struggling.

"So, the reason you won't marry 'er is because . . . because she wasn't strong enough not to be ashamed a' what happened?"

"No, Casey. Feelin' ashamed is normal. Ain't that right, Nathan."

Casey looked over to Nathan and saw him nod. She thought about what Ezra had done for him and knew why. OK. She looked back at Josiah. "Then why. . ."

"I would've married her no matter what, if she woulda' had me," explained Josiah. "Up until the moment I found out she'd lied to me about Buck."

OH! Casey felt the room tip around her. That it'd had nothing to do with WHAT Belle said had happened, but that she HAD said it had happened when in fact it hadn't . . . the girl felt like everything was turning upside-down. Josiah pressed her little hands firmly within his own.

"Casey, if there ain't trust between two people, there can't be a relationship. There has to be trust, above all. And she destroyed my trust in her."

Casey's brows knit. "You mean, you can't even be friends with her now?"

"No, Casey."

"But you'll be friends again with Buck," she pointed out.

Josiah swallowed as the girl dragged him onto ground he hadn't even seen coming. He answered slowly, with reluctance. "I'm not sure I will be, Casey."

"WHAT!?!" The girl leaped to her feet, her face corded with outrage.

"Calm down, Casey." Nathan set his cup of coffee down on the table and reached for her, but she evaded him and faced Josiah angrily.

"What d'you MEAN you don't know if you can be friends again? What are you TALKIN' about!?!"

"I'm not sure Buck can forgive me, Casey." Josiah looked up steadily into the girl's hurt eyes and thought to himself he just couldn't seem to stop hurting people he cared about lately. Just one after another after another. "I said some bad things to him. An' I thought even worse things of 'im. An' he knew it."

"But . . . but it wasn't your fault!"

"A man always has a choice what to think, who to believe." Josiah sat calmly, looking at the girl as she struggled with what he'd said. She sat down suddenly, sagging, and her face fell.

"Oh," she said. "Oh, then you're sayin' it's all ruined after all." She looked up with tears trembling in her eyes. "What'll we do?" Josiah placed his hand on her shoulder.

"We'll do our best."

"You'll still try?" Her voice was small, bereft of hope, trembling.

"I didn't think I could, until you put it that way." Josiah touched a huge thumb gently to Casey's cheek, to wipe away a tear that had spilled over to run down her face. She closed her eyes, squeezing them tightly, all her unshed tears overflowing to run in long streams down her face; she grabbed Josiah's hand in hers and pressed her face against it tightly and wished her heart didn't feel like it was breaking.

"Casey." The gentle voice was Nathan's. The girl swallowed against the pain in her throat and turned her face to look at him. "There's more goin' on here than jus' hurt feelin's." He threw a meaningful look at Josiah and went on. "Fact is, findin' out what's been goin' on might just change things a lot. No sense givin' up right now."

"OK." Casey sniffed and rubbed one hand across her face.

"An' remember this: Buck never lied to us about any a' this. Belle did, but we don't know why yet. Buck never even _met_ Belle. Shoot, _I_ never even met Belle. There's too much we don't know, to go jumpin' to conclusions."

"Yessir." Casey smiled tremulously, and looked shyly at Josiah. "Thank you, Josiah."

"For what?"

"For explainin' things to me. With Aunt Nettie gone--"

"Come here, Casey." Josiah smiled broadly and pulled the girl to him into a bear hug. "Just think of me as your Uncle Josiah whenever she's not around."

Casey looked up at Josiah and smiled.

"Well, in that case, I'm gonna' make you eat your supper."

Josiah pushed Casey away from him at arms' length in mock astonishment. "An' why is that!?"

"'Cause otherwise _I_ have to carry it back down all those stairs again, 'Uncle Josiah'!" Nathan and Josiah both laughed lightly, and Josiah sat down and pulled the table closer to him.

"Never let it be said Josiah Sanchez is mean to his niece," he said. "Pass me the pepper."

Part 53

The base of the ridge. Well, he was at the base of the ridge, and he didn't see anything. Not that he'd thought he would. Ezra sighed and looked at the westering sun to see how much daylight he had left. Enough to search a while and still get back to town before dark, he thought sadly. Might as well do it. They'd all figure it out anyway if he cut corners and then there'd be hell to pay and another ride to make tomorrow, all over again. He sighed once more and took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. How was it Mr. Tanner did these things, when he did them? Oh yes. Circles. He rode in circles. Ezra laughed to himself, suddenly. I can do that, he thought; it's all I've been doing for two days anyway, going in circles.

Legging his chestnut into a jog, he began to describe large irregular circles outward from the base of the ridge Kojay had pointed out to him nearly two hours before, his eyes scanning the ground for something he wasn't sure he would recognize if he found it. Maybe a gun emptied of its bullets, he thought wryly, then with a flash of pride in his thinking: perhaps the carcass of a deer. Or . . . he frowned and tried to remember what sorts of things the others picked up when they got down off their horses at times like this. Spent shell casings. Pieces of torn cloth.

A coat.

Ezra froze. For a moment, it seemed like it had to be a practical joke. A neatly rolled coat lay on the sand beneath a tree as if someone had set it there intentionally for him to find. The gambler looked all around the area warily. Nothing. Not a soul. He looked back at the coat and rode a little closer. He didn't particularly like what it was starting to look like, and it didn't make any sense, either. If it didn't make any sense, he told himself as he dismounted, then there really shouldn't be anything to worry about. There had to be . . .some . . . . . .logical . . . He paused about ten feet away from the garment and felt his heart drop into his boots. It was Buck's. Unmistakably.

Ezra closed his eyes a moment, and then opened them again. What on God's green earth was Buck's neatly folded coat doing here, sitting on the sand beneath a hackberry tree, in a place where someone had been shooting yesterday morning and where he was looking for Vin? Ezra frowned. Leave it to Buck to screw things up, he thought. He bent to pick up the darned thing and then looked around. It was all too easy to see that something had happened here, maybe twenty feet away. Even someone as untrained as he was could hardly fail to see the . . . blood. Ezra knelt to touch the dark stain on the hard, light-colored ground. The gravely sand was cut up from horse hooves and something he couldn't identify, and the blood trail led off from the place . . . he stood up . . . in _that_ direction. He pulled his horse to him by the reins without taking his eyes from the cluster of rocks that lay directly in his line of sight as he stood looking down the trail made by the splotches of dried blood that was probably Buck's, and he mounted with a grim face and rode there with a horrible feeling that he'd finally found a job even worse than the others he'd done the last two days.

When he got to the rocks and saw that whoever he was following had gone inside the barrier they formed, he stopped his horse and closed his eyes again. If it had been 36 hours in this heat, this was not going to be good. He pressed his lips together and exhaled, then dismounted and climbed the rocks with a hard face and an even more hardened heart. Buck Wilmington, he thought, if you do this to me I swear I will look you up in hell and get even.

What he saw when he got to the top of the stones wasn't Buck's vulture-chewed body, though. It was Vin's hide coat -- laying rumpled and abandoned in a depression on the rocks inside the cleared area. And for just a moment it made Ezra think he was going to fall, he got so light-headed from the overwhelming sense of unreality. It was just impossible! He put a hand to his face, and wondered if he could be dreaming. It made NO sense! Ezra shook his head, and walked slowly up to the coat as if it might suddenly leap up with a bear hidden beneath it. He bent slowly, then, to pick it up, his eyes falling soberly on the large hole in the shoulder of it, the stain of blood on the front and sleeve. He looked at the stone, but there was nothing else. No other sign. He looked at the coat again, now held in both his hands, crushed together, as he fought the sense of totally unreasonable panic that was threatening to choke him. Vin's coat. Buck's coat. Dear GOD what was going on!?!

Ezra practically ran to his chestnut, threw the hide coat over the pommel of his saddle, and mounted up as if any moment he would see yet another sign of some horrible, inexplicable thing that had happened to the men who were missing. The men he'd been so sure were fine. The ones that no plotting had taken place against, no machinations had moved against, no --

Ezra suddenly shivered, and pushed the chestnut into a gallop. He had to get help, and get back out here and follow the trail and find them. And he had to do it fast.

Part 54

Every time Buck got half a thought together, it seemed to skitter away across the sharp, hot river of pain that was the wound in his leg. Every motion of his horse seemed to fire it until he thought it wouldn't be possible for there to be any more pain. And even with all that he was having trouble staying awake. He couldn't remember the last time he'd really laid down and slept. There'd been this morning, when they'd stopped, but that hadn't hardly been enough, didn't seem like anything now.

But in a way, none of that seemed important, not when he could look ahead of him, and see Vin up there, just hanging on. He hadn't been conscious since Sullivan slapped him on the shoulder and Buck couldn't help but be grateful for that. He knew now, what Sullivan wanted, though he didn't understand it. As long as Vin stayed unconscious Sullivan would leave him alone. And at the moment, that was the most Buck asked for.

He tried to concentrate on three things: what he and Vin had talked about, back at the river, what Sullivan had said to him, and where they were going. They were in territory Buck wasn't familiar with, high up in the mountains. Why, he thought. Can't be bounty hunters. It _isn't_ bounty hunters, he told himself. Happy just to know one thing. Sullivan had said that someone had paid him to do this. Someone had paid him to hate Buck. Who? Why? And Vin thought Sullivan was the one who'd attacked Buck at the river, heading him toward the reservation. Again, why? Who hated him enough? Who wanted that kind of thing from him? And if it was Buck they were after, why the arrows, why send him to the reservation? It didn't make any sense.

'Twenty-four hours to bring him back.' That thought popped into Buck's mind so suddenly that his head jerked up from it. 'Chris Larabee, you son-of-a-bitch,' Buck thought, glad in an odd way to have something else to think on for a minute. How could he think that? Even for one minute? How could he suspect that Buck would do _that_ to a woman? After all these years? Vin might say Chris didn't think it, but Vin was a good man and he couldn't hardly say anything else. And this was what Buck knew. Chris hadn't come himself to ask. He hadn't backed him against Josiah. And he'd made that threat, the one men made when they thought a guilty man was about to get away--'Twenty-four hours and then I'm coming after you.'

Well, maybe it was just a sign. Buck had hung onto his friendship with Chris for a long time. It had been his fault Chris had stayed that extra night in Mexico. His fault they hadn't been there when Sarah and Adam needed them. Chris had pushed him away and pushed him away and Buck had finally left and found his own way for a couple of years. Then, they'd come back together in Four Corners. And it hadn't been easy. Chris had threatened him with a straight razor the first day back in town after the Seminole village, but something had seemed different and it had seemed worth sticking there for awhile to see what would come. And, Buck had to admit it'd been something new. Men to watch his back. People to take care of and to care about. Worrisome at times, all the pressure of it, but satisfying too. And then, it had all shattered as if it had been just an illusion all the time anyway. And Chris Larabee had given Vin twenty-four hours to bring him in.

Buck closed his eyes. He was so tired. And for a moment he let the rhythm of the horse carry him along, drifting closer and closer to the sweet welcome arms of oblivion. But, he opened his eyes again, he was too thirsty, too hungry, and his leg was hammering at him too insistently for him to slip easily away. Gotta think, he told himself. Gotta figure this out.

Why had this man taken them and what did he want? That was the question Buck figured he needed an answer to. Why does he hate me, Buck wondered. It couldn't be what he'd said, that he was paid to hate Buck. No one hated like that just for the money. It wasn't natural. Revenge, maybe. Maybe he was Belle's brother come to avenge her honor. Buck smiled without humor and stifled a groan as his horse stumbled on the broken ground and sent a shaft of pain spiking up through his leg.

Sullivan looked back at him. His eyes seemed to glitter in the afternoon light. 'Who are you, you son-of-a-bitch?' Buck wondered. He continued to stare at Sullivan, willing the man to break whatever sadistic rule he was following and come after him, straight up. Sullivan just looked at him.

After a minute, he jerked on the lead rope and pulled Vin's horse up to ride beside him for a moment. Buck's stomach twisted as he watched Sullivan pull Vin closer. He could feel the muscles in his arms stretch into tight angry cords, pulling against knotted ropes that wouldn't budge. The heavy, dark weariness that had been dragging at him rained off him in sheets and he knew that if Sullivan did one thing--one thing--that he would explode. His breath was short and tight and his eyes were narrow as he watched. When Vin was beside him, Sullivan looked back at Buck again, then he reached out and lightly touched Vin's forehead. He looked back at Buck. "Got a fever," he said. "Might not make it." And then, he just let the lead rope loose and let Vin's horse drift back along it and kept on riding.

Buck could feel a growl building deep in his throat. His arms pulled so hard against the ropes that one of his wrists started to bleed and small black spots drifted across his eyes. Damn! God damn you, you son-of-a-bitch! Buck closed his eyes and then opened them. He forced himself to relax, to be quiet, to wait. They weren't dead yet. Neither one of them. And that meant that a chance would come, some time, and Buck would need to figure out a way to be ready.

+ + + + + + +

Chris had been awake for the last three hours. Blindfolded, with a head that ached like a sledgehammer had hit him, he had been sick and disoriented for most of that time. Gradually, the world had begun to make sense to him again. He was on horseback. His hands and feet were tied. Judging the sun by the heat he could feel on his skin and the way it changed as time passed he figured they were headed directly north. The sun was already low in the sky and he figured they'd been travelling a good five or six hours.

He sat and tested the rope around his wrists and listened to the sounds. He couldn't be sure but he thought there was only one other horse besides his own. One man. What had happened to the other one? There had been two at the cabin. Chris was sure of that. The one he'd seen. The red-haired man with the beard. And the one who'd been there, waiting when he rode up to the cabin. The one he hadn't seen, had only heard him say his name--'Mr. Larabee.' Chris would remember those words and the voice that had said them.

So which one was it now? The red-haired man or the other? And what the hell did either of them want? Not to rob him. They'd have hit him and then left him right there on the ground. Or maybe killed him. But they wouldn't haul him like this--blindfolded and helpless.

His horse kicked into a quick jog as his unseen captor hauled on the lead rope and the change in the rhythm jounced him and sent a sharp stab of pain spiking through his right temple. Damn it! They'd known who he was. That was the thing that ate at him. Known how to get to him. Wife. Son. Burning cabin. Someone had known all that. Gone to a lot of trouble it seemed. Had they followed him when he left Four Corners? And if they had, then he came straight back to the same question. Why?

"Who are you?" Chris's voice was raspy and dry and when no immediate answer came he cleared his throat and tried again, louder this time. "Who the hell are you?"

A dry chuckle came from the man he couldn't see. "I expect," said a cool voice, the same one Chris had heard at the cabin right before everything had gone black. "it'd be very interesting for you to know that."

"Untie me, you bastard."

"Well, now, that isn't going to happen."

"Then tell me where you're taking me."

The man laughed again, a dry cool sound like an early winter wind through dying tree branches. "Now, that isn't going to happen either."

"What do you want with me?"

"That," the man said with a certain finality, "will be clear in time."

+ + + + + + +

Striker allowed himself a small feeling of satisfaction as he watched emotions play across Chris Larabee's face. Things were really going very well. Not perfectly perhaps. But then, they never did in a plan like this. It was critical to have contingencies. And the contingencies were paying off. The regulators were in disarray. Three of their members had disappeared. One of them was rapidly becoming a drunkard, felled by a tiny woman. The plan had backups and backups and backups and soon the final phases would kick in and...well, Striker wouldn't, perhaps, get what he wanted. But the person who paid him to do the things he did would obtain the outcome he so ardently desired. And that was all Striker asked. That someone pay him. And that there continue to be plans to enact.

He looked up at the sky and the setting sun and figured he'd find a place to camp soon, maybe in a couple of miles when they reached the river. He wasn't in any particular hurry to get where he was going. Thompson would deliver his message to Hammersmith who could be counted on to do what was necessary back in town. The last two inciting incidents wouldn't happen for several more days. Everything in motion now would stay in motion until then. Small things would come to fruition. Lives would be ruined and perhaps lost. And Striker would have had a hand in it all.

Part 55

The sun was getting low in the sky. JD had pressed his horse hard to get to the Delano Mine before sunset. He had made really good time and he drew his horse up before he made a final descent into the valley where the mining operations were located. JD dismounted and saw the cemetery off to his right and his breath caught as he saw the three freshly dug graves. Mining could be extremely lucrative but the price could be high.

"Put the cemetery here so the men would spend eternity in sunshine after a lifetime in the dark," Delano had walked up the hill to meet JD, "hell, probably don't make no never mind, they're six feet under."

JD looked over the graveyard, the neatly maintained site surrounded by a freshly painted picket fence. Someone had gone to great deal of effort to plant flowers. JD's thoughts hearkened back to a grave in a Massachusetts churchyard. He wondered if someone tended his mother so well.

"I think you're wrong, Mr. Delano. They know," JD quietly responded.

Delano just nodded. He extended his hand to JD, "appreciate you comin' up and lookin' around again. Hoping a fresh set of eyes can see what I've been sayin' all along -- someone is out to take over this mine."

JD shook the hand firmly, "I'll do my best, sir."

"Come on, let me show you the lay of the land. Was busy with rescue efforts the last time you were here - didn't really get a chance to talk."

"I was surprised by the size of this place." There were at least 50 buildings, many neat houses to the right of the valley with most of the mining operation buildings on the left side of the valley nestled against the foothills.

Delano smiled proudly. "Started this operation almost 25 years ago--just me. Now I have 200 miners and with support staff and families, there are almost 500 people that this mine provides for. Two years ago was our best year ever and the prospects looked good for this year. Discovered a new vein, almost assuredly the apex. Our hopes were so high - assay came back at five thousand to the ton." Delano chuckled humorlessly, "hell, you can't bribe an assayer to give you that kind of certificate."

"The apex means all the ore in the vein, no matter where it's located belongs to Delano Mining."

"That's right. I'm impressed, not many non-miners know about The Apex Law," Delano looked at JD with new respect.

"I can't take the credit. Mrs. Travis, the editor of The Clarion, wrote an article when the bill was passed by Congress and what it would mean."

"Mr. Delano, I'll take care of the horse," the liveryman approached and took the reins proffered by JD.

"Thank you. Could you please grain him extra, been rode hard?" JD asked.

"Certainly sir." The man tipped his hat respectfully at Mr. Delano as he led the horse away.

"Mr. Delano, you were saying it had been a tough year."

"We've had four major cave-ins. Lost men each time. But it's been other things as well. Heavy equipment failures. Supplies not arriving as expected. Hard time hiring new men," Delano couldn't keep the defeat out of his voice. "Men here deserve better."

"Have you dug out from the last cave-in?"

Delano nodded his head. "We're back to full operations. You probably never got a chance to meet my manager last time you were here. Let's go get him and then, we'll show you the mine."

As they walked through the town that was Delano Mine, it was clear to JD that Delano was clearly respected and liked by his miners. To a man, they all greeted Delano and several engaged him in conversation.

"Mr. Dunne, this is Steven Borall, manager of Delano Mines." Steven Borall was a big man, at least as tall as Buck but much beefier. With graying hair and a bushy moustache, he reminded JD of Buck and what he would look like in 30 years. JD half-wondered if he would see his friend again. He left JD, packed up. JD couldn't let himself dwell on it. He couldn't afford to. He was here to do a job.

"Mr. Dunne," JD found his hand taken in a firm grasp, "pleased to have you come out again."

"Mr. Borall."

"Please, call me Steve, won't know who you're talking to otherwise," Steve smiled broadly.

"Mr. Delano, excuse me." Another man came forward and made his apologies to JD and Steve. "Need to talk to you about lumber operations."

"JD, this is Richard Browne, manager of lumber operations. Mine like this uses a lot of lumber. Having a mill on site ensures a ready supply. If you both will excuse me."

JD's eyes followed Delano as he walked off with the lumberman. Delano must have been in his early 50's. He was about 6 feet with a medium build but it was obvious his stature in this community was much taller.

"Good man," the mining manager quietly commented.

"The people here seem to think that," JD agreed.

"It's more than that. Most owners know that to some extent they have to take care of the men. Since the placer mines were overtaken by heavy equipment operations, you need a man of capitol to support all this," Steve's hand swept the valley. "Over those mountains is Apex Mining," Steve jerked his head to the mountains to the west, "Owner there is Sterling Michaels. Got a sweet operation over there and Michaels pays his men better than Delano. But he also charges more at the company store, for medical care, and for food," Steve sneered. "Fools, the only one lining his pockets over there is Michaels."

"You don't think much of Michaels, do you?"

Steve shook his head no. "He lives in that big house, even got him a house-full of servants. In another place, in another time not so long ago, you'd almost consider it a plantation with the big owner lording over his slaves. Mind you, he does it with style and grace. But hard to see him getting his fingers dirty if his men were trapped in a cave-in."

"Have they had trouble over there?"

Steve shook his head. "Not that I've heard of. But it's not that miners talk. Don't want to let the other guy know about your operations."

"If another miner wanted Delano out of business, would Michaels be your first choice?"

Steve didn't answer for a minute. "Yeah," he agreed slowly, "probably would be."

Delano rejoined them. "Let's show JD the mine and where the cave-in was."

"We were just talking about Sterling Michaels," Steve informed Delano.

Delano grimaced. "Don't think much of the man. A vulture swooping in to take over after the hard work of others."

"Mr. Michaels wasn't the original owner of Apex Mining then?" JD asked.

"Nope. Used to be owned by Roscoe Graham and it was called The Mazatzal then. Graham had operated the mine for several years but was killed in a freak mining accident two years ago and next thing you know Michaels had bought it out. He's heavily bankrolled so he had the funds to move in fast."

"Do you think he killed Graham?"

Delano chuckled morbidly. "Never heard any word that was the way the man operated. But he has his eyes set on a much bigger prize -- statehood and being the first governor. Wouldn't think a man with those aspirations would risk that type of operation? But then again, till what's happened here recently, I attributed Graham's death to a mining accident. It ain't unheard of in this business."

"If another miner wanted you out of business, would Michaels be your first choice?"

"Well don't quite know about that. Michaels would be taken an awful risk forcing me out of business. Wouldn't look good and I've been letting it be known that there has been sabotage at my mine. We have such a rich new vein, don't just bring one vulture but a whole flock."

"Yeah, anymore you have to set up security." Steve pointed to the road into the mine, "We have gates on the access roads and have a 24-hour mounted patrol."

JD was handed a helmet as they approached the mine entrance. "Mr. Delano, I meant to ask you. I only noticed three new graves in the cemetery. I thought there were two other men presumed dead."

"Totally dug out the cave-in and never did find them. Half-thought they might have been involved with the sabotage," Delano shrugged. "We have men decide this isn't the life for them and up and leave. May have been what happened in this case."

If JD thought he'd ever be a miner, he was quickly dissuaded. The tunnel narrowed sharply so that within twenty steps of the mouth, any daylight was completely gone. The walls were a dark brown-black color and water dripped incessantly. The air was dank and heavy. At every shoring there was a lantern hung, but the light they cast was so small and there were many dark shadows. JD shuddered with the damp chill and fear raced through him when he heard the ominous words "fire in the hole."

He ducked close to a wall but noticed that Delano and Steve didn't even flinch when they heard the yell. There was a brief, mild shake and a little dust was kicked up and that was it. JD felt sheepish for being a little scared, but this place was eerie.

"Fire in the hole," JD cringed but was proud he kept step with Delano and Steve this time.

Delano pointed out the start of where they had to dig out from the previous cave-in. They had added shoring in the area. JD looked around carefully for signs of a recent blast but didn't see anything. They continued further into the mine. Cold, wet, musky -- how could the men stand it for hours on end?

"Fire in the hole," JD cringed again and did lean a bit closer to the wall. And how could they stand the shudders from the explosions and what was keeping it all from falling in on their heads?

JD looked back over the route they had traveled and down the tunnel further. At regular intervals there was wood shoring. JD half-smiled, he could see why'd you want a steady supply of lumber. JD cocked his head and was trying to figure out . . .

JD looked closer at the beam. "What the hell is that?"

"Fire in the hole," JD lurched forward and slammed his body against the vertical beam of the shoring, with his hands he grabbed the overhead brace and held it up. The weight of the wood was straining his arms and he felt another person come up behind him to help hold the support. Immediately a whistle started blowing and more miners came to support the post and overhead beam.

Delano recovered from the shock of the near cave-in and immediately ordered shoring to support the damaged brace. Several burly miners who brought in bracing to support the overhead beam relieved JD and Delano.

"Thank you, JD" a relieved Delano clapped JD on the back, "great save."

JD smiled broadly and ducked his head thinking it was more a miracle than anything he did, "you're welcome, sir."

JD looked around, puzzled. "What would cause a beam to go out like that?"

Steve carried over the damaged wood. It was clear a saw had been taken to the wood and with the explosions from blasting, it was enough to finish the job."

"Well, that's it then. Finally, have proof." You would have thought in some measure Delano would be relieved. But he seemed more disappointed than anything else. "Steve, stop all operations. We need to inspect all shoring," Delano quietly ordered.

JD accompanied Delano and Steve on the inspection and five more beams and supports required replacing.

"JD, thanks for your help." Steve shook JD's hand. "Don't know about you boys but I'm ready for some grub." Delano remained at the mine to discuss some matters with the shift supervisor.

Steve escorted JD to the dining hall. On a blackboard outside was the evening menu. JD never thought he'd smelt food so good and couldn't decide if it was the mountain air or that he hadn't had a decent meal all day.

"Serve four meals a day."

"Four?"

Steve smiled. "Breakfast, lunch, dinner, and midnight chow. Ever hear the saying an army marches on its stomach. Well, a miner digs on his."

There was festive feel to the dining hall. The walls were painted white, eyelet curtains hung on the windows, and checkered red and white tablecloths adorned every table. There had to be at least 30 long tables that could sit 10-12 men. At one end were the kitchen and a serving line.

Dinner tonight consisted of a choice of prime rib or lamb chops, Yorkshire pudding, roasted potatoes, peas, and carrots. Fresh bread was served to every table on a cutting board and there was a soup starter and a choice of chocolate cake or pecan pie for dessert. Actually, you didn't need to make choices, you could have some of everything if you so chose. And many chose. JD, who had eaten in many restaurants, thought this was the best food he'd ever tasted.

Halfway through dinner, Delano rejoined Steve and JD. He had gone through the line, just like his men.

"Doing another inspection before we resume digging," Delano shook his head disgusted, "It'll take the better part of the night."

"Do you think it was the sawn boards that caused the cave-in last week?" JD asked.

Delano shook his head no. "We would have discovered it during the clean up. No, this was a new attempt to shut down the mine. Bolder than previous attempts. Whoever it is, is either getting desperate or running out of time."

"Running out of time, how?" JD was curious.

Delano shook his head wearily. "Don't know really. I just said that." Delano slammed his hand on the table, "damn, this is so frustrating."

"Sir, do you have a map of the area?"

"In my office. Let's take our coffee and dessert back there and look at it."

Delano, Steve, and JD rose to leave the dining hall. JD sensed he had eyes on him as he left. As the door was held for him, he casually looked back, noting a man that had been sitting directly behind JD and Delano. JD was certain he hadn't been there when they sat down. It was late for dinner and the dinning hall was emptying out with most of the late comers sitting near the serving line in easy reach of seconds. This man was sitting alone and quite far away from the serving line.

"Steve, who's that man in the plaid shirt?"

"Homer Beckwith, been with us about three months."

"Probably need to keep an eye on him. I recognize him from when Josiah and I were here last week. Awfully convenient him sitting behind us at dinner. May not want to talk business in the dining hall anymore?"

Steve looked over at Delano. "Know that's not your way but what he says makes sense. Also think you should lock up all the papers in the safe and post guards at the office and your house."

"Damn, I feel like I'll have no place of my own. No place to talk freely," Delano complained. "But you're both right. See that it's done, Steve."

Steve nodded.

The threesome reached Delano's office where a map of the region was spread out. It was a topical map that showed the land features as well as the location of towns, mines, roads, and rail and stage lines. JD brought the two men up-to-date on the research Mary and Casey had done. Both men were surprised by the extent of the turnover at the different mines.

"You mentioned running out of time. Could it be that whoever is doing this needs to make sure he has the apex to the vein he's currently mining?"

Delano nodded, "Or they can just want a rich vein."

"What's this area?" JD pointed to an area with no mines.

"Indian reservation, Kojay's tribe. Never had no problem with them." Delano commented.

"Hmm. That's interesting. Been talk of Indian troubles in town."

That statement gave Delano pause. "JD, they could be a target too. This area is rich in silver veins, no reason not to think that there would be some on their land too."

The three men spent several minutes discussing the area and mining operations till JD couldn't prevent himself from yawning deeply.

Delano chuckled. "Sorry about that young man, I could talk all night on this stuff. Let's see about finding you a bed."

"That'd be great, sir. I'd like to get an early start in the morning back to Four Corners and report what we found here."

JD was shown to a guestroom in Delano's house. By no means luxurious but it was comfortable enough for JD's needs. JD quickly washed up and settled down for the night. It had been a long day and he was exhausted. He'd been up before dawn, rode out here, and put in several hours in the mine. But before he could settle down, his thoughts returned again to Buck and Chris. Think I did some good work here, fellas. Don't know if it means anything but sure wish you'd guys would be back in town when I give report. Then, we could all go after the men who are doing this. The Magnificent Seven. JD chuckled as he remembered the words from Jock Steele's dime novel. Would the legend ever ride again? JD just couldn't be sure. So much had happened. Exhaustion soon overwhelmed his morose thoughts and JD fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Part 56

It was dusk when he rode into town, and the brown-grey shadows of the buildings stretched all the way across the street from one side to the other so that Ezra rode through them like a series of shallow ponds. He drew up, feeling almost numb, in front of the Clarion office when he saw Mary step out onto the walkway. Her door had been standing opened and she stood framed in it with the yellow lamplight from inside tumbling past her to spill onto the boardwalk. When she saw the look on his face, her hand went to her mouth.

"We all have to meet," said Ezra. "Go up to Nathan's. We have to get anyone who's not there already, and tell them to come. Where's Josiah?"

"With Nathan."

Ezra nodded. "JD?"

"Still at the Delano Mine."

Ezra closed his eyes. Damn. Of course. The boy couldn't possibly have made it back yet. Not until tomorrow. Dear God. He opened his eyes again. "Find Casey," he said. "Bring her, too." He legged his tired chestnut on, towards the livery.

Behind him, Mary grabbed the doorframe as she felt her legs try to give way. Stilling the questions fighting their way into her mind, she slipped inside to grab a thin shawl and put out the light. She was glad, suddenly, that she'd sent Billy to spend the night at Gloria's. Casey was there too at the moment, and she'd stop and pick the girl up to come with her. But . . . Mary paused and looked down the empty street towards the livery. Shivering suddenly, she shut the office door and hurried to Gloria's.

By the time Ezra climbed the steps to Nathan's room, Mary and Casey were there. He went inside and stood looking at the women and at Josiah and Nathan, the way they turned expectant and fearful eyes to his face, and thought: three men, one of them sick, one woman, a girl. He sighed and lifted his arm to deposit the bundle he carried on the bed over the top of Nathan's legs. He didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. Nathan threw a worried look at Ezra and reached slowly to the things he'd thrown down. Every eye in the room was on them, knowing and not wanting to know. Nathan pulled a big brown coat free, unrolling it as he did. Casey gasped. The one tangled with it tumbled loose at the same time: leather, with fringe. A big hole in the upper right-hand corner, and blood stains. Casey whirled to bury her face against Mary's breast, her arms crushing the woman as she grabbed her. Mary looked up at Ezra, then Nathan, then Josiah, and held Casey silently. They all sat a long moment, letting it sink in.

"Is this all you found?" It was Josiah. He had risen slowly and was reaching to the bed to finger the coats.

"That. And blood stains on the ground."

"Where?" This time it was Nathan.

Ezra swallowed. Their questions were helping his mind work again. It felt like it had been stuck since he'd found those things. "About--" He had to stop and clear his throat, and Josiah silently poured a glass of water and handed it to him. Ezra drank it gratefully, suddenly realizing just how thirsty he was. "About 6 miles southeast of the reservation," he said. "Close to each other, but not together." He pressed a tired hand against his face. "It looks like they were ambushed there, and taken prisoner. I don't know if they were both shot or--"

"NO!!!" It was Casey, wailing as she flung herself from Mary's bosom and whirled around to face Ezra. "Don't you say that! You don't know NOTHIN'!"

"Casey, honey--" Mary tried to calm the girl, but her eyes were wide with horror.

"NO!" She jerked away from Mary and threw herself at Ezra, flailing small fists at his chest. "Take it back!" she screamed, "take it back! They're fine! They're both fine! I never even got to THANK Buck for-" She collapsed, sobbing, to her knees, her face on her hands, and Ezra bent to put both his hands on her arms.

"They may both be fine, Casey," he said softly. "It may well look worse than it is."

The girl looked up at Ezra with a miserable face, and swallowed. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry, Ezra." He gathered her into his arms and raised her from the floor, then set her on the side of the bed.

"Quite all right," he said. "I'm experiencing much the same condition myself." He rubbed his eye with one hand and looked at the others. The room was darkening as night fell outside, and Josiah reached over to raise the wick on the lamp. It flared higher, and Mary silently folded Vin's coat over so that the blood on it was not visible.

"Start at the beginning," said Josiah.

Ezra nodded, and sighed. The beginning. He laughed softly to himself. Did anyone know when this nightmare had begun? He shook his head and licked his lips. "Vin never got to the reservation. Kojay made that very clear. But he said some of his men had heard shooting the day before, some distance to the southeast. They pointed out where, and Kojay insisted I check it out. He seemed to think Mr. Tanner's absence at their fete was significant."

"I agree." Mary's soft voice made Ezra look at the woman, and he nodded.

"I suppose, in hindsight. . ."

Nathan's mind was racing. Yesterday, they'd said. "What time was it they said they heard the shots?"

"Mornin'." Ezra sighed once more. "Anyway, I rode over there, and found Buck's coat. An' there was blood on the ground there, an' even I could see something had happened. I followed the trail to a sort of collection of rocks, and it was in there that I found Vin's coat."

"Were the coats just layin' there?" Nathan asked.

"Vin's was, yes. Rumpled. But Buck's was rolled up, almost folded. Neatly."

Josiah and Nathan exchanged quick glances. "If it was morning," said Josiah slowly, "then maybe Buck had slept there, used his coat as a pillow."

"That makes sense," said Nathan, "but why would he an' Vin have been together? They didn't leave town together."

Ezra shook his head. "They're together now," he said. "That much is clear." He threw a cautious look at Casey, and then continued. "And there seems reason to believe that at least one of them may be injured." The girl bit her lip, but this time she maintained her composure. Mary laid a proud hand on her shoulder, and Casey looked up sharply and smiled a wavery little smile at the woman. Everyone was silent a while, thinking.

"Could this have anything to do with Apex Mining?" Mary's voice was tentative. But she felt like someone needed to say it.

"We know someone poisoned Nathan," said Josiah. "We know someone tried to get Buck jailed. We suspect someone shot Vin. That's a lot of coincidence."

"But how . . . and why?" Mary's face had drawn into a puzzled frown.

"Maybe Vin found somethin' on his way out to the reservation," said Nathan.

"An' maybe Buck heard the trouble an' came to help," added Josiah.

"This is all speculation, gentlemen." Ezra stood up and began to pace nervously. "We need to stick to what we know."

"And what is that, Ezra?" Mary was not challenging him, he saw. She was asking him. "We can't prove anything. We can't point to anything certain. All we have are too many things happening to be just coincidence."

"That's what worries me all of a sudden," said Ezra. "I don't know why it took me so long to believe it."

"To believe what?" Nathan leaned forward from his pillows.

"This, all that's happening: it bears the earmarks of a well-laid and high-stakes con." Ezra ran his hand through his hair distractedly. "I might have seen it sooner if I hadn't been . . . "

"What earmarks do you mean?" Mary asked softly.

"Just what we're experiencing. Events that seem unrelated but that add up to accomplish some effect, to move people a certain direction -- usually against their will and in a way that feels confusing to them."

"That's sure how I feel lately." Josiah sighed.

"You might be right; I don' know," said Nathan slowly. "All I know is that it looks like Vin's been shot, an' that it was nearly two days ago. We need to find 'im. Right away. Whether there's somethin' else goin' on or not."

"Agreed," said Ezra softly.

"Ezra," Mary's voice was thoughtful. "You said a con moves people a certain direction. What direction would that be, here?"

"Dear God," said Nathan suddenly, softly, "Away from each other." He looked up and met Ezra's gaze. The others were silent, turning over what Nathan had said.

"I better get somethin' more solid than broth in me, if I'm gonna' ride tomorrow," said Nathan grimly.

"Nathan, you can't--" Mary started to correct him, but Josiah was shaking his head.

"We have to, Mary. No choice at this point." He looked at Nathan. "I'll get you what you need. Just tell me, when we're done here."

"But, you mean you're _all_ . . ." Mary felt like she was going to choke for a moment, but closed her eyes against it and recovered.

"They separated us for a reason," said Ezra. "That means we have to come back together if we are to stand a chance. What _they_ did tells us what _we_ must do, to fight them."

Mary nodded. It made sense. Still. She looked at Casey and saw that the girl was as scared as she was. She'd load the shotgun, she thought, and put Billy and Casey to sleep on pallets behind the heavy cast-iron press the nights the men were gone. It would be ok. They would be back soon, and things would be all right again.

"I'll ride out with you first thing," said Nathan. "I'll be ready."

"I'll go out to Delano's an' get JD. We should be able to join you not long after you get there," said Josiah.

Ezra stood up. "I'll go ask Yosemite to grain the horses extra tonight."

"I'll fix you some food to take with you," said Mary. "You come help me, Casey."

"Yes." The girl stood up, her hand in Mary's. She looked at Josiah. "Tell JD to hurry back safe," she said.

"I will." Josiah's eyes followed the two women out the door, and when it had shut behind them he looked once more at Ezra. "Casey missed what you said about blood stains on the ground in both places, but I didn't. What makes you think Buck an' Vin are alive?" he said.

"Their bodies weren't there," said Ezra. "We may find them a mile up the trail for all I know, but all I found was two coats. I have to hope that means something."

"Wish we knew where Chris was," said Nathan.

"Amen, Brother." Josiah stood up, too. "Tell me what food to get you."

Ezra went to the door as Nathan began to explain, and turned to look back at the two friends talking softly in the glow of the lamplight. He didn't have the heart to point out to them that Chris's absence was as mysterious and coincidental as the others'. Which meant he was snared in whatever plot there might be as deeply as Buck or Vin or any of them were.

Which meant they might find another body on the trail -- one they weren't expecting to find at all.

Part 57

Vin had been awake for some time, though it had taken a slow layering of awareness, minute by minute, before it had completely dawned on him that he was awake. The pain in his shoulder almost completely filled his brain, like a blue so dark it was almost black, and left only a tiny clear section at the very top where there was almost no space left at all, where he could think.

He'd been shot. By bounty hunters? That didn't seem quite right somehow but it was the only thing that made sense really. And they were in the mountains. The air alone told him that, cool and crisp. Buck would be having trouble with it--the mountain air--harder to get his breath and after he'd lost all that blood...Thinking of Buck snapped him up a little higher. Where was he? Straight ahead there was the man in buckskins, but Buck wasn't there and he'd been there before. Hadn't he? What had happened? Vin's heart beat a little faster. Don't panic. They won't kill him. But the truth was, Vin didn't know what 'they' would do. He didn't know who they were. They didn't act like bounty hunters.

His horse stumbled on a loose rock and the dark inky blue of the pain in his shoulder surged sharply and threatened to wash over everything and drown him. NO! He couldn't let go. He had to hang on. Though everything ached and he couldn't quite think and the pain just kept building, burning hotter and brighter and sharper with every single step and...Where was Buck? That was the thought he had to cling to. The one that made sense, sort of.

Where was Buck?

+ + + + + + +

Buck had spent the afternoon worrying at the ropes that bound his hands until his fingers were sore and his wrists were raw and bleeding. But he'd felt something start to loosen a bit and thought maybe one thick strand of the coarse rope had started to fray under his fingers. He straightened in the saddle and looked ahead at Sullivan and at Vin who seemed to have come around some time back. Good, Buck thought, that would make things easier when his opportunity came.

The trail they'd been on for the last hour suddenly broke out of the rocky pine forest into a long, narrow valley. Under other circumstances, Buck might have appreciated the combination of the fading late afternoon sky and lush summer grass and bright yellow wildflowers. But today it could have been the entrance to hell for all he cared. The trail itself led down the long slope into the valley and then back up and through the pines again between a set of low rounded mountains. Buck didn't even waste his time wondering where they were going; he'd wondered too long now and he no longer had the energy to spare.

+ + + + + + +

Sullivan stopped the horses near a small stand of pine trees. He dismounted and looped his horse's reins over a low hanging branch, then he looked back at the two men he'd been leading behind him for the last day and a half. Both of them looked like hell--the tracker was conscious, trying to sit up in the saddle, but not really having much luck. His face was tight from holding in all that pain and his eyes were dull and glazed. And the other--Sullivan looked at Buck who for once looked straight back at him, his eyes unreadable--his face was pale, there were dark, deep hollows under his eyes and he didn't look like he could stand up to much of anything if pushed. Sullivan observed the two of them with a sort of deep satisfaction. Or at least as close as Sullivan came to ever feeling satisfaction.

They were less than two miles from their destination and Sullivan knew that once they reached it everything would change. He would no longer be the one controlling these men's lives. He might not have any more contact with them. So, he decided to take one more opportunity.

'Can't kill them.' Striker's orders echoed in his head. 'No,' Sullivan thought. 'But I can make them wish they were dead.'

+ + + + + + +

Buck watched Sullivan approach Vin. 'Don't you touch him, you bastard,' he thought. 'Don't you touch him!' He could feel every muscle in his body strain, almost against his will. If he could have killed Sullivan with his thoughts alone, the man would be dead, lying flat on the ground.

Sullivan cut the ropes on Vin's legs and he had just reached up to cut the one that bound his hands to the saddle horn when he stopped suddenly as if an important thought had just occurred to him. He turned to Buck.

"You know," he said in a thoughtful voice. "I noticed a while back that you seem unhappy with the way I'm treating your friend." He walked back along the lead rope to Buck's horse, letting his knife blade flash in the late afternoon light. He reached out with a quick motion and cut the rope binding Buck's right leg to the saddle. He raised the knife, coming dangerously close to the wound in Buck's thigh, which Buck by now knew was on purpose. 'Push me a little more, you bastard,' Buck thought. 'Just go ahead and do it.'

Sullivan didn't even look at him, just walked around to the other side and cut Buck's other leg and his hands free from the saddle horn. Then, he just stood there, jam up against the stirrup so Buck wouldn't have any choice but to get off on the right side, putting all that pressure on his bad leg. He didn't do it, though. He nudged his horse a half-step to the right and he grabbed the saddle horn and swung himself down to the ground. Then, he stood toe to toe with Sullivan and ignored the white spots of pain from the wound in his leg.

+ + + + + + +

It had taken Vin a minute or two to figure out what was going on. They'd stopped moving. That was, as always, the important thing. And the man in buckskins had been near him, had cut the ropes on his legs by the feel of it. But,...he carefully flexed the muscles in his good arm, his hands were still tied to the saddle horn.

Where was Buck? He tried to look around without moving much and he saw that Buck was standing a few feet to his left, squared off with the man who'd been hauling them further and further into the mountains. There was a look on Buck's face that Vin knew meant trouble, meant he'd had enough and more than enough of everything that had been happening to them for the last two days and he was setting up to push back and damn the consequences. Vin could understand that feeling. If he had a little more room in his head outside the pain in his shoulder, he imagined he'd be feeling like that himself. But Buck wasn't up to his usual standards and Vin wasn't entirely sure that he realized it.

He nudged his horse gently in the left flank to get him to move sideways a bit. If either of the other two men noticed the movement neither one acknowledged it. Vin looked at them and felt the tension in the air like it was a live thing and tried to think of something he could do that would make a difference.

"Buck," he said. Just that one word. And he could see it, the unspooling of something black and nearly overpowering that had seemed to fill the air around the horses and the trees and the three men bent on something only one of them could name. Buck looked up and over at Vin and Vin could see the blankness there, the remote and deadly look of someone who was ready to try anything. But then, something changed and Vin wasn't quite sure what it was. It wasn't the look in Buck's eyes, still far-off and savage, but something else that made Buck shift a little bit and move away from Sullivan toward Vin. He looked up at the tracker with a message in his eyes that Vin couldn't quite read, but he decided he'd just do the best he could to be ready for anything. And he knew that the time was past where anything he could say would make a difference.

+ + + + + + +

The minute Sullivan had come near him, Buck had let the fury of the past few days wash over him and carry him along far beyond what his body should have been capable of doing. He knew, somewhere deep in the back of his mind that when it was done he would be done too, but it didn't matter. One way or another, this was his one chance and he knew it. It had almost been too much, though, he'd almost pushed too soon, and it had been Vin's voice that had recalled him to the particular moment, to the realization that he couldn't just let go, he had to get Vin out of this too.

So, he took a deep breath and he walked over to the tracker and after he was there he turned back to Sullivan. The man in buckskins looked from one man to the other, his eyes glittering with some kind of malevolent satisfaction. Then, he came over without a word and sliced the knot that tied Vin to the saddle. He stepped back and waited.

'Waiting for me to drop Vin on his face,' Buck thought. But that wasn't going to happen. Not right now. Even with that determination, though, and with Vin helping as much as he could, it staggered him to take Vin's weight. For a minute he thought it was all over then. Useless. Futile. Finished. But then, Vin was on the ground and, miraculously, standing. And Buck was breathing like he'd run all the way to the top of a mountain, but just a minute...he could get a minute, somehow. He pushed gently at Vin's horse so that Vin was just between him and Sullivan and he uncoiled the one loose cord of rope around his wrists. Vin nodded once to let him know he'd seen it.

Then, Sullivan was there, walking up between them and lifting his hand and this time Buck could see it coming, could see him reaching out to push Vin in the shoulder and in that single space of time as Sullivan turned just slightly away from him, Buck stepped back and in the same moment reached out with the loosened rope around his wrists and hooked it around Sullivan's neck and pulled.

+ + + + + + +

As Sullivan was jerked backward by the rope in Buck's hand, an exulting surge rushed through him, even as he was gasping for breath--this was what he'd been waiting for, his own hatred reflected back at him. One hand rose to grasp at the rope around his neck and he felt it give slightly even as Buck wrenched on it more desperately. Sullivan choked, his hand reached for his gun, but he couldn't bring it up and black spots were forming in front of his eyes. Damn! He slammed the revolver against Buck's wounded leg. Slammed it again and Buck went to his knees, his pull on the rope loosening almost involuntarily. Sullivan could hear Buck's breath coming in deep, harsh gasps and he wrenched himself around slipping free of the rope and turning to face Buck, his own breath sounding loud and strident in his ears. A smile began to form. He raised his revolver...and was knocked to the ground by a heavy weight slamming down on top of him, sending him face first into the hard ground and knocking loose his pistol so that it skittered away from him when it hit the ground.

Sullivan pushed and heaved and scrambled out from under Vin Tanner, who was lying face down and nearly motionless, but not yet unconscious, trying against all odds to push himself back up. Sullivan kicked him viciously in the chest. Vin groaned loudly and then lay still. Just as Sullivan was turning, though, Buck hit him as hard as he could in the back with both hands like a club and Sullivan dropped, but even as he hit the ground, he was rolling, scrabbling along for something, some weapon that he could use. His hands grasped a tree branch and he reached back and swung it with all his might, slamming Buck in his right leg, right in the center of his wound. Buck's leg collapsed out from under him and he fell with a cry, rolled a few feet down the slope and was out.

Sullivan stood and looked at both men for several minutes, breathing hard. Then, he went and retrieved his pistol. He lifted it and pointed it at Buck Wilmington's head, cocking back the trigger as he did so. He could, if he wanted to, kill both of them now and light out for the north country. He had the power completely in his hands. Odds were good that Striker would never come after him. Why bother? Everything was his. Right in this moment.

Sullivan looked down at the current object of his hate, lying defenseless on the grassy slope and he knew that he _could_ do it, without pity and without remorse. But...he holstered his gun and went back to the horses, preparing to throw the two men over them and haul them the rest of the way. He wasn't ready for this to be over yet. It would be better, he figured, if they lived. It would be so much better for them to wake up still trapped, with the bitter taste of failure in their throats.

And for Sullivan to be there to see it.

Part 58

"Come in, Sullivan."

Sullivan stood in the doorway to the library and regarded the man across the room with a fixed and emotionless gaze. The light from a chandelier glowed brightly on cherry-wood paneling and floor-to-ceiling bookcases that were filled with first editions and manuscripts from dim and distant places. The big man standing at the sideboard smiled to himself, faintly amused, wondering if this rough-hewn savage had any appreciation for a thing such as his library was, or for the Greek and Roman antiquities arranged here and there on side tables and the desk. He poured a cut-glass snifter of brandy and turned to eye the filthy man with a shade of the pleasant expression still on his face, then gestured pointedly towards a heavy chair with his drink. His manicured smile faded. "I said 'come in.'"

Sullivan crossed the room silently, the sound of his heavy boots swallowed by the thick rug on the floor, and he stood just behind the chair that had been indicated to him, one hand resting on its red velvet back.

"Sit," said the man with the brandy. He was strolling lightly across the room on the balls of his feet, his eyes dangerously intense. They were nearly colorless and looked almost amber in the lamplight. Sullivan trailed his gaze from the man's diamond stick-pin to his silk trousers, and scowled contemptuously. Smooth skin, pink with vitality, gleaming nails, soft hands. Every time he saw Sterling Michaels, he found himself wondering all over again how he'd managed to claw out a mining empire in silver. It was inconceivable to him, to imagine the man having anything to do with rocks or picks or dynamite. He scowled and fixed his stance more firmly.

"I been sittin' most a' two days an' a night," he said. "I'll stand, if it's all the same to you."

Michaels drew up short several feet away, his face drawing closed. He was a powerful man -- in physique and personality, both -- and not used to being crossed. That someone so filthy and rough-hewn as Sullivan would think to do it in his own house . . . He raised the snifter to his lips and sipped from it thoughtfully, his eyes on the man in buckskin. Then he sighed heavily as if it required great patience on his part to give in on a thing of such importance, and rubbed the finger of one hand across the bridge of his nose. He sat down in a chair that matched the one Sullivan was now leaning against, and crossed his legs casually, then eyed the dark man with a flash of scorn.

"So," he said, swirling the brandy in the snifter, "Report."

Sullivan's face darkened a fraction at the shortness of the demand, but he locked his eyes with those of the almighty Sterling Michaels, and began.

"We had to go to the backup plan," he said sullenly. "I brought Tanner an' Wilmington in just now. Thompson went after Striker an' Larabee."

Michaels was silent a long moment after this information had been laid out, and he sipped at the brandy and then stared into space a moment. He rubbed a thumb along the carved wood at the front of his chair arm, and then looked up at Sullivan slowly and with menace.

"Whose fault was it?" he said softly.

Sullivan flushed deeply and then frowned. "Theirs. Tanner's mostly." He started to gesture, but Michaels cut him off.

"Facts, Sullivan. Let us be concise." He set the brandy snifter down on the carved mahogany side table next to him, then raised one hand to touch its forefinger with that of his other hand. "Sanchez," he said.

"Belle did what she was supposed to," growled Sullivan. "Last I saw of him, he was so dark-drunk he'd kill you as soon as look at you."

"And did he attack Wilmington?"

Sullivan nodded. "An' Wilmington took out mad, yes. Only--"

Michaels held up his hand, palm out. "I am in charge of this. Just answer the questions, please." He steepled his fingers together and eyed the veiled fury that raced across Sullivan's dark features. "I take it Tanner did not go to the reservation as he'd planned to."

Sullivan shook his head angrily, his eyes defiant as he pushed Michaels' own rules of this "report" in his face. Ask away, he thought. Go ahead. Michaels saw the insolence, and stood up. He turned suddenly on his heel and walked over to the heavy desk and laid his fingers upon the globe sitting there. "Why didn't he go there?" he asked.

"Thompson said Tanner went to bring Wilmington back to town."

"I see. But you had gone after Wilmington, so when Thompson apprised you of this . . ."

"I'd already shot 'im," said Sullivan shortly. "Like we planned. I took care of it, left stuff around. Tanner tracked him an' found it, though, and then found him -- or Wilmington woulda' hit that reservation like a bat outta' hell anyway, whether he found Tanner's body on the trail or not."

"So why," said Michaels slowly, "did you not kill Tanner anyway and let Wilmington do just that?" He looked at Sullivan almost benevolently. "That _was_ the idea," he said, "to make sure the whole thing was entirely self-contained."

"Wilmington pulled the damned arrow out of himself," said Sullivan. His face was growing even harder as Michaels pushed him. "Lost so much blood I wasn't sure he'd make it to the reservation. Thompson an' I watched how things developed, and--"

"I see." Michaels turned the globe slowly on its axis and studied the moving patterns on it. "I see," he said again. He sighed and looked at Sullivan. "And Thompson?"

"Went to get Striker."

"You left town early, so you know the status of none of the other plans."

"Right."

"And is Wilmington still alive?"

"Yes. Tanner, too, although he may not be that way for long."

Michaels frowned. "That they remain alive was a very clear part of your instructions in the event we used the back-up plan," he said in a low voice. "So explain this to me, how it is that Tanner is apparently not all that alive."

"They're good at what they do," said Sullivan shortly. "It was that or kill them, or die ourselves. They don't just--"

"Very well." Michaels waved his hand at Sullivan and shifted his weight in some indefinable way that indicated the interview was at an end. Sullivan felt a low fury course through his veins at it, and he shook his head.

"Why is that such an all-fired big deal to you, Michaels?" he said, "that they're alive? Why not just kill 'em?"

Michaels vibrated at the challenge, and his eyes grew dark as he advanced towards Sullivan slowly. The nerve of this man, to question him! He looked the man in buckskins up and down as if he'd detected a sudden odor emanating from him, and then his eyes narrowed and he spoke slowly, carefully enunciating each word, his gaze boring into Sullivan's like a diamond-bit drill.

"You _never_ know when you can use a man to serve your purposes," he said, "and once you kill him, the chances of using him drop to zero. I never -- NEVER -- kill a man until I know for a fact there is nothing else he can do for me. One way or another." He stood there, his eyes still locked on Sullivan's, and the dark man felt himself grow cold under it.

Sullivan turned suddenly, breaking eye contact, and headed for the door. Just as he got to it, Michaels' voice called him back. He turned to see that the man was running his fingers along the velvet of the chair Sullivan had been leaning against. He looked up at Sullivan and smiled pleasantly. "Tell the kitchen help to take food down to them tomorrow. And _you_ take some water down there tonight and leave it, so they _stay_ alive. And useful."

Sullivan flushed, furious, and vanished from the doorway.

Michaels stood looking at the space he'd occupied, then looked down at the dirt the man had tracked in on the carpet, and then he laughed softly to himself and went to pour another brandy. The man didn't even know enough to wipe his feet off before he came into a fine house, and he thought he could best Sterling Michaels! Michaels sniffed the brandy's aroma and studied the map of his enterprise that hung framed behind his desk. Always a back-up plan, he thought, always. That was how he'd come so far, and succeeded so often. Men don't always do what you think they will -- even if you've had them watched for months and learned everything about them -- they still surprise you. Ripping out arrows so they bleed too much. Riding after a wanted man instead of going to an important ceremony. But he'd had a back-up plan in place, like always, and it was well-orchestrated. Now it was playing out despite the wrinkles, and soon it would reach its climax.

It was going to be wonderful.

Part 59

His two hands were in two different places. Buck flexed his fingers, aware of that one thing before anything else sank in. For at least a long day and a long night, plus most of a day before that, his arms had been drawn together across his torso and his wrists had been pinned tightly in a way that was almost suffocating, somehow, if he let himself think about it. So he hadn't thought about it. He'd just made do trying to give Vin water and--

God. Vin. Buck sat up slowly. The last thing he could remember of Vin was a flash of seeing Sullivan kick the shit out of him for his part in the near-escape. After that . . . Damn. No wonder his leg felt like hell, thought Buck. But he had no idea where Vin was now, or even where he was. Wherever it was, it was pretty dark. He looked up as hollow footsteps sounded overhead, and shivered. Probably a cellar somewhere, he realized, and from the feel of it not a real big one. He moved his good leg tentatively, and found his feet weren't tied either. Buck sat still a moment, feeling the floor around him with his hands, palms out flat and fingers spread, trying to get a clearer idea of where he was. Damp, hard earth, cold to the touch. It was irregular, a little bumpy here and there where harder areas had resisted the shovels that dug out the space. There was a thick timber column a few feet from where he'd been laying, and beyond that . . . Buck froze as his exploring hands encountered the sole of a boot.

"Vin?" Buck's voice was hoarse and low, and it seemed to him that the damp darkness swallowed it completely. There was no answer. The tall man scooted carefully closer to Vin, wincing as the movement pulled at the wound in his leg, and felt around again until he found a hand laying on the floor, palm-up and fingers half-curled. The skin was warm, too warm in fact, but at least it wasn't cold -- and Buck heard himself exhale the breath he'd been holding. OK, he thought, OK. Nothin's been done yet that can't be undone. He sat in the darkness thinking a moment.

They were in a cellar. People stored stuff in a cellar, and had to come down in there to get that stuff. Slowly and carefully he stood up and ran his hands cautiously up the wooden column he'd found, until he found where it joined a beam that ran overhead. Buck leaned on the timber for support and ran his hands along the beam, then smiled when he encountered what he'd thought had to be there: an oil lamp hanging from a hook in the beam. He shook it slightly, and heard the liquid slosh heavily in the base of it, and wondered if these folks stashed their matches where most . . . yep. Buck's fingers found the small sticks laying in a little scraped-out area atop the beam, right where he'd have put them himself. The tiny flare of the match flame became the warm glow of the lantern in only another moment, and Buck replaced the chimney on it and shook the match out as he turned around to get a good look at his surroundings.

The last few steps of a rickety staircase dropped down out of the darkness a few feet away, and piles and crates of things lay stacked all along the walls and on the floor. Vin was lying partially on his right side with his head near one of the larger crates, and Buck limped heavily the two steps to get back to him, hissing as a flash of hot pain ran through his leg when he put weight on it. He dropped to the floor next to the tracker with a groan, then lay a hand on the younger man's left shoulder to gently push it back and downward, rolling Vin flat onto his back so that there wasn't any pressure on the wound. He pulled back the edge of the wounded man's shirt, then, to examine the injury, and shook his head when he saw it. The whole area was more swollen, and the fluid draining from the wound had gotten much thicker. It looked almost yellow against the angry flush of the skin around it. Buck slid the fabric back in place as Vin moaned softly and moved his left hand in a low, weak arc as though to wave something away. Buck caught it and held it a moment before laying it back on the floor. He studied the tracker's flushed face as he did, and realized Vin was coming around now that he was laying flat.

"Easy," he whispered. Vin rolled his head slightly, and moaned again, and Buck lay a calming hand on the center of his friend's chest. "Easy, Pard," he repeated.

"Ah." Vin opened his eyes, and looked at Buck. "Buck," he breathed.

"Yeah." Buck sat back and took his hand off Vin's chest, knowing he wouldn't move suddenly now that he was fully awake. "We seem to be there -- wherever 'there' is," he said. He looked around the room as he spoke, and the lamplight threw long black shadows across the planes of his face and darkened the deep hollows beneath his eyes. Vin shuddered, and Buck looked back down at him. "You cold?"

"No." Vin had closed his eyes again, and Buck sighed.

"Well, I am." He leaned back against the crate behind him and rubbed a tired hand across his face. Vin opened his eyes and looked at Buck very quietly.

"You're pale, Bucklin," he said weakly, "Need t' lay down. Or you'll . . . pass out."

"Naw." Buck tried to grin at the tracker, but he knew it only ended up looking ghastly; he could feel it. He gave up trying and looked away uncomfortably. "I'm ok," he said.

This time it was Vin that sighed. "Don't make me force you," he whispered calmly.

Buck looked at Vin in surprise, then burst out in a soft, astonished laugh. The tracker smiled weakly. "Well shit," said Buck, "now you've gone an' threatened me, a poor wounded gunslinger! Ain't you ashamed?" He looked around the room with a smile pulling at his lips, and muttered again under his breath, "...make me FORCE you..."

"Buck." The taller man looked down again as Vin started to speak, but then grimaced and shifted around as a spasm of pain from his shoulder caught him suddenly. Buck lay a steadying hand on his friend's chest again in a place where it wouldn't hurt him, and just sat with him while he rode it out. After a moment Vin relaxed and opened his eyes to look at Buck. "You gotta' get outta' here," he said softly. His voice was noticeably weaker, and he'd paled. Buck nodded grimly.

"We will, just as soon as--"

"No." Vin's voice suddenly had a desperate quality to it. "I can't make it, that ride back. But you can."

"I ain't leavin' you here, Vin." Buck pressed his lips tightly together and almost felt angry. Was that the kind of man Vin thought he was?

"Stubborn jack-ass," said Vin softly. Buck smiled and snorted.

"Takes one to know one," he said. He rubbed his hand through his hair, then, and realized it was shaking. He closed his eyes, suddenly tired beyond it making any sense, and just at that moment there was a heavy sound from the darkness above, but very close. It was an unbarring and unlocking sound, and then an opening of a door. A pool of brighter light than that from the oil lamp tumbled down the steps and then spread across the cellar floor as boots appeared and then legs and then a man.

Sullivan.

Buck felt the room tip unnervingly. Sullivan. Again. Still.

The dark man had a big lantern in one hand, and a pail of water with a dipper in it in the other. He set the pail down with a thump that splashed water over the side, and shoved it towards Buck with his foot, his eyes locked on the gunman's face. Buck felt himself starting to rise. He wasn't bound this time. His hands were free. Let's just see, he was thinking, let's just see what you're made of when--

He drew up short, suddenly, as a look of cruel joy race barefaced across Sullivan's hard features. Buck clenched his hands into tight fists and eased himself back to the floor. Sullivan's eyes shot sparks then, and he cocked his head at Buck with insolence.

"What's the matter?" He took a single step closer and licked his lips. "I thought maybe you'd wanna' get in a lick or two at me again, now you're not tied up."

Buck sat quietly, but refused to break eye contact with their captor. He knew the moment he did, the man's gaze would drop to Vin. And Vin couldn't take that right now. Sullivan stood there a very long moment, then he frowned. "Water," he said shortly, his face growing harder. "My choice would be to just lock that door up there an' not come down again for a week or two." He looked around the room then, casually, and almost seemed to smile when his gaze fell on Vin. Buck sat perfectly still. Sullivan looked at him to see what he would do, then he leaned against the stair railing behind him. "You know," he said, "I think Tanner looks feverish."

Buck bit the inside of his cheek and remained silent.

Sullivan stood up straight suddenly and turned to go back up the stairs. He stopped three steps up and turned back to Buck as if he'd been struck by a sudden, brilliant thought. "Hey, I know what to do." He locked eyes with Buck a final time, and his voice slid into a tone of mock cheerfulness. "If he ain't better in a few days, I'll come down here and fix him up. You know. Cut the bullet out for him." He looked at Vin and raised his voice. "Wouldn't you like that, Tanner? Get that slug out? I bet so." He looked at Buck again and almost smiled. "It's gotta' hurt you know," he explained. "Gettin' it out would help a whole lot." He turned then, suddenly, and went lightly up the stairs.

The two men sat in the sudden silence left behind by the slamming and barring of the door, and then Vin chuckled softly. Buck looked at the tracker and shook his head.

"You have got a weird sense of humor," he observed.

"Not so much," said Vin, "just thinkin' how surprised he's gonna' be if he tries that."

"Because?"

Vin turned his head very slightly to look at Buck, and his eyes grew suddenly hard. "Because I ain't tied up no more," he rasped, "an' the first time that man comes in reach a' me again, I'm gonna' fuckin' kill 'im."

"Only if I don't beat you to it," said Buck. He looked up the stairs and thought about Sullivan being out there, just the other side of the door, and he knew he could bide his time. He looked down at Vin, then, and saw that the flush had crept back into the man's face, along with a renewed sheen of sweat that glistened in the lamplight. The younger man suddenly shivered and then went limp without making a sound, and Buck put out a tentative hand to lay several fingers on the side of Vin's face. Suddenly Buck shivered himself as it hit him, and as he wondered why it really hadn't until now, that he couldn't bide his time after all.

Because Vin was running out of it.

Part 60

The night air was almost damp with coolness after the heat of the August day. Josiah lowered the stirrup fender over the leather and ran a slow hand down his horse's neck under the mane, patting it gently. He sighed heavily then, took up the reins, and led the animal from the dark livery into the empty street. The heavy sound of its hooves on the hard-baked ground thumped in a rhythm that was almost comforting.

Comfort. Now there was something in short supply. The preacher shook his head silently to himself as he looped the reins over one arm and turned around to slide the livery doors shut behind him. Then he lifted the reins over the gelding's head and grabbed the pommel and swung into the saddle in a single quiet move that made the horse back a step. Josiah settled more deeply into the saddle and legged the animal forward. Comfort, he thought, was something he sure hadn't given to anyone around him lately either.

Take the horse. Yosemite wasn't a man to mince words, and he'd made no bones about the fact that if Tanner hadn't taken it on himself to care about the abandoned horse and brought Josiah's old friend to the livery from the saloon - -- hadn't rubbed it down and walked it out that day, after Josiah had run it hard all the way back from Belle's -- that Josiah wouldn't have had a horse any more. The old man had been downright mad about it, in fact. Good animal, he'd said, don't deserve to be treated that way just 'cause a man is upset. No excuse for it.

And the hell of it was, he was right. Josiah felt the deep, old ache of guilt in his gut, and looked up at the moon. It was just a sliver in the early sky, wasting away towards the dark of a new moon and rising later -- closer to sunrise -- each day. Not even enough light now to cast a shadow or light the trail, it hung in the sky like a punctured sack, drained of light and hope and usefulness.

Buck, he thought suddenly, hadn't deserved to be treated that way because he was upset, either. No excuse for it. He legged the chestnut into a jog and pulled his hat down harder on his head and stopped looking at the damned moon and thought about the task at hand. He needed to get to Delano's before JD left, so he wouldn't waste any of his horse's energy on a ride back to town that was without meaning now. There was somewhere else to go instead. The kid just didn't know it. He'd thought, when he left, he'd be coming back home.

Coming back home. The thought turned slowly in Josiah's head as the smaller stars, the ones that were like shimmers of dust motes in the church when the sunlight streamed in the old windows, began to fade into the darkness of the sky. When had he started thinking of that town as home? Of that old church as home? He'd sworn off even the notion of something like that a long time ago. At least, he'd thought he had. No, he shook his head, he _had_. It had given him the power to be free, to grab things that tried to choke him or beat him down, and to throw them aside so he could go on past them, stride right on out into a place where NOBODY could do that. Not ever again.

And when he'd thought Buck had acted the way the others had acted and had cuckolded him and blindsided him and shoved him out of the way like he didn't even exist, he'd made sure Buck knew he existed, by God. Josiah groaned. Oh God, he thought, oh God. What had he done? How could he not have seen that this wasn't the same? How could he have let what happened bring the past rushing back like a flash flood to sweep him away as if the present had never existed at all? Was he never to be free of it? Never to climb finally to high ground? Never to stop hurting the people who had the misfortune to be within his reach when it happened yet again? And again?

Josiah bent his head and grabbed the big, flat horn of his Mexican saddle and felt like his heart was being torn out through his chest wall. What he had said to Buck! He'd known even as the words came out of his mouth that they were the deadliest weapons he'd ever turned on anyone, ever, in his life. And he'd seen them hit home. He'd seen the look on Buck's face, felt the sting of their landing in the way the man had moved in his grip, and -- God help him -- rejoiced in knowing he'd hit his mark so hard and so well. It had felt good then, felt strong. As if he'd hit everyone and everything that had ever hurt him.

But _they_ had never been hit at all. Ever. They had gotten away scott-free, leaving only Josiah's friends within reach of his blows -- to bear them in their stead.

+ + + + + + +

Buck had been sleeping when something woke him up. He lay in the shadowy light of the oil lamp and wondered what it had been, and had almost fallen back into exhausted oblivion when he heard it again. It was Vin's voice, very soft. "No," he said.

"Vin?" Buck propped himself up on one elbow and tried to blink the too-heavy sleep out of his eyes enough to see.

"Don't," breathed Vin. He moaned softly, but it was a sharp sound, and then he shifted around against the dirt floor. Buck shook his head, trying to pull himself out of the morass of bone-numbing fatigue that wouldn't seem to let him wake up, and reached out to put his hand on Vin's good arm. He was thinking, somewhere in a hazy part of his mind, that he'd shake it lightly to rouse Vin from whatever dream he was having so he'd go back into a better sleep. But the intensity of the heat he encountered beneath his fingers when he grabbed the other man's arm brought Buck up and awake in an instant. He looked at Vin with eyes that were suddenly clear, and saw the tracker writhe again very slightly, pushing against the ground beneath him as if he could get away from the unrelenting pain that had dogged him for two days and nights now. Even as he did, Vin moved his head against the floor and sighed, and said again, "No."

Buck felt a shock of panic start to run through him, but brought himself up short and reached for the dipper instead. He ladled out some water, and then raised Vin's head slightly on one arm as he held the water to his mouth. "Drink some a' this, Vin," he said.

The tracker rolled his head against Buck's arm, and moaned. Buck pressed the edge of the dipper against Vin's lips, trying to gently pry them apart so he could pour the water in somehow, to lower the fever. Vin moved again, and the water spilled and trickled down the side of his face and then his neck. Buck cursed softly, and stretched over to refill the ladle while still supporting Vin's head. He brought the dipper back and tried again, and this time he got a little of the water in. Vin swallowed it, and then his eyes opened very slightly. He regarded Buck dully for a long moment, then closed his eyes again as the tall man pressed a little more of the water in the dipper on him and he passively took it.

Buck lowered Vin's head gently to the floor, then, and laid a large hand on the side of the injured man's face to gauge the fever. Vin's eyes opened a fraction when he did, and the uncomprehending dullness of his gaze sent another shaft of fear through Buck's fatigued mind. "Hey," he said, "how ya' doin', Buddy?"

Somewhere in Buck's mind, he expected Vin to weakly smile in some sort of wry way and make a dry comment about how did Buck think he was doing, laying on a cellar floor with a slug in his shoulder. But the tracker just blinked slowly, the light not even reflecting off the darkness beneath his eyelids, and he rolled his head very slightly to one side and whispered soft, broken fragments of sound that ended in a deep sigh.

Buck felt fear well up in his gut again, but shook it away. He just had to get the fever down some, he thought. Just get the fever down and it would be ok; he'd be all right. He knew how to do it, too. Knew just what would work, yes. He opened Vin's shirt quickly and then pulled his own enormous bandanna over his head with shaking fingers, poured a dipperful of water onto the cloth, and began to sponge off Vin's face and neck, his chest and shoulders. After a few moments, the tracker shivered heavily and Buck hesitated for a long moment when he saw it, wondering now whether he was doing the right thing or not. He touched his hand against the man's bare skin to see if he'd messed up or gone too far, but what he felt still was heat -- dark somehow, even sullen. As he wondered what to do, Vin moaned again and shifted uncomfortably against the floor and his breathing suddenly grew more shallow and rapid. Buck closed his eyes and decided to keep trying to sponge the fever down, whether it made Vin shiver or not. He had to do something; he couldn't just sit there and watch it get worse.

He rewet the bandanna and began to wipe the sick man's face and chest again. If only there was some air moving down here, Buck thought, or if there was a window he could open . . . his thoughts trailed off as he redoubled his efforts, feeling the heat from Vin's skin coming right through the wet bandanna and into his own fingers now. Then somehow he ran his hand too close to the wound itself as he tried to sponge off the injured man's chest, and Vin cried out suddenly and jerked away from Buck's touch with a gasp of agony. The gunman dropped the cloth like he'd been shot, and leaned back against the wooden column behind him and felt just plain sick. Of all the things to have done, he thought. After all this. He had to pull himself together, though, had to reach out again, to restrain Vin so he didn't hurt himself as he thrashed about in the spasm of pain he'd ignited by moving so suddenly. In the process, somehow Vin's flailing hand hit the wound in Buck's leg, and the gunslinger saw stars and thought he was going to laugh and cry at the same time. It was impossible, he thought. The whole thing. It was just impossible and ridiculous and obscene.

He laid Vin gently back down on the ground as he quieted, and picked up the bandanna again in a shaking hand. He hoped his leg wasn't bleeding again, but he wasn't even going to look. It wasn't like it would kill him at this point if it was, anyway, he thought, and there wasn't anything he could do about it if it did.

+ + + + + + +

Three flights up, Sterling Michaels was dreaming. "No," he said softly, and then, "Don't." The breath-takingly beautiful woman in his dream obliged him by not leaving, but by coming back instead to wrap her arms around his shoulders. A sound woke Michaels up, suddenly, and he lay in the bed feeling cross and wondering what it had been. He'd almost drifted off again when he heard it once more -- the clatter of the shift bell down at the mine. Damn! He sat up in bed and rubbed a large hand across his face. Either he needed to take that idiotic bell away from them, he thought, or make them adjust their shifts so they didn't start the morning one in the middle of the damned night. Suddenly he laughed softly and rubbed his cheeks in chagrin.

"Aw hell," he said aloud to himself as he swung his legs off the bed, "the day I start worrying about the shifts is the day I get too soft to run this place any more; I'm just pissed I didn't get to finish that dream." He grinned, thinking about it, and found himself wondering how much longer it would be before Belle came back. Maybe he ought to send for Conchita again, he thought, have himself a little reward for all the hard work he did.

He stood up with the soft warm anticipation of pleasure running through his belly, then grinned when he saw that little Pedro at least had done well this morning -- had brought up his morning tray without waking him. Its silver gleamed richly from the inlaid mahogany table that stood beneath the east window, and the low light of the lamp he lit danced off the heavy silver coffee service on it that was nearly 200 years old and from Ireland. The sight of it always made him feel proud, knowing he was part of that and that it was part of him. Sterling, he thought, rolling his own name around as he poured a thin stream of the steaming black liquid into a bone-white china cup. How perfect that his father had chosen that name among all others, had lifted him to aristocracy and blessed his future with it, created the man he would become. Michaels lifted the cup of coffee to his lips and sipped it slowly, savoring the heavy blend he had made especially for him, relishing the powerful taste of antique silver that was laced around the edges of it somehow. A loud crash from the mine yard outside as someone dropped a piece of equipment made Michaels' hand jerk, and a tiny bit of the coffee spilled and ran down his chin and then his neck, burning him slightly. He cursed and jumped up to grab a napkin from the silver tray and dabbed angrily at it, then set down the cup and walked to the window to look outside.

The waning moon had cleared the mountains to the east, and it hung like the edge of a thumbnail in a sky already being scrubbed of stars by the distant sun. It wouldn't be light yet for over an hour, but Michaels frowned seeing its approach; he hated summer and the heat, even in these mountains. As it was, the lingering staleness of the previous day had combined with the heat of his dream to make him awaken uncomfortably warm. With a sudden gesture of decision, Michaels undressed quickly and poured water in a deep rushing plunge out of the big pitcher on his dressing table, into the washbasin. He splashed it liberally on his bare chest and neck, and along his arms and face. The cool water was invigorating, although he was still too warm when he finished washing. Striding to the French doors on the other side of the room, he threw them opened to admit the night-breeze onto his wet skin, proud of the brilliance of the way he'd laid out the house so he could do that. He shivered as the dark wind flittered in across him, and smiled in relief.

Turning back into the room to dress, he stumbled against the leg of a massive plush velvet chair that the maid must have moved out of its proper place, and barked his shin so badly that he had to sit down on the offending piece of furniture a moment to get his breath back. For several long moments he sat bent over with his hands to his leg, thinking he might even have broken it, but slowly the pain subsided and he studied it closely, to see that there was only a slight bruise and that it was apparently going to be all right, although no doubt sore. He stood up and tested it carefully, then went on to the matter of dressing and beginning the day. He was going to have to speak to the maid, though, he reminded himself. A man could get himself killed tripping over furniture that people moved around carelessly like that.

+ + + + + + +

Three floors down, Buck laid the wet bandanna carefully over the nearest crate so he could use it again later, and laid back down, exhausted, to see if he could get a little more sleep. Vin's fever had finally gone down and the tracker was resting more easily. Buck laid down, himself, and let the darkness of the deep fatigue he couldn't seem to shake any more pull him back into oblivion.

+ + + + + + +

Josiah pulled his coat closer around him and shivered, settling in for the long haul. It was a very long ride to the Delano Mine. And the journey was going to be a dark one.

Part 61

Mary gave up on trying to get any sleep. She'd been lying awake for quite awhile. She could hear the even breathing of Casey and Billy and was jealous she couldn't rest as peacefully. She just couldn't get her mind to shut down long enough to get some rest.

Chris! Where are you? Your best friends are in trouble and need you. If Chris had found them, he would have either headed to the reservation or nearest town and he would have gotten word to them. But that was just it. The men had at least some clue about Buck and Vin but nothing about Chris.

It had been two days. If Chris had left to look for Buck or Vin and had found no sign of them, he'd check back--right? He'd wire and ask if they'd returned or come back to Four Corners himself. Mary half-convinced herself that she'd see Chris today. Not that he wouldn't ride right back out but he'd be here for a short time and that's all Mary wanted at this point. She just wanted to be reassured that he would be back and a brief glimpse of him would convince her. Although, she thought dryly, a hug would be a lot more effective. Mary sighed - that wasn't going to happen. She really should stop throwing herself at the man. Right girl, like you even do that. Mary softly chuckled, maybe that was exactly what she should start doing. Right now, she'd settle for just seeing him.

Mary decided to get out of bed. If she wasn't going to sleep, she could at least make herself useful. She pulled a dress from the wardrobe and went out to the kitchen. She put on a pot of coffee and quickly freshened up. She pulled the ingredients for biscuits and started to prepare them having long memorized the recipe. As soon as the biscuits were in the oven, Mary started preparing bread. Then, cookies. Yes, she was turning into a veritable baker. Mary started organizing the food into packets to be packed for the men. A light rap on the back door interrupted her.

"Mary, it's Ezra Standish."

Mary cautiously opened the door and when she verified it was the gambler she opened the door wider.

"Are you alright, my dear?" he queried quietly.

Mary smiled slightly. "Except for not being able to sleep, I'm fine. I just started getting food together for your trip."

Ezra looked over at the kitchen table and all the food laid out. "Are you packing for an army?"

Mary shook her head slightly and turned back to the kitchen. "No, just seven men," she said under her breath.

If Ezra heard her, he chose not to comment. "Mary, I have to admit to a little concern leaving you and the others in town without one of us present."

"I was thinking maybe Chris would come back today," Mary said hopefully. "It's been two days. If he left to look for Buck or Vin and he hasn't find any sign of them, don't you think he would come back here?" Oh, if that didn't sound pathetic, Mary.

Ezra seemed to take a moment to find his words. "You could very well be correct. But I think it's prudent to prepare just in case. I've wired Eagle Bend and they will be sending a deputy to assist in law enforcement."

Mary ducked her head trying to prevent the tears that were just a dash away from falling. She had really hoped he would agree with her and tell her Chris would be back. "When is the deputy expected?" Mary asked quietly, knowing she wasn't able to keep the dejection out of her voice.

"Later this afternoon. In the meantime, I would like to check your weapons."

Mary nodded like this was a common request and went to the front office, returning with a rifle and revolver. She went to the back bedroom and returned with another rifle and two more pistols. She then walked away again, returning with three more pistols. Ezra frowned at the arsenal on the table.

Mary looked at the display sheepishly. "I want flowers or candy or perfume. He leaves town," she inclined her head at the table, "he gives me another gun."

Mary walked out of the kitchen again, returning with a wooden box. Inside, neatly arranged were oil, lintless patches, slotted tips for the patches, wire brushes, and several polishing cloths. She took a wistful breath, "I want flowers or candy or perfume," Mary presented the box to Ezra, "he gives me gun cleaning supplies."

Ezra couldn't stop himself from chuckling if he tried. Mary rolled her eyes and sighed, "have at it."

Mary returned to making sandwiches while Ezra started cleaning the guns. They really didn't have a lot in common except their mutual friends and chose not to broach that topic.

"Mama," Billy called out as he came into the kitchen. The little boy wiped his sleepy eyes and shielded them from the lamplight.

"Right here, Billy. What are you doing up, honey?"

"I heard voices."

"It's just Mr. Standish. He's checking our guns before he leaves on his trip."

Billy walked around the table and pulled on his mother's skirt, "Chris does that, not him," Billy whispered.

Ezra paused in cleaning the guns, having heard the boy. He might have whispered but he definitely wanted the gambler to know who was responsible for the guns in this household. Mary glanced over at Ezra and took a shuddering breath in. She knelt at the boy's level. "Chris is gone so he wanted Ezra to do this for him."

"Like walking me to work?" Billy asked tentatively.

Mary smiled, "exactly."

"Then I guess it's okay."

"Yes, I really think it is." Mary patted her son on the head. "Honey, you know it's really early yet. Do you think you can sleep?"

Billy shook his head.

"That's okay. Sit up to the table and I'll get you a drink."

"Can I have a biscuit too?"

Mary smiled, "sure you can."

Mary split several biscuits and spread butter and strawberry preserves on them. She poured a cup of milk for Billy and coffee for Ezra and placed them on the table.

Mary left them alone to their snack and went out to her back shed to retrieve a saddlebag she had out there. When she returned, Casey was up also.

"I couldn't sleep either."

Mary smiled thinking well, we can all take a nap this afternoon. Ezra had finished with the gun cleaning and Mary took the guns returning them to their places.

"Yosemite is preparing the horses and bringing them here. I'm going to get Nathan," Ezra walked across the kitchen to leave.

Mary followed him, wanting a word in private. "Do you think Nathan is strong enough for this trip?"

Ezra looked doubtful but of course, attempted to reassure Mary. "He's keeping solid food down with no problem. He's weak but seems otherwise okay. We'll take rest stops but I don't think we can afford not to have him with us."

Mary knew he was right and couldn't see pressing Ezra on an issue he couldn't change if he wanted to.

+ + + + + + +

Hallelujah, he was gone, Nathan thought. Damn, who knew Ezra could be such a nag.

If it wasn't for making rounds, Nathan was quite sure he would kill Ezra. At least, inflict some serious bodily injury. He had taken to hovering - drink Nathan, rest Nathan -- Nathan jeered as he recollected the Southerner's admonitions. Jeez, how did anyone ever put up with him? Sure as hell wouldn't make any kind of healer. All his patients would want to kill him.

Nathan chuckled at the image. Yeah right, Ezra as a healer -- that would be the day.

Nathan took the time to wash and shave. Didn't know when he'd get the opportunity again. He put on his favorite pants for riding and efficiently checked his weapons. He secured his throwing knives to his back and strapped on his guns. If they had to move out fast, he wanted to be ready. He packed some extra clothes and laid out his coat. Didn't need it during the day, but they were heading west. Maybe into the mountains where he'd need it. He knew his slicker was secured to his saddle. Extra ammunition and his rifle were laid out also.

Nathan surveyed his preparations; satisfied that he could take care of himself. Now, he needed to be able to take care of everyone else. Nathan pulled his medical bags and pulled the contents to inventory the supplies. Over his time as a healer, Nathan had learned what to pack and what he could find in the wild. Nathan pulled his leather bound journal out to review the items he would need. The journal was a present left at his door that Nathan was forever thankful for. As he learned about diseases, cures, herbs, roots, medicines -- he would catalog it in this journal. It was a rare day, that Nathan wasn't making some annotation. As he reviewed his medical supplies against his list, he pulled items from his cabinet -- certain roots not available this time of year, bandages, suture material, and ensured his medical equipment kit was complete - scissors, tweezers, scalpel, clamps. He carefully placed the supplies into the bags he used for his medical kit. Nathan made one last check -- he was ready.

He returned the journal to its place on his bureau. It was too valuable to risk on the road, besides Nathan had memorized its contents. Nathan fingered the pages and looked back over his notes. He got a pleasure from remembering the doctors, midwives, and medicine men he met throughout the west. For the most part, there was a very collegial atmosphere where ideas were freely exchanged. In the outposts of the west, there were just too few of them to go around. As Nathan flipped through the pages, he came to a page he hadn't written. Nathan looked over what was written -- fever - no; vomiting diarrhea - yes, severe; garlic odor to breath - yes; pain - yes, abdominal pain, severe, diffuse. Then there was a list of diseases -- diphtheria, typhoid, cholera, scarlet fever, yellow fever, food poisoning . . . This wasn't the record of any patient -- it was the documentation of his poisoning. Nathan knew Mary had a hand is figuring out the poisoning but obviously she had help. Nathan smiled broadly. Well, you all did a good job.

Nathan lovingly placed the journal away and noticed a folded piece of paper on the bureau. He opened it up and realized it was a list of supplies with dollar figures -- sheets, blankets, towels, laundry services, baths, hot water. Nathan eyes widened at the final figure. Wow. Nathan was glad he didn't have to pay the bill. He placed it in his journal thinking he'd make sure it was returned to its proper owner when they got back. If they got back.

The door to the clinic swung open and Nathan quickly drew up. "Better if you'd knock," he addressed his guest as he holstered his gun.

"Excuse my consideration, you were supposed to be resting in bed and I didn't want to disturb you prematurely," Ezra responded pithily.

"Time to go?" Nathan asked pointedly ignoring the comment about resting.

"I see you're ready." Ezra reached for Nathan's saddlebags to add to the ones he already had packed. Nathan grabbed his rifle and coat.

He started to head towards the livery but Ezra stopped him. "Horses are at Mary's. Let's go through the alley."

Nathan looked hard at Ezra. Ezra shrugged, "probably best we not announce our forthcoming departure."

Nathan could see the sense in that. Better to be alert and overly cautious than risk a stupid error that endangered them or the town.

When they got to Mary's, they secured their respective saddlebags, holstered their rifles and double-checked their saddles, tightening the cinch.

When they heard the activity, Mary, Casey, and Billy came to watch them prepare to leave.

"You're going then?" Mary half-asked, knowing the answer already.

Ezra nodded.

"Nathan, remember to drink a lot and get rest where you can." Casey anxiously reminded Nathan of what he was supposed to do. Nathan smiled, unlike Ezra, Casey wasn't near as irritating.

"When you're able, please get word to us," Mary requested.

Ezra nodded. Both men mounted their horses and Ezra offered his usual two-finger salute as he turned to depart.

"Take care," Mary called out and all three waved as the men rode out.

As they were about to leave Four Corners, Ezra drew up. "Yes, Mr. Jackson," Ezra seemed to know what Nathan was thinking before he did. Damn irritating.

"I know we've done it in the past. Don't feel right, leaving them without one of us here."

Ezra nodded his head morosely. "I find myself with the same concerns. I wired Eagle Bend and they are sending a deputy."

Nathan looked sideways at Ezra. "You wired."

"Yes," Ezra responded shortly.

'Mister, I can't see two inches in front of me' took action to ensure the protection of the town. Nathan shook his head in wonder. Circumstances forced men to step forward. It really shouldn't surprise Nathan that Ezra would do that. For all his whining about early mornings or it being beneath him to hunt down some miscreant, Ezra never hesitated to fold his cards without complaint and do what needed to be done. And Nathan didn't doubt he'd back him or cover his back in a fight. It was a measure of the man. Though, he still could be irritating at times, Nathan was thinking he was damn lucky to have Ezra riding beside him.

By silent accord, both men urged their horses forward. They headed towards the southwest to the place where Ezra had found Buck's and Vin's jackets. Time could be running out on their friends. They had to find them soon.

Part 62

"I found Vin's coat here, inside the rocks," said Ezra, "and Buck's was over there." He pointed to the stand of hackberry trees nearly a quarter mile away, and Nathan nodded. He was, thought Ezra, looking none the worse for wear so far. Maybe his repeated assertions that he was up to this ride were based on more than simply wishful thinking.

"Did you take a good look aroun' in there yet?" Nathan was eyeing the outcropping carefully. Ezra shook his head.

"I just looked it over quickly. I found the coat on this end over here, and--"

A piercing whistle followed by a stentorian yell interrupted the gambler, and both men turned in their saddles to see Josiah and JD galloping towards them. The two reined in on plunging horses as they approached the rock outcrop, and JD dismounted to run lightly up on top of the boulders before anyone had a chance to speak. He stood against the bright morning sky, and turned to look down at Ezra.

"These the rocks where you found Buck's coat?"

"Vin's coat," corrected Ezra. "Buck's was at some distance from here. And it's nice to see you, too."

JD nodded and vanished as he dropped over the other side into the enclosed area. Ezra sighed and dismounted, eyeing Nathan warningly as he did so. "I trust you will remain here?" he said. "No reason to use up what strength you've managed to recover on duplicating others' efforts."

A brief scowl flashed across Nathan's face before he relaxed, and then he smiled at the look Josiah threw him as the preacher dismounted to follow Ezra.

"Behave, or we'll sic our healer on ya'," grinned Josiah.

"Wouldn' want that," said Nathan casually, "I hear he's just hell on folks that ignore 'im."

"Amen, Brother." Josiah laughed and climbed over the rocks. The laugh died in his throat as he reached the enclosed area on the other side, to see Ezra and JD examining dark stains on the granite.

"Ezra, there's . . . " JD's voice trailed off with concentration as he walked from where Ezra had found Vin's coat to a position some feet away, and then back again. He knit his brow as Josiah joined him and touched tentative fingers to the grey stone that was now flecked with blood as well as shiny minerals. The youth turned a troubled face to the preacher. "I don't understand it," he said. There's a lot of blood over by where the coat was, and then over here . . ."

". . . it looks like someone else, not bleedin' as badly," finished Josiah.

JD's eyes widened and darkened, and he looked quickly at Ezra. "_Both_ of them?" he said.

Ezra was staring again at the place where he'd found Vin's coat, and he looked up silently at JD's words.

"Show us where you found Buck's coat," said Josiah softly.

Ezra nodded, still without a word, and led the way back to the horses. Nathan gathered the reins of his chestnut when he saw the grimness of the others' expressions as they returned, and drew his horse near Josiah's as Ezra led the way to the other site with JD riding almost even with him, his little bay prancing from the sense of its rider's anxiety.

"How's it look?" he asked softly. Josiah shook his head and then looked at Nathan with an expression of weary sorrow.

"Looks like they're both in big trouble," he answered. "One of 'em's losin' a lot a' blood, an' I'm guessin' it's Buck." Nathan nodded that he'd heard, his eyes fixed on Ezra and JD riding several lengths ahead of them, both men's emotions notched too high for the long-term.

"What exactly did you see?"

"You saw Vin's coat, same as I did. You know he wasn't bleedin' much. The place where Ezra found it, though, someone had been there a long time, bleedin' heavy. Someone else was over against the boulders on the other side, not bleedin' nearly as bad."

"You're thinkin' _that_ was Vin."

"Yeah." Josiah nodded. "So I'm thinkin' he took off his coat to put under Buck."

Nathan looked up at the sun, nearly a hands' width above the eastern mountains now. "When the rocks got hot," he said softly.

"When the rocks got hot," agreed Josiah. Both men had been in the desert longer than JD had, and outdoors more than Ezra had. They had dropped far enough behind the other two to converse without being overheard, but now arrived at the stand of hackberry trees where JD was kneeling to study to the ground, his face wreathed in distress. Josiah dismounted with a sigh and walked over to look down, then gazed back at Nathan and nodded almost imperceptibly. Ezra's face immediately clouded, and he strode over briskly from where he'd been searching to see if anything else had been left behind where he'd found Buck's coat.

"What was that," he said almost querulously, "that I just saw?"

Josiah turned a bland face to Ezra and regarded him silently. The gambler flushed and threw a quick glance to Nathan. JD, sensing the sudden tension between the three, stood up.

"I know you two know something. Or think you know something," continued Ezra. "You forget it's my business to read expressions. In this case, lives may depen--"

"Looks to Josiah like Buck was bleedin' pretty bad," cut in Nathan. He glanced at JD and then back at Ezra. "An' that Vin's got a different problem. Not bleedin' much, meanin' he's probably still carryin' a slug." Ezra looked from one to the other of the men.

"And does this have bearing on the appropriate course of action to choose?"

JD cleared his throat nervously and came closer to the others. "We need to follow the trail," he said, "see where they went. Find 'em."

Josiah and Nathan exchanged a long look.

"Before it's too late," added JD softly.

"When the man's right, he's right," observed Josiah. He swung into his saddle and gathered the reins as he looked at Ezra and JD. "So did they go from here to the rocks, or from the rocks to here?"

"There's a lot more . . . _stuff_ here." JD stumbled over saying the word 'blood' and then went on when he found a way past it. "I think we need to see if there's any sign leadin' away from the rocks. If there is . . . "

". . . then we follow it." Ezra nodded and he, too, mounted up. "Let's see what we can find, Mr. Dunne."

The men went back to the rock outcropping and began to ride carefully outward from it in ever-widening circles, their eyes on the ground. JD grunted suddenly, pointing at the ground. "Here," he said. The others rode over to join him as he looked back at the rocks to get a bearing and then moved out in the same direction from the sign he'd found. Josiah caught up with him, and spotted the second large splotch of dark brick-red at the same time JD did. He looked back more carefully and could see now that smaller spots marked the stones and sand here and there between the two larger marks. He eyed JD appraisingly.

"You've been payin' attention when Vin trails."

"Yeah." JD nodded and bit his lip, then threw a guarded glance at Josiah as Ezra and Nathan rode up.

"JD's found the trail," Josiah explained to the other two.

"Lead on." Ezra gestured, and JD and Josiah led off looking for the next sign. It was nearly 20 yards away this time, and had it not been on the surface of a prominent light-colored boulder they might have missed it. The next was even farther away. Within the space of a half mile the marks were nearly too far apart to locate with assurance, and getting harder to find in the rough terrain. Ezra started shaking his head bitterly.

"This is never going to work," he burst out.

"Then you can go back," said Nathan shortly. "I ain't quittin'."

"That's not what I meant." Ezra reined in and regarded the other three with somber eyes. "I mean it's going to take us too long to do it this way."

Josiah shifted in his saddle uncomfortably. "Since we don't have a tracker," he said. It sounded like the sentence was unfinished, but the others understood the implication perfectly. He looked at JD suddenly. "Although you're doin' a good job," he amended.

"I ain't Vin," said JD simply. He turned to look back at the way they'd come, then took his bearings from the sun. "The trail goes northwest so far, straight as a beeline," he pointed out. "If they kept on this way, they'd wind up at Apex. Maybe we should just head on up there as fast as we can -- to save time." He fiddled with the reins of his bay, then took off his hat and wiped his forehead with his arm, avoiding the eyes of his silent friends. Several moments went by, and then Ezra nodded.

"Our young companion makes a great deal of sense. The chance of being wrong about Apex is slender enough to be worth the risk."

"Risk?" interrupted Nathan. "You talkin' 'bout risk an' what's worth it an' not worth it? With men's lives at stake? Ezra, this ain't no card game--"

"I know that." The gambler sighed and ran a weary hand across his eyes. "The stakes are as high as they get. But it's already been two days, and it's sixty miles to the Apex compound, uphill the whole way, in mountains. I don't think we can afford _not_ to take the chance."

"I'm tellin' ya'," breathed JD, fear setting fire to the edge of his voice, "everything I learned at Delano's makes me think more an' more that he's right. Someone _is_ tryin' to put him outta' business. An' if the things Mary an' Casey found are right . . . " His young voice trailed off, desperation creeping into it. He let the thought hang suspended, unfinished in the hot morning air.

The men remained silent for several long minutes, turning the situation over in their minds. Josiah dismounted and studied the blood trail more closely, then walked a little way farther in the direction they'd come so far with his eyes scanning the ground, and came back. "It does keep goin' the same direction," he said softly. His eyes took on a troubled light and he shook his head. "So far, anyway."

"I guess you're right. We're runnin' outta' time an' got no other choice." Nathan sighed. He looked at each of the other men in turn, and his eyes were dark and somber as a winter rain. "So let's ride."

Part 63

"This looks like a good place to rest an' water the horses." Josiah reined in with a quick look at Ezra, who immediately nodded.

"Yes, indeed," he said. He dismounted and inhaled deeply as he started to lead his chestnut to the silver-flashing creek. He looked back at Nathan, who was still sitting on his horse and was furthermore looking a little cross. "This mountain air is most bracing," added Ezra.

"Bracin'." Nathan looked slowly from Ezra to Josiah. "Horses." He got down stiffly, muttering under his breath, swayed a moment, then caught himself on his stirrup and sighed. He looked at Josiah again, somewhat abashed.

"I ain't gonna' say it," said Josiah. "Not an 'I-told-you-so' kinda' man."

"I am." Ezra smiled enormously, although his eyes were dark in a way that none of the others could miss. "I told you if you didn't stop and rest on the way, you'd fall off your horse. And you see that I was, once again, correct. It really is quite a frequent occurrence, although apparently it fades at once from everyone's memory."

"Shut up, Ezra." Nathan slowly walked over to a tree not far from the edge of the rushing stream, and JD dismounted to hurry over and lift the trailing reins from the healer's hands. Nathan looked up with a flash of gratitude on his face, and JD smiled.

"Might as well water both of 'em at once," he pointed out. Nathan smiled very gently.

"Thanks."

"No problem." JD led the horses off towards the stream, where Josiah had loosened his horse's cinches and tied its reins so it could graze a little on the long grass along the watercourse. The big man strolled over and lowered himself with a groan of relief to the ground next to Nathan. The healer had found a place to sit at the base of a big ponderosa pine, and Josiah looked up through the puffs of needles scattered along slender red boughs, and closed his eyes.

Nathan looked exasperated. "Josiah, I appreciate you bein' a man a' peace, an' bein' able to FIND peace when you need it, but I'll be damned if I can understand how you can go to sleep when--"

"Shhhhh." Josiah spoke in a low rumble without opening his eyes.

"Why, you--!"

"SHHHHHH!!" This time it was Ezra, as he walked over from the stream, pulled off his hat, and started using it to fan himself. "Just let yourself relax a moment, Brother Jackson, while the beasts take their leisure and recoup their strength for the arduous climb yet ahead of us."

JD sat down on the ground with a thump and a short laugh, and pulled a paper-wrapped packet from his coat pocket. "Well, if it's all the same to you, I think I'll recoup _my_ strength, too while we're here." He opened the packet and inhaled of its contents, then held them out to the other men. "Biscuits an' beef. Some a' the stuff Mary made us," he explained.

"Thank you, JD." Ezra removed a morsel from the paper in such a way that Nathan, watching him with a jaundiced eye, was unable to see how much he'd taken. The youth leaned out and around to Josiah, whose broad fingers found a piece of biscuit with unerring aim despite the fact that his eyes were still closed.

"Wonderful gesture, JD," he rumbled.

"Nathan?"

The healer looked from the eagerly proffered biscuits to JD's open face, and then at the other two men. "I suppose," he said, "that y'all expec' me to think this just _happened_."

"Well, it DID." JD looked crestfallen, and Nathan shook his head suddenly worried that the men really hadn't plotted and that he really had hurt JD's feelings somehow. He reached out quickly and took one of the biscuits, and started eating it. He kept his eye on Ezra as he did, watching for the tell-tale gloat that would give away the truth. When he saw none, he relaxed and kept eating.

It really was wonderfully good, in fact, and it did make him feel better. Less light-headed. He uncapped his canteen and took several long drinks to wash down the food, and the water was cool and tasted good, too. When he finished the food, Nathan sat in the warm sun a moment while the horses grazed, listening to the stream and to the fat bees moving among the yellow flowers of the meadow, feeling the firm ground under him and the tree behind him. And then suddenly he realized he'd been asleep.

He sat up with a guilty start, his eyes flying opened in the fear that he would see long afternoon shadows already stretching across the meadow. But it didn't look all that different, except that Josiah was looking him right in the eye. The preacher cocked his head to one side.

"Feelin' better?"

Nathan _did_ feel better, but at what cost? His heart was hammering with guilt. "How long?" he asked.

"Only about an hour." Josiah stood up and extended his hand down to Nathan, smiling. "You had to, Nathan. You know that."

The tall black man let Josiah help him up, and shook his head. "I can't help but worry--"

Ezra showed up from down around a break of trees, the horses' reins in his hands, JD mounted up and riding behind him. "You can't help them if you don't make it there," he said firmly. He held out the reins of Nathan's horse. "And I do believe you are, at least, no longer grey. I will confess your appearance was beginnin' to alarm me the last few miles."

Nathan shoved his foot into the stirrup and swung up, pulled his horse around to face Ezra, and nodded slightly. He looked at JD and Josiah and did the same. There was unspoken thanks in his face. Then he looked up the way their trail headed, at the rugged peaks rising beyond the steep slope they were climbing now. His eyes came back down to those of his companions', and his face grew somber.

"Let's ride," he said softly.

+ + + + + + +

Buck woke up off-balance and startled, feeling almost like he'd fallen down the steps to land on the floor. But he was in the same position as before, leaning back against the central post, and nothing seemed to have moved. He looked at Vin, next to him, and saw that the man's eyes were opened and looking back at him. Buck sat himself up higher, clearing his throat, and turned to face Vin and look at him more closely.

"Hey," he said softly. The creases in his forehead relaxed when he heard Vin's soft reply.

"Hey."

It was barely a whisper, but it was there. Buck reached to the pail and dipped out water for the wounded man, lifting him enough that he could drink it. He was gratified to see that Vin's eyes were a little clearer, even if his skin still felt almost blisteringly hot to Buck's touch. He set the dipper back in the bucket and lowered Vin to the floor again.

"Thanks." The voice was still very low, almost more of a sigh with a word in the middle of it than a spoken word. But at least he wasn't like he had been before.

"Sure thing." Buck smiled. "Think you can take a little more?"

Vin nodded weakly, and Buck gave him another drink, and then the tracker closed his eyes wearily. He spoke without opening them.

"How . . . long?"

"You mean, that we've been in here?" Buck chewed on the edge of his moustache and thought about it. "I'm pretty sure a night's passed. Feels like it. Hell, _feels_ like a week!" He grinned, hoping maybe to see a sly smile flit at the edges of Vin's lips, but there was no response. "I don't know, Vin," he said more soberly. He ran a tired hand through his hair and laid his head back against the post.

"You . . . gotta' get out."

The gunslinger looked down to see that Vin had still spoken without opening his eyes. He shook his head almost angrily. "I ain't goin' without you, Vin. We got into this together, an' we'll get out of it the same way."

"No." Vin was shaking his head now, and his brows drew close. He opened his eyes a fraction to look at Buck, and the lamplight reflected from them like there was a fire banked right inside him. "I can't . . ."

"Look." Buck turned around to face Vin more fully. "I don't wanna' hear that talk, ok? We're goin' together when we go. That's all there is to it."

Vin regarded Buck steadily for a long moment without moving, then slowly closed his eyes again. He reopened them to look at the stairway. Buck shook his head.

"Don't even bother thinkin' about it," he said. "It's locked."

Vin turned his face back to Buck's, and the gunman saw the tracker's eyes narrow in sudden confusion.

"The door at the top a' the stairs," said Buck, "is locked."

"Why?"

Buck sat up straighter. "Well . . ." What kind of a question was that to ask? He shook his head to clear it. "Vin, it's so--" He broke off as he saw the man next to him roll his head to the other side to stare away into the darkness as if he hadn't even realized Buck was speaking. Then came the low, soft drawl again.

"I'd think on it, . . . if I were . . . you."

What? Buck saw the tracker shiver suddenly, a long trembling that ran all the way down his frame, and the man moved against the floor and looked back at Buck with eyes that were glazed now, unseeing, and said:

". . . a box a' shells . . . coffee."

Buck felt despair slowly creep over his heart like a shade being drawn. Vin's words trailed off in slow spirals until they were meaningless syllables again, and then he was silent. Another bout of chills shook him violently, after which his fever seemed to get noticeably higher, and Buck clenched his fists helplessly. And then, right then, he heard the door open.

He didn't even look up this time when Sullivan came down the stairs. The man's footsteps beat an impatient staccato as he came down into the cellar, and he came to a halt staring at Buck, to lean against the wall insolently.

"Looks like your friend's doin' more poorly than he was last night." Sullivan's gaze was fixed on Buck, who looked up slowly with deadly menace deep in his dark eyes. Sullivan chuckled mirthlessly and threw a packet of something wrapped in an old cloth to Buck, across the intervening distance between them. "Food," he said shortly. Then he leaned very slightly to pour water from a pitcher into the water pail Buck had been using, to refill it a little. He kept his eyes on Buck as he did it. When he was finished, he straightened again.

"Got things to see to right now," he said, "but I'll come back an' visit you boys later. Then we'll have us some fun. I promise." He maintained eye contact with Buck as he backed slowly up the stairs, and vanished into the darkness like an apparition. Buck shuddered, and then felt a hot, hot hand grab his own wrist, and he turned with a start to look down and see Vin's hollow gaze fixed on his face. Low and clear, the sick man spoke in a soft voice filled with amaze and horror.

"It's all _bones_, Chris . . . bones . . . all that's left . . . far as you can . . ." Vin's voice trailed off as he turned his face slowly away, into the darkness, and lay still.

Buck sat very still himself, his face burning with slow, bitter anger. No matter that Vin had believed in Buck enough to come after him when Chris had thought the unthinkable about him, no matter that they had endured hell together the last few days -- it was Chris Vin was looking for in his confusion and pain and fever. Even now when he was clearly out of his mind in another place, hunting buffalo that were all dead and gone, he was turning to Chris -- to a man who wasn't there and wouldn't ever be there. Buck clenched one fist and leaned back against the post behind him and tried not to think about it any more. He should have known, anyway. There were too many times he'd been left holding the bag for Chris when the man had just turned around and walked away from the people who needed him. Far too many times. He should have known.

He moved his head then to regard the slender man on the floor next to him, whose face was still shadowed by darkness, and he couldn't stop the shiver of gooseflesh that ran lightly across his scalp when Vin's soft whisper spoke once more from the darkness.

"Bones," moaned Vin, "God, Chris . . . only bones."

Part 64

Buck slept and woke and slept again and it was as if the sleeping didn't count because he was worrying about Vin and the darkness in the cellar never changed one way or another so he couldn't tell if it was night or day or how much time had passed. He wasn't even sure he'd ever slept. He'd lie down and close his eyes and immediately he'd drift away on a sea of fatigue and weakness and pain but then Vin would move or Buck's leg would jerk or some thought would flash into his brain and he'd be awake, not at all certain he'd even been asleep at all.

Vin lay beside him and Buck reached out and felt his arm. Still hot, though he couldn't tell at this point if he was any worse than he'd been the last time Buck had checked him. He reached for the bandanna and sponged him down again with the water. 'Hell!' he thought, 'he can't last.' And he wanted to smash his fist into something with the frustration of it all. He had no way to get the slug out of his shoulder, nothing to fight the fever with.

Nothing! Buck moved slightly away from Vin and leaned his back against a post. He had nothing. And if he didn't do something and do it soon, Vin would die. It was simple, laid out like that. Vin would die. Buck had to do something. Maybe Chris thought he was the kind of man who would attack a woman and run. Maybe Josiah thought he was too low even to walk the same street as the rest of them. But Buck wasn't the kind of man who let a friend die. Not while he was still breathing. It wasn't going to happen. And anyone who thought differently could just go to hell.

He stood, so tired of sitting he could hardly stand it. The movement made him dizzy and he grabbed at the post behind him to keep himself from falling. He stretched his bad leg tentatively and his face thinned down immediately at the strength of the pain that shot through him, sharp, like a thousand needles all stabbed in him at once. With his lips forming a flat, grim line and his eyes narrowed and dark he stretched it out again, put pressure on it and tried to walk. Cold sweat sprang out on his forehead and his breath came sharp and fast but he didn't collapse on the floor and he had to figure that at least that was a good thing. He took another step. He reached the stairs and grabbed the rail with a shaky hand and sank down onto the steps. He sat there for a minute with his head in his hands, one ear open for Vin in front of him and Sullivan behind him, and he breathed.

Damn!

All he had were questions. Why were they here? _Where_ were they? Who was holding them? Who was paying the man in buckskins? Buck didn't much rely on help from unexpected quarters, but he couldn't help thinking on the men back in Four Corners. Would they come looking? He straightened. Well, hell, yes! Though the thought made him scowl. Chris had given Vin twenty-four hours to bring him back. And if Buck knew Chris--which he did--when that twenty-four hours had passed he'd set out himself to track them down So, that was one thing. Sooner or later, Chris would come--pissed as hell and not at all bent on rescue, but he'd come nevertheless. And that was something.

But...Buck looked through the dim light at Vin lying on the cellar floor. Would it be soon enough? Buck had no idea where they were, but he knew they weren't anywhere near Four Corners. And the resident expert tracker was here, on the cellar floor, with Buck. Dying. It would take Chris a long time to track them and it might well be too late. Vin couldn't wait. It was as simple as that. Buck had to get him out of here. He had to.

He wiped a hand across his face as if he could scrub away the fatigue that weighed him down and pulled himself to his feet. There had to be a way out. He walked over and unhooked the lantern from the nail it was hanging on. He carried it with him to the top of the stairs and studied the door. There was a latch on the inside, but when Buck lifted it and pushed it didn't open. He could feel it give a fraction and then bump up against something solid. Probably a bar across the other side of the door. He leaned down and raised the lamp and studied the crack between the door and the jamb. Not much room to slide something through. And they probably had the bar fastened somehow so he couldn't lift it from this side anyway. Hell! He turned and leaned heavily against the door for a minute.

He made his way back down the stairs and held the lantern up so he could see more of the room they were in. There weren't any windows. There was one other door, half-hidden behind boxes and Buck made his way there. He tried to open it, but it was locked. Of course. He grabbed the latch and pushed against the door, but he didn't have much push left and the door stubbornly remained closed.

Well, he thought, he'd have to go straight at things. Truth was, he preferred it that way anyway. It was what he did the best, really. Especially with his back against the wall. What he needed to do was figure a way to take Sullivan when he came down to feed them or torment them or whatever the hell he was going to come down the stairs to do. And he'd have to figure a way to carry Vin. He looked at the boxes stacked haphazardly around him. What the hell, he thought, he might as well start looking for something useful.

He searched systematically through all the crates in the cellar. Most of them turned out to be empty packing crates. He set them aside, thinking that if he got really desperate he could break them down and use the boards as weapons. Then, he laughed at himself in a tired way. If things weren't already really desperate, then he sure as hell never wanted to be around when they were.

He went back to check on Vin, who seemed pretty much unchanged. He wanted nothing more than for the man to wake up and talk to him. But it seemed like just about forever since Buck had gotten anything he wanted. Vin was restless, muttering to himself and shifting on the cool, dirt floor. Buck spent a few minutes sponging him down and getting him to drink a little water. He laid a hand on Vin's good shoulder. "You hang in there, pard," he said. "I'm going to get you out of here."

He stood again. A sudden wave of dizziness hit him when he did it making the floor tilt in an alarming fashion. He grabbed at a support post and leaned heavily on it for a minute. Then, because there wasn't, really, anything else to do, he pushed himself upright and limped heavily back to examine each of the remaining crates.

He took the lantern with him and, though he knew he had to and he knew Vin likely wasn't in any condition to care, he felt bad leaving the tracker all alone in the dark. 'I'll get you out of here,' he thought. And he repeated it over and over as he worked. 'I promise, Vin. I'll get you out.'

It took him awhile, as weak as he was, to work even the first crate open and if he'd thought about it in terms of how many there were, he'd have given up right then. But that wasn't how Buck thought. What he thought was, he had to get Vin out of that cellar. He had to know what was in those boxes. How long it took and how much energy it drained from him meant nothing. He pulled the last board off with a jerk and lifted the lantern to look inside. He moved straw and wood shavings to one side and pulled out a huge vase of some kind. Damn! Buck resisted the urge to just heave it into the corner, though at this point the sound of it as it shattered would have been perversely satisfying in some way. He put it back and started on the next one.

Four crates later, he'd found two large vases, some outrageous huge and gaudy dinner platters and a box completely filled with small, overly ornate porcelain drawing room pieces. Damn! He settled down on the floor and leaned his head back against a post, hoping that if he rested a minute the creeping dark spots in front of his eyes would fade. He had no idea what time it was, but he rather suspected it was the middle of the night. Sullivan had been down there a second time before Buck had started searching through boxes and left them more water and a few scraps of food. No broth. Nothing Vin could conceivably eat. But it was a sign of just how low Buck was that he was only grateful that Sullivan had chosen to leave both of them alone. He knew it wouldn't last. And he knew the next time Sullivan came he had to be ready.

There were three crates left and Buck pushed himself up with a groan and went back to work. As he worked slowly at prying up the nails that held the boards in place he tried to wrap his mind around an escape plan that held some small chance of working. The bottom line was that he had to take Sullivan. When Sullivan came, the door at the top of the stairs would be open. That was one thing. Sullivan had a gun. And a knife too. Buck could use both of them. So, that was another thing. And there was also the knowledge, deep down in Buck's mind that they could never leave this place until they were free of the looming monstrous presence of Sullivan. He held them there as surely as locked doors and arrow and gunshot wounds and fatigue. And if he did nothing else before he left, Buck would make sure Sullivan never followed them.

He had already thought of and rejected several options. There wasn't enough room at the top of the stairs to lie in wait for Sullivan there. He'd gone back and looked at the door on the back wall and considered trying to find where it went, but he didn't have anything to get it open with and he figured it wasn't worth the energy to find out it most likely led nowhere. He thought of turning out the lantern and dragging Vin into a back corner and waiting, but he figured Sullivan would take one look at the dark and go and get another lantern and Buck would have lost his one chance.

He used a loose board as leverage as he pried at the boards on the crate in front of him. His stance was awkward and he pushed on his bad leg too hard and he had to stop what he was doing for a minute until he could catch his breath. He looked across the way at Vin, who was barely visible in the shadows cast against the wall of the cellar. Buck knew what he had to do. He knew what would work to get Sullivan down there and distracted. He just didn't want to do it. He took a deep breath and pried up another board. Vin would be his bait. He'd position him right out in the open where Sullivan would see him right away and be drawn to him. And, Buck hoped, for just a minute--that was all he asked, just a minute--he'd forget to look for Buck. It wasn't like Vin wasn't already bait. It wasn't like Sullivan wouldn't use him anyway. It wasn't like he had a choice. But Buck still didn't like it.

He pried up the last board and lifted his lantern to look in the crate. What he saw there almost made his heart stop--the pale shape of a person's arm. He swept the packing material away and sank to his knees in relief when he realized that it was a statue, not a person. Or pieces of a statue anyway. He pulled out two women's arms, two heads and a torso. It was too weird for him, in the dark, locked in some stranger's cellar with sightless marble heads staring at him. He left the last two boxes for later and dragged his exhausted body up and back over to where Vin lay.

With the lantern set on a crate between them, Buck studied Vin. No worse, he told himself, though he was damned if he could tell whether that was really true. He thought he wasn't any hotter, but he couldn't quite remember how hot he'd been before and he wished that Chris would hurry up and find them. And he wished that Nathan was there to take Vin's bullet out. And he wished he knew what time it was. Or at least what day.

But he didn't know any of that. So, he leaned against another packing crate and he settled himself down and he explained his entire escape plan, such as it was, to Vin. The tracker most likely couldn't hear him and if it hadn't been so deadly serious, the whole thing might have been a little silly, but you didn't send a man into danger without telling him. Or at least Buck didn't. So, he sat there in the dim lantern light and laid it all out.

Then, he leaned back with his head resting on the crate behind him and he slept.

Or, at least he thought he did.

Part 65

Come, you who pray in these pews,
Contribute something for the news,
Come all, support the enterprise,
Of church services, and prayers, and blessings,
Of gossip, and ads, and the latest Miss Molly dressings,
The Clarion News tells no lies,
Come one, come all, and advertise.

+ + + + + + +

Oh God, that's awful, Mary laughed. Mary wiped tears from her eyes as she continued to giggle. Josiah Sanchez may be a Renaissance man but he sure should never turn to verse.

Running a paper was an expensive enterprise and Mary was fortunate to have many local merchants run ads weekly realizing the importance of having a local newspaper. But for all their support, it didn't stop Mary from continuing to seek new advertisers and ways to attract them. This was Josiah's contribution to the effort to be printed in the regular Thursday feature, The Lord's House, where prayer meetings or visits from the circuit minister were advertised or just a story or lesson with a moral.

Yes, the poem was awful. Mary continued to chuckle but she was going to print it. Josiah was going to kill her, Mary thought gleefully. He'd obviously thought Mary had the refinement and taste not to print such an abomination. Well, you'd be wrong, Josiah. Josiah . . .

No, Mary cut off the thought, she was not going to worry. She needed the distraction of keeping busy so she didn't get overwhelmed with worry. Work was just the medicine for her melancholy.

Mary set the poem aside, and looked over recipes she had collected trying to decide if it was too early to be printing an apple pie recipe. Mary rejected it thinking it was another month before the apples would be ready for picking. How about . . .

The tinkle of the doorbell interrupted Mary's thoughts.

"Hello, Mrs. Travis."

Mary smiled automatically and lifted her head to see who had entered. Her smile broadened, "Mr. Roberts, it is wonderful to see you on your feet." Mr. Roberts, a local farmer, had received a serious injury when a plow became embedded in his leg. Mary had reported the severe accident in an edition of the paper earlier in the week. Nathan had said that Mr. Roberts would be very fortunate if he didn't lose his leg. It spoke to Nathan's skill he wouldn't. This town would be hard pressed to replace him. Mary startled at her moribund thought and focused on what Mr. Roberts was saying.

"Need this," Mr. Roberts tapped the cane he was using to assist him to walk, "but I'm indeed fortunate to be on my feet. I had stopped by to see Nathan and give him a token of appreciation."

Mary smiled pleasantly, "he must have stepped out." Mary was already writing in her head the medical update to be included in her regular feature 'On the Sick List.'

"Whew," Mr. Roberts wiped his brow with relief. "I had heard he was poisoned and was afraid he passed."

Mary was startled from her medical updates. He had heard that! Mary ducked her head, thinking fast how much information she should be giving out about the whereabouts of the seven.

"No, no, he is recovering," Mary quickly reassured the farmer, relieved when the farmer didn't pursue the issue.

"Mrs. Travis, if you would do me this kindness and see that Nathan receives this envelope."

"Certainly," Mary responded happily.

"Thank you. Take care now."

"You too, sir."

As Mr. Roberts was leaving the Clarion's office, he held the door for Miss Molly, the local seamstress.

"Hi, Molly."

"Hi Mary. I was looking for Mr. Standish. Have you seen him?"

Mary frowned, irritated. And you expected to find him here. "No, I haven't seen him." Mary managed to plaster a pleasant smile on her face.

"Oh, all right then. Could you pass on the message that I have his new jacket ready for fitting?"

Mary smiled weakly. "Certainly."

"Thank you."

Mary waved and as soon as Molly turned, she rolled her eyes. Oh yes, I'll write that message right down, Mary thought sarcastically.

As Molly left, she held the door open for Wyatt, the telegraph operator.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Travis. I was looking for JD to give him the latest wanted posters."

"He's not here," Mary answered shortly.

Wyatt seemed taken aback by Mary's abruptness.

Mary sighed. "I'm sorry, Wyatt. Why don't you leave them in the sheriff's office for him?"

Wyatt shrugged sheepishly. "We normally go through them together. See if either of us knows any stories about the outlaws. If you see him, could you let him know they came in."

Mary gritted her teeth, "Certainly."

"Thank you, ma'am." Wyatt turned and left.

Mary sighed deeply. She wasn't getting any work done and all these people were doing was reminding her that the seven were gone -- NOT HERE!

Don't even think it - get to work, Mary. Now where was I? Oh yes, a recipe. Apples are out. Plums are in season. Mary started to dig through her recipe collection looking for a particularly good jam recipe she had. She stamped her foot in frustration. Of course, she couldn't find it, which meant a probably fruitless search through her files. She hated when she couldn't find something she knew she had. Mary was interrupted again by the tinkle of the doorbell.

Mary looked up to see three saloon girls in her office. Mary eyes widened thinking *the ladies* had never crossed the street, never mind entered her office. In fact, Mary was fairly certain they weren't regular readers of The Clarion. What could they possibly want?

"Good afternoon," Mary almost said 'ladies' but wondered if that would be considered an insult. As if these ladies could be embarrassed. For their first sojourn across the street they hadn't dressed respectfully; their only regard for proper decorum was to have a shawl cover the neckline of their scandalous dresses.

The ladies exchanged questioning glances. One tried to push another forward but when no verbal response seemed forthcoming, Mary thought to try to draw it out. "Is there something you required?"

"Well, now that you mention it," one of the girls looked innocently at Mary, "we were wondering if you had seen Buck."

What! Mary froze in outraged shock. Nothing they could've said would have been more surprising. "Mr. Wilmington?" Mary managed to gasp out weakly.

"We were just thinking we've been having no fun," the girl pouted.

"And it occurred to us that we were missing Buck," a different one responded.

"And you thought to find him here?" Mary squeaked.

"Well, no," one girl rolled her eyes, as another laughed contemptuously.

"As if he would spend time with an uptight bi . . ." thinking better of what she was going to say, the saloon girl stopped abruptly and smiled weakly.

"Ummm, we were thinking you might know where he's been and when he's coming back?"

Mary stiffened. "Mr. Wilmington does not keep me apprized of his activities?" Mary managed to respond civilly instead of saying what she really thought - 'as if I would tell you.'

"He doesn't!" One exclaimed, "Ooomph," she exhaled painfully as another girl poked her in the ribs with her elbow.

A quiet descended on the office again. "Was there anything else?"

"Yeah," one of the girls smiled shamelessly, "Thought you might know where Vin got to."

"Vin?"

"Let me guess, he doesn't check in with you either." One sneered. "Listen lady, we know better. . ."

If she was going to say more, she was cut off by her friends dragging her out of the office. Mr. Andrews, a local farmer, held the door open and they poured out of the office. He entered and looked inquiringly at Mary. "Customers?"

"Not exactly," Mary sighed, "what can I do for you Mr. Andrews?"

"I was looking for Josiah. He offered to assist me to add space to my house before winter. With my wife back on her feet and the baby doing well, I thought I would arrange it with him."

Mary thought again about if she should say anything about what she knew, what little she knew, about the whereabouts of the seven. Thinking discretion may be appropriate, Mary decided on a benign response.

"I'm sorry, I haven't seen him today," which was technically true.

"If you do see him, could you let him know I was looking for him?"

"Of course." Mary waved weakly as Mr. Andrews left.

Mary shook her head in wonder. Yes, I will certainly write that down and make sure it's delivered, Mary thought pithily. Since when had she become the message secretary for the seven? Mary griped to herself. Did everyone think they all checked in with her? Okay_ well_ actually they did. But still, what were these people thinking? I would personally deliver their messages for them. Really, Mary huffed.

Well, look on the bright side Mary, at least you have another snippet of news for 'On the Sick List.' She had previously reported Mrs. Andrews' slow recovery from the delivery of her fifth child and the generous offer by Nettie Wells to assist during their time of need. She could now report they were doing so much better.

Mary startled as the clock chimed. Oh my, is it that late? She had meant to stop much sooner and pick up Billy and Casey. Even with his nap, he needed to go to bed early to catch up on his sleep. Plus despite the Eagle Bend deputy being here, Mary was thinking she should take action to protect them tonight. She was still considering laying a pallet behind the iron printing press and keeping a rifle at her side. If Chris had returned . . .

Mary shook her head. Well, he didn't. Mary, don't even start to think about him. Think about what needs to be done. Dinner, she decided that's what she needed to tend to and she needed to go retrieve her charges before she could feed them.

Mary grabbed her shawl to ward off the evening chill and hurried towards Potter's store.

A man across the street, who had been leaning back in a chair out front of the saloon, let his chair thunk back down onto its four legs as he saw the blonde woman leave the newspaper office. Wonder what she's up to? He thought to follow when he noted a rider coming in on a dun mare. He tracked the widow with his eyes but didn't move from his perch. He'd be having a visitor shortly.

It was nearly a fifteen-minute wait for the visitor. As the man drew near, the editor returned with her boy in tow and a teen-age girl.

"Who's that with the editor?"

"Must be the girl Belle told us about. Friend of Dunne's. Name is Casey Wells. Lives on a small farm outside of town with her aunt. She's been in town since Belle confronted her, looking like a scared little rabbit," Hammersmith chuckled, "Belle's ploy has paid off in spades. Wasn't expecting you? Why are you back?"

The red-haired man rolled his eyes. "What else? Playing the messenger. Striker sent me. We intercepted Larabee and he's now on his way to the compound."

The Sharpshooter made it obvious that messenger boy was well below his talents. You're being paid well, I wouldn't complain, Hammersmith thought.

"Anything else, Thompson?"

"Nope," was the short response. "Town seems real quiet," Thompson observed as he scanned the street.

"Too quiet. We need to do something to shake their complacency. It's crucial to our future plans. They must be afraid of the Indians on the reservation and believe the threat is real."

"How about just attacking the town?"

Hammersmith shook his head. "Won't work. Too risky."

"So we need something in the area but outside of town."

Hammersmith started chuckling menacingly. "Oh, I can think of a place outside of town."

Part 66

The moon was a hidden flame that guided the men as they continued their night ride to Apex Mining. The wind tossed branches of lodge pine and an eerie crackle was heard as hoof trod on dried needles and grass. There was a quiet urgency to the ride and a sense that time was short. There were no voices, the men absorbed in their own thoughts, their own fears, their own hopes. And living with the weight of their individual failures that abandoned these men and with the dread that whatever they did now might all be for naught.

Josiah was in the lead of a band of four men. The wise elder. The arbiter of what was right, truth, and justice. He had his dark shadows but in the band of men who called him friend; he was the one sought to counsel and lead the way, the_right_way.

The counselor was followed by the innocent. Maybe that wasn't fair now. The kid had seen a lot. He had been stabbed. He had been shot. He had killed. Sometimes I bemoan that his eyes are older now. They're always in a hurry. Such a hurry.

The kid was followed by the healer. He had a home and place. Maybe more than any of the men he rode with. He was respected for his hands, both as healer and fighter. He was the steady hand over these proceedings.

'Then there is me. The gambler and conman.' Ezra chuckled morosely. He thought the high stakes game and his big wins were the biggest game. At least this week. But the stakes got no higher now and they were betting on being right. No, not they. Buck and Vin. And their lives.

How had he missed it all? He only had an inkling that Buck and Vin were even gone. That Josiah was in his cups. And Chris deserted them. He didn't believe in luck. He believed in skill. He believed in being alert. Nobody pulled the game on him because he never let them. He had failed them. They were playing the game and the opponents were winning. Buck and Vin were losing.

And although he didn't believe in luck, he kept hoping they'd see some sign that Vin and Buck were brought this way. Because Ezra was very much afraid their luck had run out. Ezra swallowed hard on his suddenly dry mouth. Out of luck. Out of time.

+ + + + + + +

Right, truth, justice -- did you remember any of those things, Josiah? 'No, Lord no,' Josiah's heart wailed.

Right? Did you let Buck defend himself? Did you give him his say? You have killed men for less and sought those rights for the most evil of men and_not_your_friend. Josiah, you have the gall to ask to be relieved of that burden.

Truth? Have you ever, ever known Buck to lie? He is passionate. He adores women. Even worships them. He doesn't hurt them. You knew that. You knew that in your heart. But you were taken in by lavender eyes and a swish of the hips. It was all lies except for Buck. He was the truth.

Justice? You drove a man from his home. His friends. You inflicted deep pain and ne'er sought to relieve it though you knew better. You are the wise counsel, the one who is sought. You failed your brother, your friend. You might call him Brother Buck but you soon forgot when your head was turned by a calico queen who thought nothing of you, and less of your friend. But that's just it. Your friends. You forgot them.

Josiah couldn't forgive himself so how could he ever expect Buck to. He'd find Buck or die trying. If he needed saving, he would be there no matter the cost but most likely his life. Were he to die, some might call it self-sacrifice but it was payback and such an inadequate penance for what he had done.

If by some miracle, Buck survived and Josiah did too; he had decided he would leave Four Corners. Forever forsaken by this band of men. For they had sought his counsel and he had failed them in the worst, most reprehensible way.

So no matter how this played out, this would be it for him. He would be gone from Four Corners forever.

+ + + + + + +

JD wanted to push his horse. We gotta go. We gotta go. We're running out of time. But JD had this overriding belief that all could be made right.

Buck was a good man. We all know that. The charges against him are false. We all know that. There are bad men out there. And none of them are named Buck Wilmington.

In all that had happened with Casey, JD had forgotten what a true friend Buck had been. Casey sought Buck and he helped her, probably in a way he never could. And he had thought Buck was trying to steal his girl. JD shook his head at his foolishness. Hell, Buck was constantly throwing them together.

JD chuckled at the never-ending advice on woman that he would receive from Buck. While JD would say 'you are the breath of fresh air that blows the stench from a barn,' Buck had taught him 'you are the fresh air that is the gentle breeze through a field of wild flowers.' And he remembered the sweet smile Casey had given him when he delivered the line, mind you while they had been mucking out Nettie's barn. When JD had told Buck the story, he could still remember the hard rap on the side of the head he received, strong enough to knock off his beloved bowler.

That was another thing. His hat. What was it with Buck and the hat? At some level, Buck understood his attachment to that hat. He had told Buck it was because of the great lawman, Bat Masterson, he had read about in a dime-novel. He could have told him the truth. He just never had. His mother had been so proud when he presented him his suit and hat to attend college. It was the last thing she did before her health had failed so much that her last days were spent in bed. Though he was living his dream, there was a small part that was ashamed he had not fulfilled his mother's dream and gone to college.

I am happy here. I have my friends. I have a girl. Good things to be riding for. His friends at his side fighting for what was right. Seeking the truth. Finding justice for those who never would find it without them. He was one of the seven. He belonged like he never had before. He was home.

+ + + + + + +

Nathan felt his body fall forward and he jerked himself upright in the saddle. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath hoping the severe spell of dizziness would pass. He slowly opened his eyes and saw the moon mock him. Yeah, he knew -- he should ask them to stop now. But Nathan just knew they could not afford it. They didn't have the time. He'd been down for three days. They had needed him and he couldn't help. He couldn't stop now.

Damn, he hoped they were right. That is was Michaels and they found Buck and Vin at Apex Mining. Because he didn't think they had much time and it would be over a day back to where they found the coats to search again. Maybe they could go to the reservation -- get Chanu to help them search. But it would be a search for bodies. Because with a certainty that came from seeing so many broken bodies and lives lost, he knew Buck and Vin didn't have that time.

But no matter. Nathan would see them home. One way or another. He owed them that. He'd see them home.

+ + + + + + +

"Whoa, hold up," Ezra called out breaking the silence. "We need to stop and rest," Ezra had seen Nathan's near fall out of the saddle.

"We ain't got time," Nathan commented.

"We make time," Josiah counseled.

Nathan started to dismount.

"Don't even think it," Ezra stopped Nathan.

JD and Josiah dismounted. Josiah walked over to Nathan to get a good look at him. JD started to walk around looking intently at the ground. He began walking the area in slow circles of increasing diameter.

Ezra rubbed his brow in frustration. It occurred to Ezra that this was the first time he hadn't ridden with at least one of the others: Chris or Vin or Buck.

"Looks like someone's been here," JD was crouched down checking a large stain on the ground, "Three horses, three men rode in and stopped here."

Ezra startled at JD's pronouncement. And he was missing the tracker.

Josiah called out to JD, "Let's make a torch and look around."

JD popped up and restarted making a slow circle of the area, the moon shone brightly providing some light and then, Josiah joined him. JD scanned the ground, back and forth. He then started to follow the trail out of the clearing. Then he slowly returned.

"I think Buck was here -- big boot prints and blood here." JD walked several steps away looked back and then covered the ground again.

"Definitely could have been Buck, Vin, and one other man." JD walked in a slow circle. He knelt looking intently at some hoof prints. "Josiah, give me light here." JD excitedly popped up again and hurried to his horse.

Ezra rolled his eyes; he could tell Nathan was antsy and frankly so was he. Who did the think he was? -- Vin Tanner. Ezra restrained from saying anything to dissuade JD from his task.

JD pulled a horseshoe from his saddlebag. He walked backed over to Josiah and crouched down. He pressed the shoe in his hand firmly into the ground and then motioned for Josiah to bring the light closer. "See the mark here," JD then showed Josiah the mark on the shoe. "He pointed to the print he had made on the ground -- see that. Now look at these prints -- do you think they have the same mark?"

Josiah looked back at Ezra and Nathan in stunned amazement. "How did you know about this?"

"When we were back trying to figure out what was going on back in town -- I kept asking folks, if anything odd had happened. Blacksmith told me about a man insisting on having his horse reshod even though the shoes were fine complaining about . . . cheap 'marked' ones. Blacksmith pointed the mark out to me and gave me the shoe. He didn't think much of it and I'm sorry, neither did I."

Josiah clapped JD on the back. "Son, nothing to apologize for. Anything else?"

"There was a fight. . . lots of scuffling. . ."

JD paused his constant movement and looked up, all color drained from his face. "They . . " JD started, swallowed hard keeping his emotions in check, "They lost."

They all stilled at JD's pronouncement. There was the shudder of branches, the whisper of pine needles, and the light of the moon. And a chill that raced to the heart, that they indeed may be too late.

"JD, why do you think they lost?" Nathan asked.

"Three men rode in -- the stride here . . . and here," pointed back down the trail. JD pointed up the path they rode out on, "two of the horses packed out loads, not riders. The horse with the marked shoe was the one rode out."

The quiet was broken by a shrill whistle.

"We're close," Josiah broke the silence of the men.

"Okay, then," Ezra flashed his gold tooth in the moonlight, "let's go get them."

Nathan looked over at Ezra with a slight frown and then smiled broadly, "yeah, let's go get them."

Josiah mounted his horse with a quiet ease, JD jumped on his. For all their urgency, they quietly proceeded. Alert.

They topped one hill, crossed a valley, rode up a steep incline. Just beyond the tree-line, there was shadowy light cast over the valley like the rising sun. But the sun was behind them, and had yet to rise.

All four dismounted, Nathan ignoring Ezra's disapproval and they lay on their bellies at the peak of the ridge and looked over the valley.

"Jesus."

"It's huge."

"Wow."

Ezra stayed his panic. The dimensions of the complex were massive. After the quiet of the woods, Ezra's impression was they had entered a surreal arena. A veritable metropolis in the middle of the wilderness. There were men, horses, buildings, tents as far as the eye could see. Activity everywhere. They needed to make some sense of it. Get their bearings.

Ezra pointed to the northeast end of the valley. "Obviously shift change, and the mine is that way."

Nathan chuckled. "Oh yeah, real observant there," he commented sarcastically.

JD picked up on Ezra's cue. "That long building in the middle is the mess hall. See the men filing out. Miners work on their stomachs."

"Livery right below us."

"At Delano's, the other businesses were near the dining hall -- company store, saloon. Mining stuff was near the mine."

Ezra swatted Nathan, "and you complain about my insightful analysis," he muttered under his breath.

Nathan chuckled softly.

"Housing across the west-side of the valley."

"One main street ends at the big house on the south end of the valley and leaves the valley to the northwest."

"Delano had a gate and guards on the road to his mine. He also had a mounted patrol."

"Any buildings being obviously guarded?" Josiah asked.

"There are so many."

Hell, it would take them forever to check the near 100 buildings and tents in the valley. The good news was there were so many men in the mining compound, they would be able to blend in. The bad news was there were so many men in the mining compound, how were they going to find two?

JD put to words Ezra's disheartening analysis.

"How the Hell are we ever gonna' find 'em in there?"

Part 67

"How the Hell are we ever gonna' find 'em in there?"

JD's horrified words echoed in the men's minds, boring deeply into all of them as ones that voiced the very thought they'd had themselves. They rode in silence, down over the ridge and along a broad trail that had been cleared through the forest. They weren't even sure where they were going: just "away" for now. Away from the noise, the buildings, the hurrying men and horses and machines, the crash of the stamp mill; away from the impossibility of their task. Ezra reined in suddenly, though, and looked about him with the air of a waking sleep-walker.

"What is this?" he asked. The other men reined in as well and stared at Ezra as if he'd lost his mind. Josiah cleared his throat, blinking.

"What is what, Ezra?"

"This . . . apparent boulevard. Through what is an otherwise undeveloped wilderness."

The men sat up straighter on their horses then, and looked around them with new eyes. Indeed, Ezra had chosen a word that described the area well. The trees had been cut down to low stumps in a broad swath fifty feet across that ran through the forest as far as they were able to see. Deep, dry ruts furrowed the litter of pine needles, cones, and torn boughs in the cleared area. JD started nodding to himself as his eyes ran the length of it.

"Loggin'," he said. "They run big log wagons through here, to get timber for the shafts. Mines use a lot of lumber."

Nathan had furrowed his brow. "Don' look like it's been used much lately," he pointed out. "The ruts are dry."

Josiah dismounted and went to kick at one. "Hard as iron," he said. "Old. This road hasn't been used for a while."

"I bet they lay in a lot a' lumber at a time, then don't cut more 'til they run low again," offered JD. The four men looked at each other, and turned this information over in their minds.

"Where you have a logging road," said Ezra carefully, "I would think you would have some sort of camp for the lumber men."

"An' if the road ain't bein' used right now . . ." smiled Nathan.

"Neither is the camp!" finished JD.

Josiah laughed softly, and the others turned to stare at him. "I was just thinkin'," the big preacher explained, "that there'll probably even be supplies stored there. Michaels will be hostin' us an' footin' the bill for whatever we do."

"Gentlemen," said Ezra, gathering his reins, "Shall we secure our lodgings?"

"By all means," replied Josiah, legging his chestnut into a jog.

The men rode off down the logging road with a good deal more hope than they'd had several moments earlier, and ten miles farther down it they found not one but several clusters of buildings, sawmills, and cabins. The sawmills were near clear-running streams that were apparently used to turn the works, and the cabins and other buildings trailed outward from the mills into thinned forest pockmarked with stumps. They separated to explore the buildings and then came back together to compare notes, deciding that an isolated cabin nearly half a mile from the main area would best suit their purposes. There was a shed behind it where they could secure their horses from casual eyes, and enough wood laid in for the stove and fireplace to last six months. The pantry was stocked with well-sealed tins of flour and coffee, with smaller amounts of salt, sugar, dried beef and apples, and cornmeal, and there was a small stove and an assortment of pans and basins, as well as four double bunks and a chest filled with heavy blankets. Josiah threw coffee grounds into a pot of water and set it on the stove as the men drew up chairs to the cabin's table, and JD laid split sticks of wood and kindling in the firebox, lit it, then shut the firebox door and joined the others. The wood began to snap and hiss inside the stove, and Nathan looked from one to the other of the men and cleared his throat.

"OK," he said, "Now we got a place to bring 'em, far enough away that we won't be spotted. What next?"

The silence lasted long enough that the smell of coffee began to rise from the heating pot. Ezra tapped his fingers on the table surface thoughtfully.

"The issue," he said slowly, "seems to be finding out where our companions are being held. Which is something Michaels presumably knows." The others nodded, and Josiah leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs. He sniffed and laid his hands flat on the table.

"So where would we find Michaels, in all that?" he asked.

"In that big house, off on the end by itself," said JD. His eyes widened when he saw how the others were looking at him. "That's what Steve Borall said," he explained. "Delano's manager. He said that Michaels lives in a big mansion up here and acts like a plantation owner. Keeps colored servants, an' treats 'em like--" JD broke off suddenly, colored deeply, and glanced at Nathan. The healer smiled gently, sadly.

"Not your fault, JD," he said. "Tell us more a' what you learned about Michaels."

"Well," JD knit his brow as he recalled everything he'd heard. There had been so much. "Michaels wants to be a swell, cut a fine figure, you know? Maybe run for governor some day."

"Interesting." Ezra turned the ring on his finger pensively. "I wonder if the man could be tempted by a game of chance? Even if he remembers me, he is not likely to realize I am connected with our missing companions."

"Ezra, you don't know who else is in that house. If Michaels is responsible for what happened to Nathan, and . . . for what Belle did, then you'd likely run into someone there who'd know you from Four Corners." Josiah frowned slightly to himself as Belle's name passed his lips, and then he stood up and got out four cups, set them on the table, and poured out coffee for the men.

"They won't know _me_, though." Nathan was lifting a steaming cup to his lips when he said it, as calmly as if he'd said the coffee needed sugar. Ezra set his own cup down on the table with an exasperated thump.

"How do you surmise that, my friend? YOU are the one someone there tried to poison!"

"Yeah, but I'm colored," said Nathan softly. He looked up into Ezra's eyes, his face somber. "We all look alike to someone like Michaels. And to the kind a' people a man like that hires. You know that as well as I do. They even admit it."

JD leaned forward and looked from Ezra to Nathan and back again. "I don't understand," he said. "How could they not recognize you, Nathan?"

"If I was in town, they probably would. Just 'cause I'd be 'the black healer.' That don' mean they'd know my face to see it. Here . . . They ain't expectin' me. An' if I go into the house as a domestic, they'll never look past the suit."

"Are you _sure_ you want to do this, Nathan?" Josiah's eyes were heavy with concern, fixed on his friend's face. Nathan sighed and shook his head, rubbed a tired hand across his face.

"I can't think a' any other way to find Buck an' Vin. An' we're runnin' outta' time."

"It's only been two days since we nearly lost you," said Ezra softly. The others looked at the gambler in surprise, and he recoiled in affront. "You needn't be so shocked at my concern. It will hardly do our companions any good if Nathan collapses from exhaustion while he's in there."

"I'm tired," admitted Nathan, "but we're all tired. You ain't had a decent night's sleep lately, either, an' neither has Josiah. Fact is, all of us but the kid, here, look like hell."

"Hey!" JD started to protest, but Nathan kept going.

"At least I can make it, though, an' I'm not sure Buck an' Vin can. Not much longer, anyway. I just don' see where we got any choice."

JD looked around the table at the silent men, and then did the only thing he could think of. He started to draw his pistols from their holsters, to lay them on the table. "You can take my Colts with you," he said to Nathan, "for Vin an' Buck to use when you bust 'em outta' there." Nathan shook his head.

"Can't take any guns at all, JD. No knives, either. Nothin' like that."

"But--" JD half-rose from the table, and Josiah laid a broad, stilling hand over the young man's forearm.

"Servants don't carry weapons, JD," he explained. "They'd find 'em on Nathan an' know he wasn't who he was pretendin' to be. An' if Michaels is like this mine manager said he is. . . " Josiah let his words trail off. JD suddenly shivered, remembering his own life back east. How could he have forgotten, he wondered. But it seemed a long, dim lifetime ago.

Ezra leaned forward, suddenly brisk and business-like. "We'll need to figure out how to meet with you later," he said to Nathan. "What kind of signal you can give us, and when. Where we'll meet, when you do."

"Yeah." Nathan nodded. "It won' be easy. Gotta' be somethin' I can control, an' y'all will have to watch for it. Once I'm in that house, my time won't be my own any more."

The four men fell silent, regarding one another somberly as the meaning of Nathan's words sank in.

"Be careful," said Josiah softly. "Be careful in there, Nate."

Part 68

Mary tried to concentrate on the task at hand, setting type for the paper she had to publish the next day. She'd never been late, not one time since Steven had died, and it wouldn't be right to be late now. Her mind wandered, though, as she worked. Where were they, she thought. Where were they? And then--were any of them ever coming back again?

Buck was gone. Vin. Vin was gone too. And they'd been so sure he was at the reservation. Safe in a way that none of the rest of them were. Instead, he'd been injured; they'd seen his coat. And maybe Buck had been injured, too. It bothered her that they didn't know, that Vin and Buck might have been lying out there, injured, and no one had known. It felt almost like betraying them in some way, thinking they were fine when they had been pushed against a wall, fighting for their lives.

And then there was Chris. Gone without a word. Without a trace. She'd sent telegrams to a half-dozen surrounding towns yesterday but no one had seen the black-clad gunslinger. This morning, she'd followed up by sending another batch of telegrams, this time to the small, more distant towns along the Mexican border. When, and even whether she'd get an answer to any of these queries was an open question. Most of the towns had no sheriff, no law of any kind. Her telegram might sit there until someone was struck by the odd notion to answer it or until it crumpled into dust and blew away. And meanwhile, Chris Larabee was nowhere to be found.

And now, the rest of them were gone too. Mary knew it was too soon for the town to be different, but she couldn't help dwelling on the way she'd felt last night. It had affected her already, she knew that. They'd left before, all of them at the same time. But they'd left together. And this time, that much was different and the difference of it had started her remembering things she hadn't thought of in a long time, those days after Steven had died when she had been alone. She and the Potters and a few others trying to make a real town out of Four Corners, something more than just a place for drunken cowboys to fire off their rifles. Back then there had been no help at all and little hope and she had kept a loaded shotgun by her bed every night. Those times were back. She knew it. And the best she could hope today was that the bad times weren't back to stay.

She head the soft sound of a door opening quietly behind her. Despite herself she could feel her heart skip a beat and it was all the effort she could manage just to turn around slowly.

"Mrs. Travis?" Casey's uncharacteristically quiet face peeked around the corner. When she saw Mary was there, she opened the door a little wider and came into the room. She seemed so timid these days, Mary thought, so unlike her former youthful exuberance. Mary hoped there still remained a chance for it to reemerge. 'Mrs. Travis," Casey said again. "I think...I mean I should...well, I have to go out to the farm. There're the chickens and the cow and the horses. I can't just leave them. It's been, well, it's really been too long and I've got to go. I just thought I should let you know."

Mary reached back and untied the printer's apron she was wearing. "If you give me a minute," she said, "I'll go with you."

Casey startled like a green colt. "Oh, no, you don't have to. You've done enough. More than enough. It's time I was--"

"Casey," Mary put up her hand to stop further protests. "I could use the break. I like fresh air. And I want to come. So no arguments." And she smiled gently. Don't worry, she wanted to say, but there was so much to worry about. And how could she ask Casey to do what she herself could not? So, she smiled and tried to look more confident than she felt and she took Casey's arm as they walked down to the stable to get Mary's carriage. Mary could see Casey looking furtively at each of the people they passed on the boardwalk. Once or twice a man she didn't know approached them and Mary a tightness in the way she walked that persisted until the man passed them and went on.

"Good morning, Yosemite," Mary said when they reached the livery. "Could you harness my buggy? Casey and I are going out to Nettie's to check on things."

For a moment it seemed that the liveryman would say something, but he just looked at Mary with sharp eyes and went off to pull out her horse and harness him to Mary's modest rig. Mary looked at the people on the street. It was a warm day, but not as hot as it had been and there was at least as much activity as usual for the time of day, late morning. No one seemed worried. Had anyone noticed the seven were gone, she wondered. Did they take for granted the protection they received? Did they think it would last forever? What would they do when the next saloon fight broke out? When the next man broke his wrist? When the next rustler hit a ranch?

Hadn't they noticed how many odd things were happening? She mentally shook herself. Of course, they hadn't. She almost hadn't noticed herself. Might not have known at all if she hadn't seen how sick Nathan was, if she hadn't been involved in helping to sober Josiah, if she didn't know that Buck and Vin and Chris had disappeared. She'd have been worried about the Indian troubles, troubled by the bank robberies, and annoyed at the trail crews, but that would have been it. She hoped that this was all wrapped up very quickly. And, thinking of the blood stains on Vin's rawhide coat, she hoped that all of them returned.

"Mrs. Travis, your carriage awaits." Mary turned to see Yosemite studying her carefully. The reins to her buggy in his hands.

She smiled at him. "Thank you," she said. He gave her a hand up into the seat. As he handed her the reins, he laid his hand on her arm and squeezed it lightly. Mary looked at him and she could see understanding in his eyes. Maybe, she thought, some people didn't know what was going on. But, looking at Yosemite, she realized that some people certainly did. "Thank you," she said again. And this time she didn't mean thank you for hitching up my horse.

"You need anything, you let me know," Yosemite told her.

Mary felt the buggy tip slightly as Casey scrambled up beside her. "I will," she told Yosemite sincerely. "If it's anything you can help with, I certainly will." She flicked the reins across the horse's back and headed down the main street of Four Corners toward Nettie Wells's small ranch.

As they cleared the edge of town, Casey turned to Mary. "I want to thank you," she said shyly, "for everything you've done. Lettin' me stay with you..."

"It was nothing, Casey," Mary said sincerely. "I know your Aunt Nettie would want me to."

"Do you think we'll ever see them again?" Casey asked, changing the topic of conversation so abruptly that Mary had to think for a minute before she could follow the shift.

"Are you worried about JD?"

"Yes! No! I mean, I worry a little about him, but then I think he'll be all right because he always is all right and at least I got to say 'goodbye' to him."

'Aahh,' thought Mary. "Buck knows, Casey," she said. "He has to realize that you're thankful for what he did."

"But I never got to say it."

Mary barely remembered when she had been young enough to still believe that all the words that needed saying would be spoken. She knew that Casey had seen people die; no one could live in the West and not see death up close. She'd lost her parents when she was very young, but she still had boundless optimism; she still believed in the rightness of the world. "You will," she said, patting Casey lightly on the arm. "You'll get your chance."

Casey didn't look any less worried and Mary knew there was little she could say at this point to draw the girl's mind away from the thoughts that occupied her so. For the next mile they rode in silence.

The closer they got to the ranch, though, the more uneasy Mary became. 'Something's wrong,' she thought. Nothing looked out of place. The sun was overhead; the sky was clear. There was a soft breeze blowing from the west, just enough to move the tree branches above them. The road they traveled was quiet. Mary could hear Casey shift beside her in the seat, the creak and groan of the buggy wheels, the clop of the horse's hooves. It was quiet enough that she could hear water bubbling in the creek just across the way. But, and she realized abruptly what was wrong, there were no birds singing.

She took the turn into Nettie's and pulled the horse to a stop. For a moment she and Casey just sat there, both of them too shocked too move.

"NO!" Casey cried, leaping from the buggy before Mary could stop her. Mary looped the horse's reins and stepped out of the buggy herself. Feeling a lowering dread in her heart, she reached under the seat for the revolver she always kept there. Carrying the heavy weapon, she followed Casey.

There were signs of destruction everywhere. Half the upper railings of the corral were broken; the horses gone. The barn door was wide open and loose hay was scattered across the open yard. Bridles, harnesses, and broken feed sacks were also tossed and scattered, as if they'd been yanked out, considered, then tossed aside as useless. Most disturbing of all were the chickens, their dead bodies scattered like rag dolls.

"Who would do this?" cried Casey, running up to Mary.

Mary just stood there in the middle of the yard, looking at the ranch. Who _would_ do this, she wondered. Nothing that had happened so far had prepared her for this. How did this relate to mine cave-ins and Sterling Michaels and separating the seven?

"Is it because...," Casey asked in a horrified tone. "because people hate me now?"

For one quick anxious moment Mary wondered if Casey had told them everything about her encounter with the trail hands. 'Could they have--' No, she shook her head. There was no sense in that line of thinking. Best deal with the matter at hand.

"Casey," Mary said. "No one would do this because of anything that happened to you." She said it firmly and, she hoped, convincingly, though she had no idea why someone _would_ do this. "I want you to look around. Be careful!" she said sharply as Casey turned large frightened eyes to her. "I want you to see if you can find anything unusual." When Casey's eyes seemed to widen even further, she added, "I mean, anything that might tell us who did this."

The two of them spent an unpleasant half-hour sorting through the debris that had been left by the mysterious raiders. When they were through they looked at what they'd found: a half dozen arrows, the broken shaft of a spear, a piece of torn buckskin cloth, and two feathers that might have been from eagles.

"Why?" Casey asked in a broken voice. "Why would Indians attack the ranch? Aunt Nettie and me--we've never done _anything_! And why," and her voice rose as if this was the worst thing of all, "why would they kill the chickens? If they were hungry, I could understand it, but to just kill them!"

Why? That was the question. Why _would_ Indians attack the ranch? Why this ranch? Why attack? Each question led to another question. Besides, the Indian troubles were just rumors. Part of the general talk that had been circulating lately, like questions about Nathan's skills as a healer. Mary had heard of uprisings on other reservations. Horrible stories that she was never completely certain were true. But not here. Ezra had been out to the reservation. Surely he'd have gotten some sense of...

She shook her head again, this time briskly, as if putting all unproductive thoughts aside. "Casey," she said, "this is what we're going to do. We're going to clean up this mess and put things back in order. If you find anything that doesn't belong, bring it here."

Casey nodded sadly and started toward the nearest dead chicken. She'd only gone a few steps when she turned and said quietly. "But who will we tell?"

And Mary, reminded once more that the men they relied on for their strength and their strategy were no longer there, didn't have any answer for her.

Part 69

Nathan paused on the landing after he climbed the low flight of steps that led to the kitchen door. The servants' entrance. He felt the feeling again -- the one he'd thought he would never feel any more after he'd escaped all those years ago: invisibility. As if he had ceased to exist as a human being, and was pure body in one place, serving, and pure mind somewhere else, trying to not feel. He shook his head, bitter. Not this time. Not now. He had to hang on to who he was to help Buck and Vin. Not being noticable by the white people in the house could help. BECOMING truly invisible -- to himself as well as to them -- would not.

He raised his hand and knocked.

The woman who opened the door had a broad face, dark as ebony, and her grey hair was pinned up. She looked at Nathan a long moment with no expression at all on her face, then shifted her weight just a little impatiently. "Whatchy'all want, Big Man?" Her black eyes twinkled just the tiniest bit at the edges as she named him, and Nathan grinned.

"Lookin' for a job," he said. "Thought maybe a big house like this--"

The woman pulled the door opened wide and nodded to him. "C'mon in, Son," she said, "Reckon if y'all ain't worked ya' ain't et, neither." She shoved him into a small straightbacked chair and moved around the gleaming kitchen with a heavy tread, to push an enormous bowl of beans and cornbread into Nathan's hands. The smell alone nearly brought him out of the chair, and he closed his eyes tightly a moment and thought: "I am Nathan Jackson, an' I heal folks. An' Buck an' Vin are countin' on me."

"Don' y'all like beans 'n' cornbread, Boy?"

"Yes'm." Nathan opened his eyes and looked at her. "How come I've been demoted from 'Big Man' to 'Son' to 'Boy' so fast? You mad at me?"

The woman broke into a loud laugh, throwing her head back. "Lawd no," she cackled. She tucked several tight grey curls back into her bun and waved a wooden spoon at him from where she stood at the stove. "Y'all is jus' ASKIN' fer me to whup ya', though!"

"I bet you could, too." Nathan smiled and lifted a spoonful of the beans to his mouth, big broken pieces of yellow cornbread soaked nearly purple in it.

"Y'all better b'lieves it." The woman laid the spoon on a rest and opened the oven door to slide some pans out and set them on the windowsill to cool. She looked back at Nathan, stood up, and put her hands on her hips, a cloth dangling from one of them. "Y'all ever worked in a Big House b'fore?"

"Yes'm." Nathan found himself sliding into the old ways as the cornbread sank into his belly. "I worked in the Big House nigh on five years."

"Geo'gia?"

Nathan shook his head. "I don' like to think on that much," he said. "I work for wages, now. Use what I know t' make my own way." He looked up at her with an honest face, asking her to meet him halfway. She stood there a long moment, sizing him up, then nodded.

"Marse Sterlin' is lookin' to find hisself a manservant," she said. "Reckon y'all could do that?"

Nathan hadn't known a man's heart could blanch, but his did then. He swallowed hard. "Yes'm. I know all that kinda' work. Layin' out clothes. . . " he swallowed again, " . . . dressin', fetchin' things, runnin' special messages. . ."

"Yeah." The woman's voice was so flat that Nathan wasn't sure what she meant. She waved a hand suddenly in front of her face as though to shoo away a fly. "C'mon then," she said, "We'll git some a' the trail dust off'n ya', wash ya' up . . . " She looked up at him, "Y'all needs a shave," she scolded. "Shame on ya', askin' for a job needin' a shave."

"Yes'm." Nathan couldn't help but grin at the woman as she led him to a washbasin and towel on a side porch. "So what d' they call you, Ma'am?"

"They calls me MIZ Ruby, thank ya' very much." She shoved a bar of lye soap at Nathan. "Ah's the cook, an' gen'rally in charge a' the hired help inside the house here."

"Then it's lucky I met you first." Nathan smiled as he started to wash up, and Miz Ruby laughed again, full and round and sassy.

"Don' Ah know it, Boy. Don' Ah know it!" She went back to the doorway and waved her hand in front of her face again. "When ya's all fixed up nice-like, y'all come on in an' Ah'll take ya' to Marse Sterlin'." She disappeared into the kitchen, and Nathan heard her moving around, then calling for "Bitsy" and "Coco," after which there was much running of feet and "fetching" of this and that for the noon meal, which should have been ready hours ago if Bitsy and Coco weren't such lazy things.

Nathan looked at his face in the dim, cracked mirror that hung over the basin, and stropped the chipped razor on the leather strip nailed to the wall. He saw his own eyes were dark, his face the same as before. 'I'm not invisible,' he said to himself. 'I can still see me.'

Part 70

They were laying on the cot. The elements of dress that he was expected to wear lay on the cot that he'd been told was his to sleep on, on the side porch that he'd been told was comfortable for sleeping this time of year, and he stood there and stared at them like they were foreign objects. The pants were black and had a starched crease in the center that could cut glass. The coat was black, too, a cut-away with a long tail. The shirt was stiff, starched, white, the collar straight up. The vest was pearl grey, the tie black and gray. The fabric was coarse, and worn, and starched into respectability if not into comfort.

Nathan fingered the coat and wondered for a long moment if he'd really be able to go through with it. He didn't know how many men had worn the suit before it came to be laid out on this cot, but the odor of their defeat lingered, to his mind, and it made his breath come shorter just to smell it.

It wasn't going to be easy. Not at all.

The fact was that "Marse Sterling" was just the sort of man Nathan had expected him to be. His personal power had hit the healer like a thrown rock the moment he'd set foot in the same room with him, and Nathan had known right then that Buck and Vin were in serious trouble. A man like that didn't fool around. He moved, and when he moved he was fast and he was hard. Nathan sighed and started to pull off his own coat. He could hear the women in the kitchen, the women he'd told that his name was Nathaniel Lincoln for fear someone in the house would know his real name. And he just kept telling himself it wasn't him who was changing at all; it was Nathaniel. Nathaniel was going to wear this suit, not Nathan. . . Still.

He folded his soft shirt carefully and put it under his pillow, as Bitsy's voice rose in a graceful laugh from the big table where she was sitting peeling potatoes. "Oh, Coco," she was saying, "don' do that or you'll make me laugh so that I'll cut myself!" Nathan smiled and shook his head, sliding his arms into the long white sleeves. Bitsy was the color of chocolate, slender and quick and only maybe 16 years old. Maybe 17. She'd come sailing into the kitchen with a stack of dishes she was clearing from the lunch table earlier, in a way that had nearly thrown them clear across the kitchen when she collided with Nathan. He'd caught them, though, and steadied the girl as her feet slid on the slick floor and she squealed in fear.

"Whoa!" he'd said, and grinned, and the girl had turned a rosy shade of cherrywood, and dimpled her little skinny face at him, and dropped two cups to the floor with a crash that had brought Miz Ruby running from the parlor.

"Bitsy! Chil', ain't y'all NEVER gonna' learn not t' carry too much at one time?" She'd started pulling dishes from the girl's arms as she chided her, and Bitsy had thrown a shy glance at Nathan as she'd surrendered the things to the fussing woman.

"I'm sorry, Miz Ruby."

"'Sorry' ain't gonna' put new cups in the china cab'net! Now gets yo'se'f in there an' finish clearin' that table, but be mo' careful!"

"Yes'm." Bitsy had thrown a quick look at Nathan over her shoulder as she'd gone through the door back into the dining room, and he could have sworn she'd given her hips a little exaggerated sway when she did, one that had set her simple cotton shift swinging around her slender brown ankles. He chuckled again, thinking about it, and started to change his pants.

"Miz Ruby!?" It was Coco who was calling now. "Miz Ruby, esta la--" The young voice broke off in giggles and Nathan smiled again to himself. Coco was even younger than Bitsy, maybe only 13. She wore the same kind of smock as the older girl, but her long hair was done up in a single heavy braid that hung to the small of her thin back, and he'd already seen her slip out of her little sandals three times in the space of the short time he'd been there, to push them under the table and curl her bare feet around her chair legs. She'd batted the little boy Pedro so playfully that it made Nathan think maybe he was her brother. He finished fastening the black trousers and picked up the tie. He looked at it a long time before he settled it around his neck and began to loop the ends into a knot.

"Git yo' shoes on, Coco, an' git these linens up t' Marse Sterlin's rooms right quick." Miz Ruby was obviously loading the girl's arms as she spoke, and Nathan looked at his own hands in the dim mirror, watching them tie the knot, as the woman continued. "Then git them dirty things outta' the chute an' gets 'em into the pile for washin'. Ya' gots t' get up early tomorrah', chil', an' get it done an' on the line sooner than ya' did last time."

"S�, Miz Ruby." The girl's voice was cheerful if young, and Nathan could picture the way her long braid swung behind her as she hurried out of the kitchen and down the hall to the stairs with her little arms full of the linens. Fine linens. Held against her coarse cotton pullover frock. His hands fell to his sides as he looked at the knotted tie, and he reached over to pick up the vest and put it on without looking away. He began to button it.

"Pedro, y'all gots t' git one a' them big bags a' flour outta' the pantry an' bring it in, an' puts it in this bin, here. Ah's nearly out for mah bread, an' tomorrah's mah bakin' day."

"S�, Miz Ruby." Nathan had hardly seen the boy. He was a shadow, maybe 8 years old, short and stocky and quiet. Nathan heard the pantry door open and the sound of a big bag of flour being dragged across the kitchen floor. He finished buttoning the vest and smoothed it.

"Them 'taters done yet, Bitsy-chil'?"

"Yes'm."

He slid his arms into the coat.

"Git them things out an' set 'em up. Hurry up, chil', or supper'll be late an' we'll t' blame."

"Yes'm."

He pulled it square on his shoulders.

"Set the table, an' then slice up the tomatah's an' greens. An' remember Marse Sterlin's gots to have his port this even'in'. Ya' gots t' help me remember to tell-- Nathaniel! Wal, Ah'd never've knowed ya'!" Miz Ruby broke off her conversation with Bitsy to admire Nathan as he opened the door from the side porch to come into the kitchen. The woman walked all around him, pulling at seams and straightening fabric, smoothing it with her hands. "Look atcha'," she said, "y'all would think this suit was made for ya'."

Nathan looked at Miz Ruby and his eyes were suddenly so dark that she took a step back from him and shook her head.

"Ah meant," she said, "that--"

"I know." Nathan smiled sadly, then shook himself and smiled more broadly.

"No harm done."

A tiny cry of pain and the clatter of a spoon falling to the floor made Nathan and Miz Ruby both turn to see that Bitsy had jerked her arm away from a large pan on the stove and was holding it with her other hand. Her little dark face was corded in pain and she took two steps back and bent over with a gasp.

"Bitsy, chil'?" Miz Ruby was at the girl's side in a moment. "Lemme' see that."

"Oh!" Bitsy looked up with big tears standing in her eyes. "It's burnt, Miz Ruby!"

"Lemme see it." Miz Ruby pried the girl's fingers from the burn and clucked sympathetically when she saw it. "Ah, looka' there," she said. "Ah'll gets th' butter to put on it."

"Wait a minute," said Nathan. His voice was gentle but filled with calm assurance. He looked at Bitsy and smiled kindly. "Mind if I look at your arm?"

Bitsy shook her head shyly and bravely extended her arm to Nathan, although he saw that her lips were quivering. He looked down at the red blister with a small black part in the middle, and shook his head.

"That mus' hurt a lot," he said. He looked up into Bitsy's face. "You're a brave girl. You didn't do this on no pan, though."

"No sir." Bitsy's voice was small. "I touched the stove lid somehow."

"Oh, Chil'!" Miz Ruby looked at the girl and then at Nathan.

"Well, butter's not really what this needs," said Nathan. "although that's usually a good thing for burns. You need somethin' else." He looked at Miz Ruby. "You got any buttermilk? Some soda?"

Miz Ruby nodded and moved quickly to get out the items Nathan had named, and then handed him a small dish to mix up whatever concoction he had in mind.

The healer made a paste and smiled at Bitsy as he gently layered it onto the burn like a salve, and then wiped his finger on the rim of the dish. "If you've got a little bit a' clean muslin?" he looked at Miz Ruby, and the woman nodded and fetched some. Nathan tore it into a long strip and wrapped it around the treated burn. Bitsy held up her arm and studied what he'd done with amaze on her face when he finished.

"How's that feel?" asked Nathan.

"Lots better." Bitsy smiled, and then looked at Miz Ruby. "It's a LOT better," she repeated.

"What a blessin'," breathed Miz Ruby. Then she jumped. "Lawd, Ah almos' forgot Marse Sterlin'! He's waitin' on ya', Nathaniel!"

Nathan took a deep breath and closed his eyes a moment at Miz Ruby's reminder, and then opened them to see that she was holding out a small key.

"This's t' Marse Sterlin's liquor cab'net," she said. "Port's what 'e's wantin' with supper t'night. An' brandy after, Ah'm guessin'."

Nathan took the key and looked at it a moment, slipped it into his vest pocket, and went into the hallway that led to the parlor. It was time to start serving Marse Sterling.

Part 71

Chris had been on the trail for two long days, bound and blindfolded.

He was not a happy man.

He'd worked at the ropes for hours until he had hardly any feeling left in his fingers. Two days. Two days of darkness. Of travelling with a man who only spoke when he wanted to and whose face Chris never got to see. He could tell as time passed that they were climbing further and further into the mountains. Last night when they'd camped it had been downright cold and Chris had hardly even been able to sleep with his hands tied and his legs tied and the blindfold, the stinking, unchanging, goddamned blindfold, across his eyes.

The man had fed him and given him water, but there was no sense of him, no presence that Chris could grab at, no weakness to exploit, no way to see if he ever let down his guard. And Chris wanted to know this man, wanted to see him, and somehow--somehow--he wanted to destroy him.

In the darkness where he had been living for the last two days, as his headache slowly waned and he started to think more clearly, he'd built an image in his head, an image of the man who'd trapped him and who, Chris knew, sooner or later, was going to die. The man hadn't killed him. There had to be a reason for that. And it seemed like a weakness to Chris. Sure, he couldn't do anything right now, but sooner or later the blindfold would come off and the ropes would come off and then...well, then someone would certainly pay.

He'd been noticing for the last few minutes that they seemed to be travelling on a smooth fairly flat road. He could hear men's voices and the knowledge that there were _other people_ who could see him, bound to this horse and blindfolded, and did nothing made the muscles in his neck cord tight. Kill him. He would kill this man the minute he had the chance.

"Mr. Larabee." The voice, so unexpected, after so long, startled him. "I hope in the course of the days to come that you will find everything to your satisfaction." Then, he laughed, a dry chuckle, like old bones rattling. The sound made Chris strain, almost involuntarily against the ropes that bound his wrists, blood slicked the ropes and he didn't even feel it.

"Untie me, you son of a bitch," Chris said very quietly. "Let me see your face."

"All in good time, Mr. Larabee," came the slightly amused response. "All in good time."

Chris felt the horses slow and turn. There were more voices here. So many people, he thought. And none of them willing to do a damn thing. Who is this man? What does he want?

+ + + + + + +

Ezra was bored and uncomfortable and starting to get cold. He'd been perched high above the compound with binoculars for the last two hours trying to keep an eye on what was happening. Nathan had gone down to the main house to try and get a job, something Ezra did not approve of at all. The man was still recovering from his recent bout with arsenic poisoning. He'd ridden hard to get here and it would be stressful for such an essentially honest man as Nathan Jackson to carry off the dissembling and outright lying that would be required.

Of course--Ezra tilted his head to one side and tried to make out something worthwhile in the chaotic view spread out before him--it was impossible for _him_ to go. He'd actually met Sterling Michaels. Beat him handily at poker. It would be unthinkable for the man not to remember him. On the other hand, as he'd pointed out to JD and Josiah after Nathan left, that didn't mean he couldn't explore other parts of the compound. The place was huge and if he didn't want Michaels to see him, Michaels would never see him. Unlike Nathan, he _was_ actually pretty good at lying and dissembling. So, to Ezra at least, it made sense for him to go in and see what information he could find.

When he had pointed this out, however, Josiah had just looked at him, with that annoying preacherly expression. "Ezra," he'd said. "In that jacket you couldn't be inconspicuous if you tried."

Which Ezra had to concede was likely true. But there was a gambling tent down there. He fixed his binoculars on it and focused. He could see men walking in counting their days wages--actually counting it out in the open!--and he knew he could make a killing if he could just get down there. But he'd also had to agree with Josiah that they had to be conservative. They best they could figure was Vin and Buck were somewhere in the compound. And they _knew_ that Nathan was at the house. They couldn't risk any of them. But knowledge was power. That Ezra knew without doubt. And so, reluctantly, Ezra had agreed that JD would try to slip into the stables as a new hand and Josiah would go too, saying his horse had lost a shoe up the mountain and could the smithy fix it for him since there wasn't a town around for miles.

So, now, here they all were. Nathan in the house--assuming all had gone according to his risky dangerous plan. JD and Josiah at the stables and taking any opportunity that presented itself to learn more about the mining operation and the man who ran it. And Ezra, way up the mountain, cold and miserable and annoyed, trying to figure out the lay of the land.

He focused his binoculars on the gambling tent again. Well, he had to admit it was really more of a saloon with a few working girls laughing at the wide opening, trying to entice the miners in. But to Ezra it was a gambling tent because that was the only thing inside that mattered to him. He swung the binoculars up and over until he could see the stable. It was a fairly large stable and they'd figured JD could find out a lot just pretending that he wanted a job. Ezra adjusted his focus again, trying to pick JD out from this distance. There were horses coming and going, a large paddock next to the stable itself with twenty or so horses in it. Ezra saw two riders approaching and something in the odd stiffness with which the second rider sat caused him to look more closely.

His fingers froze to the binoculars. Everything froze as if an icy winter chill had just spread through and over him. Without even noticing it, his hands, holding the binoculars, fell slowly away from his face. Then, he realized he couldn't see anymore and he snapped them up again. His eyes strained through the double eyepieces. 'It couldn't be,' he breathed to himself. 'It's impossible.' But there it was and there was no denying it. The one thing they hadn't known, now known.

Finally, Ezra knew where Chris Larabee was.

+ + + + + + +

Striker smiled to himself. This was too good, he thought, it was all just too good. He rode through Michaels' mining compound with Chris Larabee on a lead rope behind him and no one looked at him.

Yes, he thought. Yes, exactly.

Occasionally someone would look up, see who it was and look away again. Being noticed by Striker was not a good thing.

He reined in his horse in front of the stable, dismounted, and handed the reins to one of the hands. He turned to another man who was trying to figure out how to fade into the background without Striker noticing.

"Do you know Sullivan?" he asked. At the man's nervous nod, he said, "Get him."

As the stable hand ran off, stumbling on the rutted road in his hurry, Striker looked over at Chris. The man sat his horse like a coiled spring and Striker knew that if he untied him now Larabee would flat explode. And if he were ever tempted to do something as unreasoned as that, he'd be tempted to do it now. 'Chris Larabee,' he thought, 'you're supposed to be a challenge.' And he was a little disappointed at how easy it had all been.

"Looking for me?"

Striker didn't even have to turn to know that the flat voice he heard behind him was Sullivan. He took a deep relaxed breath before he faced him.

Sullivan looked much the same, though Striker noticed something, a hint of angry desperation in his eye that hadn't been there a few days ago. 'Not enjoying the big house?' Striker wondered. 'Too bad,' he thought. Striker himself generally avoided Michaels and had no intention of going over there unless he absolutely had to. Sullivan would just have to buck up and deal with it.

Striker walked Sullivan ten feet away from the horses so Larabee couldn't hear what he said. "Get him down. Take him to Michaels. Make sure his horse is taken care of."

He could see the thought cross Sullivan's mind, 'Why the hell don't you do it yourself?' But the words themselves never formed and Striker was satisfied.

He left Sullivan and Chris Larabee and headed for the saloon.

+ + + + + + +

JD couldn't believe it.

He'd convinced Ezra and Josiah to let him go in first. He might not know as much as the others about some things, but he knew stables. He could fit in anywhere. Josiah had looked at him critically, but JD had beaten him to the punch. "You're thinkin' my clothes ain't right," he'd said. "But if I leave the jacket and roll up my sleeves and get rid of the hat..."

"You gotta get rid of the guns, JD," Josiah had told him reluctantly. "You can keep them in your saddlebags, but you're not going to convince anyone you're looking for any job you can get with those pistols."

It had left JD feeling really vulnerable, more vulnerable than he'd expected considering he'd spent an awful lot of years never wearing a gun belt at all. But it made him feel kind of good too, that he was risking so much to find Vin and Buck. He wondered sometimes if he could ever make a real sacrifice, could ever step in front of a bullet the way Buck had stepped in front of Anderson's sword. Maybe this wasn't that. But it was something.

JD'd talked himself into a try-out as a stable hand and he was already working, mucking out stalls when Josiah arrived.

JD could hear Josiah's deep voice buzzing in the background as he worked. It was comforting to know he was there, and JD's mind started to drift to ways he might get away from the stable and search the compound. The place was huge, but they had to be here. They had to be! They weren't any place else and they had to be somewhere. He dug the fork into the fresh straw and threw it into the stall he'd just finished cleaning out. Okay, maybe it wasn't great logic, he thought, but he sure wasn't going to give up. And if he wasn't going to give up then he had to figure that what they were doing was going to help somehow.

He suddenly noticed that the entire stable had gotten quiet. There were five or six other men working and they'd all quietly stopped what they were doing. JD looked up. Even the man that Josiah was talking to had held up his hand. And, JD looked at Josiah and felt a slight shock, Josiah had frozen and was staring at something beyond the stable door.

JD followed the line of his gaze and almost shouted out loud. Chris! My God, it was Chris! He'd come here looking for Vin and Buck and it was a minute before his mind even registered that the bound and blindfolded man on the horse outside _was_ Chris. But it was. JD stopped for a minute and tried to think. They had to get Chris out of here. And they had to get him out now. He laid the pitchfork carefully against the stable wall. Quietly, he slid back into the shadows, moving slowly to the south side of the stable where his own horse and his tack were stored. He'd get to his guns. He'd get them fastened...

He'd just turned to head straight for his saddle bags when someone grabbed him by the back of the collar. "What are you doing?" It was Josiah, his voice deep even when he was whispering.

"We gotta help him, Josiah. Did you see? It's Chris!"

"What are you planning to do, JD?"

"Cut him loose."

Josiah pulled JD with him into a shadowy corner of the stable. The rest of the men had either slipped away or were standing near the man who had brought Chris in, seemingly too frightened to move. "And then what?" Josiah asked JD calmly.

'How could he be calm?' JD thought. What he said was, "And then we get out of here."

"Past how many men?"

"But it's Chris!" JD protested. "We have to help him."

"Yeah, we do, JD. But we don't do him any good if we get ourselves killed. You know that. Just wait."

JD watched as one of the stable hands took off, returning in a few minutes with another man. The man who'd brought Chris in gave the other man some orders and left. JD saw the second man's face darken as if he didn't like what was going on, but didn't have much choice. Then, he grabbed the reins of the first man's horse from the stable hand and stalked into the stable.

Josiah grabbed JD's arm and pushed him farther back into the stable until they were standing in the deepest shadows near the last two stalls in the barn.

JD could still see Chris and he wanted to help him, felt as if he was failing him in the most basic way by hiding back here in the shadows, even though he knew Josiah was right. They didn't have a chance. 'I'm sorry, Chris,' JD thought. 'I'm sorry.'

He closed his eyes for a minute, took a deep breath, and opened them again. This was the way it was. They couldn't rescue Chris now. That was the truth of the matter. So he needed to do what he had come here to do. Gather information. Find a way to get them all out of this. He looked around him, his eyes adjusting gradually to the pervading dimness. He turned his head and almost gasped out loud.

"Josiah," he whispered urgently.

"Shhh!" Josiah warned him.

"Josiah!" His whispered voice was even more urgent, not to be ignored. Josiah looked at him. JD pointed to his left.

The horse in the stall right next to them was Buck's grey.

Part 72

"Cigar." Sterling Michaels didn't even look up from the map he was studying as he threw the words casually over his shoulder, but there was a clipped sound to them that made them into a command. Nathan stepped to a side table and lifted the rich leather humidor on it in his hands, carried it to Michaels, and came to a respectful halt just at the man's side and a step in front of him. He turned around and raised the lid to proffer the box's contents, and Michaels looked up with a swift, appraising expression.

"Good," he said. "Very good."

Reaching into the box, he selected a cigar that permeated the air with its odor even unlit, and then slid it between his lips and paused. Nathan closed the humidor and slid it beneath one arm so that he could strike a match; he leaned slightly forward into Michaels' cigar to light it, then shook out the match as a long slender tendril of smoke curled up from the end. Michaels leaned back away from Nathan, drawing on the cigar and then puffing out a cloud of blue, fragrant smoke. He smiled. Nathan returned the humidor to its place without having spoken a single word.

"You'll do well, here," said Michaels. "Tomorrow, when you-"

He was interrupted by a tap on the door to the library that made him turn with a slight frown. He glanced quickly to Nathan, and the tall man went to the door and drew it opened with a studied and gracious movement. When he did, a dark man in buckskin shoved another man through the opening with a sharp blow to his shoulders, nearly knocking him into Nathan as he did so. The healer quickly ducked his head to look at the carpet rather than let anything show on his face that Michaels might see. For he'd recognized the man in buckskin as a stranger he'd noticed around Four Corners more than once the last few weeks. And the man who'd been thrust through the doorway so forcefully ahead of him was Chris Larabee.

Michaels smiled broadly, like a greedy boy eyeing a pony in silver trappings, and pulled the cigar from his mouth with two fingers. He threw a glance to Sullivan and a shade passed over his face.

"Why are you the one bringing him, Sullivan?"

"Striker had somethin' else to do. He said bring him to you."

"I see." Michaels looked at Chris again, and then smiled with glittering eyes as he gestured to a leather chair with his free hand. "Sit down, Larabee."

Chris stood silently about five feet into the room, his hands tied in front of him and his dark clothes dusty. His hat hung behind his back, and there was a smear of dark, dried blood on his head. He eyed Nathan briefly with a flash of expression that Nathan imagined Michaels would take for envy, but that Nathan knew was deep, bone-chilling shock overlain by a mask of aloofness. Then his gaze slid slowly to Michaels and he stared at him unmoving, with eyes like pale agate. Sullivan frowned suddenly, and started to push Chris farther into the room -- clearly with intent to send him sprawling full-length on the expensive rug. Michaels raised a broad, well-manicured hand immediately and shook his head at Sullivan. His eyes snapped angrily.

"This man is my guest," he said coldly.

Sullivan froze. Chris slowly turned his head just far enough to lock his gaze with that of the man in buckskin, and hold it. Sullivan's face darkened and he jerked suddenly, gesturing at Nathan.

"Then let your trained monkey take care of 'im."

Chris looked slowly at Nathan with a sideways glance, and Michaels' eyes grew as hard and brittle as onyx buttons.

"You'll do well to remember, Sullivan," he said, stopping the man in his tracks as he stalked from the room, "that it is precisely _because_ he is so well-trained that Nathaniel is on the premises. If you are not careful, I may train him to take _your_ position next. After it's been vacated." Sullivan stared back at Michaels and his face grew even harder. "I do believe," added Michaels softly, "that he's bright enough to learn any job you might do."

Sullivan bit his lower lip ferociously, and left the room so quickly that it literally blew a draft through the library, to flutter the corners of the maps laying on the desk. Michaels stood looking at the empty doorway for a moment, then dropped his eyes to the maps, then looked up at Chris. The smile was gone now. He pressed his lips together tightly, then knocked the ashes from the end of his cigar in a sudden angry motion and indicated Chris as he spoke to Nathan.

"Cut 'im loose," he said roughly.

Nathan drew a penknife from a container upon the desk and approached Chris diffidently. The gunfighter held out his bound wrists, and kept his eyes on the ropes as Nathan sliced through them, drew the severed coils away, and removed them without dropping any of the bits on the rug. He wadded them and slipped them into a pocket, and returned the penknife to its case. Chris rubbed his wrists and turned his gaze to Michaels. He still hadn't taken a step on his own, or said a word.

"Two bourbons," said Michaels. Nathan went to the liquor cabinet as Michaels perched himself on a corner of the desk, cocking his head at Chris. "Well? Are you going to sit down so we can talk? Or will I have to call Sullivan back in here and let him convince you?"

Chris looked at the leather chair, heard the tight fury in Michaels' voice, and thought about Nathan being caught between them. He went to the chair and sat down. Michaels smiled and turned to face Chris, reaching out to accept the bourbon Nathan was serving to him on a silver tray. The healer turned then to offer the tray to Chris, and the gunslinger took the drink on it and exchanged a fleeting look with Nathan while the latter's body blocked Michaels' view of their faces. That single look was enough to convince him that he needed to proceed with even greater caution than he'd imagined. He took the bourbon and leaned back into the chair, raising it to dry lips as Nathan moved away again.

"I hear you're quite a leadership figure," smiled Michaels. Chris swallowed a sip of the bourbon. Nathan wiped the tray and returned it to its place on the shelf.

"I hear the same about you," said Chris mildly. Nathan smiled a small smile to himself. He was fairly certain Chris had no idea yet who his captor was.

Michaels stood up and walked around to stand behind the desk, his forefinger tapping against the side of the bourbon glass. He set it down on the desk suddenly and put both hands on the surface to lean his weight on them and point a suddenly hungry face towards Chris.

"I am not about leadership," he said softly. "I am about power." He straightened. "Do you know the difference, Larabee?"

Chris drank another sip of the bourbon, his steady gaze tracking Michaels' face as the other man moved around. "I have a feeling it doesn't matter if I do," he said evenly. "I think you want to explain it to me." His lips quirked at the ends. Michaels laughed.

"Listen to that, Nathaniel," he crowed. "Listen to the man!" He shook his head. Then he looked at Chris more closely again and held his cigar out towards Nathan without looking at him. The tall man in butler's livery came to him silently and took the cigar carefully between two fingers, to set it to rest several feet behind Michaels in an ornate marble ash tray. Michaels leaned even more closely to Chris, and his eyes gleamed. "You're a smart man," he said softly. "I don't think I have to explain anything like that to you. I think you know about power, too. You just," he said, leaning back, "don't know how to use it effectively."

Chris set his bourbon down on the table next to him, feeling the rush of the alcohol burning in his veins too swiftly in the absence of food or water. He remained silent. Michaels frowned slightly.

"Do you know my name?" he asked. "Do you know who it is you have the privilege of being addressed by?" He waited a moment, and then smiled as if unveiling an enormous secret of great worth. "Sterling Michaels." He laid one hand upon his breast, literally indicating his own person with pride. "I am Sterling Michaels . . . of Apex Mining."

"Should I know you?" Chris managed to look entirely innocent, although Nathan was fairly certain he not only knew who Michaels was, but had some idea of what he controlled. The name was prominent, however shockingly unexpected in the context of their own lives at Four Corners. He studied the glasses he was polishing more carefully so that his facial expression would not change. Michaels studied Chris's face a long moment, then laughed.

"Very witty," he said. He walked to the wall where a large framed map hung, and pointed to it. "This is Apex," he said. "3600 square miles. Two hundred eighty miners working shifts around the clock at this location alone. Four other shafts going full-bore, and the largest stamp mill in operation between Virginia and the Comstock."

"But . . .? " Chris paused, and again the edges of his mouth quirked upward a fraction.

"But." Michaels tossed down his bourbon suddenly, and held out the glass for Nathan to receive back. "But there is a slight . . . inconvenience." His eyes penetrated Chris with determination as Nathan took the glass away. "Apex does not seem to have . . . the apex. Funny, isn't it?"

"If you say so." Chris folded his hands in his lap.

"NO! It's a travesty!" thundered Michaels. He swept the maps on the desk to the floor in a sudden savage attack on them, and they slid in a pile that carried paperweights and several books with them. The thump and crash of their landing brought Bitsy's small face to a crack in the door, but it withdrew quickly, the door shutting again, when Michaels roared incoherently at her and threw a book at the door that rebounded from it to land in the middle of the room. The library was silent, then, but for his panting. He looked at Chris again, his eyes brittle.

"Those savages don't even care about silver. They don't need or want it. But I do. And I will have it." His voice was low and throaty. "And you and your men will not be there to stop me from getting it. Indian wars . . . happen. All the time -- if no do-gooders are around to ask too many questions of the rumor-mongers. No one will know I had anything to do with it at all."

"I'll know," said Chris simply. His own eyes had grown hard.

"Yes," said Michaels, recovering his poise and smiling again slightly. "But not for long." He nodded to Nathan. "Tell Sullivan to lock him up," he said shortly, "and then draw my bath."

"Yessir."

It was the first word Nathan had spoken all evening, the only one in Chris's presence. And it made him unaccountably shamed somehow. He averted his eyes from both men and left the library silently, walking backwards as was proper, drawing the doors closed in front of him with both hands.

Part 73

It wasn't much of a plan, even Buck had to admit that. And it involved using Vin as bait which Buck found damn near intolerable. But he didn't have a choice. No choice at all. If he didn't get Vin out of there soon, then there was no point getting out at all.

He tried to blink away the fatigue that grabbed at him every time he was still for more than a minute at a time. He stretched out his bad leg, trying to keep it from stiffening up. He had no idea what time it was, no way to tell if time was passing at all and he had to be ready when Sullivan came. He'd moved Vin so that he could be seen clearly in the lantern light by someone standing halfway down the stairs. He'd positioned himself to one side in the shadows beyond the stairs. All he needed was for Sullivan to come down the stairs and take two steps toward Vin before he realized Buck wasn't there. Two steps. That was all. If he did that then Buck had him. He hefted the statue arm that he was going to use as a weapon. Despite the stifling air in the cellar, the marble was cool and smooth. It was a woman's arm, finely carved and broken off right at the shoulder. It was heavy as an iron rod and aside from once having been a thing of beauty, it would do the job Buck needed it to do. If the whole situation hadn't been so grim, he'd have smiled, getting help from a lady one more time.

He grasped the marble limb by the hand and swung it, just to keep himself awake, just to be ready. There was no way for him to stand and take his swing at Sullivan that wouldn't make him put a lot of weight on his bad leg. There was only one chance. If he missed... well, if he missed it wouldn't be worth thinking about. Underneath his moustache, his lips were set in a thin, grim line. He had to take the one chance against the stark certainty that otherwise Vin would die.

Not knowing how long it would be or how it would all turn out, Buck settled down to do what he had never learned to do well--to wait.

+ + + + + + +

Chris couldn't remember ever being quite this angry. And for Chris Larabee that was saying a lot. Four days earlier he'd been sitting in the saloon sipping whiskey and things had seemed more or less all right. Since that moment Buck had left town and Vin had left town after him. Neither one of them had returned forcing Chris to leave town in search of them. Rape accusations. _Rape_! He couldn't ignore that. Not even for his friends. And then, he'd been kidnapped, by someone who knew who he was and what had happened in his life. By _this_ man--Sterling Michaels--who he'd just met. And why? Hell! Why?

But then, he thought, fighting hard to rein in his temper as Sullivan suddenly shoved him in the back, trying to send him sprawling down the hallway, he had so many questions that it almost didn't really matter. What the hell was _Nathan_ doing there? If he'd come there looking for Chris then that meant he knew a hell of a lot more about where they were and what was going on than Chris did. What had Michaels told him? Indian wars? Silver? What the hell had he been talking about? And he thought Chris was a threat? And what did any of this have to do with the reason Chris had ridden out of Four Corners in the first place? What did any of it have to do with anything?

Sullivan stopped abruptly, yanking at Chris as he did so. It was all Chris could do to keep from decking him, but, judging from the house they were in and Michael's talk of the kind of facility he had, Chris knew he had next to no chance to get away. Not yet. And he'd just be endangering Nathan. Or leaving him here trapped. And he had no intention of doing that.

"Stand right there," Sullivan said, pointing to a place where he could see Chris clearly. Chris looked at him with smoldering eyes, but moved to the place Sullivan had indicated. 'I could take you,' he thought, and he took some pleasure in thinking it. 'If I wanted to, you'd be finished.' He'd have been startled to learn that Sullivan was thinking the exact same thoughts about him.

Sullivan unlatched and unbarred the cellar door, swinging it wide on its hinges. He took a step back and gestured to Chris again to precede him.

+ + + + + + +

Buck heard the scraping sound of the latch on the cellar door being lifted. Adrenaline rushed through him, raising the hair on the back of his neck and heightening the sensation in his fingertips. He shrank back a little further into the darkness. He'd moved the lantern one support beam over so that, although the light was still clearly visible from the stairs, it left the stairs themselves in darkness, making it easier for him to fade into the shadows to the right of them.

He heard the bar being lifted. He looked at Vin lying in the small circle of light cast by the lantern. Even from where he stood, Buck could tell that he was fevered and in pain. 'I'm sorry, Vin,' he thought. 'I'll make it up to you.'

Then, the door was swinging open and he heard the first footstep on the stairs.

+ + + + + + +

Chris looked down into the darkness of the cellar opened up before him. He cast a brief glance back at Sullivan. 'You've got to be kidding me,' he thought. But of course, Sullivan wasn't. He gestured harshly toward the stairs, indicating that Chris should proceed. Once more the thought flickered across Chris's mind--'I could take you.' And he wanted it so badly he could taste it, like a bitterness in the back of his throat. 'No,' he thought. 'Wait. I can wait.' So, with a sharp, smoldering look at Sullivan he turned and started down the stairs. The steps themselves were dark--really dark and Chris had to grab at the rickety railing to keep from stumbling. But there was a lantern already lit, below. And...he paused for a moment, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. A man lying on the packed earth floor. A man...oh my god, Vin!

Chris practically leaped down the stairs. He was within half a step of Vin when he heard a sound behind him. He turned and saw something big and unidentifiable rushing at him. He threw up his arms, bracing for a blow that didn't come. Instead he heard a choked-off gasp, the rush of air past his face, and a sharp hiss as someone stumbled. He took a step back and braced himself and only then did he see who had tried to attack him.

It was Buck.

+ + + + + + +

Buck had waited as he heard the first foot step on the stairs. From where he stood, he couldn't see Sullivan, except for the silhouette of his boots between the risers on the stairs. He heard a second step. And then another. Then, a pause. 'Yeah, you bastard,' Buck thought. 'Just do it.' And his lip curled back at the thought of Sullivan, looking at Vin and thinking about what he would do to the injured and nearly helpless man. And in turn that thought sent strength rushing through Buck's arms, strength that made the heavy marble arm feel feather light in his hands. He heard Sullivan's step quicken, heard the impact of his boots soften as they hit the cellar floor. 'One more step,' Buck thought. 'Just one more.'

Sullivan took one more step. Buck moved out of the shadows, raising the arm to swing it, all his weight behind it, all the frustration of the uncountable days he'd been locked in here. The man in front of Vin turned toward him as he drew back the arm and, as he had already started to swing, as the muscles in his arm were already tightening and pulling back and getting ready for the impact of the arm on Sullivan's exposed head, Buck realized with horror that the man he was swinging at was Chris.

He changed the arc of his swing and pulled back, leaning heavily on his bad leg to compensate and causing him to suck in his breath sharply at the pain that rushed up through him. 'Jesus!' he thought. 'Hell!'

"Chris!" he said. "What are you doing here?"

And above him, at the top of the stairs, like Cerberus at the gates of hell, he could hear Sullivan laughing.

+ + + + + + +

The cellar door slammed shut above them. They could hear the sound of the heavy bar dropping back into place. Chris looked at Buck. He looked down at Vin, who lay nearly still, his face flushed with fever, a large hole in his right shoulder. Chris's eyes glittered as he looked at Buck again. He'd used Vin. Used him as a distraction to get himself out of the cellar. Of all the miserable, low-down things...

Buck lowered the marble arm he'd been using as a club. The expression on his face flickered from shock to remembered anger to despair and finally settled on tired relief. He began to speak, "Chris, I sure am g--"

Chris exploded. He hit Buck in the chest with both his hands, sending him stumbling backward. "What the hell were you thinking, Buck? What the HELL were you thinking?"

Buck struggled to keep his balance without putting too much weight on his bad leg. Chris hit him again with the flat of both hands square in the chest, sending him into the back wall. His fingers dug into Buck's shirt and twisted it up into two tight handfuls of fabric, and he slammed the man against the wall so hard that it drove the breath out of him audibly. "Damn you!" he said. "What the hell were you thinking?" He slammed Buck again. And again. "Damn you! DAMN YOU!!"

A growl started rising low in Buck's throat and Chris pushed him hard against the wall, holding him with one arm across his chest and the other pressing against his throat. "This is your mess, isn't it?" he hissed. Images flashed across his mind--Buck facing off against Josiah, laughing with a dark-haired senorita while Chris's family was dying, leaving Vin to lie on a cellar floor while he looked for his own way out.

"Vin came looking for you. And now look at him," Chris said. "LOOK AT HIM!" Buck pushed Chris back hard in the chest, but it barely moved him. The arm on his throat released slightly and then was back, pressing harder. "You never think, Buck. That's your problem. You got Vin into this. You! You got me into this. You've got Nathan upstairs now trying to do God knows what!"

From the first moment Chris hit him, Buck's expression had grown darker and darker, but when Chris mentioned Nathan, he frowned. "Nathan? Here? What--"

Chris shoved against Buck's chest, pushing him back tighter against the cold damp dirt wall. "Don't! Say anything until I'm finished." His voice sank down and when he spoke again, it carried a cool, flat tone. "You ran out on me. You couldn't even stay and face up. I guess I was wrong about you."

"I guess you were," Buck whispered, a thin deadly edge to the words. His eyes bored straight into Chris's.

Chris looked at him. He looked back at Vin, who had barely moved since Chris had been in the cellar. "Were you going to just leave him?"

Buck didn't answer and it would have been clear to anyone but Chris at that moment that he wasn't going to answer. His face was terrifically still as if he'd removed himself completely. Chris didn't even notice. His voice was silky with a threat he wanted more than anything to carry out. "I'd really like to know, Buck. What you were thinking? Tell me. Were you going to leave him?" He shoved Buck in the chest again, pressing him harder up against the cellar wall. "Tell me!"

"Back off, Chris," Buck said in a low brittle voice.

"Tell me!"

"BACK OFF!" Buck pushed back at Chris with a full measure of strength that used his last remaining reserves, not even knowing that he did it, just knowing that he wouldn't take any more. He grabbed Chris by the front of his shirt and slammed him into a wooden support post, surprising Chris and shaking dirt loose from the cross beams to rain softly down on their heads.

"You don't know anything," Buck said. And he held Chris there for a minute, the way Chris had held him. Chris felt his own fury building again. 'Damn you, Buck!' he thought. 'Damn you!' Then, something shifted in Buck's face. Chris could see desperation and defeat chase away the anger, leaving behind only a bone-weary look of fatigue in the depths of his eyes.

His arm dropped away from Chris's throat. "The hell with this," he said. He walked away from Chris and sat down heavily on the cellar steps, his face half-hidden in a shifting sea of shadows.

Chris looked at him for a minute, unwilling to let things drop. Vin shifted again and this time he moaned slightly. Chris looked away from Buck toward the wounded man lying on the packed earth floor. He knelt beside him and put his hand on Vin's arm. It was hot and dry to the touch. "Vin. It's okay," he whispered. "I'll help you." He found the bucket of water and tried to get Vin to drink. He managed to get a little bit of water past his lips without spilling too much and Vin seemed to ease a bit. Chris carefully pulled back Vin's shirt to get a look at the wound. Big slug he thought with a sour tight look on his face. What the hell had happened to him? The flesh around the wound was angry and red. Did Nathan know Vin was down here? Why hadn't he done something? And how was Chris going to get him down here? Because it was clear Vin needed help as quickly as possible.

Vin shifted again and Chris looked around the small pool of light from the lantern for something he could use as a sponge cloth to cool Vin's fever. He heard movement behind him. Buck came across the cellar and without a word handed Chris the damp bandanna that had been sitting out of sight on one of the boxes. He turned back toward the stairs and for the first time Chris noticed Buck was limping heavily.

"You hurt?" he asked abruptly.

Buck stopped, turned back, and just looked at him for a minute. "Yeah."

Chris started to rise. "Let me look at it."

"Go to hell."

The two men stood and looked at each other for a full minute. Buck's eyes looked almost black in the unrevealing light, but there was something there, some spark of truth or integrity or...something that made Chris suddenly uncomfortable.

"Take care of Vin," Buck told him. Then he walked away.

Part 74

Dusk was approaching as a subdued Mary Travis and an uncharacteristically silent Casey Wells rode slowly back into the town of Four Corners. They'd spent the afternoon cleaning up the ranch. Casey had been determined that things be back in order, or at least as close to order as was possible, before her Aunt Nettie returned. They'd raked up the hay and untangled the tack and burned the chicken carcasses.

The two women had said very little as they worked, though once Casey had turned to Mary and said, "Do you think they're all right?" For a moment Mary had thought Casey was asking about Vin and Buck and Chris again. Then, she'd looked at the corral and she'd realized that in this moment at least Casey was thinking about the missing horses.

"It if was Indians who took them," Mary said carefully. "And there's no reason to think it wasn't. Then there's a good chance they can be recovered."

"But why would they do it? If they're just going to get caught anyway? Why?"

"Sometimes," Mary had told her, "people carry so much anger around inside that they have to do something with it. So they lash out at the nearest thing."

"But," Casey had protested. "That doesn't make any sense. We've never done anything, me and Aunt Nettie! Why would they do this to us?"

"They aren't seeing you or your Aunt Nettie," Mary had said. "They're seeing something that they can never have and that takes away from what they used to have. Do you understand?"

Casey had nodded, though it had been clear to Mary that she hadn't understood. Not surprising, Mary thought now as she flicked the reins at her tired horse, she didn't always understand herself.

Since that conversation, Casey hadn't spoken, but as they neared the lantern-lit livery, she sat up straight and looked intently down the darkening street. "Do you--" she began and when her voice trembled, she stopped and tried again. "Do you think there's any hope?"

The question made Mary's heart leap because she'd had the same thought herself and hadn't wanted to think it. Was there any hope? Had everything finally fallen irrevocably apart? "I think there's always hope, Casey," she finally said, not entirely certain that she really believed it herself.

Yosemite came out of the livery to greet them. "Mrs. Travis," he said quietly as he took the reins of her horse. "Is everything all right?"

Mary climbed slowly our of the buggy feeling a stiffness in her joints that was not entirely a product of fatigue. "Thank you," she said, aware of Casey still sitting silently in the buggy. "We're fine." She had thought the whole way back to town about whether to tell anyone what she and Casey had seen at the ranch. If there were really renegade Indian raiders operating out of the reservations then it was essential to do something immediately. No one had been hurt, but someone could be. And yet, she found it so difficult to believe. Ezra had just been out to the reservation and he hadn't seen anything, he hadn't been attacked. She didn't want to get the townsfolk worked up for nothing. She remembered all too well how close they had come to avenging Claire Mosley's death and how tragic that would have been. And yet, to say nothing...

"...a little worried about you, Mrs. Travis."

Mary realized that Yosemite had been talking to her and she shook her head slightly and turned toward him. "I'm sorry," she tried to smile and brushed a lock of hair off her forehead. "I didn't hear you. What were you saying?"

Yosemite looked at her closely, his grey eyes winking in the lantern light. "I said there was talk of Indians off the reservation. I was a little worried about you, Mrs. Travis."

"Indians?" Casey spoke up sharply from the buggy. "Who said so?"

Yosemite stepped a little closer to her as Casey scrambled down and into the pool of light cast by the two lanterns on either side of the stable door. "Clarence Solomon. Isn't he a neighbor of yours?"

Casey looked at Mary with troubled eyes. "He's just one property over to the west," she told Yosemite.

"Well, he was in town today, complaining to that deputy from Eagle Bend. Said he saw a whole pack of Indians riding across his property early this morning. Said they were wearing buckskins and warpaint."

"Is he sure they were Indians?" Mary asked.

"Now, I'm never one to jump to a conclusion, ma'am," Yosemite said in his deep and quiet voice. "And I don't like what's bein' said anymore than you do. But who else would be ridin' out that way dressed in buckskins and feathers and war paint."

"And they stole our horses," Casey said quietly.

"What?" Yosemite looked at her sharply. "They raided your ranch? Stole your property?"

"Yosemite," Mary said urgently, laying her hand on his arm. "We need to proceed cautiously here. We don't know that everything is what it appears."

The liveryman took a deep breath. "Mrs. Travis," he said. "You know I respect you. You've made this town a place that someone can think about settling down in. And I am not a man who thinks the worst of others. Especially Indians." He looked at her carefully for a moment before proceeding. "It's not something I talk about much, but my wife was a member of the Sioux Indian tribe. We lived with them for quite a long time before she....passed on."

"I'm so sorry," Mary said, thinking that it was possible to see someone every day and never really know them.

"What I'm saying is I know Indians get blamed for a lotta things they don't do. But that doesn't mean I'm stupid. And it sure doesn't mean I'm going to stand around and watch you or Miss Wells there get hurt."

This time it was Mary who paused for a minute. "Yosemite," she finally said. "There are some things going on that you don't understand. Actually, I'm not sure _I_ understand them either. But, I have reason to believe that in some things at least we are being manipulated. And until I understand what's manipulation and what's real...well, it makes it difficult to decide what to do." She studied him for a moment to see how he would react to this information. When he didn't say anything, but just continued to look at her steadily, she went on. "Perhaps we should talk more about this," she said. "Would you join Casey and me for dinner?" she said. "I don't want to involve too many people, but I'll invite Mrs. Potter too. Maybe together we can figure out what to do next."

He didn't ask her about inviting any of the seven, but Mary figured if anyone knew that they had all left town, Yosemite would since they all stabled their horses there. "Around seven?" she asked.

"Make it seven-thirty and I'll be there, ma'am," Yosemite said. "My night hand comes on at seven and I need some time to clean up."

"Yes." Mary said briskly. "Seven-thirty." She felt better just talking to him, felt as if she were doing something again instead of just waiting in dread. She still didn't know if the Indian threat was real or imagined, but she did know that in the current environment, acting too quickly could be just what someone wanted.

Yosemite walked into the stable to find a red-haired man with a close-cut beard waiting for him. "Yes sir?" he said, turning to unhitch the harness on Mary's buggy.

"You the liveryman?" the red-haired man asked.

"That'd be me." Yosemite had seen this man in and out of town several times in the last couple of days.

"You buy horses?"

"When I need them. You wanting to sell me yours?" Yosemite nodded toward a tie stall housing a dun-colored mare. He couldn't always remember people's names or even whether he'd met them before or not, but he always remembered a horse.

The man grinned at him. "Naw," he drawled. "That little gal there's not for sale. She's gotten me through a lot of rough situations. I'm just thinkin' I might be picking up a few extra horses in the next couple of days and I'm looking for a place to sell them."

Yosemite studied the man for a minute. There was something about him that he didn't quite like though he couldn't put his finger on it. Usually he judged a man by the horse he rode, but the dun was a fine specimen, obviously well cared for. And yet, there was something that made him uneasy.

"You ever have a horse for sale as nice as the one you've got," Yosemite said. "I'll be happy to buy him from you."

The man smiled at him. "I'll remember that." He walked by Yosemite toward the door.

"Mister?" Yosemite called after him. The man turned with a question in his eyes. Yosemite pointed to the side of his neck. "You got some mud or somethin' there. Might want to wipe it off."

Thompson slapped his hand to his neck and looked at the dark substance that came off on his hand. He looked sharply at Yosemite, but when he saw the man looking back at him with nothing but a friendly expression he smiled. "Thanks," he said. "I'm sure any ladies I meet this evening will appreciate it."

Yosemite watched him go, then shrugged and turned back to the task at hand.

Part 75

"Blast that Thomas." Miz Ruby stood in the darkened kitchen and looked at the kettle of soup. She'd left it on the table for the old man who did odd jobs and ran errands to take to the men Marse Sterling'd had to lock up in the cellar. Mister Sullivan had told her to feed them, and although he gave her the creeps, that Mister Sullivan, he worked for Marse Sterling same as she did, so what he said went and she'd set up the kettle and some bread and bowls. But here it sat, still on the table, and it nigh on to 10 o'clock p.m. at night. She shook her head and sighed. Want a thing done, gotta' do it your own self, she thought. Never any different, no matter what.

Miz Ruby slipped the wooden bowls and spoons into several pockets of her huge house apron, slid the handle of the covered kettle over her arm, and then picked up the loaf of bread. She pulled out a ring of keys with her other hand as she headed for the cellar door with a tired tread. Not for one minute did Miz Ruby worry about what kind of threat the men in the basement might pose to her. She was 64 years old and had faced down everything from raiding carpetbaggers to robbers and Yankees. God help anyone who crossed her when she was this tired. She'd smack 'em and toss their suppers on their heads to boot. Blast that Thomas.

She fumbled with the key in the lock a moment, then swung up the heavy bar that lay in place across the doorway and pushed the door opened. She could see they had a little light down there at least, so she wouldn't have to balance a lantern, too. All right. Miz Ruby pulled the door shut behind her and stuffed the keys in her apron, then started down the steps, calling to the unseen men as she went.

"Marse Sterlin' has sent ya' gent'men supper," she said. She still couldn't see anything of them, but she could hear at least one or two of them stand up at the sound of her voice. She went down a couple more steps and stopped to peer into the dim light so she could make out their features. A slender man all in black, but dusty as a hot day, was standing in an alert posture not far from the bottom of the stairs. She didn't like the way his eyes looked at all, no sir.

"Y'all back up," she said shortly, "if'n ya' wants any a' this. Ah ain't no fool."

The man backed away from the foot of the stairs, casting a quick glance to his left as he did so. Miz Ruby saw then that a second man stood a little farther off, more in the darkness, and he looked a lot less commanding than the first one did. He backed away, too, though, and Miz Ruby went on down the stairs and set the things she'd brought on one of the crates without taking her eyes off the two men.

"Y'all still gots water?"

"Yes ma'am." It was the man who was farther off who answered, and his voice made Miz Ruby's dark face crease into a smile.

"Y'all sounds like a nice enough fellah," she said, "Shame on ya', whatever you done to make Marse Sterlin' lock y'up down here." She paused, then indicated the food. "Wal, don' jus' stands there; eat up. It ain't gonna' get no warmer sittin' on that crate."

The farther-away man exchanged glances with the one closer to her, and then he nodded and limped heavily towards the crate. Miz Ruby bent down a bit to look at him more closely, and then slapped one broad hand to her breast.

"Lawd! What'd y'all do t'ya'self!? Heah now! Cain't you see this'n needs t' sit down?" She was waving one finger in the closer man's face, sternly. "How kin ya' stands there an' let this poor hurted fellah' go walkin' aroun' like--"

"It's all right, Ma'am." The man whose leg was all bloody smiled very tiredly at her and then took the hand she'd been remonstrating with into his own. "Thank you for bringin' us food."

Miz Ruby looked at him, speechless, as he limped past her to sit down heavily by the crate and lay his face in his hand for a long moment before he looked back up at the man in black, who hadn't moved a muscle in all this time. There was a tension here that the woman couldn't understand, and it made her knit her brows. She scowled at the man in black, then.

"Don't do t' waste good food," she said, and then she turned to go back up the stairs.

"Ma'am?" It was the one with the moustache, the one whose leg was hurt, who called to her, and Miz Ruby turned back to look at him with one hand on the stair railing. She waited while he obviously fought something inside himself, and then sighed heavily. "I don't know," he said softly, "if you can--"

"Shut up, Buck." The other man's voice carried a threat that made Miz Ruby bristle.

"Y'all kin let 'im talk," she said to that man. "He gots a right."

The one called Buck nodded thoughtfully to himself, stole a quick and bitter glance at Chris, then licked his lips. "We need some help," he said. He looked right into her eyes, and Miz Ruby blinked. She didn't see a bad fellah there at all, God bless her. Just one with his back to the wall and not much left in him. She leaned closer to him over the railing.

"Ah's listenin'," she said simply. Buck ran a shaking hand through his hair.

"My friend," he said. Miz Ruby looked over at the man in black and then back to the one called Buck. She narrowed her eyes.

"What about yo' frien'?" Her voice was suspicious, but Buck didn't hear it. He was way beyond subtlety by now.

"I think he might be dyin'."

Miz Ruby snorted. "Shoot! He ain't no closer to dyin' than Ah is," she said. She started up the stairs again. "Enjoy the soup."

"No! Please!" Something in the man's voice, some note of desperation made Miz Ruby turn back once more, and she crossed her arms over her ample chest.

"What IS y'all's trouble?" she said. "Ah don' see nothin' wrong down here 'ceptin' yo' laig. What's so all-fired important that--"

"He's not saying that _I'm_ his friend," said Chris dryly.

"No, not him." Buck shook his head. "The man back there . . . " He nodded towards the dark, farther beyond where he had been standing when she came down the stairs. He looked again at Chris, who still looked like he'd sat on a spider but remained silent this time. "If there's anything you can do, or bring us . . ."

"What?" Miz Ruby looked quickly towards the dark area the man had pointed to, and she suddenly thought maybe they were both dangerous after all. "How many a' y'all is down here?"

"Three." Buck stood up and limped heavily towards the darkness, where he sat down and turned his pale face to look at Miz Ruby.

The woman stood on the bottom step several long minutes. It had to be getting close to 10:30 by now, and she had to get up at 4:00 to start the bread. No tellin' what these two were up to. Still. She looked at the untouched soup and bread. They had to be hungry, but they had ignored the food she'd brought like it wasn't all that important right now. So maybe something else was. She studied the man closest to her one more time, then shook her head.

"Ah'll warn ya' both," she said, "that if ya' tries any fancy tricks on me, Ah'll clobber ya' good. An' Ah means it." Then she walked heavily over to where the moustached man was sitting on the floor. As she got closer, she bent down, then drew in her breath.

"Lawd," she said softly. "Ah's sorry Ah disbelieved ya'." She knelt next to the young man who lay insensible on the cold cellar floor, and touched the back of his wrist with a practiced hand. She looked then at Buck's wrists, quickly appraising the similarity of the marks on them, then into the gunman's dark eyes. "How long's he been fevered like this?" she asked.

"Two days," said Buck softly. "Have you got any herbs or anythin' that might--"

Miz Ruby stood up suddenly, and Buck looked up at her. She sighed heavily.

"Ah'll go see what Ah gots," she said firmly. "Ah'll be back direc'ly." She was halfway up the stairs before she stopped and bent down to look at the two men again. "Y'all eats while ya' waits for me," she said. "Looks to me like ya' kin both use it. Ah'll bring y'all some coffee when Ah comes back."

Part 76

Nathan couldn't sleep, even though he was so tired he'd thought several times during the day that he was going to fall right to the floor. He rolled onto his side on the little cot that Miz Ruby had set up for him on the side porch, and wondered for the hundredth time where Chris was right now. In the house, most likely, but where? And if he was here, then why hadn't Nathan seen Buck and Vin if they were here, too? Maybe he was too late, and they were both dead already. Nathan squeezed his eyes shut, trying to make sense of what he'd been able to learn.

Then he heard a stealthy tread come through the kitchen doorway and out onto the porch where he was laying. Nathan lay perfectly still, but looked with opened eyes at the farther edge of the room. Someone's arm reached out to a shelf there, and drew something from it. He heard a rustling sound, then soft breathing. Nathan thrust himself up off the cot on one arm.

"Miz Ruby?"

"GAWD!!!" Miz Ruby fell back against the wall with her hand to her breast in such horrific fright that Nathan leaped to his feet and went to grab her arms.

"It's just me, Miz Ruby. Nathaniel. Take it easy." He lowered her to an old wicker chair and knelt down by her, looking at her closely to see if she was maybe having an apoplexy. The woman lowered her head and closed her eyes for some moments as her breathing stabilized, and then she raised the hand that had been on her breast and smacked Nathan across the arm with it.

"Ya' scared the LIFE outta' me, boy! Whatcha' go an' do a thing like that for!?"

"I'm sorry, Miz Ruby." Nathan smiled when he saw the return of her normal personality and realized she'd be all right. "I thought you remembered I was sleepin' out here."

"Oh." Miz Ruby looked over at the cot and then at Nathan.

"You all right, Ma'am?" Nathan saw that there was still something wrong, and he couldn't keep the concern out of his voice. He looked at what she'd taken from the shelf and then pulled it from her fingers.

"Feverfew?" He waited for her to say something.

"Ah keeps the herbs out here, where it's dry." The woman's voice was almost shaking. Nathan shook his head.

"But why feverfew," he asked.

"It's for fevers," said Miz Ruby simply.

"I know that." Nathan smiled. All the old people thought that, because of its name, but it really worked better on headaches without fever. He made his voice more gentle. "I'm askin' who's got the fever. Do you need any help?"

Miz Ruby paused a moment, then remembered how Nathan had put that stuff on Bitsy's burn and made it so much better. She looked at him quizzically. "Ya' knows some about healin', doncha'?"

"Yes'm." Nathan lay a reassuring hand on the woman's arm. "I'd be glad to help you. I wasn't asleep anyway."

Miz Ruby stood up and laughed. "Wal, ya' owes me at least. Seein' as how now Ah gots one foot in mah grave, thanks to y'all scarin' the livin' dogsbreath outta' me."

"Yes, ma'am." Nathan stood up as the woman did, and then was surprised when she suddenly fixed him with a penetrating look.

"One thing," she said.

"Yes'm?"

"This's a favor for ME. Ain't got nothin' t' do with no one else here. Mah bidness. Ah'll ask ya' t' remember that, an' keep all of it t'yerse'f. No matter what." Nathan was about to reply when she added. "Ah gots t' make ya' swear it to me, Nathaniel."

"I swear," he said solemnly. "I won't say a word to a soul. No matter what."

"Good." Miz Ruby turned and headed back into the kitchen, then out the other side and into a long hallway. "Ah ain't got t' be this old without Ah learned how t' keep outta' trouble." She pulled out a ring of keys and opened a heavy door, and a cool earthy smell rolled out of the opening when she did. Nathan's heart leaped as he realized it led to a cellar.

Chris.

But how or why would Chris be sick with a fever, especially when he'd been fine before? Miz Ruby bustled past Nathan even as he was turning it all over in his mind, then pulled the door shut behind them as he followed her in, and down the rickety steps into the dimness below. Nathan had to bend low to keep from hitting his head on the beams, and all he could see until he reached the bottom was the back of Miz Ruby's ample person. But suddenly and to his immense relief he saw that it _was_ Chris who was there, and he seemed as fine as he could be under the circumstances. Immediately, though, Chris's eyes shot him a warning look, so Nathan braced himself thoroughly enough not to react when he turned a little farther and saw Buck. He swallowed, and nodded towards the man's bloodied leg as if he'd never seen him before.

"Is this the--"

"No, no," said Miz Ruby. She was bustling off farther into the dark. "Over here. This'n, on the floor here."

Suddenly Nathan realized who it was who had a fever, and he knew by the cautious looks that Buck and Chris gave him that he was right. And that it was bad. When he got to Vin, he knelt down already having a good idea of what he might find; Buck had obviously been hurt and not received any medical care, and Nathan remembered all too well the bullet hole he'd seen in the tracker's coat. So Vin . . . He felt his heart sink as he ran practiced eyes over his friend's still form, and then started to examine him.

"How long ago was this man shot?" Nathan didn't even look up, and it was Buck's voice that answered him.

"Four days. I think."

"Anybody get the bullet out?" Nathan had carefully and gently rolled Vin to his side and pulled off his shirt to look for an exit wound.

"No."

Nathan shook his head at the angry appearance of the wound, and sat back on his heels. He looked up at Miz Ruby.

"He needs a lot more'n feverfew, Ma'am, if he's gonna' live."

Miz Ruby looked into Nathan's face very carefully. She licked her lips. "Is that somethin' y'all knows how t' do, Nathaniel? Fix 'im up, as bad as 'e is?"

"I can try." Nathan regarded the woman steadily, trying not to let her see the desperation he was feeling. He didn't know what he'd do if she told him to leave it be at this point. By the time he could slip down here on his own without her knowing it, Vin would likely be dead.

Miz Ruby looked at Buck and Chris and then back at Vin. She looked at Nathan, then. "Ah cain't stan' by an' watch a man die jus' 'cause no one done nothin' to help 'im," she said. "See what y'all kin do for 'im, Son. Jes' don' tell Marse Sterlin' or . . . that Sullivan fellah a' his."

"Yes'm." Nathan felt nearly dizzy with relief. He took one of the woman's work-worn hands in his own. "Miz Ruby, I need some things down here to help this fellah. Can you get 'em for me?"

"Why not," she said. "Looks like we ain't none of us sleepin' tonight nohow."

"Thank you, ma'am." Nathan released her. "I need hot water, boiled. A real sharp knife. Cloths I can use to press on that wound, an' some to tear into bandages. Soap, a coupla' clean basins."

"No feverfew?"

"Yeah, feverfew." Nathan smiled at the woman. "You were right about that. It was a good idea. An' if you've got any willa' bark, bring that, too."

He watched her as she went heavily up the stairs, his hand on Vin's arm, then waited as they all heard the door shut and lock. Nathan leaned quickly over Vin and touched his face lightly, as Buck and Chris joined him.

"Boy am I glad to see you," said Buck softly.

Nathan was prodding at the wound with his fingertips, and Vin moaned very softly and turned his head, then shuddered deeply. "That's a hell of a big slug in there," said Nathan.

"Yeah. He's been in a lotta' pain from it." Nathan looked up at Buck sharply, to see a wrenching look of guilt and fury flash across his face.

"He ride all the way up here like this?"

"Yeah." Buck looked down at his own hands, and Nathan started to say something reassuring, then realized he couldn't. Not yet. He looked at Chris instead.

"I'm gonna need better light here."

Chris stood up without a word and pulled the oil lamp down off the hook on the beam, then carried it over carefully to Nathan and set it on the crate above Vin's head. "Will that work?"

"It's better." Nathan pulled the edges of the wound apart to break the yellow crust over it and start it draining, and Vin jerked sharply when he did. "Y'all are gonna' have to hold 'im for me when I start workin' on this," he said. He looked quickly over his shoulder as the cellar door opened, and all three men held their breaths for fear it wasn't Miz Ruby coming down.

But it was.

"See if these'll work," she puffed. "They's ol' but clean." She set a stack of cloths in Nathan's hands, and the healer smiled at her.

"They'll do fine, Miz Ruby."

She reached into an ample pocket. "An' here's two knives. Take whatever works. Ah gots to go back up an' git the water; ain't quite boilin' yet." She rose and went to the stairs again, then looked back at Nathan as she pointed to Chris.

"Watch out for that'n," she warned him. "Th' fellah' with the moustache is nice enough, but Ah don' trust this'n here nohow."

Part 77

They had a second lamp now, that cast enough light for Nathan to see what he was doing. He'd laid the knives in a shallow basin of boiling water, and torn bandages from strips of the cloth. He sat back on his heels and looked at Miz Ruby, who was standing bent over with her hands on her knees looking down at Vin.

"I think you outta' leave now, Miz Ruby," he said seriously.

The woman turned her head slightly to regard Nathan with a long, thoughtful look. "An' jes' why is that?"

"Two reasons." Nathan stood up. "There's no tellin' who might come down here before I'm done, an' no reason for you t' get caught if that happens."

Miz Ruby stood up, too, and folded her arms across her bosom. "That's one. What's two?"

Nathan bit his lips, glanced at Vin's flushed face, then looked back at Miz Ruby. "I gotta' go get some whiskey to clean out that wound."

The woman's face went slack for a moment, and then her eyes flashed. "T' think! Ah stood up for y'all to gets a job here, mahse'f."

"I ain't askin' you--"

"Ah know." Miz Ruby threw one hand up towards Nathan and shook it as her eyes snapped. "Y'all gots a key to Marse Sterlin's liquor cabinet, same as Ah does. An' ya' knows what happens t' folks like us what lifts so much as one sip outta' one a' those bottles in a rich white man's house."

"Yes'm." Nathan put one hand on the woman's shoulder and looked into her eyes. "That's why I don' want you to stay here, or for them to know you had anythin' to do with this. If it gets found out."

Miz Ruby returned Nathan's gaze steadily for a long moment, then shook her shoulder out from beneath his hand and looked pointedly at Chris and Buck. She looked Nathan up and down and cocked her head. "It's nigh ont' midnight," she said, "but when ya' finish up here, come 'n' talk t' me on the side porch about all these doin's. Ah may have to close mah eyes to some things, but that' don't mean Ah'm blind." She looked at Buck again, and then Vin, and turned and went up the stairs without a backward look. They could tell that she'd only shut the upstairs door this time instead of locking it. Nathan looked at Chris and Buck and sighed.

"I'm goin' to get some whiskey," he said. "I'll only be a minute, an' then we'll do this."

"Nathan?" Chris's voice brought Nathan to a halt. "What _does_ happen to folks like you an' her if you take liquor from the cabinet?"

Nathan looked at the floor between Chris's feet a minute, then looked up and met his eyes. "Man, woman, or child -- we get beat," he said simply. He turned and went up the stairs.

He had the little key to the liquor cabinet in the pocket of his waistcoat, and his finger rested on it all the way up the stairs and down the long hallways that led to the library. Nathan couldn't remember his heart ever pounding like this in all the years he'd been free, not even when he and the others had gone up against impossible odds in a gunfight. But this -- the admonitions all little slave children heard rang in his ears. Stealing liquor was the worst and lowest thing there was. Anybody that did it deserved the beating he got, and probably worse. Couldn't NO body trust a darkie who'd--

Nathan brought his thoughts up short, and frowned. I ain't a slave no more, he said to himself silently. And this ain't to drown my grief or sorrow. It's to save a life, an' the one in the wrong is Michaels. Not me.

But even as he forced the words into his mind, he felt the guilt of believing them to be false. He would just have to do it anyway, he realized. Some things were too ingrained to change them; you just had to act against them and let it go.

Five minutes later he had a tall bottle of whiskey in his hand and was headed back down the stairs in the cellar, his heart pounding so hard that he was light-headed and had to sit down for a moment when he got to the bottom. Chris squatted down in front of him and laid one hand on Nathan's knee, quietly.

"Thank you," he said softly, when Nathan looked up and met his eyes. "for all of us."

Nathan swallowed. How Chris knew what he was going through, feeling, remembering -- he wasn't sure. But it was there, in the gunman's still, clear eyes, and Nathan felt a warmth grow in his being and spread out like a clear light, to ease the guilt and shame he'd been getting more and more tangled up in all day. His dizziness receded, and he handed Chris the whiskey and cleared his throat.

"Let's get 'im fixed up," he said.

"All right," Chris breathed.

It took nearly an hour for Nathan to remove the bullet from Vin's shoulder, clean the wound, pack it with a cloth strip soaked in the whiskey, and then bandage it tightly enough to hold the packing in place. He'd been pleased when the wound had finally begun to bleed enough to push out the pus that had collected in it, and he'd had Buck and Chris turn Vin on his side for a while to help all the infection possible drain out on the tide of fresh blood. Now, sitting back with his fingers on Vin's throat feeling of his pulse, he wondered if it would be enough. He shook his head at the count he got, felt the fever again, and looked at Chris.

"We'll see," he said. "Not much more I can do right now. He should rest better now, anyway. Not be in so much pain if he comes 'roun'."

Buck sighed and rubbed his face with a tired hand, and Nathan studied him a long moment.

"Buck," he said, "I need to look at that leg a'--"

They heard the door open.

"Marse Sterlin's callin' ya'!" It was Miz Ruby's voice in a savage whisper, and Nathan leaped to his feet and began to roll down his sleeves.

"Hide all this stuff," he said in a quick, low voice. "I'll get word to the others somehow tomorrow -- today -- whatever it is. We'll get you outta' here tonight." He turned around and gave a final tug to his vest, then sprinted up the stairs. Buck and Chris heard the door shut, and locked, then looked at each other in the dim light.

"I'm gonna' look around in these crates an' see if I can find something to put under Vin, maybe wrap him in so he's not layin' on this cold floor," said Chris.

"Be my guest," said Buck, "I'm gonna' eat."

"No surprise to me." Chris turned to start going through the crates Buck had already been through, and Buck thought for a brief moment of telling the gunman there wasn't anything there. Then he scowled.

"Hell," he muttered. "Never mind." He stood up stiffly and started dragging himself over to the crate where Miz Ruby had put out food so long before. He dropped heavily to the ground beside it, and started ladling out a bowl of the cold soup even as he was chewing on a piece of bread. That was where Chris found him twenty minutes later after he'd given up finding any blankets. Buck's face was on the crate, and a spoon was in his hand, and he was asleep with his head against the side of the kettle.

Part 78

The first thing Nathan saw as he grabbed his coat from the kitchen chair he'd hung it over was Bitsy racing frantically through the kitchen. Her face wore a look of deep terror, and Nathan reached out a quick hand to catch her by the arm and pull her up.

"What's wrong, Bitsy?"

"Th' Mistress is back!" The girl leaned away from Nathan trying to draw her arm from his hand. "I gotta' go turn down her bed quick-like, or she'll be riled!"

"Does it matter that your dress is backside-to?" Nathan chuckled, releasing Bitsy's arm as the girl looked down at herself and threw up her hands in dismay. "Don' worry. I'll stall 'em," smiled Nathan. He hurried from the kitchen into the hall as he shrugged his arms into the coat sleeves, and headed for the front parlor. There was no question that it was there his services were required. He could hear the woman's voice three rooms before he got there.

"STERling!" she was crying, "STERling! For GOD's sake, get me a drink!"

"NATHANIEL!!"

"Yessir. What can I do for you, sir." Nathan had moved smartly around the corner into the room just as Michaels bellowed, with the result that he seemed to appear almost magically in response to the summons.

"Where were you?"

Nathan laid a hand casually upon his coat. "Proper attire, sir."

"Ah. Yes."

Belle peered at Nathan and walked closer to him. "Oh Sterling," she cooed, "what a perfectly lovely gentleman's gentleman you've gotten." She looked at the master of the house with her happy features restored. "Can he fix me a drink? Oh do say yes."

Michaels nodded slightly to Nathan, who turned immediately to Belle and inclined his head to her respectfully. "What would you like me to get you, Ma'am?"

Belle clapped her hands gaily. "Oh!" she cried. "Oh! Whatever I want?" She looked at Michaels and he nodded silently, a pleased smile on his face. The woman cocked her head to one side and looked back at Nathan. Her eyes sparkled in a way he remembered only too well from his days serving other women who had enjoyed the same sense of power. Suddenly she lay a single gloved forefinger lightly on his vest and smiled. "Cocoa," she said.

"Cocoa!" Michaels laughed. "It's AUGUST!"

Belle pouted. "You said ANYthing, Sterling."

The man sighed and looked at Nathan. "This is Miss Belle," he said. "She is mistress whenever she is here, and you will serve her as you do me. Cocoa it is."

"Yessir." Nathan nodded to Belle and to Sterling, and then backed from the room and hurried to the kitchen again. Damn! COCOA! How the hell was he going to--

"Here, here . . .already gots it on." Miz Ruby was at the stove, a little pan hissing over the flame.

"How you . . ." Nathan broke off and came over to peer into the pan. He looked up at the woman and she cackled lightly.

"Little Pedro." She pointed to a boy who was even then slipping out of the kitchen like a tiny shadow, his face sleepy. "We has him hang close an' listen at doors an' such-like when that Belle's in the house. He kin run fas' enough to git things goin' b'fore that woman gits all riled."

"She get riled often?" Nathan thought about Bitsy and shook his head.

"Ohhhh, she do indeed." Miz Ruby wagged her head and swirled the cocoa in the pan so it wouldn't burn, looking up at Nathan as she did so. "Y'all saved Bitsy gitten' herse'f slapped but good, ya' know that? Ah'm thankin' ya', Nathaniel."

"Bitsy. Slapped? Why?"

"For havin' her dress backside front. If'n Miss Belle'd seed 'er that a-away . . .mmmm. BAD bidness." She poured the cocoa into a rose-painted china teacup edged in gold, set the cup on a saucer, and the saucer on an elegant silver teatray. "Napkin," she said, pointing. Nathan took a square of the Irish linen off the shelf and folded it into a point, then set it next to the cup and saucer. Miz Ruby looked up at him and made a shooing motion with her two hands. "Now git it in to 'er. Hurry up!"

Nathan hurried.

He kept on hurrying for nearly two hours. Belle had to have a hot bath. With lavender. But that was TOO hot. And the towel really wasn't soft enough, and what had happened to the sachet she'd left in the linen drawer with it? Bitsy ran in and out of the boudoir with the same look of terror Nathan had seen on her face in the kitchen, and he did his best to back her up every step of the way as the lilting voice was raised for first one thing and then another. She had to have a soft bed, of course. That _dreadful_ man who'd driven her here after she'd gone to her little house and packed all her things had kept trying to go so fast that it would have raised endless dust that just totally destroyed all her laces and satins. Three days they'd been on that miserable road, and two nights. IMAGINE! But she'd made him listen to her, and here they were at last with all her precious things intact. But not another night in a hotel. Not her, no. She'd insisted, as any lady would, that even if they had to drive all night this night, they get to the manor without stopping for anything less than a down mattress and silk sheets. Ooooh, Bitsy-dear! Do see if my rose damask dressing gown is still hanging in the closet. And I need my nails buffed, don't you think?

Dreadful cowtown. Dreadful gunslingers.

Nathan stopped hurrying. He stood in the hallway outside the boudoir's closed door, his arms filled with a silk comforter he'd been taking to air, and listened as Belle's melodious voice filled in Bitsy-darling-Bitsy with all the horrid details of the absolutely _enormous_ ox of a man she'd had to seduce with her considerable charms. A preacher, of all things! Who was a GUNslinger! Fortunately, she was a consummate actress, so the part had been well-done and she'd claimed her victory. Fancy me being ruined, Bitsy! Isn't that ridiculous? I am PERFECTION!! Her laugh sent a shiver down Nathan's spine, and he thought for a moment he might stop breathing altogether.

One day. A single day. And already he'd slipped into a place where having been caught off-duty and potentially "in trouble" had knocked him so far off his center that the name he'd heard hadn't even registered. Miss _Belle_. My God.

Later, he wasn't at all sure what he did after that point in the long night, except that Nathan knew he somehow fulfilled all his duties and that Belle and Sterling had both been fully and amply tucked into their respective bedchambers before he was permitted, finally, to drag himself to the kitchen and drop into a chair at the table. The old clock was chiming three as he pulled his arms out of the sleeves of his coat, and he wondered tiredly if he could even make it to the cot without passing out. A soft hand on his shoulder made him turn his head wearily, knowing already that it was Miz Ruby. The woman pulled out a chair across from him and sat down heavily, to regard Nathan with serious eyes that were dark as deep ponds in the unlit kitchen.

"Ya' knows 'em," she said softly. Just like that. No preamble, no reference, no recrimination. Just a statement. Nathan looked down at his hands and then back at the woman. He was so tired.

"Yes," he said.

Miz Ruby took a deep breath and rubbed a tired hand across her eyes. "Lawd, Ah was hopin' Ah was wrong," she muttered sadly.

"I won't lie to you, Miz Ruby." Nathan looked at the woman and lay his large hand over her worn one where it lay on the table. "You're too good a woman."

"What Ah is, is a LIVE woman," said Miz Ruby. Her voice sounded almost angry, but still soft in the silent kitchen. "An' Ah didn' live this long by gettin' int' such as this!"

"I didn't know it would involve you," he said. "I'm sorry."

"Ah kin see that." The woman shook her head and pulled the skirt of her apron up over her head suddenly in a gesture Nathan had not seen in many years -- not since the days when he'd lived with women whose only chance of privacy was to cover their heads, women who'd wept alone beneath their aprons in little one-room shacks full of too many people. He stood up and went to stand with his arms around her shoulders and waited while she got her composure back together. Finally she lowered the apron far enough to wipe at the tears that were streaming down her dark face. "Nathaniel, what's Ah gon' do? Ah cain't let y'all jus' walk outta' here. But if'n Ah was t' tell Marse Sterlin', he'd tell that Sullivan fellah, an--"

"Miz Ruby." Nathan's voice took on a serious tone that made the woman look up at him. He squatted down in front of her, so that his face was nearly at the same level hers was as she sat in the chair. "Sullivan is responsible for that man bein' hurt to start with. If he finds out any a' this, he'll kill him. An' the others, too. An' . . . me."

"But why?" Miz Ruby's face worked as she looked into Nathan's for an answer, and the healer found he wasn't sure he could give her one. He had only suspicions about Michaels. Maybe Sullivan had acted on his own. Maybe Belle had . . . his thoughts trailed off and he rubbed his face wearily. God, when had it gotten so complicated! He realized Miz Ruby had put a hand on his arm, then, and looked up at her.

"Miz Ruby, one thing I gotta' tell ya': my name ain't Nathaniel Lincoln. It's Nathan Jackson. But I was afraid someone here would know that name, so . . . " His voice trailed off and he sighed.

"What's 'is name, that one that's fevered?" she asked softly.

"Vin."

"What kinda' man is 'e?"

"A good one, Miz Ruby. I met 'im 'cause some cowboys was fixin' t' lynch me, an' he stopped 'em. Him an' the fellah in the black."

"Him!?" Miz Ruby scowled. " Ah never figgered that'n for nothin' good. Ya' tellin' me true? He saved yo' life?"

"Yes'm. It's God's truth."

"Why was them cowboys gonna' hang ya'?"

"'Cause I ain't white." Nathan said it softly, knowing that she knew it already, anyway. The woman frowned slightly.

"So why'd them two save ya'?"

"'Cause I'm a man."

Miz Ruby pulled back from Nathan and put her hands on his arms and looked deeply into his eyes. "Y'all ain't lyin' to me."

"No, ma'am."

Miz Ruby was silent a long while, her eyes distant. Nathan waited, listening to the heavy beat of the clock echoing through the still house. Finally she sighed, a long shuddering sigh that Nathan swore he could hear plantation field songs in, and she laid one hand on the side of Nathan's face and spoke to him in a steady voice even as tears welled up in her eyes to spill down her cheeks unheeded.

"Ah be sixty-fo' years ol'," she said, "an' Ah ain't never done nothin' wrong that Ah knowed it in all those years. Ah'll admit, they's been times Ah've hadta' work kinda' hard not to know certain things, but they wasn't big ones." She patted Nathan's face and lowered her hand. "Ah cain't find it in me to turn y'all over t' that Sullivan fellah. Ah knows he'd kill y'all. No doubt atall. Ya' kin see killin' in the man's eyes. But . . . " she hesitated, and bit her lip, then went on, "Ah don' know what'll happen, rightly. When y'all have got away. Maybe 'fore ya' go, ya' kin help me figger what to do, so's Bitsy 'n' Coco 'n' Pedro 'n' me don' wind up on the wrong side a' that man's temper neither. Ah'd hate like sixty t' see them young 'uns --" Her voice broke suddenly, and she put her face in her hands and bowed her head and began to rock back and forth. Nathan drew her into his arms and simply held her. He bowed his own head over hers as a mockingbird called from outside, and the night began to fade into morning.

Part 79

JD extended his hands to the stove, trying to warm them up while he waited for the coffee to brew. It was about three hours before sunrise. He'd need to be at work at The Compound at dawn. Who knew it would be so cold? Of course, JD was used to the cold in Boston but he'd never expected to feel this cold in August for pete's sake. JD huddled his arms close to his body and tried to generate some body heat.

"Feeling the heat there, JD?" Josiah walked in with an armload of chopped wood.

JD shuddered and smiled wryly, "there's heat?" JD questioned skeptically.

Josiah chuckled deeply. "Coffee should be ready. Let me have a cup while I pack some food. Need to get out there and relieve Ezra. Bet he's really feeling the cold."

JD sobered, "what about the guys?"

Josiah pursed his lips considering JD's question. "Well, we saw them take Chris to the big house. If they're not being held there, you can pretty much depend it's inside somewhere. So I expect they're not as bad off."

JD cocked his head and looked skeptically at Josiah.

Josiah laughed again. "Not as bad off if they were outside in the elements." Josiah sobered and made eye contact with JD and nodded his head firmly. "We'll get 'em, JD."

"How can you be so sure?"

Josiah winced hoping he wasn't lifting the boy's spirits too high. "No crows," Josiah flashed his broad smile and looked up.

JD grinned for a brief moment. "Josiah," he asked seriously, "do crows even live here?"

Josiah just chuckled.

"Come on, we gotta get moving?"

"Thanks, Josiah."

Josiah paused. 'For what, son? For what?' Damn, he couldn't forgive himself that at least half the problems they now had were due to his hateful tongue. A weapon he used so effectively that it might now cost Buck and Vin their lives. He might not have fired the gun but he delivered the first shot, maybe the fatal one. Josiah ran a hand raggedly through his hair, 'shit,' and he'd run off at the mouth to JD. Raised his hopes, probably should have prepared him that they might not all survive this. Hell, they just knew Buck and Vin were brought here. Nobody said anything about alive.

+ + + + + + +

Ezra rocked back and forth. He was in a low squat hunkered down trying to stay warm and watching the big house and compound. He'd been reduced to stealing his foul-smelling saddle blanket to wrap around him in a desperate effort to stave off hypothermia. God damn, it's August. Ezra looked up beseechingly and just a tad bit annoyed, 'you do realize it's August?' A gust blew up and Ezra shuddered. 'I take it that's a no,' Ezra frowned, 'maybe a yes,' he did realize.

Ezra was just a tad bit cranky and he wasn't sure he was thinking clearly; he hadn't gotten any sleep. Not that he was supposed to, but if it had been quiet down there he could have closed his eyes, any change in rhythm of the normal noise of the compound would have jerked them open. The thing was the lights were never doused in the big house and the compound never quieted to that rhythm which every town and establishment inevitably did in the middle of the night. What did it mean?

He had seen the lights doused upstairs and assumed the big man had retired for the night. Next, he had seen the front rooms of the house go dark. It should have been a matter of at most an hour for the kitchen lights to go down but they never had. He'd seen the shadows move continuously, he'd seen light on the back porch and another figure rise up, and more movement. They'd disappear for awhile and then come back many minutes later. Where would they go? One time he had seen a light toward the front, maybe the library? Liquor cabinet? Why do you need liquor in the middle of the night, Ezra mused. To relax? To drown in? To treat the injured? -- treat the injured! He'd never saw Chris leave the house -- so where would they keep him. Where were those people in kitchen going? A cellar? Did that mean that Vin and Buck were there too? Ezra chewed his lip worriedly, 'shit, pure speculation.'

Ezra had seen the people again in the kitchen. A broad figure with a big bosom -- the cook? A much taller, leaner figure -- Nathan? Ezra half-considered sneaking into the back porch to see if he could get information from Nathan but he quickly rejected it. 'Don't let impatience draw you into a stupid mistake. Wait for Nathan. He'll come to you.'

In what was clearly the middle of the night a carriage arrived -- one man and a petite woman aboard. The man was obviously a lackey -- Ezra smiled with grim empathy -- the woman was a shrew. Ezra had seen the lady hit the man with some implement, probably an umbrella, and he could see the lights of the house come up as the whole household was roused by her arrival. It was several hours later before the lights were doused upstairs. The back of the house lights never dimmed. Her arrival interrupted any sleep the household staff could possibly have gotten. 'Selfish bitch,' Ezra thought cynically and he'd never met the woman, but he didn't doubt his assessment was accurate.

Ezra heard Josiah and JD draw up in the woods behind him and walk towards him. He smiled. He prided himself on knowing it was them and not having to move from his huddled position.

"Ezra," Josiah greeted.

Ezra nodded, his teeth chattering. Josiah poured coffee into a cup and offered it to Ezra. Ezra looked over at JD who was staring at the ground and idly kicking his foot, then he peered up at Josiah. A shudder raked Ezra's body and not from cold. "What?" Ezra asked Josiah in a flat voice.

"Rode by their cemetery. Two, fresh unmarked graves," Josiah's voice fully conveyed defeat.

'Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.' Ezra's mind screamed and he valiantly held his composure. "Might not be them," Ezra forced out passed his clogged throat, desperately searching for hope.

"Might not," Josiah affirmed, but his heart clearly was not in it.

Ezra looked up at Josiah. "No matter what. We know we have two men alive in that house. Maybe more. . ."

Josiah's head swiftly turned to Ezra and he frowned at him. Ezra nodded in return. "JD," he quietly called the young man over.

"No, I don't know if they are alive. But there has been a lot of activity in the house and not related to servicing Mr. Michaels. I saw activity in the kitchen well into the early morning. They would be in the kitchen then leave it but no light shone in other parts of the house. I speculate they went to the cellar. Might be where the men are?"

"Good, good." Josiah was talking himself into this being good news -- Ezra knew it. "JD, keep your ears open. Also see if you can move Chris, Buck and Vin's horse to a corral that we can claim them if we need to. Look for their saddle bags, they might have dumped them in the tack room and we grab them when we get them out of there."

"If we get them out of there," JD acknowledged.

Josiah grabbed JD's arm as he started to walk down the steep incline to the stables. "No, JD - when." Josiah smiled slightly and released JD's arm. "JD watch for Nathan's signal. If you have to, slip out and meet him. Then meet at the lumber camp. Do not go back to the livery. Understand?"

"Yup," JD responded shortly. "See ya later."

Josiah and Ezra didn't say anything as they watched JD approach the mining compound's livery. When they saw him safely in, they both visibly relaxed.

"Let's get you back to the cabin and warm you up."

"Will he be all right?" Ezra had not taken his eyes off the livery.

"Only *if* we get Buck and Vin out of there."

'If, not when.' Yes, Ezra did notice.

Part 80

Nettie Wells loved this country. Always had. Since she'd arrived in the territory when she was young bride, she had loved it. She had found her home. Wasn't quite the same for her husband, he'd been gone a long time now. But Nettie had not once considered going back east -- this was it for her. When her young niece came to live with her after the death of her parents, well that just made it that much more certain. She had found her home. And Nettie was returning to it after a long week away.

Nettie had been at the Andrews' ranch this past week caring for a new baby and her recovering mother. With four children already in the household and a difficult delivery, she had needed the help. She was now back on her feet for several days

And Nettie was coming home. She felt like dancing a jig as much as you could in a buggy. She wanted to see Casey, putter in her vegetable garden, can some preserves, sleep in her own bed -- the things you did at your own home.

Nettie felt fear as she approached her little ranch and just knew something was wrong. There was a heaviness to her arms as she lifted the reins and a dread that she didn't want to go there - to her_own_home. Evil had visited here.

Nettie drew the reins and stopped the horse. She scanned her small homestead. No fire in the fireplace or stove, but it was warm and that wasn't so surprising. Plus very likely Casey was in town. She spent a lot of time around that young man, JD Dunne. Nettie rolled her eyes thinking she just needed to bonk their heads together to get them see what a treasure they had found in each other.

Nettie was startled from her thoughts realizing what was wrong - it_was_too_quiet. Where are my chickens? The rooster always crowed when a horse pulled in. Her very own guard dog. But there was no welcoming crow. And where were her horses? The bay, the sorrel, the mares - all gone.

With trepidation, Nettie urged the horse forward. She had assumed Casey was fine. Casey was always fine. Nettie climbed down from the buggy and hurried into the cabin. On the table was a note.

Dear Aunt Nettie,
Staying in town with Mrs. Travis. Indians came in and killed the chickens, stole the horses.
I'm sorry, my fault,
Casey

Nettie's hand fluttered to cover her mouth and tears pricked her eyes. For a moment, she had thought . . . Oh dear Lord, she is safe. That is all that matters. Thank you, Lord.

Nettie rushed out and quickly mounted the buggy urging the horse into a brisk canter to get her to Four Corners.

+ + + + + + +

Mary Travis had not missed a day publishing The Clarion News and today was no different. She walked through the town making deliveries. Folks who knew her well were taken back by the editor's appearance. Not that she wasn't perfectly coifed, appropriately attired, and a pleasant smile on her face; but her porcelain skin had an almost a blue cast and the dark circles under her eyes were pronounced.

Mary stopped by the jail to leave a paper for the visiting deputy. As she stepped out, he walked toward her from the boarding house. He sure did not cut an impressive figure. He was extremely lean, some might say skinny, about six feet tall, his face was thin and gaunt, his clothes hung from his frame, and he wore a badge - bright as day, over his heart.

Mary couldn't remember the last time she'd seen a badge in this town. JD had worn one for about two hours until Buck Wilmington had chased him down at the jail as the newly-pinned sheriff and made him hide it under his lapel. By the end of the week, he had tossed it in a drawer. Before that there had been a sheriff and deputy but they ran the day they tried to hang Nathan Jackson. The day Chris Larabee had come to town.

Chris Larabee could be a show-of-force just by his presence. The deputy from Eagle Bend wouldn't intimidate anyone with his presence. Mary, you know you're not being fair. Yeah, well I don't feel very fair today.

"Ma'am, I would like to talk to you about the incident with the Indians."

Mary stiffened, her dander already up. "_If_ it was an Indian incident. I'm not convinced it is."

"An eye-witness places a band of renegades in the area that morning."

Mary gritted her teeth. "Renegade - what?"

The deputy sputtered, "Why Indians, of course."

"I didn't see them."

"Did you talk to the eye-witness?" Mary let an element of derision enter her voice.

"Yes, certainly."

"Did he see Indians?"

"Well, of course."

Mary looked at the deputy skeptically.

The deputy quickly dissembled. "He saw men in buckskins, whoopin' and hollerin' as they rode through his ranch."

"He was positive they were actually from Kojay's tribe. Sure they were Indians?"

"How could he know that?"

"My point exactly. He doesn't. So might I suggest you alert farmers and ranchers to be cautious? No person has been hurt. Let's be sure it stays that way."

"Ma'am, I know you are a respected community leader. I think we should get a posse and ride out to the reservation in a show-of-force."

"I respectfully disagree, deputy." Mary's voiced hardened. "You cannot be sure who is responsible for this. I will not support you in this."

"As you wish, ma'am. But I'm going to organize the men."

"Good luck, deputy." The deputy walked off. Mary knew folks would be upset. But riding in a posse to the reservation, Mary doubted there would be many volunteers -- yet. There was only property damage thus far. She knew she needed to keep tensions in check. Mary sure hoped she was right dissuading the deputy to form a posse. Without her, he wouldn't be able to do it. If lives were lost, there would be no stopping a posse, or worse, a vigilante gang.

+ + + + + + +

Yosemite was busy tendin' the bowed tendon of a drummer's horse. At least he hoped that's all it was. Yosemite shook his head sorrowfully; damn fool, kept ridin' lot longer than he should. Horse could barely stand to put weight on it now. Yosemite added liniment to his rag and in a steady, firm massage he continued to work the sore leg.

The owner of the dun mare came into the barn. He'd been in and out of town all week. He nodded at Yosemite and then looked around the barn almost furtively to see if anyone was about. Apparently satisfied, he approached Yosemite.

Tipping his hat in greeting, "Got some horses out back want to sell."

"Always interested in good flesh. Let's go take a look?" Yosemite straightened slowly from his task, never limber it took a long minute before he was straight and start movin' to the back of the barn.

"Name's Yosemite," Yosemite stuck out a hand.

The other man didn't take it immediately, "Thompson," he said finally as he grasped Yosemite's hand in a quick handshake.

Yosemite smiled ruefully, not a right friendly sort. Yosemite stopped up short when he got a look at the horses tied to the rail of the corral. He might not remember the owner but he knew horses and he knew these ones. Yosemite's mind raced at what to do. He decided to play it out for now.

Yosemite looked carefully at all the horses in the line. The bay and sorrel were particularly fine. "What were you thinking on price?"

"$400 for the four of them?" Thompson spoke firmly.

But before the words were even out, Yosemite was shaking his head. "Bay and sorrel are fine, the mares are over 10 years old. I'll give you $200."

Thompson reached for the lead. "Forget it."

"$250," Yosemite stopped him.

Thompson looked assessingly at Yosemite. "Cash now."

"In five minutes, need to get it from the bank."

"Do that -- I'll be here."

Yosemite nodded shortly and with a nonchalance he was far from feeling strode out of the barn. As he looked for that dang deputy from Eagle Bend -- he saw Miss Nettie hurry into town. Yosemite saw her pull up at the newspaper office and sprightly jump down from the buggy hurrying into the office. He could understand her apparent distress; he'd tend the horse for her as soon as he found that deputy -- sheesh, never a lawman around when you need 'em.

+ + + + + + +

"Nettie!" Mary startled as Nettie bustled through the door, obviously agitated. Mary just pointed to the back of the building.

Nettie gave a brief nod of acknowledgement and hurried through the office to the quarters at the back of the building.

"Casey, girl." Nettie called out as she entered the kitchen. Casey had been at the stove preparing stew when her aunt called. The spoon dropped with a clatter and she rushed into her aunt's arms.

"Oh, Aunt Nettie, I'm so glad you're back," Casey exclaimed fervently as she held her aunt in a tight hug.

Nettie kissed Casey's forehead as she looked up into her face. A frown crossed Nettie's face -- what happened to my little girl? Her face was an unhealthy pale, her hair listless, dark circles framed her eyes, and her cheeks were hollowed attesting to great weight loss from her already small frame. Nettie pulled her into arms again.

"Have you been sick Casey?"

Casey just burrowed her head into her aunt's breast, refusing to speak. Nettie just held Casey till some of the tension eased from her body.

Once Casey calmed, Nettie tried to pull Casey up, "Casey, now, what's happened? I was at the farm?"

"They killed the chickens and stole the horses. Pulled down the corral fences and generally made a mess," Casey told her aunt.

"You were there?"

"Oh no, no, no. I'd been staying in town."

Nettie frowned. "Why was that?"

"Well, when JD had to come back to town, I just thought . . ." Casey's explanation was halted by the thundercloud expression on her aunt's face.

"JD Dunne was at the farm without me there?" Nettie's words were very measured and her anger apparent. Mary came into the kitchen.

"I . . . well, I asked him to stay." Casey explained weakly, she looked beseechingly over at Mary.

"How long did he stay, Casey?" Nettie asked gravely.

"Two nights," Casey admitted quietly.

"You gave no thought to how inappropriate that was. It was improper and you've shamed us," Nettie could not hide her disappointment in her niece.

"Shamed us . . . oh, oh, oh," whatever Casey was going to say went unsaid as she started to sob and her breaths came as gasping wheezes.

Mary rushed over to calm Casey. "Shush Casey, come on, calm down." Mary rocked her in her arms, trying to reassure Casey.

Mary looked up at Nettie with glistening eyes. "Obviously, there is so much more to this story." Mary continued to rock Casey in her arms till she calmed down.

Her aunt remained unwavered by Casey's emotional display, her anger was simmering and looking for some outlet. Her foot tapped a steady rhythm.

As Casey calmed, Nettie looked to Mary for answers. "Were you aware that JD stayed out at the farm?"

Mary shook her head. "Nettie, please have a seat at the table, you too, Casey. A lot has happened." Mary pulled a chair out for Casey who had stopped crying but was looking intently at the table. Nettie sat with an upright posture so stiff and gentle breeze would crack it, by the thinnest thread she was keeping a hold on her temper.

"Mary, please tell me what has happened," Nettie managed to ask calmly.

"Two men from the trail crews cornered and tried to have their way with Casey. Casey fought them off and hid until she could get help." Nettie reached her hand out to Casey. Casey clasped it.

With that the thread of Nettie's anger broke with the realization that Casey has been attacked. "Oh Casey, I'm so sorry that happened to you," it was Nettie who was feeling ashamed of her reaction.

"No, you were right. I shouldn't have been in town. If I had listened to you, I wouldn't have been. No, it was my fault," Casey was calm and looked up at her aunt, giving her hand a squeeze. "I'm sorry."

"Buck Wilmington escorted Casey home," Mary continued. Nettie smiled at that, Buck Wilmington was quite the rogue but he was a good man. "That, in fact, became very important. Mr. Wilmington was accused of raping a woman, Miss Belle Corydon. Casey cleared his name by providing an alibi. Unfortunately, he's left town. Vin Tanner is with him and apparently shot and seriously injured. The others are looking for them."

Nettie frowned, "Did Buck shoot Vin?"

"Oh no. It seems there might be a plan to separate the seven and drive them from town. There have been four incidents with Indians. Mr. Delano believes he's having problems with sabotage at the mine. Nathan Jackson was poisoned and almost died." Nettie's eyes widened.

"Is he alive?"

"Ezra Standish saved him. He's riding with them now."

"The gambler?" Nettie asked skeptically. Mary laughed softly as much as the grave situation would allow. Maybe Nettie shouldn't have been surprised -- Vin Tanner wasn't the only Robin Hood in that group.

"He was actually quite good as a healer," Mary defended Ezra.

Nettie smiled but when the implications of what Mary told her, she looked over at her niece. "And Casey," Nettie asked with a calm dread.

"I cannot be sure that she isn't now a target," Mary stated slightly confused, like she had just come to that realization herself.

"What?" Casey's head bobbed up, shocked at Mary's pronouncement.

"The attack. Miss Corydon confronting you. The attack at the ranch when you weren't present. All in one week. It seems to stretch credibility that your luck is that bad."

"Gee, thanks Mary," Casey commented, disgruntled but with a slight smile.

"Nettie?"

Nettie nodded her head. "Think it might be best if we stayed in town."

Mary smiled at that pronouncement. "Please stay with me, I would appreciate the company and your counsel, Nettie."

"That's settled then." Nettie pulled Casey to her side and kissed her forehead. "I'm sorry I wasn't here for you. I love you, girl. And nothing and no one can change that."

"I love you, Aunt Nettie." Nettie looked up to see Mary smile as aunt and niece embraced.

Mary sighed deeply. "Think I need to talk this over with the deputy."

Nettie frowned, "Deputy?"

"All the seven are gone. Ezra wired Eagle Bend and they sent a deputy. He's trying to form a posse to ride on the reservation. I tried to dissuade him but I think I need to talk to him more about what's going on."

"Do you want us to come with you?"

"No, no, you two catch up. Casey can give you a lot more information on what's been going on -- she did the research." Mary smiled as Casey ducked her head at the complement. "I'll be back in a bit."

+ + + + + + +

Thompson wanted to close the deal. Easy money. Hammersmith was a fool for not taking advantage of such an opportunity. That liveryman had been gone a good five minutes. Come on, old man.

A man entered the barn, real skinny with a bright shiny star. He nodded at Thompson. "You have horses for sale."

Thompson relaxed his face, damn. The seven regulators were gone. Shit deputy, why the hell did you decide to be a hero today? It ain't your town.

The lawman's hand was wavering around the handle of his gun. "Just got, just got a few questions," the deputy half-tripped over the words. "Understood those horses were stolen by Indians."

Thompson eyes narrowed. "Are you accusing me of something?"

The deputy's hand rested on his gun. He looked Thompson in the eye.

Thompson didn't wait to hear more; he drew and shot the deputy down. The deputy didn't even have an opportunity to grasp his gun, never mind drawing it.

Thompson's instinct was to flee the barn. He could hear voices; it was only a matter of time before they checked the livery. Thompson looked at the fallen body and started to chuckle. He pulled a knife from his boot and slammed into the deputy's chest at the point he took the bullet. The lawman's body jackknifed at the impact then collapsed down. Guess, he's really dead now, thought Thompson.

Thompson pulled the deputy's gun and pulled the trigger once into a saddle blanket and then placed the gun in the deputy's hand. He pulled a feather from his jacket pocket and let it drift to the floor. He then started to sprint from the barn.

Thompson slammed into Hammersmith.

Hammersmith quickly surveyed the scene, "What the f*ck were you thinking? Huh?" Hammersmith grabbed Thompson's lapels and slammed him against a stall door. He slammed him back a second time the air exhaling from Thompson in a whoosh.

Thompson forcefully pushed Hammersmith back. "It was easy money."

"Easy money. You're an idiot," Hammersmith spit out disgusted. "With the bonuses Michaels is paying, why take a stupid chance?"

"You sanctimonious bastard. What's the harm in a little side money? Don't tell me you weren't pocketing the profits from the poker table."

"That was different," Hammersmith responded grimly.

"Why are you so worried? They'll think the Indians have gotten even bolder -- attacking in town, killing a lawman."

Hammersmith looked back over the scene. "You have a point," he grudgingly conceded. "Get out of here and go to the rendezvous. We'll settle this later."

+ + + + + + +

"Here, everybody in here," came the urgent cry from the livery.

As Mary arrived, a crowd had gathered around the livery. Mary entered to see a blanket pulled over the face of the deputy.

"How did he die?" Mary asked.

"Stabbed. He tried to shoot but missed."

"Looky here," as a man picked up a feather from the livery floor.

"Indians." The crowd that quickly turned ugly with vows to hang the red bastards.

"Please everyone, let's just stay calm," Mary pleaded to the crowd.

"Our only law is dead here. What are we going to do?"

"We'll wire the fort at Yuma for troops. They are much better equipped than we are to handle this. Please everyone, let's just stay calm and get the help we need," Mary searched the crowd for support of her plan.

"I agree with, Miz Travis," one rancher concurred and several men nodded.

"I'll send a wire right now," Mary started to leave the barn.

"You do that, Miz Travis." One of the local ranchers called out. "Much rather troops handle this. But if they don't come, well then, we'll just have to take care of it ourselves."

Yosemite entered the barn and saw the deputy, 'Aw hell.'

Part 81

Nathan stepped back from having set a neat four-in-hand in Marse Sterling's cravat, and picked up the grey cutaway coat the man had decided to change into for the formal luncheon. It had been moved up from one p.m. to noon so that Michaels could take a visiting business man on a tour of the mine facilities later, but the change had pressed a bit closely on his preparations. Nathan tried not to think about how much it reminded him of Ezra as he held the expensive fabric for Michaels to put his arms into, and then slid the well-tailored garment onto the man's powerful shoulders.

"What time is it?" Michaels was straightening his cuffs.

"Nearly noon, Sir."

"Very well. Please inform Miss Belle of the approaching hour," said Michaels. He started for the door and hesitated a beat, to indicate that Nathan should open it for him. The healer did just that, then pressed his lips together and went down the hall to the door of Miss Belle's suite. He rapped very lightly, and was enveloped by lavender when the door opened and the petite woman looked at him.

"Marse Sterlin' wishes me to inform you that it's nearly noon," said Nathan. He was careful to look slightly away rather than into the woman's eyes.

"Thank you, Nathaniel." Miss Belle reached out quickly to catch the edge of his coat sleeve in one of her small white hands. "Just a moment, however."

The healer lifted his eyes to regard hers with trepidation. She smiled disingenuously and turned around so that he saw the top row of pearl buttons on her dress was still undone, her white back laying exposed beneath it like a satin pillow, and her dark hair swept up above it in a glistening pile of curls and pins.

"Please do me up," the woman simpered, "I can't find that lazy Bitsy anywhere."

Nathan thought about the way Bitsy was at that very moment flying from kitchen to dining room and back again, and sighed as he came close enough to the woman to fasten the buttons into their loops. He bit the inside of his cheek and made his fingers stay steady even though he feared the woman would suddenly spin around beneath his hands and confront him in a more brazen fashion. But he finished without incident and was able to take a good step away and put space between her and himself by the time she did turn around. Belle cocked her head to one side and looked up at Nathan languidly from beneath long eyelashes.

"I am ready," she said. "You may go for now."

"Yes'm." Nathan started breathing again and took another step backward.

"But. . ." added Belle. She raised a small fan that Nathan had not seen in her hand and lifted it towards his face, coming forward to tap him lightly on the chin with it. ". . . you will, perhaps, see to it that I am not wanting for something sweet and warm tonight, at bed time. You know . . . to help me sleep well."

Nathan remained silent, and somehow he kept his hands from making fists. Belle looked at him another long moment, then laughed lightly and turned away to bustle across the sitting room, flashing a quick and appraising glance over her shoulder at him as she did so.

"Sterling will be delighted by your loyalty," she said. "Both his last two 'boys' failed that particular little test."

Nathan inclined his head to the woman very slightly, backed farther into the hall, and took his leave. He doubted very much that Michaels had ever known of the "failures" of the two previous men who'd served him. Nathan had known too many women like Belle to think her words meant anything more than an effort to recover her superior position when faced with even the slight hint of rejection he'd posed by not responding to her comment. He cleared his throat softly and hurried to the kitchen. Pedro ran past him on determined feet as he got to the doorway, the boy's arms loaded with cut flowers. Miz Ruby's voice trailed out of the kitchen behind him.

"Get 'em in that vase QUICK, Pedro! They's gonna' be down any minute!"

"What can I do to help?" The steamy heat of the kitchen engulfed Nathan in air too thick to breathe as he walked in. Pedro raced past him going the other way, snatched a silver basket of bread from the table, and turned to race out again.

"Wait!" called Miz Ruby after him. "Fol' shut that linen cov-" She threw her hands up in the air when she saw the boy was already gone, and turned back to the oven. "Help me git this roast on that platter, Nathaniel," she grunted. She had lowered the cast iron and silver door, and was tugging out a roasting pan the size of a hog's head. Nathan grabbed several cloths and bent next to the woman to grab the pan's other side, and then lifted it by himself as she saw he had it and stepped aside to give him room for leverage. She pointed to the top of the stove. "Right there," she said. "Set it there quick, Nathaniel."

Bitsy ran in and slid across the tiled floor on sandaled feet as Nathan lifted the lid on the roaster and set it aside. He glanced over to see the girl snatch up a tall water pitcher and dart out the other doorway, into the dining room.

"Here. Here." Miz Ruby was lifting a platter towards him. "Set that roast here."

Nathan obliged, his mind spinning and the air growing even thicker with the scent of the beef and the herbs it has been roasted in rising to cloud his nostrils. His stomach squeezed suddenly with hunger as he lowered the meat to the platter carefully and then put the lid back on the roasting pan.

"No," chided Miz Ruby, "gots t' make gravy outta that." She took the lid back off and began to sprinkle in flour with one hand as she stirred the drippings with a broad wooden spoon. Pedro flashed past again, grabbed a covered china dish from the table, and was gone before Nathan could even move. Coco ran in from the back porch through the wooden door, banging it behind her, her hands full of fresh aprons she'd just taken from the line. She stuffed one into Bitsy's hands as the girl ran in again from the dining room, and Bitsy quickly fastened it over her smock. Another went to Miz Ruby, who lifted her arms so Coco could reach around her waist from behind to tie it around over the top of the larger house-apron the woman wore. Nathan took a cue from this to pick up the fresh apron Coco had thrown over her own shoulder, to slip it around her waist and tie it from behind as she did Miz Ruby's. The clock began to strike twelve.

"Oh Gawd!" cried Miz Ruby. She shoved the meat platter into Nathan's hands. "Set this on quick, an' announce supper's done. Ah means, 'dinner's served.' Wal, ya' knows. But RUN!"

The clock was measuring out the third beat as Nathan set the platter on the loaded sideboard and straightened his cuffs and jacket. He arrived at the study and opened the door just as the final stroke died away in the silence of this end of the house. Six pairs of eyes looked up at him as he entered the room, and one of the pairs was sharp with irritation.

"Luncheon is served," announced Nathan.

Sterling Michaels rose and offered his arm to Belle, who wrapped a gloved hand through it and threw a disdainful look at Nathan as he held the door for the party to go through. They were followed by a couple Nathan had not see before, the woman clearly a "new money" extravagance for the well-heeled "old money" man she hung against. Behind them strolled Sullivan and . . . Nathan's heart skipped as he recognized yet another person he'd seen in town recently. What was it he'd heard the man say his name was? He'd introduced himself to Mrs. Potter when Nathan was in her store, maybe a week ago. Yeah: Bland. He drew the doors closed as the last person left the room, still turning the man's name over in his mind, then darted through a side passage so he could arrive at the dining room only a fraction of a moment after Michaels and Belle did. He drew out Belle's chair for her just as the woman reached it, and she threw him an appraising glance that mixed coquetry and archness in equal measures. Nathan moved silently to do the same office for the other woman present, and she giggled and blushed, then laid a jeweled hand on her companion's arm.

"I'd like me one a' them someday, Charlie," she whispered. Her voice was loud enough that everyone overheard her, though, and Michaels leaned towards her across the snow-white table linen and smiled graciously.

"You would have to look a long time to find a boy as well trained as Nathaniel," he said. "But perhaps when you are ready, Rosie, I can send him to train someone for you. Briefly, of course."

"Of course," said the woman breathlessly. She looked at Nathan again as the man moved to a position between Michaels' and Belle's seats and two steps behind. "I can see where you wouldn't wanta' be without 'im very long."

"It is the finer things in life that make hard work worthwhile." Michaels nodded to the woman and inclined his head almost imperceptibly towards the linen napkin in a silver ring on his plate. Nathan leaned forward to slide it free, shook the napkin opened, and laid it on Michaels' lap. Then he did the same for Belle, being exceedingly careful not to touch her in any way as he did so. The napkin practically floated the last few inches to the red brocade fabric of the woman's dress, and she looked up at Nathan again with a look of slight and hidden petulance.

The kitchen door had swung opened silently during this exchange, and Bitsy had entered with noble carriage and bearing, and an enormous tray in her hands on which were six china bowls swimming with soup. She approached the master's seat, and Nathan smiled covertly at the girl and leaned in to take a bowl of soup from the tray and set it in front of Michaels, on top of his dinner plate. He did the same at every other place as Bitsy moved slowly around the table from one to another of the people, and when the tray was emptied she flashed a grateful look to the healer and stepped backwards and through the doorway, to vanish.

"Go on with your story about the poison thing," said Charlie to Bland. "I'd like to hear the end of that."

Belle made a face, and lifted her soup spoon. "Just don't be too graphic, John," she cautioned.

Bland beamed. He looked around the table at the circle of faces that were all regarding him and listening to him with interest, and felt his chest rising with pride. He laid his soup spoon back down, dinner suddenly forgotten. "Well," he said, "the idea was to make enough people sick that it would cause real trouble for the darkie that parades around there, pretending he's some kinda' doctor or somethin'."

"Imagine!" Rosie sipped soup from her spoon and looked rewardingly enthralled.

"I've heard a' him," said Charlie, dabbing at his lips with his napkin. "Fact is, people like that need a comeuppance. Need to learn their place."

"Damn straight!" Bland nodded vigorously, then looked up sharply at Michaels as the latter coughed and eyed him with a warning look. Bland looked at the two women present and colored. "Sorry," he said. "I mean 'darned' straight."

"Go on," said Michaels shortly.

"So I had this pretty little vial a' stuff I put in a pot a' fancy stew at a restaurant. Only the chef tasted a bit of it an' threw it out for some reason. I don't know why; you can't taste this stuff. And so only one person ate it and got sick." He looked around the table triumphantly. "But you want to guess who it was?"

"No!" Rosie laughed and clapped her hands together, squealing, and Bland nodded proudly as Michaels beamed genially on the proceedings. "I got the phony doctor himself. He's probably dead by now, I bet! Did you ever hear anything so perfect?"

The men's heavy laughing rumbled beneath the lighter rippling of the women's soft chuckling, and Nathan set one hand on the very edge of the sideboard to steady himself. It wouldn't do at all for him to collapse just at this moment, he told himself. Not at all.

"So how'd you get rid a' the gambler, then? I take it he's still playing cards with Vincent?" Charlie lifted his water glass towards Nathan, who suddenly realized he hadn't completed his duties. It was with a flush of sudden and long-forgotten fear that he picked up the pitcher and refilled the glasses to their tops again.

"Naw," said Bland. He waved his hand dismissively, and Belle interrupted.

"Oh, _do_ let me tell this part," she said. "Please."

Bland scowled, but picked up his soup spoon and attacked the meal's first course. He exchanged an angry glance with Sullivan, who had not even unrolled his napkin.

"The gambler, who I will remind you is from the Ol' Dominion," she said, and at this point she began to laugh in a way that choked her voice, "ended up . . . " She wiped tears from her eyes and looked merrily around the table. "NURSING the darkie!"

At this revelation, the entire table burst into ribald laughter that shook the crystal and made the candle flames dance.

"I heard he scrubbed floors and gave him a bath and EVERYTHING!" crowed Belle.

They all dabbed at their eyes with their forefingers and the corners of their napkins as the kitchen door opened again and Bitsy came back in. She slipped carefully around the places taking up the soup bowls, glancing once at Nathan when she sensed his well-contained anger, and then went back into the kitchen. She returned in another moment with carving utensils, which she handed to Nathan. He understood by this that he was to carve the beef, and did so. Bitsy took up the master's plate and came to stand next to him, then ladled vegetables and gravy onto the plate after Nathan set several slices of beef on it, and set it in front of Michaels. She picked up Belle's plate and came back.

"I've never met anyone who has as much fun doing business as you do, Michaels," said Charlie. He was shaking his head and still laughing from time to time. "You manage to strike so many important blows at once."

Michaels exchanged a sly glance with Belle, and then folded his fingers together and rested his hands on the edge of the table as he waited for the others to be served. "Well," he said softly. "Would you like to hear the latest?"

A chorus of answering "oh do, Sterling!" rose from Belle, Rosie, and Charlie, and Michaels smiled indulgently. If he noticed the dark look exchanged by Sullivan and Bland, he showed no sign.

"You know, of course, that all this was to get these men out of my way so we could . . . well, create a small conflagration between the town yokels and the redskins. Now the match that will set it off is--"

Sullivan suddenly leaned forward and looked hard at Michaels. "What are you doing?" he said. His voice was low but harsh, and every face at the table turned to his in shock at the rough intrusion into the gay atmosphere. Michaels' eyes hardened into dark, brittle diamonds.

"I am entertaining my guests," he said evenly. The silence in the room was heavy, as the air before a thunderstorm. Nathan saw Bitsy's hands shake as she held Bland's plate for filling.

"I don't know this man." Sullivan gestured dismissively at Charlie without looking at him, his eyes fixed on Michaels'. "Why the hell should I sit here and let you spill--"

"That's enough." Michaels' voice cut off Sullivan's words like a meat cleaver. Bland's plate clattered to the table as Bitsy set it in front of him and reached around for Sullivan's. The man shoved his chair back instead, slapping the girl's hand away from him. Bitsy took in her breath in a frightened gasp, and stepped back. Sullivan rose to his feet. Michaels watched him rise. "You can be served later, in the kitchen," he said coldly.

"I can find grub down at the mine kitchen," corrected Sullivan. "I don't need this." He stalked to the doorway.

"Hold it." Michaels had stood up, too, and set his napkin on the table. He was staring at Sullivan's back. The man in buckskin turned around slowly. Charlie put his hand over Rosie's, and shook his head very slightly to her to stay still. "You have not been excused," said Michaels.

Sullivan's frame jerked, and Nathan surreptitiously reached to take Bitsy's slender arm and pull her back so that she was partially behind him. The man in buckskin locked eyes with Michaels for a long, tense moment, and then shuddered. He took half a step back.

"I have the power here," said Michaels, "and you would do well to remember that. You work for _me_."

Sullivan's eyes flashed with anger and resentment, and he vanished from the dining room in a single movement. The silence he left behind him hung over the group several moments, and then was broken by Bitsy leaning in to lift Sullivan's service and remove it from the table. Michaels smiled, and raised his fork and knife to his plate.

"So!" he said heartily, "As I was saying before that little interruption, I have learned that redskins plan to attack the stage between Eagle Bend and Four Corners, day after tomorrow. I imagine one passenger will survive, of course, since they always do . . . to inform the town in complete horror about who attacked them."

"Indians?" Rosie looked confused, and Charlie patted her hand.

"Rosie dear, you are so sweet but your mind is so feminine." Charlie exchanged an expression of amusement with Michaels. "The Indians will be people Sterling _knows_. Men who are perhaps savages otherwise, but not redskins. You understand?"

"Ohhhhhh." Rosie's eyes lit up as realization dawned on her, and then she laughed. "Oh _I_ see! Like the Boston tea party!"

"Yes!" Michaels nodded towards the wine on the sideboard and Nathan began to uncork it to pour. "Exactly!" He looked around the table. "I always did say I was patriotic!"

"That's the slogan you can use when you run for governor, after we're a state," said Belle. She lifted her glass of wine as Nathan poured it, and the others raised theirs as well. "To the future Governor Michaels," she said.

"And _Missus_ Governor Michaels," added Rosie, blushing and looking at Belle with envy.

The men laughed again, and Nathan refilled their plates.

Sullivan stood in the hallway long enough to hear the return of festivity to the meal, and felt a surge of hot fury race through his veins. How DARE Michaels?! How DARE he treat Sullivan that way! To risk everything just to impress some little nothing of a business associate. He balled one hand into a fist and thought for a long moment -- a very long moment full of enticing images -- of returning to the dining room and exacting the sort of respect from the people there that was due him. He could do it, too. He slid the enormous bowie knife from the sheath at his waist and touched a finger to its tip. Michaels wasn't even armed.

But Michaels was paying him. Or would, when the job was done. If he killed Michaels now. . . Sullivan's eyes darkened as he let the hate twist idly in his gut, looking for a way out. Then he remembered.

Those men in the cellar. Michaels wanted them alive, but he didn't much care what Michaels wanted right now. And he could kill that one real easy at this point. He smirked, thinking about how close that bullet hole was to some major blood vessels a person might just "accidentally" nick if they were to try to remove the slug buried in the man's upper chest. Of course, he thought, turning his steps towards the cellar door, that probably wouldn't happen until the man had screamed and writhed and finally passed out from the agony of what Sullivan would do to him in the meantime. And the one with the moustache would finally lose his head when that happened, and let the hate consume him like it had been threatening to all along. And then he'd attack Sullivan in a way that would require Sullivan to kill him . . . in self defense, of course. Yes.

"We'll see who has the power, Michaels," Sullivan thought. He opened the door to the cellar and felt the hate and fury and hunger surge through him like a black tornado wind. "We'll just see."

Part 82

Night? Vin blinked slowly, his mind unable to catch any recent memory to grab hold of. Maybe day, he thought. His head ached, and his legs. And his chest and shoulder throbbed. Why? He was so thirsty. And hot. His eyes drifted closed again, and he lay still listening to the silence around him, wondering why it seemed like he was cut off from himself, unable to connect to anything but right here and right now: a place that he'd really like to find his way out of. He felt something move next to him, a coolness on his forehead, and he dragged his eyes opened just a little bit again. Someone or something was moving above him, maybe hands, he wasn't sure, and he squinted trying to see better. A voice spoke, then, low and reassuring, and it was a voice Vin thought he knew somehow, from somewhere. Almost he could catch it, hold it, use it as a rope to pull himself from wherever he was drifting. But then he was sinking backwards into the dimness again, and the voice got farther away, and the feeling of the coolness on his face disappeared.

Chris sighed, and frowned. "I don't think he heard me," he said softly.

"He will." Buck leaned back against the crate behind him again, and studied Chris's face in the semi-darkness. The man had been trying to bring Vin's fever down since Nathan had left the night before, and it was starting to look like it might be working. Vin had seemed to come to twice, but each time he'd drifted back into whatever it was that was more than sleep but less than unconsciousness.

The heavy sound of the door being unlocked at the top of the stairs made both men look up suddenly. Maybe Nathan, they thought . . . But it was Sullivan who sauntered to the foot of the staircase to lean against the railing and stare at Buck. He had a bowie knife in one hand, and he was turning the blade of it back and forth so it caught the light from the oil lamp in various ways and threw flame-colored reflections on the walls of the cellar.

"Afternoon, Wilmington," he said. He ran his gaze over to Chris and his sharp eyes narrowed. "You," he said, "get over there." He pointed with the tip of the knife to a far corner of the cellar, and Chris exchanged a quick glance with Buck before he stood up.

"You got a problem with me sittin' here?" he asked.

"Yeah." Sullivan tipped his head back so he was looking at Chris from beneath hooded lids. "I got a problem with anyone who doesn't do what I tell 'em to do. And you can ask your friend what happens when I got a problem. And who it happens to." His voice was smooth and slick with threat, and Chris drew himself together. Buck stood up and put a hand on Chris's arm.

"Do what he says," he said softly.

Chris threw a surprised look at Buck.

"You don't understand," said Buck in a low voice. "You don't know what he'll do." He was shaking his head, and Chris frowned slightly.

"Tell 'im," said Sullivan. "Tell Larabee what I do." He turned the knife against the tip of his index finger, and shifted his weight to push one hip against the wall beside the stairs.

"Go t' hell," growled Buck. He curled his hands into fists, and thought for a brief moment about throwing himself across the space between himself and Sullivan, but the man seemingly read the idea as it formed in his mind. He leaped erect on the instant and snatched up the water pail that was sitting close by, took the ladle out and threw it to the floor, then looked at Buck. And then at Vin.

"Go where he told you to go, Chris." Buck's voice was low.

"Oh, not just him," said Sullivan smoothly. He took a casual step closer to Vin, the pail in his hands. "You, too."

"You bas--"

"You know, Wilmington." Sullivan paused, swirling the water gently in the pail. "Tanner still looks pretty feverish to me. Maybe he needs some coolin' off, eh?" His eyes were hard, almost brittle. Buck stayed where he was. "'Course," said Sullivan, it's kinda' cold down here. Damp. A man with a fever whose clothes got all wet, he'd probably catch pneumonia. Especially if he was weak to begin with." He took another step closer, still swirling the water in the pail, and Buck swallowed. He started edging away from Vin and Sullivan, pushing Chris as he did so.

Sullivan stepped closer to Vin, glanced down at him disdainfully, and continued to swirl the water in the pail. A feral light grew in his eyes, and he looked up at Buck. The tall man felt a shock of fury leap through his system when he saw that gleam. Over and over he'd seen it, and this time by God his hands weren't tied.

"You wanna' fight?" His voice was low and deadly. "You come on and fight _me_, you bastard. Leave him out of it."

"Ah." Sullivan's voice was soft, almost a whisper. "Finally. You hate me."

"Yeah. Yeah, if that's what you want, you've _got_ it." Buck felt like he was being shaken by rage, trying to hold it down, trying to keep it from exploding.

"It's not him I want to fight with anyway. You know that." Sullivan set down the bucket and raised the bowie knife towards Buck. Buck took a step forward, felt himself starting to sink into a crouch to receive the blow Sullivan was obviously going to launch at him . . . And then Sullivan laughed. He knelt in a single swift move and set the tip of the knife against Vin's throat, the tracker between him and the other two men, and flipped opened the man's shirt with his eyes locked on Buck's.

"I changed my mind," he said. "I'm gonna' fix your friend first, before I give you that fight you want. You're gonna' thank me. I'm gonna' dig out that slug Thompson put in 'im." But the gloat on Sullivan's face rewrote itself into shock and then rage when he glanced down and saw the neat bandages Nathan had wrapped in place. His free hand flashed out to jerk the bandages aside so he could see the wound, and Vin groaned at the rough contact. Chris and Buck both started towards Sullivan immediately, but the man was standing over Vin with his boot on the reopened and bleeding wound before they could do anything. Sullivan leveled the bowie knife at them.

"Who did this?" His voice was hoarse with hatred and rage. Neither of the other men spoke, and Sullivan ground his heel down harder on Vin's shoulder, causing the tracker to cry out hoarsely and try to shift out from under him. "Who did this!!? Who was down here?!?! ANSWER ME!!"

Vin was aware of one thing, and one thing only: the bright flame of agony that suddenly exploded in his shoulder. He felt himself trying to struggle away from it, but pinned somehow. Heard a hoarse yelling, then what sounded like Buck's voice far away. He wasn't sure, gasped as he tried to pull himself up out of the pain enough to figure it out, heard himself groan sharply as a fresh burst of fire blew through his shoulder and chest, and struggled high enough finally to open his eyes and look up. He couldn't figure out what he was looking at, it didn't make sense. But he could hear a voice, and it was coming from a man who seemed to be standing over him, and now the man was doing something again that made everything turn inside out somehow and crash against Vin so hard that he couldn't catch his breath and could only hold himself tighter, try to keep from being torn into long shreds that were red and black and trailing out into the air somehow . . . Vin felt himself sliding suddenly, another burst of pain crashing over him and pulling him even farther away, making it harder to breathe. He felt himself starting to come apart, spreading out into long streamers, unraveling, the pain like a filet knife slicing him into long thin strips that were dissipating, evaporating . . . With his last ounce of strength, Vin raised one hand blindly, desperately, struck out at whatever was killing him, found something, and grabbed onto it.

Sullivan felt the light tug on the fringe of his buckskin pants, a tug that threatened to unbalance him because of his precarious stance with one foot on the body of man who was thrashing involuntarily in pain. He looked down briefly, just for a fraction of a second, to make sure that it was the accidental contact he assumed it was, rather than Tanner coming to and making a real effort to pull him down. Even as he looked down, the tracker's hand released the fringe and fell limply to the floor. At the same instant, Sullivan felt, rather than heard, the rush of a presence as he started to look up again, bringing up the bowie knife that had lowered automatically when he'd looked down and behind him.

He wasn't fast enough.

Buck drove the little knife Nathan had left behind into Sullivan's chest with every last ounce of his 190 pounds behind it, as hard as he could. He hit Sullivan with such force that it drove the knife in past the hilt, and Sullivan's eyes widened as the the impact shoved him back from Buck, off of Vin. He looked down to see the little knife handle sticking out of the center of his chest and looked back at Buck even as he was still falling from the momentum of Buck's impact, and then he dropped to hit the edge of a crate and rolled off it heavily to the floor, and lay still.

Buck stood panting in the sudden silence. He looked down at Vin, and knelt to make sure he was still alive. He was. Buck closed his eyes, still having a hard time getting enough air in his lungs, as if they wouldn't open enough or something.

Chris was there, then. He looked at Buck a moment, then silently went over to Vin, washed off the wounded man's injury and rebound it. He stood up and began moving things around, and there were scraping sounds as he dragged Sullivan's body behind the crates and restacked them, and then Chris was back and facing Buck.

"Well, you got your way," he said in a tight voice. Buck looked up, puzzled. Chris's eyes snapped like hot embers in the low light. "You used Vin as bait after all, and killed Sullivan. And damn near got Vin killed in the process. But the door is unlocked now." He gestured angrily towards the stairs. "You can just walk on outta' here."

Buck squeezed his eyes shut. Damn. He shuddered and thought for a moment he might pass out, but put his head down a little instead and then shivered. "It's not like that," he whispered.

"That's what it looked like to me." Chris stood up, and Buck felt the man's hard eyes boring into him, but he couldn't look up just yet. He'd thought it would feel better than this, killing Sullivan. But he hadn't expected the man to be trying to crush the life out of Vin at the time, either. Maybe Chris was right. Maybe that's what _would_ have happened if his plan hadn't been broken up by Chris coming down the stairs. But Chris didn't know what it had been like all this time, what Sullivan was capable of doing. Finally he shook his head, and looked up into Chris's face with a sudden feeling of deep weariness.

"It's been a long five days," he said bitterly, "An' you ain't been here for the half of it." He stood up, shaky, went over to the steps, and started to sit down on them. But he laid his head down, instead, on the step above the one he sat on, and closed his eyes, and tried to just get his breath to work right again.

Chris stood looking at Buck, who seemed to have fallen asleep, and then at Vin. He felt how tightly he was clenching his teeth and his hands, and tried to relax. He sat down and leaned back against the crate next to Vin and closed his eyes. They _had_ to leave now, he thought, and soon. It wouldn't be long until Sullivan was missed, and even in a cool basement he would start to make his presence known in a few days. And once Michaels found out what had happened to Sullivan, the game was over.

Part 83

"Jus' me, Boys." Miz Ruby's tired voice floated down hollowly from the darkness at the top of the stairs as she shut the door behind her and started down with a heavy tread. Chris looked up from where he sat next to Vin, and then rose to his feet to go help her when he saw that her hands were as full this trip as they had been the night before. He took the small, hot kettle that was wrapped in several cloths and set it on the crate they'd been using as a makeshift table, and Buck grabbed the pot of hot coffee that both men had been able to smell the moment she'd opened the door. She hadn't needed to announce who it was; the aroma of the food and coffee she'd brought had beaten her to it. As the two men emptied Miz Ruby's hands, she began to reach into her apron pockets to pull out cups, spoons, and large parcels of food wrapped in heavy paper. These proved to be cold roast beef sandwiches on thick slices of bread, and two enormous wedges of apple pie.

"Y'all sit down an' eat," she said. "Nathan said Ah's t' tell ya' it's 'doctor's orders.'" She grinned at the two men and then peered into the darkness where Vin was, craning her neck to see if she could see how he was doing. "He had me bring some broth for that'n," she added, "if'n he's awake." She looked back at Chris, who continued to stand by the crate with his hands loosely at his sides. "Wal?" she asked. "Is he?"

Chris blinked slowly, and rubbed his face as he lowered himself to sit on the edge of the crate, near the things Miz Ruby had set there. "Sort of," he said.

"Sorta!?" Miz Ruby snorted. "Men jus' ain't all that good at carin' for sick folk. 'Ceptin' Nathan. He's a reg'lar saint, that'n is."

Buck smiled tiredly from the step he'd dropped onto as soon as he'd discovered the enormous sandwiches that were in the paper parcels she'd brought. He'd never tasted anything so good in his life, and it was written all over his face. "The saint is you," he corrected her. "This is . . . unbelievable."

"Wal, y'all kin thank Nathan for it," she said. "He tol' me ya' gots t' get some meat an' bread in ya'." She bent to pick up one of the cups she'd brought down, and took the lid off the little pot. "Ah'm gonna' see if'n Ah kin get some broth inta' that'n over there," she added, "'cause Nathan said he gots t' get his stren'th up, too, b'fore y'all tries t' . . . y'know." She cast a furtive glance at Chris and then looked him up and down. "Nathan said y'all's to eat. So EAT." Her eyes snapped suddenly, and Chris lowered his face as a twinge of a smile played at the edges of his lips. He picked up the parcel that was the twin of Buck's and began to unwrap it. Miz Ruby nodded, satisfied, spooned some broth into the cup she held, then bustled over to where Vin lay on the floor and lowered herself with a sigh. She saw that his eyes were opened but dull and expressionless. She felt of his fever with her palm to his face, and then smiled kindly at him.

"Wal, boy," she said softly, "Ah's ol' enough mah joints don' bend like they use t', but ah's gots some good beef broth here for ya', that yo' frien' Nathan done sent." She set the cup on the floor, the spoon inside it, and scooted around so that she could draw Vin's head and shoulders onto her ample lap and up against her bosom. He tipped his head back slightly to look up at her face without saying a word, and she smiled down at him reassuringly. "Ah knows y'all cain't rightly figger out what's goin' on yet," she said, "but all ya' gots to do right this minute is take some a' this broth."

Pulling the cup of broth closer to her, Miz Ruby wrapped one arm firmly around Vin's chest, and carefully lifted a half a spoon of broth to his mouth. He didn't look at it, though, but instead seemed to tire and laid his head back so that it fell against her chest, and he closed his eyes.

"Now, now; cain't letcha' go back asleep jus' yet, young fellah." Miz Ruby touched the spoon to Vin's lips and pushed gently against the space between them. "Jus' open up a little bit an' let Miz Ruby slip this in. Jus' a little bit, now. C'mon." Prodding and coaxing, she finally got the man to open his lips very slightly, upon which she immediately tipped the spoon to run the broth into his mouth. Vin rolled his head to one side when she did, and she put her hand quickly on his chin and shut his mouth so the broth would stay in. "Swallah' that, honey-chil'," she murmured. "C'mon. Swallah that for Miz Ruby."

"Looks like you've done that a lot," observed Chris. Miz Ruby looked up from putting more broth in the spoon, and then started coaxing the second bit into the semi-conscious man's mouth. She replied as she was looking at Vin's face.

"Raised six chil'ren," she said, "none of 'em mah own. An' took care a' lotsa' sick folk in mah day. Open up agin' for Miz Ruby, now Vin. C'mon honey-chil'. Open up 'n' take this nice broth yo' frien' Nathan done sent ya'." She got it in, gently pressed his lips shut, and glanced again at Chris as she refilled the spoon.

"Ah owes y'an apology, Ah does. Here's some more broth, Vin. C'mon now an' take this so's ya' kin git y'all's stren'th back an' git on outta' this place." She sighed as Vin's head rolled farther to one side and he slid slightly from her grasp, then grunted as she repositioned him and refilled the spoon that had spilled in the process. "Ah thought," she said to Chris again, her eyes on Vin's mouth and the spoon, "that y'all weren't no good. Ah's sorry t'admit that, but it's so. Nathan done put me straight on the matter, though. Ah, _that's_ it, honey-chil'. That'll put cha' right." Patiently she dipped up yet another spoon of the broth and lifted it to the sick man's mouth as Chris watched. "He done tol' me how y'all kep' 'im from bein' lynched. Dad-blast them nohow, lynchin' a fine man like that'n." She looked up at Chris and fixed him with dark eyes that had seen far too much, for far too long. "Ah'm beholden to ya' for it."

Chris shook his head gently. "You've got it wrong," he said. "It's us who are beholden to Nathan. All the time."

"Wal, a man's frien's says lots 'bout the man. Ya' gots t' take this broth, though, Vin honey. C'mon an' swallah that for Miz Ruby. Git yo' stren'th up, chil'." Her dark eyes flitted quickly to Buck's face as Vin passively let her slide another sip of the broth into his mouth. "That how y'all met these fellahs?" she asked him. "Was ya' there that day, too?"

"No." Buck's voice was soft, and almost sad. He looked sideways at Chris, then away from him. "Chris an' I know each other from way back," he said.

"Frien's a long time, eh?" Miz Ruby sighed as Vin slid silently from consciousness, going completely limp in her arms as he did so. Chris rose to help her lower him back to the floor. "Ah didn' get much broth in 'im a-tall," she said in a worried voice. "An' he's still _so_ fevered." She was looking down at Vin's face as Chris gently slid him from her lap. The gunman pressed his lips together, and then glanced at Buck, who was sitting on the step, his sandwich eaten, his elbows on his knees and his eyes set deeply with fatigue. He had been quiet, watching the woman as she tried to get some nourishment into Vin, and worrying about how in the world they would ever get him out of the house like he was. But now he spoke in a weary voice.

"Miz Ruby, did Nathan say anything about . . . anything we need to know?"

The woman picked up the little cup of broth and Chris helped her stand. She dusted off the back of her skirt and hobbled stiffly to the crate to set down the cup, picked up a parcel of pie, and unwrapped it. Thrusting it into Buck's hands, she smiled. "He said t' be sure an' tell y'all t' eat up, 'cause it might be nigh ont' mornin' but he's gonna' gitcha'll out." She picked up the other parcel and unwrapped it to hand to Chris. "Ya' gots t' eat," she said. "He was real partic'lar about it. He's worried 'bout y'all down here. Worried that he ain't been able to 'scape from Marse Sterlin' or that Miss Belle long enough today t'--"

"Miss Belle." Chris's eyes sharpened in a way that reminded Miz Ruby of why she hadn't trusted him at first.

"Yessir." Miz Ruby sat on the bottom step next to Buck and smiled at him, patting his good knee. "Now," she said, "lemme tell y'all what Nathan done tol' me Ah was t' say." She knew she was ignoring Chris, and frankly she wasn't the least bit concerned about it. Friend of Nathan's or not, he seemed really not as nice as this man, Buck, who was clearly a good boy and loved his mother. Chris scowled when he saw that Buck had pulled his charms on another woman, and went to sit down on the crate to eat his piece of pie while he listened.

"He tol' me t' tell y'all that soon's he kin git away by hisself -- an' that'll be in a hour 'r so -- he's got a signal he'll use t' meet with yo' other frien's. They's got that set up already."

"What time is it now?" Chris was chewing on pie, and Miz Ruby looked over at him.

"'Twas about 7 o'clock when Ah come down," she replied. She looked back at Buck. "At any rate, he said they'll make 'rrangements an' then he'll come down an' git y'all 'long 'bout 2 o'clock in th' mornin' or so, to leave outta' here. He said t' tell ya' that y'all are gonna' hafta' walk a ways, an' that's why he wants y'all t' eat good. He said if'n anythin' goes wrong, he'll make it so it happens t'morrah night, but he wants t' get Mister Vin--"

"That won't work," Chris interrupted, shortly. "You need to tell Nathan something's changed."

"What?" The woman looked from one man to the other with a worried expression as she felt both men grow suddenly tense.

"Sullivan," said Buck softly.

"What 'bout 'im?"

"He tried to kill Vin a few hours ago. I killed him, instead."

Miz Ruby rubbed her face and shook her head. "Wal, that do put a crimp in the pie crust," she said. "Where is 'e?"

"Behind the crate over there." Buck pointed and Miz Ruby got up to walk there slowly and peer over the edge of the crate Buck had indicated. She looked at the dead man for a long time, then said without turning away, "Ah shore am hopin' that's not mah good kitchen knife Ah sees stickin' outta' that evil man."

"Yes ma'am, I'm afraid it is." Buck thought it should have seemed funny to him somehow, but it didn't. He couldn't remember the last time something had been funny. Maybe when Vin had threatened to "force" him to lay down. Miz Ruby turned around and came back to the stairway, pausing to look at Vin for a moment as she did.

"Wal, Ah ain't gonna' use it no more, nohow." She didn't add that it was because she wouldn't be at the big house much longer. She didn't know where she'd be, but not here. Not this kitchen, not that knife. Not any more.

Miz Ruby put her hand on the stair railing and looked at Buck and then Chris very steadily. "Ah'll make shore Nathan un'erstands how things've got," she said. "Y'all rest. Ain't gonna' be easy." She patted Buck a final time, on the back, as she went past him on her way up the stairs. "An' finish up the broth that po' fellah Vin cain't eat," she said. "Y'all's jus' too skinny for such doin's as what'll be goin' on t'night."

Chris and Buck watched as the darkness swallowed the woman from the top down, until only her slippered feet could be seen dragging slowly up the steps. And then she vanished, and the door opened and shut once more, and they sat down in the dim light of the cellar to wait.

Part 84

Nathan shook out the match and looked around the otherwise dark parlor to make sure no one had seen him light the candle in the window. It was full dark outside, and he knew that whoever was on watch for the signal should be able to see it clearly. Nathan closed his eyes for a moment and told himself that nothing could have happened since he'd separated from his friends to prevent their meeting him now. He'd have heard about it, he was sure, if they'd been discovered. They had to be all right. They had to.

He'd told Marse Sterling that he had to look over some account books for Miz Ruby and that he'd be back in later to check on things before the Master and Missus turned in for the night. The man had smiled a gratified smile, surprised around the edges, and readily agreed. Check for any signs of missing funds, he'd admonished Nathan. You never knew who might be stealing from the household accounts. Nathan had nodded his agreement and taken his leave, finding it hard to keep contempt from showing on his face. He'd lit the candle, then, and waited for a long five minutes before gently blowing it out so that the hot wax wouldn't go onto the sill. Setting the candle back on the mantle, he slipped into his room on the side porch and quickly removed jacket and vest, and put on his own coat and boots. He rolled up his pants enough to keep the brush from tearing them, and slipped out into the cool night, standing in the dark that was noisy with distant sounds of mining for a long moment more, as he got his bearings.

He was so damned tired.

He started trudging up the long hill north of the house, head down. That he had been in the big house only a little over 30 hours was almost inconceivable. Such a short space of time, such a rapid journey back down the long road to his previous life. The memories had reached out to snatch him short by the collar with unexpected force, and Nathan shivered at the thought of all that had happened. Then he shook himself roughly. What was important was _now_, was Vin and Buck and Chris in that cellar, Sullivan's body somewhere down there with them. Michaels would never let them live if he knew they'd killed Sullivan; they would be dead within minutes of the discovery. Nathan had felt his blood run cold when Miz Ruby had whispered the word to him from Chris and Buck, and known that time had indeed run out for all of them, not just for Vin.

The healer looked up as he slowed on the steep uphill grade, approaching the grove of trees at the base of a sandstone cliff where they'd agreed to meet at his signal. No one was visible in the darkness, and Nathan's heart leaped up to hammer in his throat. Perhaps something HAD happened. If so, then how would he get the others out of the cellar safely? How long would it be until Vin died of blood poisoning even with the slug removed? What would happen when Michaels realized Sullivan was missing, and had been going down to the cellar? Then a soft voice floated to him on the night breeze, saying his name, and he closed his eyes and thought it was a miracle he didn't just fall flat down in his relief.

"Who is it?" He opened his eyes and looked around cautiously, still seeing no one.

"Only a day and a half, and you've forgotten me already? Tsk, tsk, Mr. Jackson."

"Ezra!" Nathan relaxed and grinned. He felt more than saw the gambler's dim form step out from the trees towards him, and saw his eyes gleam in the starlight.

"Indeed. I seem to be the one designated to communicate with you. What word do you bring us?" Ezra drew close enough to Nathan to take his arm and gently propel him to a seat on the rough stone where they could not be easily seen. His voice remained low.

"They're in the big house," said Nathan, "jus' like JD figured. In the cellar. An' Chris--"

"We saw him arrive earlier today," cut in Ezra, shaking his head sharply. "But you said 'they' -- that 'they're' in the big house. Dare I ask . . . "

Nathan was nodding. "Yeah," he said, "both of 'em. Buck an' Vin. They're alive."

"Thank God!" Even in the dark, Nathan could sense Ezra's overwhelming joy at that news. He frowned, suddenly worried.

"Somethin' happen I don' know about?"

"We'd found . . ." Ezra breathed out suddenly, shaking, and then continued. ". . . two unmarked graves in the mine's cemetery. We were tryin' not to believe it, but . . . well . . ." His voice trailed off and he regarded Nathan with an expression that made the healer's blood chill.

"God," said Nathan softly, his eyes filling with regret, "If I coulda' got word to y'all sooner. . ." Then he suddenly drew himself up, and glanced over his shoulder down the slope towards the house. A furtive look ran across his face, and he shuddered and then looked back at Ezra. "Well, they're all three in there," he repeated. "But we gotta' get 'em out tonight. No delay." He paused again, and Ezra was silent, waiting for him to continue. He realized suddenly that Nathan was lacing and unlacing his fingers, and that he had glanced down the slope behind him again, unsettled. Ezra reached out abruptly and laid a reassuring hand on his friend's forearm. Nathan looked up, startled, his eyes shining in the low light. He swallowed, then, and continued.

"First, if anythin' happens tonight, tell the others there's some kinda' attack planned on the stage into Four Corners, for day after tomorra'. White men, dressed up like Indians." He looked at Ezra's face to see what his reaction would be, but the Southerner just sat there looking back at Nathan with his best poker face.

"Now," said Nathan, his voice shifting into a more brusque cadence, "Buck's been hurt like we thought, but seems to be doin' more or less all right now." He paused a moment, an image of Buck flashing through his mind as he'd seen him in the cellar: pale, limping, one pants' leg soaked with old blood. Then he shook his head to himself; he had to be all right. Had to be. There was no way he and Chris could get two men out of that house who needed help. Vin was going to be hard enough to transport; Buck hadn't said a word, and if he hadn't recovered enough to at least walk outta' there he would've let them know. Nathan nodded to himself and went on. "We got a problem with Vin, though; he's in a bad way. I got the slug out last night, but he's runnin' a high fever an' needs t' get outta' there. The worst thing is they killed a fella' today, one a' Michaels' men, an' hid his body in the cellar."

"Great." Ezra withdrew his hand and shook his head. "How long do we have until this is discovered?"

"Hard t' say." Nathan squinted up at the sky, looking at the stars. "I doubt anyone'll go down there before mornin', but I don' know. There's some pretty sharp folks aroun' that house. They're liable to realize this fella' Sullivan is missin'." He looked back at Ezra. "Fixin' to storm, it looks like."

"Could be." Ezra was thinking, slapping one hand idly against his thigh and not listening to Nathan's weather report very closely. "So what do you want to do?"

Nathan stood up. "I'll get 'em outta' the cellar at about 2 in the mornin', head 'em up here."

Ezra rose as well. "About 5 or 6 hours from now?"

"Close as I can get it, yeah."

"We'll be here, with the horses. JD has located those of our companions and he and Josiah will liberate them from their own incarceration in time to ferry their owners to safety."

"I hope so." Nathan looked back down the long slope through the dark trees to the tiny squares of light that marked the location of the house. The patchwork of lights that was the mine operation spread down the slope beyond it, shining almost as brightly as the stars themselves. He looked back at Ezra. "Tell 'em to be careful," he said softly. "I'm countin' on y'all. We're gonna' have a hard time gettin' Vin even this far."

Ezra placed his hand on Nathan's shoulder.

"We'll be here. You have my word on it, as a gentleman."

"Your word as a frien' will do it."

"As a friend then. As _your_ friend." Ezra let go of Nathan's shoulder and shook his hand solemnly. "In four and a half hours we will be here waitin', in case you have to leave sooner than you've planned. We will not leave without you four, even if we have to ride down into that house through the God-damned front door, and rip the cellar apart with our bare hands. I swear it."

Then as Ezra's words hung in the air between the two men, he heard them echo and felt suddenly embarrassed by the bravado of what he'd said. For a long and miserable moment he thought Nathan was going to laugh at him, despite the earnestness with which he'd spoken. But instead the healer grasped Ezra's hands tightly in his own, made a deep choking sound, and then took one step back.

"I'll light the candle again, to let you know we're leavin'," he said in a husky, broken voice. "Hasta luego."

"Soon, indeed," said Ezra softly.

Nathan turned and vanished into the darkness, and Ezra stood watching the long slope for several moments to make sure that no alarm was raised. Finally he turned and climbed the slope to his horse, mounted up, and legged the animal into a lope.

He was in a hurry to deliver some damned good news: There were four in the house, not two. Buck and Vin were alive!

Part 85

Night was falling. It surprised JD after the heat of the days how cold the desert mountain nights were. But there was no warming JD, he was in mourning. Two of his friends were dead, his best friends. Josiah had kept saying it might not be them and throughout the day, JD had looked over and over again for some sign that he was right. There was none. No sighting. No loose talk. Nothing.

JD had arrived for his job at the livery in the Apex Mining Compound before daylight. No one had been around so JD started to muck out the stalls. He knew the routine by rout. He had been a stablehand when just a small boy. So JD had worked using the routine to just cope.

Shortly after dawn when the livery manager had walked up from dining hall with the rest of the workers, JD had almost finished cleaning the barn. He barely acknowledged the liveryman as he rolled a wheelbarrow of muck out of the barn.

"Good work, John." The liveryman praised JD as he returned to the barn. JD didn't care what the liveryman thought of his work. He cared about Mr. Larabee's opinion -- it only mattered if he thought JD did good work.

JD was set to grooming horses the rest of the morning. Fortunately, it provided an opportunity to get a good look at Chris's, Buck's, and Vin's horses to see if they had any problems that would prevent their use in any escape attempt. JD was pleased to see they were in good shape. There would be an escape for Chris and Nathan. It was just a matter of time and no matter what, Buck's and Vin's horses would come with them. JD would see to that.

Shortly after high noon, a little Mexican boy scampered into the barns. He moved so stealthily that he would have surprised JD if he hadn't been alert. Even though the boy's breaths came in short pants, the boy tried to immediately relay his message to the livery boss, "Senor Sterling going riding with a guest. The men will ride those two horses," -- the boy nodded his head to Buck's grey and Vin's gelding.

JD froze. The bastard was going to ride Buck's and Vin's horses. JD felt the livery boss look at him and JD controlled his emotions.

The livery boss turned his attention back to the little boy. "You sure, boy?" yanking at the boy's ear.

JD stepped between them forcing the livery boss to release the boy. "No need for that," JD commented quietly.

The boy was nodding his head frantically, "si, si." Before the livery boss could grab him again, the boy ran from the barn giving JD a quick look of thanks as he left the barn.

"John, get those horses ready. Just in case, also saddle Mr. Michael's black."

JD nodded his head and turned to carry out the liveryman's orders only to find himself brought up short when his ear was yanked. The livery boss wagged his finger at JD, "don't ever get between me and any other worker again," he ordered JD tightly.

JD looked up into the liveryman's eyes and held the boss's gaze with bitter eyes for a long moment, before jerking his head in acknowledgement.

The livery boss was startled by the bitterness reflected back. Good worker but he'd be one to watch.

+ + + + + + +

Josiah had returned to the cabin with Ezra. Ezra was so exhausted that after he pulled the saddle from his horse, he just stopped and dropped his head right there to fall asleep leaning against the wall. Josiah dragged him into the cabin and saw him fed and put to bed before he hurried back to keep watch over The Compound. Ezra would relieve him at nightfall. They had decided on 12-hour shifts with JD working the stables.

Josiah picked up the binoculars to survey the mining compound. He systematically surveyed every building in the valley cataloging their apparent function and looking for any sign of posting of guards. None was apparent. That confirmed Ezra's finding from the night before, that Chris was being held at the big house and that was probably where Buck and Vin were.

Buck and Vin.

Josiah carefully withdrew the glasses from his eyes. Two graves. He had stopped with Ezra at the cemetery. Ezra didn't dismount. He had glanced at them and rode on. Ezra had been deeply shaken from the sight. Josiah refrained from talking to him about it. Ezra had been right, at the very least, they had two men to back up in the big house. There would be plenty of time to mourn, so by mutual consent, the loss was not discussed.

Josiah had returned by noon to see the workers marching to the dining hall. A short while later they exited, obviously not having the opportunity to savor the meal served. As opposed to Ezra's report of unusual activity during the night, the day seemed to have settled into a regular work routine that ended up being shattered when the boss man stepped out the front door. The whole atmosphere of the compound changed. There seemed a tenseness to the men. As Sterling Michaels passed by his workers, most made a point to avoid contact or kept their eyes deferentially down. Josiah reflected on his visits to the Delano Mine and the obvious differences between the two boss men. JD had mentioned Delano was finding it tough to hire men, Josiah couldn't imagine why after this display.

Josiah raised the binoculars again to monitor Sterling Michaels. There were actually two men. Both obviously wealthy by the fine cut and material of their clothes. Sterling Michaels was a big man, tall and husky. He exuded strength and power in his carriage and seemed to take pleasure at his hold over the men and women in the mining compound. The other man was much slighter in build and he obviously deferred to Michaels. Josiah had no doubt that Michaels was a formidable enemy.

Josiah's breath held as he noticed JD was holding Buck's and Vin's horses for the two men. There was apparent ribald laughter as the men mounted and Josiah could feel JD's furor from his perch. 'Take it easy, son. Take it easy.'

Josiah felt relief as he saw the two dandies ride off with JD apparently causing no problem. Josiah let a shuddering breath out. It was a dangerous game they were playing and not only Nathan, but also JD right in the middle of it. The margin for safety was almost nil. They needed to get Chris and Nathan out of there. And soon.

Ezra relieved Josiah at dusk. Josiah waited on JD and rode back to the lumber camp, neither had much to say -- be time for that when they got home. Hmmm, what home? Josiah had forsaken that place -- he doubted he could stay in Four Corners when this was all done. Josiah felt it would have to be Chris that saw JD through this and wondered if their leader would realize that. It would be on him to tell him that. He wondered if Chris would listen.

+ + + + + + +

Ezra mounted his horse with alacrity. When he saw the candle Nathan had lit, it was like a beacon proclaiming the news -- they were alive, they were alive.

The distance eating pace back to the lumber camp could not be fast enough. Josiah was out front when he pulled up.

"They're alive," Ezra choked out, "Alive."

"JD," Josiah called out.

JD came to the door, guns drawn. Upon seeing Ezra, he quickly lowered his weapons. "Vin and Buck are alive," Ezra repeated.

JD clapped Josiah on the back in obvious joy and relief. The celebration was short-lived when Ezra conveyed the seriousness of their situation.

"They're hurt bad and Nathan says we've got to get them out of there tonight. It has to be tonight. They killed a man. We must prepare quickly, I told Nathan we would be on station standing by with the horses in four and a half hours."

Josiah assumed control. "Ezra get off that horse. JD walk him out, then get our horses ready to go, including Nathan's. Ezra help me get the supplies we need and bank the fire." No one needed to be told twice to hurry.

Ezra rode Nathan's horse to the rendezvous, letting his horse rest up as much as possible for the coming action. As the men returned to their perch above the compound, it had been about four hours since Ezra had met up with Nathan. It was a relief to find the compound relatively quiet and obviously operating in normal fashion.

"I'll get the horses," JD had started to hurry toward the stables when Josiah held him up.

"I'll back you up. Ezra if it goes bad down there -- well, you need to stay out of it," Josiah paused and could sense the protest welling in Ezra, "you must. We have to have one man on the outside. You are that man."

Ezra started at Josiah's words. The man. I'm the one you will all have to depend on. Ezra felt panic well and a stunning sense of inadequacy having these six men depending on him. He wondered if Josiah remembered the last time they had all depended on him -- he had failed them. Ezra looked hard at Josiah who conveyed utter confidence in his ability to do this job. That was even more stunning to Ezra -- utter confidence.

Josiah didn't say anything more. He would have laughed out loud because he knew exactly what Ezra was thinking but then Ezra would run -- not from fear, or selfishness, but from embarrassment. Josiah nodded at Ezra firmly -- confidently.

Ezra touched two fingers to the brim of his hat in acknowledgement. The gesture lacked its usual jaunty flourish.

JD sprinted down the hill to the corral. Fortunately, with Michaels riding Buck's and Vin's horses earlier in the afternoon, it wasn't considered unusual that JD put them out after brushing them down. Just short of the compound, JD drew up with Josiah beside him. "Josiah you lead the horses to that treeline." JD pointed to where he meant. "I'll go into the barn and get the tack and the boys' saddlebags."

Josiah didn't say anything but he couldn't help but be impressed with JD's confidence and planning.

Josiah approached the horses as JD soundlessly slipped away. JD had been there one moment, gone the next. The horses obviously recognized Josiah pressing their heads against his palm as he grabbed their halters and led them away from the compound one at a time. Each horse's familiarity with Josiah worked in his favor because not once did the horses snort or whinny announcing their departure from the compound. As he drew up with the final horse into the treeline, Josiah noted two saddles tucked by a bush. If he didn't know this was the meeting spot, he would have never seen them, but the silver conchos from Chris's saddle were so briefly lit by a streak of lightning. Josiah started to saddle the horses impressed with their discipline despite the wind gusting and lightning streaking the sky to the west followed by ever increasing rumbles of thunder.

He had saddled Buck's and Chris's horses and realized JD had yet to return. Where the hell was he?

JD had slipped in and out of the livery barn carrying the saddles to the treeline. He hadn't seen Josiah but their paths were on different tangents. After his second trip, he saw Chris's horse in the shadows and knew Josiah had been there. It couldn't be going better.

JD bent over for Vin's saddle -- the last to be carried out when a hand clamped down on his shoulder. "What 'er doin' boy?" The livery boss's voice rasped in JD's ear, low and quiet.

JD straightened slowly and turned to face the livery boss. JD looked the man over slowly, almost insolently.

The liveryman startled at JD's bravado and backed up two steps. He was unarmed and he noted the Colt's slung low on the boy's hips. 'No, not a boy, a man.' There was no doubt in the liveryman's mind that John could use them guns -- would use those guns if he gave him cause to.

The liveryman raised his hands in surrender.

JD didn't say a word, didn't draw a gun. He grabbed a rope and secured one wrist and brought it behind the liveryman's back and then pulled the other hand down and tightly secured it. JD used the liveryman's bandana to gag him and then led him deep into the tack room before assisting him to seat before tying his ankles with rope also. JD then stacked boxes and saddles to hide the liveryman from view. He'd be found. Just not soon.

JD picked up Vin's saddle and quickly exited the barn.

JD slung the saddle onto Vin's horse.

Josiah touched JD's arm. "Trouble?"

"A little. I took care of it." JD continued quickly with his task.

Josiah retrieved the reins from Buck's and Chris's horses.

Josiah and JD guided the horses back up the hill to where Ezra was watching and waiting.

Lightning flashed across the sky, the wind howled, and rain started to spot. Josiah couldn't figure if that was good or bad. Provided great cover but it'd be hard on the injured men.

It'd be hard on the men who were anxiously waiting.

And waiting.

Part 86

Chris sat on the dank dirt floor of the cellar next to Vin and tried to figure out how everything had gotten so out of hand. He looked over at Buck who was sitting a little way away on a packing crate. His head was buried in his hands and he hadn't even looked over at Chris in the last twenty minutes. 'Damn you, Buck,' Chris thought, but there wasn't much heat behind the words. He had to save his energy for what lay ahead yet tonight. And he had to figure that there would be time afterward to get to the bottom of things.

He watched Buck stretch his right leg out in front of him and even in the dim light from the lantern hanging overhead, Chris could see him grimace at the pain the movement caused him. Chris watched him and looked at Vin, resting easier since last night when the slug had been removed, but still weak and pretty much out of it. Chris hadn't gotten any kind of look at the mining facility when he'd been brought in, but he had to figure, thinking about what Michaels had said and what Miz Ruby had told them, that they were going to have to travel on foot for a ways to get to their horses. It would take both him and Nathan to help Vin. And if Buck couldn't make it...

Chris had offered twice more to look at Buck's leg after Nathan had been called away. The last time Buck hadn't even answered him, just looked at him through eyes gone narrow, clearly warning him without a single spoken word to back off. And Chris had, though he had to admit he'd mostly done it out of anger at Buck's stubbornness. And now, he was left wondering just how bad off Buck was. Chris had seen him walk and he knew that he was limping badly and there was a tightness in him that Chris could spot even in the darkness. His pant leg was covered with blood where it had spread and dried and spread again. He'd rested some while he'd been locked up in the cellar, Chris figured, but still....Maybe he should offer--

Just then, Buck looked up and over at Vin and Chris's lips tightened as he watched the line of his gaze. 'Damn you, Buck,' he thought. 'Somehow this is your fault.' His thoughts turned to the people in the house above them. Miss Belle. Miss Belle was right here in this house. And the only thing Chris could figure was that everything was connected. That somehow they were trapped here and Vin was injured because Buck hadn't been able to keep his hands off a woman. Maybe he hadn't raped her. Angry as he was, Chris still couldn't quite make sense of that, but something had gone on. That much was just so clear to him. And then, when he'd arrived, when he'd clearly interrupted Buck doing whatever fool thing he'd decided to do....he'd laid Vin's life right out, like it didn't mean much. And why? Nathan had already been just a floor away. If Buck had waited...But then, that was always it, Chris thought. Buck could never wait. Not for a woman, not for a fight. Nothing. There was a lot for the two of them to settle. But now was not the place or time. All that Chris could do right now was worry about Vin and about Nathan in the house above them engaged in a dangerous, precarious masquerade and wait.

+ + + + + + +

All Buck wanted in the world at that moment was a warm clean bed that he could sink into and close his eyes and never have to open them again.

...and he wanted Vin safe. And he wanted Nathan out of whatever mess he was in upstairs. And he even...he opened his eyes and looked down at the dark dirt floor, he even wanted Chris to come out of this intact.

Buck stretched out his injured leg, trying to keep it from stiffening up too much. It ached constantly now, something he was more or less used to, but when he moved it this time a sharp flash of pain arrowed up it and stabbed him square in the chest. Blue sparks danced across his vision. Damn! He'd figured it would be better by now. It'd been...hell! He didn't know how long it'd been, but it'd been a damned long time locked up in this cellar. And in all that time he hadn't been doing a damned thing--if you didn't count doctoring Vin, fighting with Chris, and killing Sullivan--which, of course, Buck didn't. It'd be all right, though. Had to be. He'd been walking on it every day and he hadn't lost any blood in a couple of days. If all it did was hurt, well, he could handle that.

He thought about what might likely lie ahead tonight. He had no idea what this place they were trapped in might look like outside the cellar. It was all a dark mystery to him. He'd been in a sunlit meadow one minute, desperately trying to escape and the next minute he'd been here, in this dark cold cellar. He lifted his head and looked over at Vin. Chris noticed him and as Buck watched him, Chris's face took on a hard, tight cast and his eyes narrowed and grew cold. Buck straightened unconsciously and looked straight back at him for a minute before slowly turning away. He thought about all the years he'd stood up for Chris, backed him in one fight after another, not even asking Chris to do the same for him--not every time anyway--just when it was important.

And now, here they were, and it was as if they'd never been friends at all. It had started, maybe, when Chris hadn't backed him with Josiah. But it had ended right here in this cellar when Chris accused him of using Vin to buy his own freedom. As if he would. As if Chris shouldn't damn well know. But Chris hadn't known. And he hadn't known what was important back in Four Corners either. And if he didn't know those things, then Buck had to figure that he didn't know anything at all.

He rubbed a tired hand across his face. He'd lost weight in the last week and his face was thinner and still really pale. There were dark smudges etched almost permanently under his eyes, eyes that had long ago lost their spark. The way Buck figured it, he'd help get Vin out of here tonight. And he'd hang with the others until they got to the bottom of this and stopped it. But after that...well, nothing had changed. The reason he'd left town in the first place was still right there, same as it had been. When this was all over, no matter how it turned out, there would be no place for Buck back in Four Corners. And that was something, things being how they were, that was important to know.

+ + + + + + +

Vin kept thinking there was something important he'd forgotten. As a matter of fact, he'd forgotten just what it was he was doing. On his horse? Just outside town? And something didn't look right. Didn't feel right. But he couldn't figure it. Like his brain wasn't quite working and it took a really long time before anything made sense.

Evening was approaching as he rode into town, that much seemed clear. And it was like he'd been away a long time, but he couldn't remember why. Then, he looked down at the horse he was riding and realized it wasn't his horse at all. It was Buck's. That didn't make any sense. Why was he riding Buck's horse? Where was Buck? Where was anyone, come to that? The streets of Four Corners were deserted. Vin saw no one. There were no lanterns in windows. A few street fires were lit, but not all of them by any means. And the night darkness had come on fast, almost unbelievably fast. In the length of one footstep it had barely been dusk, and in the next full night was upon him.

Vin didn't even see Chris stride out of the darkened saloon until he'd grabbed him by the front of his coat and dragged him off Buck's horse. "Where is he?" Chris demanded. "You were supposed to bring him back with you. Son of a whore." And he said it like he was swearing. "Where is he?"

Vin tried to speak, tried to tell Chris that it wasn't right to say that about a man, not about a friend, but the words wouldn't come out. He opened his mouth and he tried to speak, but there was no sound.

Chris shook him. "Tell me!" he said, practically spitting the words. "Tell me! Tell me where he is!"

Vin opened his mouth again and this time the words came. "He's gone," Vin said.

For a moment, everything seemed to freeze. Chris stopped shaking him and there was only dead silence, like a wall surrounding them. Then, as if none of it mattered or was quite real anyway, the whole town started to shimmer and slowly it all began to fade. When, after what seemed like a very long time, Vin finally stood all alone in a kind of faded-blue darkness, he heard Chris's voice coming to him from someplace really far away. "Take it easy, Vin," Chris said softly. "It's all right."

But Vin knew it wasn't all right at all.

Part 87

Striker was a man who enjoyed sitting silently in the dark, watching, every sense alert. He'd let himself into the big house shortly after midnight and thought briefly of slipping up the stairs to see if Belle had any visitors it might suit him to know about, but then opted instead for a seat deep in shadows in a far corner of the library. Michaels kept important papers there, and maps. And he had a house full of people right now. It was as good, thought Striker, as sitting at a water hole to wait for prey. Sure enough, not two hours had passed before he heard the knob to the library door turning slowly and saw the tall shadow of a man slip quietly into the room.

Striker smiled very, very slightly to himself, watching, enjoying the sense of power from seeing but being, himself, unseen. Hearing, but being unheard. Only his eyes moved, tracking the stealthy figure as the man moved cautiously to the cabinets beneath the book shelves and opened one after another of them with care. Striker saw a flash of white cuff as the man ran a searching hand in the darkness of the cabinets, and then caught another flash of white at the collar as the man moved from the cabinets to the desk and began to quietly open the drawers and search through them. A distant flare of silent lightning from outside provided just enough light for a fraction of a moment that Striker saw his guess was correct: judging by the uniform, it was Michaels' new colored boy who was searching the library with such care.

And skill.

Striker frowned very slightly. The man he was watching moved with way too much confidence for a colored butler going through his master's belongings. This wasn't just a dishonest domestic looking for something easy to pawn. He felt his muscles cord into taut readiness when a soft, sharp intake of breath from the man was followed by the muffled thump of heavy guns being set on Michaels' desk. Striker saw silver conchos gleam briefly in another dim and distant flash of lightning, and knew exactly whose rigs had been lifted from the desk. The question was: why?

+ + + + + + +

Voices. They'd woven in and out of his awareness in broken threads for -- well, he wasn't sure how long. The words had been isolated and distant and hadn't made much sense. They'd swirled like a cloud of barn swallows around sensations of touch to his face, his chest, his shoulder. He'd lain in it inert, let it all go past. But this time, something was different. The voices wouldn't stop. They kept darting and swooping closer, and the touching was more insistent, and he started to feel annoyed by it.

"Go 'way," he said finally, his own voice thick and slurred and rough. But the voice nearest him just grew more insistent.

"Can't do that, Vin," it said. "Sorry. You need to wake up now. Come on."

Vin sighed and felt cross. He didn't want to wake up. He wanted to be left alone. He was so tired. And everything hurt so damned bad. Why couldn't they leave him alone? Why not?

"No," he mumbled. "No." He felt himself relax as he started sliding again into the dark place he'd been before, the annoying voices receeding. Suddenly there was something cold on his face, and it jerked him back from the place he was sinking into, and he struggled his eyes opened, mad this time.

"I'm sorry, Vin." It was Chris. Good God. Chris. "I know you need to rest. But we gotta' get you out of here."

Vin sighed and felt part of himself shove the rest of him physically up out of his dark refuge, and groaned as its support fell away from him and left him stranded and panting on a beach that was a dim basement and a deep ache in every inch of his body.

"Hell," he complained softly.

"No doubt," said Chris. Vin's eyes began to bring his friend's face into focus as he blinked and squinted. The man in black looked tired. Really tired. "How about a little water?" he asked Vin.

Vin shook his head silently, very slightly, but Chris seemed to understand. "In a few more minutes, then." His face got a tight, pinched look to it and he leaned a little closer. "I'm still not sure you're awake, Vin. Can you hear me?"

"Yeah." It was a breath more than a spoken word, but Chris heard it and sat back on his heels, satisfied. Vin swallowed against the dryness in his throat several times as he struggled up a little higher into consciousness. Damn, he felt bad. He heard his own breathing change, grow heavier and rougher as he saw more and heard more and felt more. Shit. _Really_ bad. He looked at Chris, unable to speak but wanting that water now, and his friend read it somehow in his eyes and lifted a dipper to his lips and oh my it was good, sliding down his throat. It made him want to close his eyes and drift away again, but he didn't. He couldn't.

+ + + + + + +

Nathan thought briefly, seriously, of taking the suit with him so he could burn it. But instead he laid it back over the cot as it had been laid out for him to begin with. His own clothes felt so good against his skin that it made him almost dizzy -- and then suddenly he _was_ dizzy, and he sat down for a moment and put his head between his knees, and focused on his breathing. Too many hours working, not enough hours sleeping -- at least, not enough to finish getting his strength back from having been so sick. And all of it was catching up with him in a deep bone-weary sort of way. He sat up slowly again as his head stopped spinning, and rubbed a hand across his face and wished this whole nightmare could just come to a screeching halt. At least for one, long, uninterrupted night of sound sleep.

"Nathan?" Miz Ruby's soft whisper at the porch door made the healer get up and open it. He drew the woman out onto the porch and sat her in the wicker chair, then knelt in front of her and took her hands in his, to study her face in silence. The woman returned his gaze, and then looked down at Nathan's hands. "Y'all 'bouts t' leave?"

"Yes'm." Nathan felt the woman tremble at his word, and then she sighed heavily.

"Ah hopes y'all makes it, Son. Ah hopes yo' frien' gits well agin, too. Here." She reached into one of her enormous apron pockets and pulled out a worn napkin that was tied together at the corners. "Ah putsed a bunch a' slipp'ry-root leaf an' willa' bark in this here. An' some feverfew, too. Ah hopes it'll--" The woman broke off as her voice caught.

"I'll be back for ya', Miz Ruby. An' for Bitsy an' Coco an' Pedro."

The woman shook her head slowly, sadly, pressing the packet into Nathan's hands. "Cain't takes a chance like that'n, Son. We be fine here. Ah's always fine."

"I'll be back," repeated Nathan. "I'm not leavin' you here. Michaels will figure it was me that got Buck an' Vin out, but he might suspect you a' helpin' me an' watch ya' more closely now. I'm not gonna' let 'im do anythin' to hurt you or the others. I'm comin' back for ya' just as soon as I get Vin squared away an' safe." Miz Ruby's eyes grew dark with fear, and she clutched Nathan's hands at his words.

"He'd likely kill ya', Nathan. Please, please don' do that. Don' come back never. Ah cain't bear it if--"

"I don't think you understand." Nathan was shaking his head, smiling slightly, sadly. "I heal folks, but I've done my share a' killin', too. I ain't proud of it, but he won't be able to just come at me like he thinks he can. An' if he tries, I'll teach 'im otherwise. I _am_ comin' back for you an' the others. Soon." The man stood up, drawing Miz Ruby with him, and she suddenly grabbed him around the waist and pressed him to her in a tight embrace, then turned and fled silently. Nathan stood in the darkness, heard the hall clock strike two, and shook himself all over lightly. Time to go.

He picked up the three gun rigs, that he'd located an hour earlier in a bottom drawer of the oversized desk in Michaels' library, and headed for the cellar door. He heard thunder rumble distantly from one side of the sky to the other as he did.

+ + + + + + +

Striker was outside, walking a circuit around the house. The wind was rising, carrying rain smell, and it blew up puffs of dust as he came to a halt in the deep shadows near the linden trees on the north side of the structure, beneath the parlor windows. There was a single candle set there, its flame visible a long way in the expanse of open country that lay in that direction, with no other buildings to block it. The light would be visible for a very long way, indeed. A slight creak from farther around the house caused him to move that direction cautiously, and he caught a glimpse of the woman Miz Ruby as she tossed out a pan of wash water and went back into the kitchen, letting the door bang softly behind her. Striker leaned back. Nearly two am. The woman got up at 4:00 on baking days, but he'd never seen her working at this hour. Could be coincidence, but . . . He leaned against the wall in the dark, and started trying to remember where he'd seen Michaels' butler before tonight.

Because he was certain he had.

Part 88

"You think if we help you, you can sit up a little bit, against this crate behind you?" Chris was pushing him again, and Vin knew there had to be a reason. He nodded, deciding not to spend any energy on talking if he was going to have to sit up. They were careful, and the slug in his shoulder didn't move as they lifted him up at least, but the room still spun and black spots danced at the edge of his vision, and he heard himself panting and thought for a long minute that he wasn't going to have any say in the matter of staying with it or not. But slowly things settled down again, and Chris gave him a little more water, and someone touched a cool cloth to his face again. He realized his eyes were closed, and reopened them wearily. He saw Buck this time, regarding him with a somber face, and Vin smiled weakly.

"Y'ok, Bucklin?" he whispered.

"Better'n you." Buck's face relaxed at Vin's words, and he put one hand on the tracker's knee. "Nathan's been down here an' got the bullet out. Did it help with the pain? Is it any better?"

Oh. That explained it. Vin nodded. "Yeah," he rasped. "I wondered . . ." He broke off as his mind started to drift and knit his brows.

"Don't try to go too fast, Vin," said Chris. "Take it slow. That's why we woke you up now, is so you'd have time."

"Time?" His voice was soft and almost hollow, but he slid his gaze to Chris's face, asking a question.

"Nathan got into the house, here. Without them knowing who he is." Chris's voice was too gentle, Vin thought. It had the reassuring quality it got sometimes when things were really bad and he didn't want someone to know it. What was going on? "He's coming down soon to help us get out. The others will be waiting outside with the horses."

Vin thought a moment, his mind turning the information over far too slowly. He looked at Buck, who hadn't moved and who was still looking steadily and with some concern at Vin.

"How'd . . . you . . .?" Vin licked his lips, suddenly realizing how hot he was, how thirsty. Chris gave him more water, and then he realized that someone was wiping his face with a wet cloth again. When had that happened? He must have drifted. Open eyes again, he thought. Ah. It's Buck. Vin sighed, swallowed. He felt so tired. He just wanted to sleep, suddenly. Please. Just let me sleep, he thought.

"Come on, Vin." It was Chris again. "I'm sorry. Nathan will be here soon. You have to stay awake."

Vin opened his eyes once more. Damn.

"Let's get you sitting up a little more," said Chris. "You've gotta' get your feet under you pretty soon here."

They were dragging him higher, and Vin heard himself gasp as someone touched the place on his shoulder that still felt like hell. But then he was sitting nearly upright, dizzy again, and he started to fall over sideways but someone caught him, and it started all over again for a while: in and out, and a sip of water, and the cloth on his face. And then he blinked himself back aware again and looked again at Chris and frowned.

Vin panted, his face cross. "I'm gonna' . . . shoot . . . you."

Buck laughed shortly. "I'll give you the gun, Pard!"

Vin smiled a little at that, and looked from Buck's face to Chris's dark one. Chris's dark face, he thought. Chris's face was dark? Well damn. He looked back at Buck. Saw tension there. Double damn.

Suddenly he was just so tired. Vin thought seriously of asking them to just leave him behind. He didn't even want to be awake, much less caught between Buck and Chris. He didn't want to be sitting up or drinking water or anything. His head hurt, and his legs and back ached like he'd been beaten, and he was hot, and his chest and shoulder still throbbed like hell even though at least he could stand it now. He didn't want to go wherever it was they wanted him to go, and he _sure_ as hell didn't want to do any riding. He didn't much care where they were or what might happen next. They could all leave, and welcome to it, but he--

"Whoa. Stay with me, Vin." It was Chris again, and Vin sighed and heard it turn into a low moan, and he opened weary eyes to look at his friend again. "Try to hang on," said Chris softly. "Just a little while. It won't be long and we'll have you out of here."

"Buck," said Vin, realizing what thought it was that had been jiggling his elbow all this time. "Buck?"

"Right here, Pard."

Vin studied the man's face, saw that he was still pale. Really pale. He pushed himself against the crate behind him, straightening up, coming more to himself. It would be like Buck not to say anything to Chris about his leg if he was mad, not to let on that he had about half the blood in him a man needed if he was going to walk around doing things. And Vin remembered, suddenly, the way Buck had looked way back whenever the hell it was, when Vin had first found him. Mad and hurt inside, in ways that would make him take dangerous risks. That had made him take them in the past.

"Buck," said Vin, reaching out his good hand to his friend. Chris didn't know. He was sure of it. And that damn Buck wasn't going to say anything. "You-"

"Here we go," said Chris.

+ + + + + + +

Nathan pulled the door shut behind him gently, and hurried down the steps into the cellar. Chris twisted part-way around and looked up from where he sat to one side of Vin and facing him, a wet cloth in his hand. They'd propped the sick man up and he was awake, even if his eyes were still fever-dull. Nathan felt relief flood him at the sight; he'd spent too many long years as a stretcher-bearer to underestimate the difficulty of carrying an unconscious man a long distance. Buck was on Vin's other side, and he stood up with sharp eyes when he saw Nathan, and that Nathan had his guns.

"No shells," said Nathan briefly. But Chris and Buck both buckled on their holsters, and Buck smiled.

"Still makes me feel better," he said softly. "Maybe if we get in trouble, I'll THROW it at someone. And besides," Buck fingered the knife that he kept in a scabbard on the gunbelt, and smiled rakishly, "I can still give someone a surprise if he gets too close."

Nathan moved closer to Vin, and bent down to pull the man's good arm over his neck and shoulders. Buck stepped back suddenly, for Nathan to go between him and Vin, and left Vin's field of view. The tracker shook his head, and seemed to be searching for Buck again.

"No," he said softly. "Buck--"

"It's ok, Vin." Nathan was reassuring him now, not understanding, drawing Vin's good arm over his shoulder and helping him to his feet. Vin shook his head again, looked to his side at Nathan, then gasped as Chris lifted his bad arm to support him on that side. He seemed about to protest once more, but then drew in a sharp breath when the men began to move him to the base of the stairs.

Nathan paused to let Buck squeeze by to go up ahead of them; the tall man paused at the landing to listen carefully before opening the door wide enough to let them all pass through. Then he pulled it shut behind them and lowered the bar back in place, and reset the lock. Nathan and Chris were walking as quickly as they could down the hall and into the kitchen, to go out the kitchen door. Vin's feet were moving, taking one step for every three of theirs, but he wasn't totally a dead weight on them and seemed to be aware of the situation even though not alert.

Buck passed the three again, this time to survey the back of the house before he opened the kitchen door. He slipped completely outside and stood in the rising gusts of thunderstorm wind, his head up and alert, his eyes gleaming, then turned to look back up the little flight of steps to the kitchen door and nod. Nathan and Chris came out immediately, easing Vin down the steps he couldn't really navigate, and then Buck fell in behind them again as they started across the yard towards the mountains north of the compound. Towards their waiting friends.

+ + + + + + +

Striker had gone back inside the house, straight to the side porch where the butler slept. He was about ready for some answers.

But the cot was empty, the butler's uniform laid neatly across it.

Which meant the butler had fled.

Striker bit his lips in sudden understanding that the impossible might actually have happened, and raced to the cellar door on silent feet. He knew the moment he opened it that they were gone. But he went down anyway to pick up their scent, and stood in the dim light at the bottom of the stairs looking all around into the shadows. He smelled blood. Fresh blood. Too fresh to be that of either Wilmington or Tanner.

When he found Sullivan's body, he sprinted up the stairs and all the way to the front hallway, around the balustrade, and up the main staircase to the second floor.

"Michaels!! MICHAELS!! OUT! NOW!! Larabee and the others have ESCAPED!!!!"

The mine owner's bedroom door flew opened as he burst from it, his hair disheveled and Belle's pale face shining from the bed behind him. Thunder rumbled again, and then a new flash of lightning lit up the fury of his face. "Grab my gun!" he was yelling, "Get my boots and pants!"

Striker collared Michaels and pressed him against the hallway wall.

"Your colored boy ain't here," he growled, "so stop that."

"Natha--?"

"He's the one that got 'em out. His name is Jackson. He's that damned healer from Four Corners."

"WHAT!?!" Michaels shook as rage exploded in his veins.

"He stole their gun rigs from your desk, an' they killed Sullivan sometime earlier today. His body's in the cellar." Striker backed away from Michaels when he saw his boss was finally getting a clear picture of the situation. "I'll get the dogs while you throw on some clothes," he said. "They can't get far."

+ + + + + + +

Nathan could feel the heat from Vin's body pouring from his arm and side where they were pressed against the man supporting him. He was still moving his legs and taking some of his own weight on them, but his breathing was becoming more and more ragged. It was pitch dark beneath the heavy cloud cover, and Chris suddenly stumbled on the other side, jerking Vin's arm unavoidably. The tracker gasped, and his head snapped back on his neck as he recoiled from the shock of the jarring. Nathan glanced over his shoulder to see that Buck was still coming behind them, limping heavily and only barely visible in the darkness. Just then, lightning ripped a long trail across the sky overhead and a loud peal of thunder echoed off the surrounding hills and mountains. The wind rose, cold, and lifted Vin's hair from his face. Nathan started to pant, and he could hear Chris's breathing getting shorter, too.

It hadn't seemed so far when he'd walked it earlier. Come on, Ezra! JD, Josiah, where are you guys?

+ + + + + + +

The dog handler leaned down in the circle of yellow lamplight, holding the damp and bloody bandanna they'd found in the cellar. The bloodhound pressed its muzzle to the fabric, sniffed deeply, shook itself, and raised its face onto the wind.

"Turn 'em loose," said Michaels softly.

The handler snapped off the chains on the hounds' collars, and they ran off into the darkness on silent feet, the one in the lead already tonguing a bay as it struck the fresh scent still on the very air itself.

"Now those," said Michaels.

The handler looked at his boss and shrugged. Not his business, he thought. The sharp-faced black dogs strained at their leashes to follow the hounds, and they bounded like specters into the night-storm and vanished the moment the handler set them loose.

They didn't bay. That wasn't their purpose.

Michaels picked up his shotgun and strode out after the bloodhounds, following the sound of their baying. Striker, armed with both pistols and rifle, was at his side. Bland trotted at his heels, his face livid and a rifle held across his chest. Ten more men followed closely.

+ + + + + + +

Nathan felt his blood freeze in his belly when he heard them. Dear God, how many times had he dreaded he would hear that very sound, when he'd run away and spent so many days and weeks hiding, slipping along ditches and through abandoned fields? And now here it was, when it shouldn't even be any more: the wavering, hollow sound of bloodhounds on his trail, rising on the storm wind and then dropping, but clear and certain and not shifting.

They had the trail. They had the scent, in the air, or they wouldn't give tongue like that.

Nathan fought to keep moving, fear suddenly rising out of the night to sock him in the gut so hard that he thought he'd go down. Elemental, deep, primitive: the fear of a runaway slave being hunted by dogs.

Josiah, JD, Ezra . . . dear God where are you? Where are you?

Part 89

Damn! Vin's breath caught in his throat like it was strangled there and wouldn't come out again. He felt his back and neck arch as the lightning bolt of pain ripped through his arm and shoulder and chest, ran down his back into the ground and exploded in a crash of thunder. Damn!

He was dimly aware of Nathan to one side of him and Chris on the other. He knew he was moving a lot faster than he wanted to, couldn't keep up and wanted only to stop, to sit down, to put his head down . . . but that the men supporting him weren't slowing down. They were running somewhere, dragging Vin with them, and where the hell had Buck gotten? He tried to turn his head around, to see in the darkness. Buck. The memory swam back through his mind and right in front of his face again for a moment: Buck had lost too much blood. He couldn't possibly keep up this pace. Where was he? What was he doing?

Another brighter flare of lightning burst, this one so brilliant that for the first time Vin wondered if it was real honest-to-God storm lightning instead of the hot flames of pain that had hit him over and over again for what seemed like weeks. The cold wind that fanned into his face on the ensuing crash of thunder made him nod in relieved understanding that it was. Thank God, he thought. That'll cool it off, at least. He was so hot, and even the cool wind felt good on his face.

An hour went by, that they kept running. Two hours. Six. A night that stretched out into a second night, and a third, and a fourth. Vin wanted to tell them to stop, to let him go, to let him down, to leave him behind. He couldn't keep up, he couldn't run any more, he couldn't think or breathe or move his legs any more. But his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, too dry to move it. And his voice was stuck with it. He tried to look at Nathan, then at Chris, to stare at their earnest, weary profiles long enough that they would feel his gaze on them and turn their faces and look at him, and read the desperation in his eyes and let him go.

But they didn't. They just kept running. Vin squeezed his eyes shut and tried to concentrate on the cool wind, and on the rolling of the thunder, and then on the wavering sound that began to rise around him on all sides . . . asound like giant, hungry, rabid wolf spirits loose in the storm, racing the thunder beings, chasing him and Chris and Nathan and Buck. Nathan was saying something, then, shouting to be heard over the rising wind, and then there were other hands, other voices. He heard horses milling around and there was a sense of quiet urgency and dark confusion and he felt himself being lifted from the ground, his breath catching once more as the pain flashed over him and echoed through his body, rippling out in deep waves from his shoulder and chest.

Vin began to shiver as a chill swept through him, and he caught at a saddle horn and leaned over it as someone swung up behind him. Oh God, he thought, oh no. But even as he thought it, the horse moved out at a gallop, and Vin heard himself cry out as the momentum shoved him back against the man behind him, and there was another enormous crash of thunder and the sky turned inside-out and fat cold drops of rain hit him in the face.

"Hang on!" Someone was yelling at his ear, had wrapped a strong arm around his waist, was urging the horse to go even faster. Vin felt himself losing consciousness, swaying precariously, being caught and held more firmly. "Hang on, Vin!" The voice again, right at his ear, saying his name. The rain started to fall harder, cold and sharp and driven by a furious wind, and Vin tried to hang on. The rain was cold, and the wind was colder. He felt the shivering grow and expand until it shook him so hard that his teeth chattered. More yelling, and then gunshots behind him. Screams of something hit, something dying.

Where was Buck? Hang on, Vin thought, hang on.

"You can let go, now, Vin. Come on. Let go."

The injured man slowly realized that things had changed. No more lightning. No thunder. No wind. Only steady, cold rain. He could hear it hitting the ground all around him in what was otherwise pitch-black silence. He let whoever had spoken to him lift his fingers from the saddle horn, pry them cold and stiff from the leather he'd clung to for God only knew how long. If they wanted to do that, why not? Vin opened his eyes dully, saw that it was Chris talking to him, but he couldn't hear the words so he closed his eyes again. He felt the slickness of the wet saddle under his legs as he slipped from it sideways, wondering why he didn't seem to hit the ground, and then it wasn't raining on him any more and he felt how clammy his clothes were and wished they would just please, please leave him the hell alone.

"Get a fire goin'," someone said. There was a sound of wood being knocked against something. He felt the cold air strike his skin as his wet clothing was tugged off, and heard someone swear softly about something, and then fingers were pulling at his shoulder somehow, and he moaned and tried to move away from them.

"Hold on, Vin. It's ok. Jus' need t' get off this wet dressin'."

Vin didn't care; he just wanted to be left alone, to stop hurting, to stop being too hot or too cold. He started to say so, but something warm and dry settled around him just at that moment, and it surprised him so much to feel suddenly better that he opened his eyes in surprise. Nathan was peering at his shoulder with a grim expression, Chris behind him, and Vin licked his lips and wished he had water. As if Chris had read his mind, there was a cup to his lips almost the next thing he knew, but then he saw that the bandages were all off his shoulder and that Nathan was stirring something at a pot-bellied stove, and he knew he'd lost time again.

Where was Buck?

He looked into Chris's eyes and saw fatigue and pain and grief, and Vin got scared. Really scared, for the first time. He raised his good hand, and it was shaky, but he reached for Chris and a blanket fell from him as he did. Chris caught his arm, laid it back down beside him, and pulled the blanket back up.

"Rest easy," he said softly. "It's all right."

It's not all right, thought Vin. It's not. He struggled harder, and heard his own voice, harsh and faint and breathless then:

"Buck?"

Chris's face darkened, and he didn't answer. Instead, he pressed the palm of his hand to the center of Vin's chest and turned to Nathan.

"You'd better hurry," he said. "I think his fever's gettin' worse again."

"No." Vin was starting to feel really mad. Why wouldn't Chris listen to him? "Where's . . . Buck?" He panted, suddenly dizzy. Other voices started speaking, and Nathan came over and his face got closer to Vin's, and he put his hand to Vin's face and said something. Vin shook his head. He didn't know what Nathan was saying. He didn't care. He raised his head a fraction from wherever the hell he was laying and reached out with more strength than he even knew he had and grabbed Nathan by the front of his shirt and said it clear and distinct:

"Where . . . is . . . BUCK?"

"We don' know," said Nathan softly. "Lay back an' try t' rest."

Vin fell back exhausted, his heart pounding in his ears. They didn't know? He looked at Chris again, and saw his friend's face receding slowly, rising higher into the upper reaches of a long tunnel. Then Vin shook his head, realizing he had it backwards. It was him that was moving, down a tunnel, farther from Chris.

He looked around him in the darkness when he got to the bottom and let go.

Part 90

"What on earth . . .?" Ezra rose in his stirrups trying to hear the weird, wailing sound that had begun to echo from the hills over the roar of the wind, and his horse backed nervously, nickering and flicking its ears back.

"Hounds! They had those back home. We've gotta' _do_ somethin', Ezra! We need to break that up or the dogs'll lead 'em to --" An enormous crash of thunder splintered JD's words and made Ezra's already-nervous horse hop sideways. He laid a steadying hand on its neck and looked at JD in the dim flashes of more distant lightning, then saw the youth's face stand out in stark contrast as another bolt lit the place they were waiting like a battlefield flare. The ensuing blast of thunder made talking impossible, and as soon as it rolled away into the surrounding hills, Ezra drew his horse closer to JD's and pointed towards Josiah, who had dismounted to run towards dark figures straggling up out of the trees.

"They're here!" He had to scream to be heard over the rising wind.

"We gotta' sidetrack those--!" Another burst of thunder drowned out JD's voice again, but Ezra had understood him enough to nod agreement. The youth was pointing down the hill, his mare's neck curved so strongly as she pranced in fear that her nose nearly touched her chest. Ezra peered through the black night already filled with flying bits of debris riding ahead of the storm on the main wind, and caught the glimmer of lanterns among the trees.

He looked again at the group of figures struggling up on horseback now, not even very far away but almost indistinguishable between the flares of lightning. They were moving far too slowly. Ezra pulled his pistol and raised it meaningfully where JD could see it, and the youth did the same at once. Both men released their horses' heads at the same time then, setting their heels to the nervous animals' flanks in such a way that the pair flew down the slope as if they were riding the storm wind that rose to meet them. Faster, and the lightning unrolled across the sky over their heads from one horizon to the other, thunder crashing simultaneously, and they ducked low as the terrified horses swept them beneath tossing pine boughs. The spots of light that were lanterns became larger, showed more frequently between the trees, and Ezra nudged his gelding more onto a slant to cut in ahead of the men who carried the lanterns, JD riding at his stirrup.

Then suddenly they were there, riding practically through the front line of the group, their two horses cutting up great clods of earth and pine needles that showered onto the men on foot as the horses thundered past them. Both JD and Ezra fired and hit marks, men screaming and running, ducking in terror from a horror they hadn't even seen or heard coming in the dark and the storm. Ezra looked back over his shoulder at them as both men reined in tightly, whirled their horses, and lit back into the group a second time. Lightning flared again, and this time Ezra's shots struck two of the men carrying lanterns in quick succession, so that their lamps fell to the ground and burst opened in a crash of flames that scattered the men who had held their ground after being run through only a moment earlier. JD understood then: the lantern light was blinding the men in the group to anything in the ring of darkness around them. He fired again as he rode back at a gallop once more through the group, too, and as he brought down another of the men himself he saw panic flare up as surely as the flames from the broken lanterns were beginning to lick hungrily at the dry pine needles on the forest floor, fed by the rising wind.

There was a roar of returning fire this time, though, and the two friends were themselves blinded momentarily by an enormous flash of lightning, its thunder so monumental that the ground rolled and shook beneath them. Ezra lost sight of JD, and pulled up his horse in a plunging slide after reaching the darkness again, then nearly shot the youth as he materialized out of the darkness with astonishing suddenness. It was impossible to hear now, useless to speak. The roar of the storm was fully upon them, and a heavy rain began without preamble of small drops: enormous, icy drops that had hailstones mixed into them, driven so hard by the wind that they stung where they struck exposed skin. The trees themselves were thundering as they tremored in the galeforce wind that began now to break off small branches and hurl them through the pitch-blackness.

JD grabbed Ezra's forearm and gestured towards the group of men again, the fires that had been started by the broken lanterns quickly being extinguished by the rain, and the remaining lanterns now in two groups: one that was bobbing in several different directions as the lantern-bearers ran as hard as they could away from whoever the hell was attacking them so unexpectedly on horseback out of the dark, and a second group that made a tighter knot than before and held its course with an air of lethal determination. Ezra shook his head to himself, legging his chestnut to follow the bay as the young man headed back at them again. He cut his horse in front of JD's and gestured to the younger man to hold back a moment.

This time Ezra stayed out of the pool of lantern light, and slowed his mount, faced the group of men that could not see him, and then very deliberately let them come just close enough to bring him and his bunched animal into their sight for a moment before he melted into the darkness again. JD, being in the dark himself, could see Ezra lay spurs to his gelding as he escaped the light, so that it flew away at a tangent as the infuriated men fired wildly at the place Ezra had been only a fraction of a moment before. The whole group veered to pursue him, rushing in a body in the direction where they had seen him, finding nothing where they expected to find his body, regrouping . . . and then once again discovering he was in their circle of light, his dripping horse shining, rain pouring off the brim of his hat, black shadows like smudges of coal etching his features. And again, Ezra fled in an unexpected direction as the men shot and shot at him and ran to find his body.

Now JD picked up the pattern -- it was no harder than a dance step -- and the next time the lanterns caught an unwary attacker who had blundered within range, it was a man in a checked coat and a bowler hat. JD felt his heart hammering in his ears as he raced his chestnut from them on a zigzag course, feeling the puff of wind of a bullet catch part of a sleeve. But when he pulled up out of range, he was unharmed and so was his horse, and Ezra was racing back through to draw them this time. And then JD again. And then JD, followed once more by Ezra.

The horses were covered in slick wet mud to their bellies after a while. The ground was so slippery in the heavy rain that Ezra shook his head in disbelief at their luck that neither animal had taken a fall while within range of the infuriated men and fallen _then_ to the fusillade they repeatedly directed at their elusive attackers. He couldn't believe that the ruse had proven successful so long, and that the body of men had never veered back to their original course or returned to the place they'd last heard the hounds. Of course, thought Ezra, no one had been able to _hear_ the hounds since the storm had hit. He was sitting in the dark, pelting rain -- once again -- watching JD run the pattern -- once again -- and his horse's sides were heaving between his legs, and he knew it had been as long as it could be. If Josiah hadn't gotten the others away by now, it couldn't be done.

This time, when JD flashed past him, Ezra reached out to grab the youth and point towards the hill that lay in the direction of the logging camp, and JD nodded. He cast a last backward glance at the furious knot of men who'd been chasing them ineffectively for nearly two hours, and urged his bay into an extended jog up the slope. Ezra was right next to him.

They'd cut south maybe five or six miles from the rendezvous point, Ezra calculated, and now they headed for the remote cabin they'd found, more by dead-reckoning than any other sense. It was too dark to see, the darkness between the lightning flashes more intense that it would otherwise have been, and the thunder so continuous and loud that both men were effectively deafened. They rode side by side for several miles through the storm-tossed forest and then slowed to a walk, the horses immediately stretching their necks tiredly and blowing loudly even though they couldn't be heard. Ezra could feel his chestnut's chest shake between his knees, though, and the shivering of its rib cage as it dragged in great gulps of air and then blew them out heavily.

At a steady walk through a darkness interlaced with more and more distant flashes of lightning, the rain not letting up even a fraction, it took them so long to reach the cabin that the trees were starting to be visible as black silhouettes against a slightly less-black sky if they looked to the east. The thunder had long since faded to a steady grumbling that rose occasionally to a roar; it no longer prevented conversation. Yet neither man spoke. They rode silently, exhausted, on exhausted mounts, men and horses both soaked and cold and covered in mud and plastered with pine needles that had been blown through the air like snow on the heavy wind. It was hard even to stay awake, even to keep plodding on, but men and horses both had one goal in mind: to get somewhere. Anywhere. To arrive.

And after an eternity, they saw the dim and dark grey shape of the cabin between the trees, its one papered window that faced them dimly golden from firelight within, and Ezra thought he had truly never seen any sight more beautiful in his life. When the two arrived, they sat a long time in front of the cabin, both of them so stiff and cold that the thought of actually dismounting was suddenly almost unbearably difficult. Yet they wanted to go in, to get dry, to get warm.

But the horses had to be attended to first.

JD was the first to pull his offside leg out of its stirrup and stiffly swing it over the cantle of his saddle. The groan with which he moved was not encouraging to Ezra, who knew he wasn't as young and limber as the other man and would suffer more grievously. He closed his eyes as JD began to walk slowly towards the shed, his horse's reins in one fist, and then he broke contact with the saddle himself and dismounted and thought he would die. Why didn't Josiah come on outside and give them a hand, he thought? It really would be a rather nice gesture, given that they'd spent the last half of the night drawing the dogs . . . well, the men _behind_ the dogs . . . Ezra's thoughts trailed off into a drizzle as he yawned and dragged his horse into the shed on JD's heels. He stopped with a feeling of deep distress pulling at his limbs when he saw that Josiah's and Buck's horses were missing. Nathan's horse was there, and Chris' and Vin's. But two were missing.

He saw that JD had noticed the absence as well, but neither man said anything, turning instead to the job at hand. Somehow Ezra got the saddle off his horse, and the bridle, and rubbed the tired animal down, and grained it. And somehow, in some fashion he could not fathom, he managed to stumble in the cabin door behind the younger man as the sky was actually starting to grow light. He stood just inside the door and felt the dry warmth of the fire reach out and embrace him, and looked around the cabin quickly and saw in a single heartbeat that the men whose horses were missing weren't present either. He started to ask about them, but then stopped. He was tired beyond endurance, and he was certain the answer he heard wasn't going to make it any easier to stay awake. In fact, if he had some sleep he might even be able to do something about whatever had happened, or at least think about it clearly. He was about to tumble onto a bottom bunk when Nathan's hands seized his arm and he was being told to get out of his wet things.

Ezra shook his head wearily, trying not to think about . . . the thing he was trying not to think about, and peeled his wet clothes off his wet ody as he didn't think it. He dropped them in a pile that rapidly formed a small lake around it, the clothes rising out of it as an island: coat and boots at the bottom and pants on top. And when he had finished constructing that island Ezra crawled under the blanket on the bottom bunk and looked across the room at Chris Larabee, who he hadn't even seen in . . . six or seven months now, Ezra decided. Must be. The man was sitting next to a bunk on which Vin was laying, and even from here Ezra could see that the tracker was not resting at all comfortably. Ezra sighed and closed his eyes. 'All that, and not even a thank you,' he thought cynically. But what he said was, "I will return shortly to find out what has happened. But meanwhile I WILL shoot anyone who disturbs me for the next two hours."

"Thank you, Ezra." said Chris softly. "Thank you, JD."

Ezra felt a shock of surprise ripple through his tired muscles at Chris' words. He heard JD's sleepy voice answer something from across the room and thought briefly of making a telling comment in reply, but he fell asleep instead -- and so quickly that a look of surprised pleasure still sat gently on his face.

Part 91

When Buck stepped outside the house into the windy night, he thought the brisk mountain air was the sweetest thing he'd ever smelled in his life. Mostly Buck didn't think much about what lay ahead or how things might go, but he had to admit there'd been moments in that cellar when he'd thought he might never see a night sky again.

Chris and Nathan slipped past him, helping Vin between them and Buck fell in behind. They had managed to get out of the house without raising any alarm and now they needed to cover the distance to the others and the horses as quickly as possible. Buck turned and felt a quick sharp flash of pain arrow up his leg, but he ignored it. For now, he wasn't tired and he wasn't weak and he figured if he just pushed a little longer, he could make it out of this damned place.

A flash of lightning lit the way ahead of them and Buck could see a long low rise with trees starting another hundred yards beyond where they were. JD and the others, with their loaded guns and their fresh horses, would be beyond that. But they would be there. That was something Buck knew beyond the shadow of a doubt. He found his hand resting automatically on his gun. It felt good to know it was there, even empty, as if it returned to him something that had been lost for days and that he had in his lowest moments thought he might never regain.

He turned against his bad leg and looked back toward the house. Still dark. He looked ahead. Chris and Vin and Nathan were drawing away from him, looking almost like wraiths in the thick dark blackness of the approaching storm. Buck pushed himself harder, trying to catch up with them, but his bad leg just didn't work right and he found his limp worsening with each step he took. Ignoring the pain that seemed to expand and spread and work its way into the very bones of his leg and hip and ankle was easy, but even though he could ignore it, he couldn't seem to move any faster or keep the leg from half-collapsing out from under him every third or fourth step. He looked behind him again. If they were really lucky the men in the house wouldn't know they were gone until they'd reached the horses and disappeared into the night. But even as he thought it, he saw lights coming on inside and his heart began to sink. He turned back to yell at Chris and Nathan, to urge them to hurry, but they had disappeared completely. He stood still a minute and listened, but he couldn't even hear them anymore. He couldn't hear horses waiting or the shouts of desperate men. All he could hear was the rising wind and the shifting tree branches and the distant sound of thunder. In that single moment he felt as if he were all alone in the entire world. Just him. Alone. Forever.

He started out again, determined to catch up. He was damned if he would let this all come to nothing because they had to wait for him. He took a step and this time his leg collapsed completely and he fell, rolling several feet back down the slope before he could catch himself. He was trying to catch his breath and get his legs back under him, when he heard it, the chill cold sound of baying hounds.

Buck stood, turned back the way he had come, and pulled his knife. He crouched low, prepared to stop the hounds when they came. If he could keep them from following the others they'd have a chance. If he could take out a few of the men who almost certainly followed further behind, he could maybe ensure that they got away clean.

He was completely unprepared for the silent black shape that hurtled at him out of the darkness, hitting him hard in the left side and knocking him down. He scrabbled frantically and felt teeth tear at the sleeve of his shirt. His right hand, the one holding the knife, lay half underneath him and he grabbed at the dog's neck, trying to hold it back as it snarled and snapped at him. Lightning flashed and in one stark nightmarish moment he could see the animal that had attacked him--black coat, pointed nose, huge white teeth and eyes that flashed red in the sudden light. The dog writhed violently, breaking his hold and backing away two steps to come at him again. Buck moved, freed his knife and plunged it into the dog's belly as its jaws snapped shut just an inch from his throat. He pushed it away and scrambled to his feet, breathing hard.

He lunged up the hill toward a rocky outcropping. There were more of them out there. He knew it. He couldn't hear them, not with the rising wind and the thunder and the baying of the bloodhounds. But they were out there. He felt a little better with his back against something solid, but then another one came at him, invisible as it approached him, then, suddenly, _there_ going straight for his throat. He couldn't get the knife up and was only able to shove it away, using its own momentum to carry it over and away from him. It was a weak effort though and he knew he wouldn't be able to stand against these dogs for long. The one he'd thrown hit the ground with a quick, high yelp. But then it leaped to its feet and swirled away into the darkness and Buck knew it would be back. He swallowed hard and wiped a quick hand across his face and tried to see beyond the stormy blackness of the woods. Goddammit! He thought. I need lightning! Then, there it was, one big flash and for a second the woods were lit up bright as day. And he almost wished it hadn't been because he saw them, four more of them, red-eyed and hateful, waiting for him to show just one sign of weakness and they'd be on him. The lightning faded and he was left briefly blinded from its intensity. He could hear the hounds approaching on his right and he braced for them to swerve toward him too, but they paused for a moment just up the hill from him and then went on.

Buck couldn't seem to catch his breath and he had to lean back against the rock behind him to keep from falling. He didn't even see the next dog that came at him and it was right there, right in front of his face before he knew it and he was bringing up his arms, already knowing it was too late, when the dog fell at his feet. Buck looked down and realized that it was dead. And only after that did he realize that somewhere in the noise of the storm and the baying of the hounds there'd been a single gunshot.

Then, as if from nowhere, Josiah appeared next to him. Buck didn't even have time to think about it because at that moment two more dogs attacked them and for the next several minutes the two of them were too busy to do anything but stay alive. Then, as quickly and silently as it had begun, it was over. Buck drew in great gasping breaths of air, but it was as if he'd forgotten how to breathe because somehow it wasn't doing any good. He slid slowly down the rock face until he was on his knees on the ground and his head was bent low and he was still trying to get enough air in his lungs. It was raining and he didn't remember when it started, but looking at the ground he could see that it was wet. He wasn't sure about anything else or even what had just happened so in a way it reassured him to find one certain thing--it was raining.

Josiah looked at Buck, nearly passed out on the ground. He looked down the hill at bobbing lanterns, still a good safe distance away, but approaching steadily. They had to get out of here now, he thought. There wasn't any more time. He reached down and grabbed Buck around the waist, preparing to drag him to his feet and help him up the hill to the waiting horses.

Quicker than thought, Buck was on his feet, one hand wrenching Josiah's collar and the other nicking at his neck with the tip of his bloody knife. "Don't touch me," he said in a low and deadly voice that carried clearly through the sudden silence between thunderclaps. "Don't you ever touch me."

Josiah saw it clearly again, the moment when he'd tried to crush the life out of Buck, the moment he'd said irrevocable, damaging things, and he slowly held up his hands with the palms facing outward. Buck's eyes flared with anger in the reflected light from a lightning bolt, but in that same sudden flash Josiah could see how bone-weary and desperate and pale he was. 'My God,' Josiah thought. 'My God.'

"Buck," he spoke slowly, but with an edge in his voice and he hoped Buck would be able to understand the urgency. "I ain't gonna touch you, Buck. But we have got to go." He pointed down the slope at the approaching lanterns.

Buck lowered his knife.

The rain increased, soaking both men, though Josiah at least had an overcoat. He thought for a second about offering it to Buck who surely needed it worse than he did, but he didn't. There wasn't time for a gesture Buck would certainly refuse. They had to get out of there. "I'm going for the horses, Buck," Josiah shouted. "Wait here."

And Josiah turned and ran back into the darkness and rain, leaving Buck to stare after him with a numbness he didn't completely understand. Gone, he thought. They were all gone and in a way he'd expected it. All his life he'd expected it and he'd covered that expectation with loud talk and a deadly gun and a fierce loyalty to anyone who mattered to him.

He took a step and stumbled and almost gave up right there and let himself collapse in the mud. But then he saw a lantern swing way down the slope below him and a rush of wind carried the sound of shouting voices. Damn it! Buck Wilmington didn't quit. He never quit. Not when he was a skinny kid getting beat up by every one who came along and not now. If he had to walk off this mountain on his own he would do it. And all the rest of them could go straight to hell.

The second step he took was easier than the first and he tried to ignore the breathlessness that assailed him. Ought to be used to that by now, he thought. He took another step and another. One step at a time, he thought, and all I have to do is stay away from dogs and lanterns. He smiled grimly to himself at that. Glancing down the hill he could see the lanterns swinging wildly. They didn't seem any closer to him now than they had several minutes ago. He almost wondered about that, but he didn't have enough energy to spare. The next step, he told himself. It's just the next step. And the next step. And the next step--

He heard a sound and stopped, his hand going automatically to the butt of his gun. Horses, coming quick. He stepped back, looking around for some kind of shelter, but there was nothing. He wondered if he could make it back to the outcropping, only a few steps and no real protection, but it gave him a place to put his back against and when you didn't have anything, then the one thing you did have mattered. He'd managed to turn and stumble a half step back when Josiah's horse almost ran into him. He could see Josiah rein in hard, his horse plunging to a quick sideways halt. "Damnit, Buck!" Josiah yelled. "I thought you were going to wait."

Buck looked at him as if he were an exotic stranger the likes of which he'd never seen before. The wind whipped rain into his face and a sudden flash of lightning struck shadows down the slope, making everything look even more unreal.

"Come on, Buck," Josiah shouted, trying to make himself heard above the wind. "We have to go now."

'Where?' Buck thought. 'Where is there to go?' But then the answer came. The answer he'd had just a minute ago. Off this mountain. He looked and realized that Josiah had another horse and he was waiting for Buck to mount up. Buck put his hands on the saddle and braced himself for the pain in his bad leg as he swung it across the horse's back. His arms trembled, threatening to collapse when he shifted his weight to them as he mounted, and he realized that it wasn't just his leg anymore. The pain didn't even seem to matter, though it jabbed at him every time he moved. It was that nothing was working right anymore. Not his arms with all the strength faded out of them, not his legs--not either one of them--even the good one kept shaking with exhaustion. His eyes weren't even working right. Things kept flashing across his vision and then away, like black and yellow streamers where sometimes the dark was brighter than the light. He sat in the saddle a minute, knowing that he should be moving and not even able to quite figure out how, like his brain had just stopped.

Then, Josiah was shouting at him, throwing the reins at him and pulling his horse around. And then they were riding, into the blackness, into the rain, into the bright flashes of lightning. And Buck was thinking--All right. I can do this. I just have to ride. And the world and the night and the storm all closed down around him until all that he had was that one thing--the ride.

Part 92

When Nathan had finally come, Chris had been ready. He felt as if he'd been ready for a long time--forever, maybe--ready to get out of that damp, stifling cellar. Out of a place that was too small and too dark and too close to even stand much longer. He wanted to get out and get going and take some action against all the things that had been going on--against the man, Striker, who had brought him there, against that smug bastard, Michaels, and even, though in a different way, against Buck. Maybe Buck wasn't his enemy the way the other two were, but there was something there, something at odds with the man Chris thought he knew, something that led to rape charges, to sacrificing a wounded friend, to walking out on a town that had supported him, and Chris intended, sooner or later, to find out what the hell that something was.

Vin moved. Chris turned to look at him. And then, Nathan was there, slipping through the door at the top of the stairs, making his quiet way down to them. Chris didn't say anything. There was no need at that point for words, he figured. He took his gun belt when Nathan offered it and he had to admit that the weight of it felt pretty good. The revolver was empty, though. He frowned when Buck grinned at Nathan and said he'd throw his if he had to--an empty, reckless kind of gesture that, if he actually did it, would leave him, would leave _them_, worse off than before.

There wasn't much time for those thoughts, though. Nathan had already pulled Vin's arm over his shoulder and Chris moved in to take up a position supporting Vin's other side. The tracker protested softly, but there was no time left and without further conversation, the four men moved out.

Buck went up the stairs ahead of them. A familiar figure--Chris knew they'd done this before, in another time and another place, though he couldn't at the moment recall exactly when or where. Vin made another sound, of pain this time as he tried to keep his legs under him and Chris's face thinned down even more. Someone was going to pay for this, he thought. Someone was definitely going to pay.

Buck checked the corridor and signaled back to them and they moved smoothly up the stairs and out into the hallway. A few silent minutes later they were through the house and out the back door, moving past Buck again. Chris tried to look at him as they passed, tried to gauge his stamina for what was ahead, but all he could see in the thickening night was a dark outline of his face, a darker shadow marking his moustache. Then, he and Nathan and Vin were moving up the slope away from the house, Vin struggling just to stay awake and upright, Nathan and Chris trying to match strides as best they could, trying to be swift and efficient and stronger than it was possible for two men to be. They might have hours before anyone knew they were missing and raised the alarm. Or they might have minutes. The wind was rising and Chris could hear it in the pine trees just ahead of them.

They were halfway up the long slope now, maybe five hundred yards from the house. Vin was getting heavier, the little strength he'd had, long since given out. Lightning flashed. Flashed again. Followed by a long, slow roll of thunder that seemed to fill the entire sky with its low rumbling intensity.

Chris dug in his heels and climbed. The slope wasn't steep, but they'd gone a long way already and for all he knew had an even longer way left to go. It wouldn't do to use all his strength too early and not have it later when he needed it. They were moving. They were out of the cellar. Every second that passed they were farther up the slope away from the house. He started to look back to see where Buck was when he saw Nathan's head snap back as if he'd been hit and in that same exact instant Chris heard what Nathan must have heard--the sound of baying hounds.

Chris did look back over his shoulder then. He couldn't see the house any longer, but he imagined it, lit up like a celebration. Damn! How had they discovered them so soon! He looked over at Nathan, then his head snapped back behind him again when he realized that what he hadn't seen when he'd looked back the first time was Buck. He'd disappeared completely. Even in a quick bright flash of lightning, so stark it turned the world inside out and blue at the same time, Chris couldn't see him. He slowed his steps, almost causing Nathan to stumble. Damn! He couldn't stop now. Not with Vin depending on him. He sucked in his breath and turned back up the slope and grabbed hold of Vin even tighter and between them they almost managed to run. Get Vin to safety, Chris thought. Get him out of this. Then--

Then, Josiah was flying out of the darkness toward them. "Nathan!" he shouted. "Chris! This way! The horses are just up--"

Suddenly two riders galloped past like shadows only a shade darker than the stormy night itself. Without even seeing them, Chris knew--something about the feel in the air as they passed--that it was JD and Ezra gone to draw off the hounds and the men who surely followed them. It gave Chris a sharp, unexpected flash of something remarkably like hope to know that they were there, that the night was suddenly full of men who could see what needed to be done and had the means to do it.

Josiah urged them quickly onward and Chris drew in his breath and ignored the tight strain of exertion in his chest and ground onward up the slope. Another long, dark, endless fifty yards, marked only by increasingly violent lightning flashes and sharp cracks of thunder echoing after them. And then, finally--finally!--they reached the horses. The three of them, Nathan, Chris and Josiah, all shoved Vin up onto a horse and Nathan grabbed the reins from Josiah's hands and shouted at Chris to hurry. Chris searched the darkness behind him. Damn! Where was he? Where was Buck?

Nathan shouted at him again, but the wind and the thunder carried the words away. Then, the rain started, like the heavens breaking open. Chris grabbed the bridle of the horse Nathan was holding and leaned toward him, shouting, "I'm going back!"

At the same time, Josiah appeared out of the darkness, looming in close to Chris and Nathan and he was shouting too. "Buck! Where is he?"

Chris gestured back down the slope and started to speak. "I'll--"

But Josiah never even heard him. He turned the minute Chris pointed and took off down the slope. He'd only taken three steps away from them before disappearing completely into the black cold rain.

Chris took a step after him. "Chris! Chris!" Nathan shouted at him, almost screaming to make himself heard over the raging storm. "We have to go. NOW! Got to get Vin to shelter." And there was nothing more for Chris to do. Nathan needed him. Vin needed him more. He mounted up behind Vin, who was swaying dangerously in the saddle, not quite out of it, clinging to consciousness by half a thread, but not able to ride alone into this stormy savage night. Chris reached across for the reins Nathan handed him. "Hang on," he shouted at Vin and he cursed himself because he was leaving men behind, because he'd left Buck on the slope as they climbed and he hadn't even known it. Damn! He reined his horse hard and the three of them, Chris and Vin and Nathan, took off into the nothingness. They rode as if they could see where they were going, as if the track they followed was smooth and wide, as if the wind weren't snapping branches and smashing them to the ground in front of them. They stopped once after what seemed, even to Chris like an endless long time, and rested the horses for a bit and then proceeded on at a slower pace. Chris thought of asking Nathan where they were going, but it was a waste of energy trying to shout across the thunder and the sound of pounding rain and he figured he'd find out soon enough.

Chris's arms ached from holding Vin in the saddle. He couldn't be sure how long they'd been riding, it was too dark and too stormy for him to judge, but it had been a damned long time, maybe ten miles from where they'd gotten the horses. He was just going to spur his tired horse up beside Nathan, when the healer slowed abruptly and looked back at Chris. He didn't say anything; it was still too hard to talk across the wind and rain, but Chris could now barely make out the dark shapes of cabins to his right. He frowned. What could be out here, so close to Michaels' compound? And in another instant the answer came, would probably have come sooner if he hadn't been so tired. A lumber camp for the mine.

Nathan led them back along a flat, rutted road to a larger cabin at the back of the camp. He dismounted first and took Vin from Chris until Chris could dismount. The two of them carried Vin into the cabin and laid him on one of the lower bunks where he settled with a weak groan. The first thing Chris noticed entering the cabin was that it was possible to hear again. Thunder still rumbled and the wind swept rain against the cabin walls and the cabin itself was cold, but there was a security in shutting out the rain, in having a roof and four walls--a promise that had been lost and now regained, that things could perhaps get better.

While Nathan stripped Vin's clothes and wrapped him in blankets, Chris started a fire in the stove and another in the fireplace stoking both of them as hot as he could, trying to hurry warmth into the place for Vin's sake. Now that they were here, he wanted to be busy, doing anything and not worrying about the others who were all still out there somewhere. He went back outside into the rain and put up the horses in a shed that Nathan pointed out to him and brought water back inside. Nathan had food and medical supplies and Chris was surprised by how well-prepared they seemed to be. He wanted to ask questions, well aware that he knew almost nothing about what was going on, but there was just so much to do.

Vin had been briefly awake when they arrived and he'd asked about Buck, seeming almost panicked to know where he was, like he was afraid, and that made Chris frown, reminding him of questions that didn't yet have answers and confrontations that hadn't yet been had. Vin finally settled down, asleep or passed out, Chris wasn't sure, but he watched him for Nathan as the healer busied himself. Chris could see Nathan glance at the door every few seconds, waiting and worrying and trying not to let it show.

"You'd best get out of those wet clothes yourself," Nathan told Chris at one point, but Chris noticed Nathan hadn't shed his own soaked pants and shirt either and the fire needed more wood and he was just going out in the rain again anyway and so the two of them went on and tried not to notice that time was passing.

Once Chris glanced out the window and saw that the rain was slackening and the sky was beginning to grey. Damn! He looked across at Nathan, who was obviously exhausted and trying to hide it. And he looked down at Vin beside him. If the others didn't return soon he'd have to go out looking for them. Just then, he heard the sound of horses approaching. Chris's hand went to his revolver, an automatic gesture, and it made him glad that one of the first things he'd done when they'd arrived was load the damn thing. Nathan went silently to the window and looked out intently into the not-quite-dawn. After a minute he looked back at Chris and gave him a silent nod. Chris's hand slipped off his gun. One of theirs.

"Looks to be JD and Ezra," Nathan said, moving back to the stove. Chris sat for a minute. Vin was restless and he knew he couldn't leave him alone right now. Nathan was busy. And Chris was only one man, though at times like this that frustrated him no end. He wanted to know if JD and Ezra were all right. He wanted to know if they'd seen Buck and Josiah. He wanted to know if anyone had followed them. They'd be dismounting, walking wearily to the shed, unsaddling their horses and making sure they were dried off and fed. He knew how long that would take them, but he still couldn't help being irritated when they didn't appear. And despite himself he kept listening for the sound of other horses.

After what seemed like eternity, JD and Ezra finally came, but they were so tired Chris didn't have the heart to grill them the way he wanted to. "Take them clothes off now," Nathan admonished both men and it was all they could do to comply before crawling into their bunks and falling asleep. Chris looked at the two of them for a minute. He looked at Vin who was still moving restlessly, fighting the fever and exhaustion that pulled at him.

"Nathan," he said, quietly. "I think--"

Nathan was frowning at the window, not listening to Chris. "Somebody's got to go out there," he said. "We got to find out what's happened to them."

"I know," Chris began, but he only got as far as the 'I--' when the door to the cabin slammed open.

Part 93

When Josiah thought about the journey later what he would remember was the rain.

And the wind.

And the fear.

He knew Buck couldn't make it ten miles to the lumber camp. He'd seen him when he mounted his horse, limbs shaking from exhaustion, and the cold too, probably. But what was he supposed to do? There was nothing to do except keep the horses moving onward and pray that things turned out better than it looked like they would.

There was water everywhere, dripping off the brim of his hat, down the back of his neck when the wind blew sharp lashings of rain against his back, creeping up the sleeves of his coat, soaking his reins and even edging down the tops of his boots. But the wet, cold, tiredness he felt was nothing, not when he looked at Buck riding beside him. The man was injured, how badly Josiah didn't know, but he remembered the blood at the rocks and under the hackberry trees. Buck's blood.

"Buck," he said. "Buck!" He had to yell to make himself heard above the storm. Buck turned his head to face him and Josiah figured it was probably just as well he couldn't see him very clearly because it would have only served to make him more afraid. As it was, Buck's eyes were dull and dark, as if most of him had already departed into a quieter, warmer place and he was just holding onto consciousness by a thin dark thread.

Josiah moved his horse one step closer and hollered, trying to communicate above the lashing rain and Buck's own exhaustion. "Buck!" he shouted. "We've got to rest. Find some shelter. Once this rain stops we can join up with the others." If they could get out of the rain, Josiah figured, that'd be something.

"No," Buck said, but so quietly that Josiah wasn't sure he'd spoken for a moment.

"What?"

"NO!" Buck shook his head, slow, like it was too heavy for him to move it any faster. "Can't...we can't stop now. I won't..." then he closed his eyes and shook his head again. "We can't stop!"

You won't make it, you mean, Josiah thought to himself. You won't make it. And that was the moment when Josiah realized that Buck might _not_ make it. And he cursed himself and the others for picking a site so far from the compound even though there had been no choice, even though anything closer wouldn't have given them the security they needed, and he cursed Buck for going up against black killer dogs and using all his strength before Josiah'd even managed to get him on a horse and on his way. As if he'd had a choice. As if--and now Josiah had worked himself back around to the real problem--Buck would even be out here at all if it hadn't been for Josiah and his temper and the whiskey.

He reached out and laid a hand on Buck's arm. Buck's head snapped around and Josiah could see the glare in his eye. Even now, he thought bitterly as he moved his hand away. Even here. "Come on, Buck," he said, feeling as if there was some kind of pain centered in the middle of his chest that would likely never go away again. "Let's keep on."

An hour passed and Josiah hunched deeper into his coat, pulling the collar up tight against his neck though it did nothing to prevent the rain from seeping in. He looked at the back of his horse's head; he looked at the trail in front of them; he listened for the sound of Buck's horse to his left, the normal sounds of a horse on the trail distorted by the mud and the rain. Buck's horse stumbled and Josiah heard a sharp cry of pain escape Buck's lips as he tried to catch himself. Josiah looked up and over to see Buck bent forward over the pommel of his saddle, his hand clutching at his wounded leg and the reins starting to slowly slip from his grasp.

"Jesus, Buck!" Josiah reached out to steady him, but caught himself before he touched the gunslinger. A self-mocking smile twisted his face. 'You should be damned, Josiah,' he thought to himself, and he reached out and grabbed Buck's reins before they could fall to the ground.

For a moment the two man just sat there in the middle of the woods in the middle of a storm and waited for Buck to catch his breath.

"I'm all right." Buck finally spoke as he slowly straightened up in the saddle. "I'm all right. I'm all right. I'm all right." And Josiah realized Buck wasn't saying it to him. He was repeating it over and over to himself, trying to convince himself that it was so, that he could make it just a little further. Josiah sighed.

A cool gust of wind blew into his face and he suddenly realized that it hadn't been accompanied by a cold splash of rain. He looked up; the rain seemed to be easing a bit. And...was the sky lightening? My God, he thought, was this night actually going to end? He peered more intently up the trail. Was that?...Could it be the vague outline of a cabin? He urged his horse forward. Yes! Yes, it was a cabin. They'd made it! They'd reached the lumber camp.

He looked back to realize that Buck's horse hadn't moved. Feeling a hollow sense of dread in the pit of his stomach, Josiah rode back to him. "Buck!" he shouted. "Buck! We're here. We're safe now, Buck. It's just a little further."

Buck turned and looked at him and now, in the easing darkness, Josiah could see his face. His eyes were unfocused, all but unseeing. There were deep, dark shadows under his eyes and sharp hollows beneath his cheekbones. His eyes drifted shut and then open again and the expression on his face never changed as if there weren't any difference now between being awake or asleep. And yet, there was still a tightness about him, a way of holding himself together and Josiah couldn't help wondering what would happen when he finally had to let go.

"Come on," he urged gently. "It's just a little farther."

Buck turned his head, but Josiah wasn't sure if he saw him or not. In any event he urged his horse forward to Josiah's relief and slowly they rode forward into the lumber camp. They'd passed the first cabin when they came across a huge branch lying across the lumber road. Buck kept going, straight ahead, and Josiah had to reach out and grab the reins and steer him around the barrier. Buck turned and looked at him, a small frown forming on his brow, as if he were taking in information, but couldn't process it fast enough to act on it. 'I hope you're ready for us, Nathan,' Josiah thought. 'Because we surely need you now.'

Slowly, they crossed the deserted lumber camp to the cabin where, Josiah hoped, they would find all the others. Buck seemed to be hanging on only because he'd forgotten how to let go. And that was okay, Josiah figured, as long as it got them over the next hundred yards. A hundred yards. That was all Josiah asked anymore.

It took even Josiah a moment to realize that they'd reached the cabin. His mind took a minute to register the light in the windows and the smoke floating out the chimney. We're here, he thought. We've made it.

He looked over at Buck and thought, 'And how am I going to get you in there, if you won't let me touch you?'

He dismounted, feeling an aching stiffness in every bone in his body. 'I'm way too old for this,' he thought wryly. He was going to go into the cabin and get some help when he realized that Buck had already dismounted. 'How the hell did you do that?' he wondered. But Buck was standing there, swaying and Josiah didn't even think, he just rushed up to him and grabbed him around the waist, throwing Buck's arm over his shoulder. Buck turned his head to look at him and Josiah thought--'this is it. He's going to spit in my eye or tell me to go to hell or something.'

Buck blinked as if it were hard for him to focus. "All right," he said very softly. Then, he closed his eyes and started to slump.

Josiah grabbed his wrist and tried to hoist him up. He stumbled toward the cabin. "Not yet," he said to Buck. "We're almost there now."

Part 94

Nathan layered the hot, wet leaves of the herbs he used to draw out blood poisoning onto the muslin, then folded the cloth over to cover them and laid a new layer in place. He layered and folded it several more times before carrying it carefully across the room to the bed where Vin was laying, to set it gently down on the bared wound. The tracker didn't react at all, except to slowly roll his head against the pillow in a way that he'd been doing all along anyway, and Nathan pressed the compress into place and then laid several thick cloths over the top of it to hold the heat in. He gestured to Chris to put a steadying hand on it long enough to make sure it didn't move, and then went back to the stove. He paused for a moment as the pan of green-tinged water blurred in his vision, and then shook his head to clear it. No time for that now, he thought. Not yet.

The others weren't even back yet: Josiah and Buck, or JD and Ezra. Where were they? Who else was going to come in bloody and needing treatment? God, he thought, glancing at the doorway, just so they come back. Just so they can get here for me to try. Where are they? His eye caught Chris's suddenly, the gunman staring at him as if reading his thoughts, and Nathan looked away quickly.

He'd couldn't understand what he was seeing in Chris since they'd gotten to the cabin. Yes, he'd seen the marks of a bad blow to the head on the man, but it hadn't seemed to be much of an issue any more, the few times he'd seen Chris in the cellar. And it was clear that the man had been treated badly, was exhausted and worried and cross -- well, maybe furious and tight and burning inside was more like it. Nathan poured the pan of herbed water into a can and set it on the back of the stove in case he needed it later to soak a sprain or something. That made sense. But they'd gotten away, and gotten Vin to the cabin -- so why was there a sense that Chris was somehow captive, held somewhere against his will, still expecting to be blindsided and hit? Nathan sighed and started tearing up willow bark into a small coffeepot to make a tea to bring Vin's fever down. Maybe, he thought, it was the fear that the others were in trouble but not being able to do anything about it. He glanced at Chris, who was looking at Vin's face now, his hands in his lap and his expression grim, and knew that wasn't it. It was there, yes, that fear. But that wasn't what was eating at Chris at all.

The sound of horses outside made Nathan look up sharply, and then move to a window to peer outside with caution. After a long moment he saw the shapes of two horses and riders materialize out of the darkness and draw up in the yard of the cabin. The riders sat quietly a long, stiff moment before one of them dismounted. When he did, Nathan saw the unmistakable shape of JD's bowler hat, and he turned to let Chris know who it was that had arrived. Two in, he thought, returning to the willow bark tea. Just two still out. He stoked the fire in the stove and pulled the coffeepot over the flame. Come on, Josiah, he thought. Come on, Buck.

A long time of waiting later, the door opened to admit cold, wet air and two men who were themselves as cold and wet as bedraggled leaves blown in by the storm. They staggered across the room towards unoccupied bunks and started to pitch forward, but Nathan reached out quickly to catch first one of them and then the other by an arm, to make them get out of their wet things first so they didn't catch pneumonia. He might not have been able to get Chris to put on dry things yet, but these two had been out long enough to be chilled to the point of it being dangerous, and he had no intention of losing anyone else at this point.

Nathan drew up short, realizing what he'd thought: anyone else. He looked over at Vin, whose skin was shining still with fever sweat and who moved slowly against the mattress in discomfort. But Vin wasn't lost. Not yet, at least, and not at all if Nathan had his way. Nathan pressed his lips together and went back to the stove as Ezra and JD crawled into thick blankets and dropped into the silent sleep of exhaustion. He heard Chris thank them, wondered how that fit with his own reflexive thought about "not losing anyone else." Maybe it was fear that was eating at the gunman after all. Maybe . . . Nathan looked at Chris and saw that he was staring again at the healer, watching him in a way that made Nathan's skin crawl uneasily.

"Nathan," Chris said, quietly. "I think--"

Nathan shook his head, trying not to hear words that might affirm the fear growing to a certainty somewhere inside him. "Somebody's got to go out there," he said. "We got to find out what's happened to them."

Chris opened his mouth to answer, but before he could the door to the cabin banged open so hard that the lean gunman leaped to his feet with his pistol leveled at the two men staggering through it. Nathan took a single look and dropped the spoon he'd been stirring the tea with, to run help Josiah drag Buck into the cabin. Both men were dark with mud and debris from the storm, and their clothes were ripped in several places. Buck had clearly been at least semi-conscious not long before, but the walk to the cabin had used up the last of his strength. Now he sagged against Josiah as the big preacher held him up with one massive arm around his waist, the other hand gripping his wrist with Buck's arm across his shoulders. Even as Nathan caught his other side, Buck fell so entirely senseless that he would have gone to the floor despite Josiah's presence, had Nathan not been there to grab his other arm. Together they got him to the last unoccupied lower bunk and laid him down, stripping off his wet things as they did, so that he would be lying in dry blankets. Nathan frowned when their work suddenly revealed the horrendous wound on Buck's leg.

"Damn," said Josiah softly.

"Yeah. That's no bullet hole, either." Nathan lifted Buck's feet to the mattress and pulled the blankets around his torso to warm him, then pulled up a chair to sit on while he examined the wound. He looked quickly back over his shoulder at Chris as anger flared up where fatigue had been only a moment before. "Why the hell didn't you tell me he was this bad off?" he demanded.

Chris stood silent, his pistol lowered, and then sat back down next to Vin without saying a word. His eyes were expressionless. Nathan snorted angrily and turned back to Buck as he addressed Josiah. "Get me some a' them cloths, an' that can a' greenish-lookin' water on the back a' the stove," he said quickly. "An' bandages." He began to pull tentatively at the edges of the jagged rent in his friend's leg as Josiah moved to do as he was asked, and Buck gasped very softly and then lay more quietly again. The whole immediate area was bruised so dark as to be nearly black, the edges of the wound itself beginning to heal over but in a way that would leave an enormous scar. It was obvious that the man had lost a huge amount of blood, some of it in internal bleeding that had swelled the tissues and colored most of his thigh in shades ranging from green and yellow through blue and purple to charcoal. Nathan cleaned it as best he could, his face dark and grim, then went silently to the stove to make a fresh compress. He looked over at Chris as he did, only to see that the man was sitting more tensely than before, his rage as palpable and banked and hot as Vin's fever was. He never looked even once in Buck's direction.

Nathan shook his head to himself and wished the herbs would hurry. His ears were starting to ring in a way that warned him he had only a limited time left in which to do what needed to be done. At least Josiah was all right, he thought. If he'd get out of those wet clothes. Not one of these men had the sense God gave them, to get out of the rain, he thought crossly. Not one of them. He slammed the pot down on the stove lid between burners and began to layer out the leaves onto a fresh piece of muslin, aware that Josiah had risen and approached him.

"Need some help, Brother Nate?"

"No." Nathan heard how short his own voice was, but he couldn't help it. He was running out of time, he knew, and out of energy. It didn't help that no one had told him what he needed to know, what he had asked them about point-blank. It didn't help at all that things were going on in secret somehow, things that clearly affected the health of the three men they'd all just risked their lives to get out of Michaels' house. Buck had nearly bled to death, and no one had said a word, no one had . . . Nathan shook his head as he finished the compress and carried it across the room. The light in there was getting watery-looking, he noticed, and the floor seemed to be tipping. Damn. He laid the compress on Buck's leg and fell into the chair wearily and thought about the blood he'd seen on the ground near where Ezra had found Buck's coat, about how they'd agreed the blood in the stone enclosure near Vin's coat was also Buck's. I knew, he thought. I knew all along, myself. I didn't have to ask or be told. Why didn't I act on what I knew was so? Why wasn't I paying attention? He bound the compress to Buck's leg with thick bandages, and then pulled the blanket over him all the way, startled when he saw a broad hand on the wool next to his, and looked up into Josiah's concerned face.

"I think you _do_ need some help," he said softly.

Nathan tried to tell him no again, tried to stand up to go back to the stove to finish the willow bark tea and give some to Vin. But no words came out. His legs didn't work, either. He stared into Josiah's strong eyes and suddenly felt more helpless than he'd ever wanted to feel. There were men depending on him, men he was letting down, men who were his friends, who --

"Chris, I think you better get Ezra off that bottom bunk," said Josiah softly. "Nathan appears to need it."

Low murmurs, and Nathan looked at Buck's pale face and shook his head angrily. "No," he said. He looked at Josiah, who had lifted him from the chair somehow and was leading him to a bed that Ezra stood next to, his face dark and tousled, a look of deep worry on it.

"Yes," said Ezra softly. He pulled back the blankets and Nathan tried to pull away from Josiah, but the room began to spin just then and he realized he was sinking to the floor.

He never even knew it when Josiah pulled the blankets over him, a few minutes later after pulling off Nathan's own still-wet things. The preacher stood silently looking down at his friend's face and then looked at Ezra. They didn't say anything. Slowly Josiah turned to regard Chris, who had gone back to Vin's side as soon as he'd awakened Ezra when it was clear Nathan was about to collapse.

"You're awful quiet about all this," observed Josiah.

Chris flushed and turned brittle eyes away from the other men, to regard the wall.

A knot of wood cracked in the fire suddenly, tossing a glowing ember out onto the floor. Josiah walked over calmly and set his wet boot on it. It hissed beneath his foot and then was silent. He looked back at Ezra and nodded to the upper bunk. "Might as well get some more sleep while you can," he said in his low voice. "I'm gonna' grab a cup a' hot coffee, then go out an' take care a' the horses." He looked once more at Chris, and then went about his own business.

Part 95

When the door to the cabin slammed open, Chris rose and drew his revolver in one smooth fluid movement, quicker than thought. When he saw who it was, he lowered the gun. His first reaction at seeing the two muddy and rain-soaked men stumbling through the door was relief. As if things had just notched down a level and it was finally possible to breathe.

The relief was short-lived, however, replaced almost immediately by the anger that had been eating at his insides for days. Vin moved slightly on the bunk to Chris's right and Chris looked down at the tracker's face, still flushed with fever. His expression grew darker.

Josiah and Nathan talked softly to each other as they half-carried a now unconscious Buck across the cabin and maneuvered him into the last remaining lower bunk. Nothing was over, Chris thought. Maybe they were all here together. Maybe they were out of that cellar, but they were all still trapped and Chris for one was getting damned impatient. He wanted answers. And he had so many questions. But here, he thought, was an easy one. What the hell had taken Josiah and Buck so long to get here?

He was just opening his mouth, figuring he could get an answer to that question at least, when Nathan moved slightly and Chris got his first good look at just how badly Buck had been wounded. He sucked in his breath, his anger dropping suddenly to nothing, just as Nathan looked at him and said, "Why the hell didn't you tell me he was this bad off?"

Chris clenched his jaw so tightly the muscles jumped out in stark relief and his eyes thinned down to a flat, blank stare. 'Because he wouldn't let me,' Chris thought and in that second, a deep sadness washed over him, as hard and suffocating as anything he'd felt when Sarah and Adam had died. He looked at Buck's pale form on the bed and he knew he'd lost something important. He closed his eyes and felt the skin stretch tight across his face as everything that had happened or ever would happen welled up and crashed over him like a tidal wave of grief built over long unforgotten years and when it was gone the sadness was gone with it and familiar black anger rushed in to fill the vacuum left behind. He opened his eyes. He had tried, damnit! Buck hadn't let him. Too stubborn, too righteous to take care of himself and by extension the man who'd been depending on him. It all came back to responsibility, Chris thought. And Buck just proved over and over that he'd never had any.

Chris wished right then that someone would walk through the cabin door and he could shoot them. It wouldn't really make him feel better, but it would be something to do, something loud and dark and final. Just sitting here. Just waiting. That was too hard in this particular place and time. Vin moved and Chris looked sideways at him. 'At least we got you out,' he thought. He put his hand on the tracker's arm and noted that the fever was down some. 'At least there's that.'

"Chris, get Ezra off that bottom bunk," Josiah said suddenly. Chris looked up. Josiah was holding Nathan. 'What the hell?' Chris thought. 'What was going on here?' But it was as if things were playing out in some way that caused Chris to miss half of every action that happened and guaranteed that he understood nothing. Nathan had been all right and now he wasn't. Buck had been his friend, the man he'd relied on even when he himself was not reliable. And now he wasn't. How had this come to pass? What had been happening when Chris had apparently been looking away?

He'd gotten Ezra up and gone back to sit by Vin and he didn't even realize that Josiah had helped Nathan off with his wet things and into the bunk until he turned to Chris once again and said, "You're awful quiet about all this."

'Because I don't know what's going on.' Chris thought about saying. 'Because everything changed somehow when I was in that cellar and I can't even begin to figure it out.' But Josiah didn't wait for him to say anything. He walked to the fire and set his boot on a glowing ember on the floor and he said, "I'm going out to put up the horses."

"No," Chris said, "I'll do it." His long strides carried him quickly across the cabin to the door. He needed to be out of here right now, needed something he could do that didn't pull at him with needs and emotions and questions he had no answers to.

The air outside was damp and cool, the sky a grey fading slowly into dawn. Chris gathered up the reins of Buck's and Josiah's horses and led them to the shed. The familiar tasks--uncinching the saddle, lifting it from the horse's back, unbuckling, untying, setting aside--were what he needed right now, a way to feel both outside the things happening in the cabin and a fixed and certain part of everything. He fed and watered the two tired horses, and checked the others to make sure they were comfortable. He brushed them down as best he could and laid the blankets across the saddles so they'd at least have a chance to dry.

There were no judgments here. No complex interactions that could never be completely understood. Just the soft shift and rustle as the horses moved, a casual snort as one of them lifted its head and looked at him, then settled again. Chris laid his hand on his own horse's withers and just stood there with his head bowed.

After a minute he straightened again and moved once more through the small shed making sure everything was as it should be. By the time he had finished and was on his way back to the cabin, the sky was several degrees lighter, the pale light of dawn edging around the receding grey storm clouds.

When he reentered the cabin, he was struck by how quiet it was. JD was sleeping in the far corner of the room, his head completely buried under the blankets. Ezra had moved to one of the upper bunks and he had his back turned to the door, his shoulders hunched under the blanket that covered him. Nathan lay facing the center of the room, as if, even in sleep he wanted to be ready to help anyone who needed him. Chris could see exhaustion in the slackness of his features, in the slight frown as he slept. Vin was sleeping too, still moving restlessly, with occasional soft sounds of protest escaping his lips, but resting at least, and so much more comfortably than he had in that dark cellar. And for that Chris could be grateful. He looked at Buck last. His face was really pale, the starkness emphasized by his dark moustache. He lay very still, but there was something not at all peaceful about him, lines of pain or fatigue or maybe just the way he breathed, quicker than it ought to be. Damn, Chris thought, but there was less heat, less anger than there had been. There would time for everything. Time for answers and accusations and making right whatever the hell it was that had gone wrong with Buck.

Chris turned away from the sleeping men and looked at Josiah who was sitting in a chair near Vin's bed. He'd taken off his coat and boots and found a pair of dry socks. His feet had been stretched out in front of him, his head bowed low to his chest when Chris had opened the door to the cabin. He had looked up when Chris had entered, but he hadn't said anything, just sat there, waiting.

Chris took another chair from the wooden table in the middle of the room. He set it down to one side of Josiah. "You should get some sleep," he said quietly.

"So should you." Even when Josiah spoke softly, his voice rumbled like distant thunder.

For a minute, both men just sat, the heat from the stove creating a dry and quiet presence, like a wall the tired men could lean against. Chris looked away, at something high up on the wall that only he could see. Then, he turned back to Josiah. "What happened?" he asked quietly.

Josiah didn't answer for a minute and Chris thought maybe he hadn't understood. I just want one answer, Chris thought. I just want to know one thing before a new day begins, something I can hold onto and examine and maybe comprehend. And he thought this was the easiest, 'what happened to you and Buck? What took you so long to get here?'

"There were...dogs," Josiah finally said.

Chris's head snapped up. "Hounds? We heard them. I thought you'd lose them in the rain."

"No." There was something about Josiah's voice that forced a man to think, Chris thought, something that made it harder to just leap straight into judgment. "These were different." He sat up and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and interlacing his fingers. He stared at the flickering fire in the stove. "These were dogs for killing. Quick, silent, deadly. They'd already caught Buck before I got there. We had to fight them on the ground." He shook his head heavily. "I never want to see the like again."

Chris turned and looked at Buck again, remembering the torn sleeve of his shirt. Maybe I didn't want to understand, he thought. Maybe I didn't want to know.

Josiah stood and stretched, groaning as his sore and tired muscles protested. "He thought we left him, Chris," he said to the lean black-clad gunslinger. "I could tell by the look in his eyes when I found him. I'd think on that too. While you're thinking." And with that, Josiah walked to the other side of the room and shed the rest of his clothes and climbed into one of the remaining upper bunks.

Chris sat in the chair and looked at the fire in the stove and listened to the sound of the other men sleeping and tried just not to think about anything much at all.

Part 96

Sterling Michaels was wet and cold and very, very angry.

He looked at the men arrayed around him. Striker sat with his back against the far wall, his eyes glittering with something almost approaching anger. John Bland was pacing annoyingly back and forth between the long tables that lined the dining hall where they'd all finally retreated after fruitless hours of searching in mud and wind and rain. Damn them! Damn them! How had this happened?

Miners coming off the night shift into the dining hall saw the large group of Michaels' personal 'security' men gathered on one side of the hall and sat as far from them as possible, until half the hall was full and men were leaning against the wall to eat their meal. Michaels didn't even notice them. He started to pace, leaving wet boot marks on the wooden floor. Then, he realized that Bland was matching him step for step and he stopped and glared. What an annoying man, Michaels thought. What good was he? Why was he here? But he'd brought Bland in from Kansas City, a man known for his skill with poison. Who would have known how downright annoying and stupid he would be in person?

He glared at each man in turn, stopping with Striker who--and this annoyed Michaels no end too--was remarkably hard to glare at. He returned Michael's gaze with an impenetrable one of his own, as if every look anyone gave him was absorbed by him, taking something from the person who looked, but revealing nothing of Striker in return.

"What the hell happened?" Michaels barked.

Striker raised an eyebrow. "You let one of them into the house."

"I know!" Michaels shouted. "How did that happen? Why didn't you know?"

"Why didn't Bland know?" Striker countered. "It was the healer, after all."

Michaels rounded on Bland who had finally stopped pacing and was trying to look, well, Michaels could only figure he was trying to look fierce.

"Look," Bland snapped peevishly. "I didn't expect to see him here. How could I? I thought he was dead. He _should_ have been dead."

"Well, obviously, he's not," Michaels remarked dryly. He turned away, took a few steps, then turned back with a snap. "You're no good to me, Bland. You failed in town. There was no epidemic. You failed me here. Is there a reason I shouldn't kill you right now?" 'I would love to kill you right now,' Michaels thought. ' I would really love to kill someone for this mess.'

To Bland's credit he didn't shrink or grovel or beg, which in the end was what saved him. In fact, he straightened and looked Michaels square in the eye. "You hired me to do a job. I did the best I could. I have skills that could still be of use to you. But if you have no further need of me, I could also leave."

Michaels laughed shortly. He liked audacity in a man, hell, he kept Striker around, didn't he? "You _better_ be of use to me," he said, his voice deepening down until the threat in his words was stark and clear. The words caused Bland to blink and take a step backward. Michaels could see something in John Bland's eyes, something dark and a little slimy and not-quite-recognizable, which Michaels himself thought with satisfaction must be fear. 'Good,' he thought. 'Be of use to me.'

He turned back to Striker. "I want them back," he said.

Striker stretched out one long leg. "Why?"

"Why?" Michaels drew himself up and sucked in his breath. "WHY?" he thundered. "Because it's important. Because they know who I am and if they don't know what I'm after they damn well have enough information to figure it out. And because I had them and they got away. _I_ am in charge of this operation. ME!" He turned toward the other men who had stood silently, dripping water onto the dining hall floor without a word among themselves. Michaels paid them handsomely to be nothing more than what they were--men who would kill other men for money. Michaels broad finger stabbed out. "You!" he said. "You! And you! I want you out there now. They can't have gotten far. Find them!"

"It's...still raining," Striker pointed out mildly.

"I don't care! Do you think I care what the hell the weather's like? I want results. I want those men back here by the end of the day." He took a deep breath and watched the men leave as he had ordered, then he turned back to Striker. "Tell me how this happened."

Striker looked up at him from under his hat. He raised one shoulder in a half-shrug. "I told you they were good," he said.

"We took out half of them. We took out the ones _you_ said we should take out. I hold you responsible. Solely responsible for this disaster."

Striker stood. He walked across the ten feet or so that separated him from Michaels until he could look him straight in the eye. He was two inches taller, but much thinner than Michaels, but it was Michaels who felt as if there wasn't enough space in that room for both of them. "You're the one that plays games, Michaels. I told you they were good. I told you to kill them. An accident or two. Half of them gone. But you had a better way."

Michaels took a deep breath. He was in control. He. Sterling Michaels. Not this dour, expressionless saddle tramp. "It is important," he said calmly "that when I win, the people I defeat know who has beaten them and how. Otherwise, there's really no point."

Striker eyed him for a minute. "Like you beat Sullivan?" he asked. Then, he turned and walked slowly out of the hall, a tall dark figure that men moved away from as he passed.

Michaels watched him for a moment then shook his head. Striker worked for him. He wasn't the one with money or power or any of the luxuries of life. Michaels wouldn't forget that and it gave him some satisfaction to know that Striker probably wouldn't either. As for Chris Larabee and the others...well, they were exhausted, far from home, and had wounded men to care for. He'd find them. He'd find them all. And when he did...

He turned to the dozen men remaining in the room, frowning at them as if he'd forgotten they were there. "I want you all out looking for them. Is that clear? I want no one back here until you find them."

The tired men looked at him for a minute, then they all, one by one, nodded their heads and left the hall.

Sterling Michaels turned to John Bland, the only man left in the dining hall with him. He was fidgeting nervously, looking at Michaels sideways, as if afraid to look at him straight on. Whatever spine he'd had that had allowed him to stand up to Michaels a few minutes ago seemed to have disappeared. He looked like nothing so much as a drowned rat. A dark flash of fresh anger ran through Michaels at the sight of the man's face. 'I let you live you worthless son of a bitch.'

"What the hell are you waiting for?" he said sharply to Bland.

The man jumped, causing Michaels frown to deepen. 'You better be of use to me,' Michaels thought, thoroughly irritated by Bland and the weather and all the things that had gone wrong in the last several hours. 'Because I don't keep anyone who isn't useful.'

"Well?" he said when Bland still hadn't moved.

"I