PART 1

The dream was always the same.

He stood bare-headed in a vast, sprawling field, swept by wind and caressed by sun, surrounded on every side and for as far as the eye could see by a gently rippling, softly whispering sea of blue. It was not water that rose to his knees and lapped against his legs, though, but flowers, an eternity of flowers, so intensely blue it almost hurt his eyes to see them. Wave upon wave of them, an endless tide of brilliant purple-blue blossoms crowned by white tips that near sparkled in the sun.

He knew this place, was part of this place, just as it was part of him. His body had been fashioned from the earth upon which he stood, just as the rivers and creeks that watered it coursed through his veins and spilled out through his tears. The wind that swept like an unseen hand through the field, bending stalks of grasses and flowers in a gentle rhythm, was his breath, and the same pulse of life he felt in all about him thrummed and throbbed in the beating of his heart. He was this place, and it was him.

Once again, his dream had brought him home.

Home. The word whispered to him, sang to him, danced through his mind and slipped into his soul and severed every bond that would have held him. Suddenly set free, he threw back his head and cried out aloud, feeling every wild part of him rising up fiercely in response. He cried out again and began running through the field, arms out at his sides, eyes as wide and as blue as the field fixed upon the sky...

And all at once he was flying. Exultation surged through him hard and hot, and as he climbed ever higher upon currents of air, he loosed the shrill, piercing scream of the hawk. Powerful wings pumped, carrying him aloft, and he was as he had always been, born of the earth but not bound to the earth, free only when he could fly.

But the dream was always the same.

From the sky he looked down, his sharp, all-seeing hunter's gaze catching every flicker of light and life below him, and, to his horror, his beloved field began to change. Amid the white-capped blue flowers flecks of red began to show, crimson blooms pushing through like blood upon the land. With each beat of his heart more red stained the field, and he looked down to see the drops falling from his breast.

His heart was weeping tears of blood.

With the loss of blood came loss of strength, and soon he was growing too tired to fly. Each pump of his wings required more effort, more than he had to give. He needed to find shelter, needed to rest, to heal, to wait for his heart to stop weeping. And he knew such a place, remembered it, felt its peace calling to him even now. Tired, so tired, he turned and willed his wings to keep beating, dragging himself through the air to the patch of land that had given him birth.

When he saw it, he wept with his eyes as well as his heart. A small cabin, never much, but always enough, and more than he'd ever wanted. Yet where once light would have shone from it, now it was dark, no longer warm, but cold and lifeless. He looked around and saw the graves that marked where the light and life had gone. Gone, all gone.

But still here. They had returned to the earth, were part of the earth, and now made that earth sacred. He could still feel them, if only in that earth. Needing them, needing what they gave him, what they'd always given him, he flew desperately to them, needing once more to take their strength into himself.

Boy, you're a Tanner. Don't ever forget that.

He hadn't forgotten, he'd never forgotten. Oh, God, it was all he had left, but he still remembered! With a weak, plaintive cry, he dropped from the earth toward the graves...

And was attacked by a seething, shouting mob that sprang suddenly from the earth. With vicious hands they grabbed at him, clawed at him, beat him, brought out their ropes and tried to snare him. Time and again they lashed him, always shouting, then one of their ropes landed around his neck and began to draw tight about his throat.

Lord God, he couldn't breathe!

Panicked, he fought them, tried to flap his wings to escape but could not break free. They dragged him out of the sky, down to the ground, and over to a body. Terror rose up cold and sharp within him as they tied him to the body and began pulling tight the rope around his neck.

Oh, God, no, no! He hadn't done this thing! He'd killed, yes, but not this time, not this man, and he wouldn't die for something he hadn't done!

With a last burst of strength he screamed and broke the ropes, screamed again and launched himself into the air. Bleeding now from more than just his heart, he pumped his wings frantically and raced away from the furious crowd, propelled by his fear.

He flew over ground he'd once known but didn't now, watching as his field of blue ran red with blood. His blood, the blood of the man he hadn't killed, the blood of those he had... So much blood, he was drowning in the smell.

Ma... Mama, help me! I'm tryin', but, Lord God, I'm tired!

Then he saw him, and knew she'd sent him so her boy could rest. Fury filled him and he dove toward the man running through the purple-blue flowers and painting them with blood. He now hoped the crowd was following him, wanted them to see the blood flowing from this man's hands and know it was all his doing. The man looked up, saw him, and started running faster, but not fast enough. Fury turned to rage, and he screamed again, extending his talons and swooping down to strike. The man was so close he could feel his heat, could hear his heart beating and the blood pumping through his veins, and the hunter in him rejoiced.

He had him, his prey, had only to reach down a little more...

An explosion sounded and the man was torn from his grasp. And to his horror, he saw that the man who had painted the field with the blood of others was now drenching it with his own. He hovered above him, and watched helplessly as his hope, and his field of blue, drowned in a sea of blood.

=======

"NO!"

He awoke with a cry and jerked upright, hugging himself and shaking uncontrollably as terror rioted through him. For long, horrible moments he couldn't breathe, was gasping and gagging for air denied him by the rope around his neck. Sweat poured from him as he twitched and struggled for life amid the suffocating closeness of death.

"No!" he pleaded again, and with that plea came breath. He sucked it in greedily and raised shaking hands to claw at his throat, his fingers encountering nothing but flesh. "Oh, shit! Shit, no!" he whispered, burying his face in his hands, then running his fingers through his hair. "'S jist a dream!" he told himself, his breathing still harsh and ragged, his body refusing to stop shaking. He ran his hands once more through his hair, then lifted his head and looked around, trying to make out his surroundings.

A room. What the hell was he doin' in a room? How the hell did he get here?

He sat up straighter, crossed his legs and folded his arms tightly against his chest, trying to remember. On a bed, no less. Why wasn't he in his wagon?

He licked dry lips and glanced cautiously around, peering through darkness and shadows. Then he saw the window and willed his eyes to adjust to the faint light filtering through it while straining his ears to sort out the sounds that floated up to him.

Up. He was up. Upstairs. He glanced around, and picked out familiar shapes through the gloom. Boardinghouse. His room. The room he rarely used. But he wasn't sick, wasn't hurt...

Memory dawned then, and he relaxed slightly with a shuddering sigh. Larabee. Chris had insisted he sleep up here tonight, within the security of walls instead of the flimsy canvas of his wagon. Larabee had been just as shaken up as he'd been...

He heard it again then, and couldn't help flinching at the sound. The explosion, the gunshot that had blown it all to hell. And once more, he watched in helpless horror as the body fell to the ground.

Eli Joe, dead. Vin Tanner's last hope, dead. Both killed by his best friend.

I know you wanted him alive.

Did what ya had to. Cain't clear my name if I'm dead.

An anguished groan escaped him and once more he dropped his head into his hands, his body bowed by and shaking with despair.

Cain't clear my name if I'm dead.

Though now he was past believing he'd ever clear it, anyway.

=======

Out in the hallway, Chris Larabee stood in silence, clad only in his undershirt and black pants, one hand pressed to Tanner's door. Unable to sleep, he'd heard the muffled cries through the thin wall separating his room from Vin's and had been struck through the heart by them. He couldn't forget the desolation he'd seen in Vin's eyes after Eli Joe's death, and knew he never would.

How could he, when that look had been his doing?

He groaned softly and leaned forward, resting his forehead against the door near his hand, his shoulders slumping. The silence in that room was more haunting even than the cries had been. Instinctively, he knew Vin was awake, could almost picture the man huddled on the bed he so rarely used, wrapped in and racked by grief. He wanted so much to go in, to offer some measure of comfort, but hadn't the vaguest notion of how.

What could he possibly say? "I'm sorry?" Jesus, how useless was that? And what right did he have to clear his conscience when he'd destroyed Vin's last chance of clearing his name? His name, for God's sake, the only real thing of value Tanner had ever had!

But he was sorry; God, so sorry he ached from it. It was like a stone in his heart and a cold weight at the center of his bones, a weight that made his whole being hurt from the burden of carrying it. Vin was innocent, and Chris had promised he'd help him prove it.

Instead, he'd killed the only proof there was.

Straightening with an effort, his tired body protesting, he ran his hand almost lovingly over that door, then dropped it to his side. And, feeling much older than his years, he turned away and went slowly back to his own room, ignoring the bottle he'd brought up to help him through this night.

What right had he to the comfort of forgetfulness when there could be no such comfort for Vin?

=======

He was up and out of his room before dawn, floating like a ghost through the darkness that still lay over the town. He hadn't gone back to sleep after the dream, hadn't been able to. He'd stayed in the room until the walls had begun closing in on him, until he'd had to come outside to breathe.

Damn noose was drawin' tight again...

He absently raised a hand to his throat and slipped his fingers under the collar of his shirt, needing reassurance that the rope was no longer there. He shuddered at the memory of its weight dropping over him, nearly choked as he felt the noose closing about him. Throat constricted, breath came in short, ragged, futile gasps, and he clawed frantically at the top buttons of his shirt, desperately needing air and not getting nearly enough.

A button popped, a second slid through its hole, the shirt parted and he sagged against the jail wall, closing his eyes and pulling in great draughts of blessed air, his whole body racked by violent tremors. The early morning air was cool, yet, even so, sweat beaded on his upper lip, soaked into the fringe of hair across his forehead and at his temples, and his heart hammered against his ribs like the hooves of a runaway horse.

Hell, ya know me, Chris. I ain't afraid'a dyin'. I jist don't wanta go out like that, strung up like some mangy dog.

Strung up...

Vin Tanner, you're under arrest for murder in the sovereign state of Texas.

Strung up...

Murder...

Mangy dog...

"No!"

He shoved himself away from the wall with a soft, hoarse cry and resumed his silent and solitary prowl through town. The first vague hint of dawn was beginning to show in the east, a pale, illusory lightening of the deep indigo sky that mocked him with its promise. Dawn had always meant hope; another night survived, a new day coming, and bringing with it one more chance. One more chance to put to right the mistakes of the past, to redeem the sins of the past and reclaim his future. A new day, a clean start, a fresh chance to clear his name.

You got a chance ta finish this now.

But not today.

I know you wanted him alive.

And not ever.

Did what ya had to. Cain't clear my name if I'm dead.

Dead. All dead; Eli Joe, his hope. Both killed by the single blast of a friend's gun.

He stopped, looked up, and found himself standing before the telegraph office. Looked up further, saw a body falling from the roof. A corpse.

Again, he heard the heavy thud of his last hope hitting the ground and the final echoes of the gunshot that had killed it.

I know you wanted him alive.

But when had Vin Tanner ever gotten what he wanted?

He turned away and resumed his walking, ghosting through shadows, a shadow himself. Didn't know where he was going, didn't care. Wasn't like it really mattered. Couldn't go back; all he had waiting for him was a noose. Couldn't go forward; that'd just be running, and, Lord God, he was tired of running. Nothing to go back to, nothing to go forward to; he was well and truly stuck. Mired so deep in blood he had and hadn't shed that he'd never be free again.

Never be able to fly again.

Caught fast in the rope he could feel clear through to his soul, unable to summon the strength or the will to spread his wings, he lifted his head, raised desolate eyes to the vast expanse of the indigo sky...

And near wept for the loss of his fields of blue.

=======

Keeping to the shadows, dressed once again in the unrelieved black he'd begun to put off over the past few months, Larabee followed and kept watch over the solitary figure roaming restlessly around town, knowing that, just now, Vin did not have it in him to watch over himself. And figuring he owed the man this much, at least.

He'd not allowed himself to sleep, all too conscious of the terrible vulnerability of the friend who should have been but was not sleeping in the next room. Instead, burdened by his guilt and weighed down by heavy responsibility, he'd ignored the lure of the whiskey bottle he'd brought up and passed the night in careful vigilance, leaving his door slightly ajar so he could hear should he be needed.

He'd heard when Tanner had crept from his room, with darkness still full upon the town. And, giving the man time to get downstairs and out the boardinghouse door, he'd followed, leaving off his spurs. Tanner had the hearing of an owl.

So now here he was, watching from the shadows as Vin Tanner, a man who was never lost, wandered helplessly about and tried to figure out where he was, and where the hell he was going. Chris could see it in his face each time he caught a glimpse of that pale, haunted mask, yet even more he could feel it. More than Eli Joe had died yesterday; some part of Tanner had, as well.

And Larabee had killed it.

He'd lost count of the number of times he'd gone through those horrible moments in his mind, seeing again and again the flash of a blade descending toward Vin in a killing stroke, hearing again and again the thunder of the gun that had leapt into his own hand. And watching again and again as Eli Joe toppled off that roof, taking Vin's chance at clearing his name with him into death.

Had there been another way? Some way of saving Vin without killing the one man who could clear him?

No.

He knew it with everything that was in him, with every instinct he'd honed over the years to save his own life. It had been Vin or Eli Joe; one or the other had to die. And there was no way in hell Chris could have stood by and let Vin die.

Except now Vin was in hell, and he'd put him there.

But it had to be better than putting him in a grave.

Didn't it?

He sighed and leaned back against the wall of the general store. It had to be. A man could find his way out of hell; he'd done it himself. Wasn't any way out of the grave.

He turned his head, searched for Vin again, and found him. As he watched, the tracker lifted his head and raised his face to the sky, seemed to search it for... what? Some sign of hope? A means of escape? The light breeze stirred Tanner's long hair and the fringes of his coat, and, for a single, breathless moment, Larabee was struck by the image of a hawk about to take wing. The power of it hit with a startling force, pulling him upright and tearing a long, hard gasp from him. He stared, waiting for his friend to launch himself into the sky...

And fell back against the wall with a soft groan as the moment shattered. An expression of unspeakable pain crossed Tanner's face and he tore his gaze from the sky, as if unable to bear the sight of it. His head bowed, his whole body slumped, and he seemed to shrink into himself.

The hawk was gone and only the lost man remained, shackled to the earth by pain.

Chris watched him make his way down the street and felt his heart clench at the sight. Gone was the tracker's lithe, fluid grace, his light and easy step, his flowing motion. He walked with a slow and leaden gait, as if having to force himself along, as if he were helplessly mired. Taking longer than Larabee could ever remember him doing, he made his way to the livery, settling upon the only means of escape that remained to him.

Not knowing what he would do, what he would say, Larabee went after him, his chest tight with fear and sorrow. He didn't want Vin to go, but wouldn't make him stay; needed to look into his eyes, but dreaded what he would see there. Hoped Vin would ask him to come along, but knew he wouldn't.

Knew Tanner had reached that state where he simply couldn't abide another's nearness.

When he reached the livery, Vin was tacking Peso and, for once in his life, the big gelding was standing quietly and letting the tracker work without ever once showing his temper. Sensitive to his rider's every mood, the ornery horse knew, too, that Tanner didn't have a single defense left to him, and seemed oddly content to do nothing to add to the man's troubles.

He also seemed to have appointed himself Vin's protector, and abruptly raised his head and flicked his ears, snorting and shifting on his hind legs when he sensed another's entry into the stable. At that, Tanner dropped the saddle he was holding and whirled, drawing his mare's leg in a smooth, instinctive motion. Coming around, he raised the sawed-off and aimed it unerringly at...

"Chris?" he rasped in breathless surprise, wide eyes going wider still as they took in the dark shadow that was his friend. "Lord God, Larabee, ya lookin' ta get yerself killed?"

Chris heard the slight tremor in that hoarse voice, saw the wholly uncharacteristic unsteadiness of the hands holding the gun, and was shocked to realize that he'd not only startled the tracker, but had actually frightened him. And nothing frightened Vin Tanner.

"Sorry, pard," he said quietly, willing himself to relax and wishing Vin would do the same. Tanner still held his gun on him, and it was about the most unnerving sight Larabee had ever beheld. "Didn't mean to sneak up on ya. Hell," he forced a slight grin, "I didn't even know that was possible."

"Didn't hear ya," Vin admitted. "Reckon I'm still a mite off." He saw Larabee arch a brow, and exhaled sharply when he realized he was still aiming his gun squarely at his friend's chest. "Sorry," he breathed, lowering the mare's leg. Expressions of chagrin and shame chased across his face, and a dark flush crept into his cheeks as he finally holstered the weapon. "Don't know what I'm doin'."

Chris went slowly forward, studying the younger man worriedly and seeing plainly the toll all this had taken on him. Two nights without sleep - one spent in the hated confines of a cell - had left him pale and drawn, with circles as dark as bruises beneath his eyes. Those eyes flicked nervously about, unable to settle for long on any one thing, and, rather than adopting his usual loose-limbed slouch, he held himself with a painful stiffness. All at once, Chris remembered the beating he'd endured at Yates's hands after his attempted escape, and knew yesterday's fight on the rooftops with Eli Joe had to have worsened those injuries.

"Maybe you oughtta stay close to town," he suggested quietly, "until you get that figured out."

Vin shook his head a bit too wildly, his unsettled gaze still flitting to the shadows filling the stable. His throat and chest were painfully tight and his whole skin seemed to itch and burn, as if he now wore every nerve on the outside. "Cain't," he said hoarsely. "Need... I don't know. Some air, some room..." He swallowed hard and licked his lips, then dragged his raw and haunted gaze back to Larabee. "I don't know. Jist know I cain't breathe."

Chris nodded slowly. He could hear Vin's breathlessness in his strained voice, could see it in the too-fast working of his chest, and knew nothing could hold the man in town when he was in such a state. Knew someone would get hurt, maybe killed, if he even tried.

"Goin' far?"

The question brought Tanner up short. He'd given no thought to where he was going, hadn't been able to think past the going itself. Wasn't like it mattered, though. Couldn't go back, couldn't go forward. Whatever future he might have had was being eaten alive by his past.

"Vin?" Chris prompted softly, worriedly, not at all used to seeing the tracker so scattered. So lost. Tanner always knew where he was going, had a damn compass in his head that kept him fixed on a steady path through even the rockiest terrain. He might stray from that path occasionally, or stumble and lose sight of it temporarily, but he always righted himself and returned to it, never once losing sight of where he wanted to go.

Until now.

He tried to see through Tanner's eyes, tried to think as Vin might, and flinched from the hopelessness that assailed him. In all the time that he'd known him, Vin had only really wanted one thing, had only really held to one purpose. Lifting the taint from his name. Going back to Tascosa and righting the wrong that had been done him. And every path he'd walked had led straight back to that.

But now Eli Joe's dead body lay across that path, an obstacle that not even Vin Tanner could find his way around.

"Jesus, Vin, I'm sorry," he whispered, the cold weight of what he'd done descending upon him once again.

"Did what ya had to," Tanner answered resignedly. "Cain't fault ya fer savin' my life."

Chris raised his head sharply and narrowed his eyes. "Can't you?" he asked harshly, wanting, needing, Tanner to get angry at him. "Even if I cost you your only chance of clearin' your name?"

Vin fixed desolate eyes on Larabee, too exhausted to give the man what he needed. "Don't reckon me dyin' woulda cleared it, neither."

Fury ripped through Chris at those quiet, unemotional words, and he lunged at Tanner, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him violently. "Goddamn it, Vin, is that all you can say?" he hissed, his green eyes burning. "Don't you know what this means? Don't you understand? The man who framed you is dead, Tanner! The only man who can clear your name of that goddamn murder charge is in his grave, and I put him there!"

"Let go a' me!" Vin spat, tearing himself out of Larabee's iron grasp. All at once, the fear and frustration that had been churning within him for days came boiling to the surface and he snapped. With a harsh, wordless cry of fury, he lashed out instinctively and slammed a hard fist into Larabee's jaw, snapping the gunfighter's head back and sending him staggering. Before he could fall, though, Vin grabbed his shirt and jerked Chris to him, staring at him through blazing eyes. "Goddamn you!" he snarled through clenched teeth, blue eyes glittering with more pain than one man should have borne. "Jist how fuckin' stupid do ya think I am? Shit, yeah, I understand what it means!" he shouted hoarsely, shoving Larabee violently from him. "It means that bastard won!" His voice broke and he dropped to his knees, burying his face in shaking hands.

Chris stumbled backwards and fell, stunned by Vin's violent outburst. Then, shaking his head to clear it and absently rubbing his aching jaw, he pulled himself upright. "Goddamn it, Tanner-" The angry words died on his lips and another shock jolted through him at the sight of the younger man.

Vin's hands still covered his face and his whole body slumped, was shaking as if from hard sobs. Not a sound escaped him, though, and, to Chris, that terrible, agony-laden silence was worse than any sound could be.

"Jesus!" Forgetting his aching jaw, he went at once to Tanner and dropped to his knees beside him, then reached out and laid an unsteady hand gently on one shaking shoulder. "I'm sorry-"

"Don't!" he whispered tightly, his voice a ragged rasp.

"Vin-"

"Don't!" He thrust himself to his feet and turned away, fighting desperately to bring his raging emotions under some semblance of control. But he had no strength for that, and, feeling hideously exposed and vulnerable, he stepped away from Larabee and went back to saddling Peso, needing some occupation in which to lose himself.

Chris pulled himself to his feet and turned to watch his friend, easily able to feel the pain that poured from the bowed and beaten figure and knowing he had caused it. "I'm sorry," he said again, unable to stop the words. "If I could-"

"I said 'don't,' 'n I meant it," Vin warned in a low, savage voice, pulling hard at straps and cinches to make sure his saddle was secure. "Ya cain't fix this. Nobody can fix this. Best ya jist leave it be." He grabbed Peso's reins and, without ever looking back, led the big horse toward the livery door.

"Your rifle," Chris called after him, not certain whether Tanner remembered he didn't have it with him.

Vin hadn't, and closed his eyes at the reminder of his own dangerously unfocused mind. "I'll stop at my wagon and get it." He started forward again, then stopped briefly at the door. "I'll be out near Eagle Butte," he said, a decision made. "Don't know how long I'll be gone."

He left then and Chris watched him go, then sank slowly to the straw-covered floor and buried his face in his hands.

=======

He left town and set out across the desert at a slow trot, his hat pulled low over his eyes to shield them from the rising sun. Another day was unfolding, the earth turning unstoppably beneath him, time refusing to pay heed to his pain. Light glowed on the horizon and bled over the tops of mountains, would soon be spilling over the land. Yet where once he would have welcomed it, would have stopped and watched its coming with the breathless awe the sight always inspired in him, now he simply reached up and pulled his hat further down still, having no desire to see it.

What use to look upon light when all in him had gone dark?

He headed Peso toward Eagle Butte, not knowing why he had given that as his destination, but now grateful he had. As always when hurt or hunted, his instincts drove him to seek the high ground, to find some inaccessible lair where he could hole up and lick his wounds, or where he could simply hide from whatever - whoever - threatened him. And he needed - Lord God, how he needed! - to be up in those rocks now, to be close to the sky.

Maybe up there he'd remember how to fly...

He paid no heed to the countryside as he rode, couldn't bear to look at it anymore than he could the light. In his time here, he'd come to love this land deeply, had found something in the harsh deserts and rugged mountains that spoke to the wildness in his own soul. Now, though, it struck him as unbearably alien, even hostile. Where was the acre upon acre of bluebonnets, the vast sea of blue that stretched into eternity? Where were the bright crimson patches of paintbrush, the yellow tickseed blossoms? Like everything else, they were gone from him, and he felt their absence as a deep, aching emptiness in his heart.

Gone. Lord, it was all gone, and he didn't have a hope of ever getting it back.

I know you wanted him alive.

A harsh gasp tore from him and he spurred Peso sharply to a gallop, his eyes stinging and streaming. Up. He had to go up, had to get away from this flat, barren ground that wasn't and never would be home, had to climb away from this burned earth and toward the sky...

Needed to find a place so high that he could see Texas from it.

=======

Chris remained in the livery long after Vin had gone, unable to leave, unable to face either the prospect of a new day or watching folks going about their business, their lives, as if nothing had happened. Unable to face the knowledge that time and life were going on when, by all rights, both should have stopped and paid heed to the fact that one man was dead, another was dying inside, and he was responsible for both.

Didn't any of that deserve notice?

He sat back against the door of Peso's empty stall, his gaze riveted to the doors through which Vin had gone. He didn't know why he watched them; Vin wasn't coming back. Not anytime soon, anyway. Maybe not ever-

No.

His mind slammed shut against that thought the moment it arose. Vin was gone, yes, but he wasn't gone. That would require planning, preparation, thought, and God knew all those things were far beyond Vin's capabilities at the moment.

Hell, he hadn't even known he didn't have his rifle.

Cold fear gripped Larabee at that memory. He'd known the events of the past few days had deeply shaken Vin, but he'd never realized they'd left the tracker too lost to look after himself. Tanner had always had the strongest, sharpest survival instincts of anyone he'd ever known. But now, like so much else, they simply lay in shattered ruins in the dust.

One more casualty of Larabee's gun.

But, goddamn it, he hadn't had a choice! A harsh, wrenching groan tore from him as his soul twisted in agony. Jesus, he could still see that knife slashing toward Vin, deadly in its intent. And he could still feel the hideous, sick terror that had gripped him as he'd faced the very real possibility of seeing one more person he cared about snatched from him by death. And he couldn't have borne that, couldn't have borne having to bury Vin as he'd buried Sarah and Adam.

But could he bear being the killer of Vin's hopes and dreams?

He stared at the doors through which Vin had gone. Through which Vin had walked. Alive. Eli Joe was dead, but Vin was alive.

Oh, hell, yeah. He could bear anything, anything, so long as Vin was alive.

=======

By late afternoon he was safely on Eagle Butte, perched high amid the rocky crags that towered over and about him like some ancient stone fortress. Below him, the ground reached and rolled into brown infinity, distant and no longer threatening. Above him, the sky stretched like a vast blue canopy, empty, open and inviting.

Yet still he huddled in the protection of the rocks, desperately in need of their strength and solidness when he had none of his own. And, to his own shame, afraid. Afraid to leave these shadows, afraid to step into the light, afraid that, as in his dream, the brightness and beauty of the day and the lure of the sky would be too much and he would give in to his powerful need to soar.

And afraid that, in trying to fly, he'd only fall.

Lord God, when had this fear become such a part of him? When had he learned to shun the light and seek the shadows and slink close to the earth when such had always been so alien to his nature? When had he allowed the sure knowledge of who and what he was to slip so far from him that he feared he'd never get it back? When had he, so skilled a tracker, so completely lost sight of the trail he'd once followed with such certainty?

Maybe when he'd crossed that fine line that separated the hunter from the hunted? Or maybe when he'd allowed those who hunted him to strip him of all that had ever guided and grounded him in his life.

He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out the beaded buckskin pouch he kept there. The bag Chanu had given him he still wore around his neck, tucked under his shirt, a treasured gift, but not true medicine. The true medicine he kept hidden away, secreted from all eyes but his own; not even Chris knew about it. He closed long fingers tightly about the pouch and clutched it to his heart, bowing his head in reverence.

Or maybe in regret.

Long moments passed, and he breathed deeply, slowly, trying to still himself, trying to clear his muddied mind. He hadn't eaten since yesterday morning, just before Yates had hauled him away for his hanging, and hadn't slept since before the false marshall had cornered him at his wagon. He was hungry and exhausted, and he ached deeply from the beating at the jail and his fight across the rooftops. Yet he knew with instinctive certainty that neither food nor sleep nor a ceasing of the pain would restore all that he'd lost.

He just wasn't sure that his medicine, his true medicine, would either.

Nonetheless, he opened the pouch and gently shook its contents into one hand, gazing down at them with a longing that hurt far deeper than the injuries done to his body. Time was, their power, their puha, would have gone straight through him, filling all the empty spaces, lighting all the dark places, bringing peace and purpose to his questioning mind. Now, though, they were as empty as he, their power drained by his shameful disregard of it.

Too long. Too long he'd gone without drawing from this power, too long he'd gone without remembering who and what he truly was. And too far he'd wandered from the path that once had seemed so clear.

Far away. Oh, Lord, how had he gotten so far away from himself?

He stared down at the objects in his hand, trying desperately to feel the tug of their puha at his soul. A feather from a hawk's wing, a token of his ability - and his need - to fly free, to soar high above the tangled pathways of the earth and seek his own true, straight way. A hawk's beak and talon, signs that he was, and was always to be, the hunter, swift, instinctive and sure, yet ever mindful that the hunt was a means of survival, never to be undertaken for lesser reasons. Dark, dry grains of dirt, taken from the graves of his parents and grandfather so that he would always remember the land from which he'd sprung, and the lives of those whose bodies had gone back to the earth, a powerful reminder that when he stood upon that ground he did not stand alone, but stood with all those who'd gone before. Their flesh and their blood were part of him, and part of the ground in which they rested, and so joined him to that earth, as well. It was a circle; a sacred circle.

And he'd broken it.

Tears filled his eyes and fell into his hand, wetting the dry dirt there. He'd always gone back to that place, those graves, had always knelt by them with one hand on his heart and the other sunk into the earth, feeling the power of that joining within him. Long after the farm had been lost to him, taken back by bankers who'd never lifted one finger to work it yet claimed it as theirs, he'd gone back and gone back to those graves. No matter how far away he wandered, no matter how long away he spent, the power and the pull of that land had throbbed steady and strong within him, eventually calling him back that he might always remember how deeply entwined they were.

This time, though, he'd been too long away, gone too far away. He'd let himself forget the faces and voices of his loved ones, the feel and smell of the earth where they rested. He'd lost all that, and lost himself along with it.

He'd stopped hunting for survival, taken it up for money, and had in turn become the hunted. Then he'd had to run, and in his constant running had forgotten how to fly. And in running, he'd gone too far from the land that had formed him to go back, couldn't go back lest he be caught...

And hanged...

Oh, God, Lord God, how had he ever gotten so far away from where he needed to be?

=======

Chris spurred Pony toward Eagle Butte, startled - and appalled - by the ease with which he picked up and followed Vin's trail. The tracker seemed to have made absolutely no effort to cover his tracks, as if it never occurred to him that someone might come after him.

Or as if he just didn't care...

Chris shook off that thought with an effort, refusing to believe that Vin would purposely court death. No matter how badly he was hurting, no matter how deeply he despaired, it just wasn't in Tanner's nature to give up. He'd spent too much of his life fighting, and by now the instinct to go on fighting was so deeply ingrained in him that he wouldn't know how to stop if he wanted to.

And Chris desperately hoped he didn't want to now.

He shoved that thought away, too, and turned his mind instead to trying to figure out what he would say to Vin when he joined him. He knew Tanner wasn't expecting him to come, likely didn't want him to come. Vin wasn't thinking just now, was simply reacting, and, wild and solitary creature that he was, his first reaction when hurt or confused was always to go off on his own and hide from the world that seemed so intent on doing him harm while he tried to find the strength once more to fight. But Chris figured he'd already spent enough, too much, of his life hurting alone, fighting alone. And it wasn't in his nature to allow that to go on any longer. Somewhere in the fights and the silences and the times of simply being that they'd shared, Vin Tanner, as relentless as water wearing away stone, had become part of Chris Larabee, who'd never wanted another living soul to creep into places already claimed by the dead. And Larabee had already lost enough of himself in this life to let one more part - maybe the better and most important part - go without a struggle.

Tanner probably didn't want him there right now, but that was too goddamn bad. Vin was gonna get him, and he'd just have to learn to live with it.

Shouldn't be too hard for a man who'd already learned how to live with so much else.

He sighed and spurred Pony to an even faster pace, seeing Eagle Butte looming in the distance above the desert floor. Wild, rugged, remote. Lonely. Like the man hiding up there now. Broken in so many places, weathered and worn by time and the elements, battered and scarred by cataclysmic upheavals in nature and the earth, yet still standing, still towering, stubbornly enduring all the destructive forces unleashed against it and maintaining a fierce, stark beauty...

God, was it any wonder Vin loved it so?

Yet there was one vast, deep difference between Vin and the butte. It stood alone, rising in majestic, defiant solitude from the land, absolute in its isolation. Maybe Vin had once been that way, maybe he thought of himself that way still, but he was wrong. He wasn't alone anymore, hadn't been alone since that day he'd looked across a dusty street and snared another's gaze with his own. Something in the two men had been joined at that moment, and could never be made separate again.

Vin might think he was as alone as that butte, but Chris Larabee was gonna show him just how badly mistaken he was.

=======

He sat cross-legged in the center of the small space he'd chosen, a hollow worn into the rugged rockface by centuries of wind and sand and water, not nearly deep or high enough to warrant being called a cave, but sufficient for his intent. With treacherously unsteady hands he carefully arranged the branches, bark and leaves he'd gathered into the makings of a small fire. Then he carefully dribbled water from his canteen over them, wetting them just enough that they'd smolder rather than burn outright. What he wanted was smoke, not fire.

Finally satisfied with his preparations, he went outside and stripped to the waist, removing even his hat, boots and socks, and laid his discarded garments on an outcropping of rocks. He took off his gunbelt, too, and set it upon his clothes, knowing it would be of no help to him here. Then, as ready as he would ever be, he slipped inside again and settled himself cross-legged on the ground by the small nest of nest of branches. He drew a slow, deep breath and gathered himself, not daring to think on how many sacred tenets of either of the two cultures he drifted between he was breaking here today.

It wasn't anything near a true sweat lodge, but, as someone who'd strayed so badly from his path, he wasn't sure he was entitled to more. Felt more than a little guilty at having allowed himself even this much, as if he were trespassing on ground he no longer held any claim to. Had forsaken all claim to. And it certainly wasn't a church, was far removed from, and likely even an insult to, those formal houses of worship that so many folks insisted were the only places where God could be found. He didn't think he had any right to seek comfort in any of them, either.

But, Lord, he needed help, needed some way to see where he'd gone so badly wrong, where he'd lost the path, and this was the surest way of seeing he'd ever known. So, not knowing what else to do, and having little enough hope that this would work, he reached out and picked up the lucifer he'd set out earlier, again seeing just how badly his hand shook. Unable to stop the prayers he'd learned at his mother's knee and in his times among the People from rising and mingling in his mind, but again not daring to give any of them voice, he struck the lucifer against a stone, watched it flare to life, and dropped it onto the bed of tinder. A small hiss sounded, the damp leaves and bark caught, and smoke rose in a pungent cloud. As it swirled about him and filled the hollow, he closed his eyes and leaned into it, using his hands to wave it more fully over himself.

Sage. The scent of cleansing, of healing. He breathed ever more deeply, taking it into himself and letting it fill his mind. He let all thought go, freed his mind to rise with and upon the smoke, cast it out upon the wind to seek what had been lost.

Lord, it had to be here somewhere!

He sat motionless, stilled inside and out, his long fingers curved loosely about the beaded medicine pouch cradled in his palm. He'd left the one Chanu had given him outside with his clothing so there would be no conflict, no confusion, so that whatever Spirit - if any - came to him would not be put off by the lingering presence of another. He'd had only one small sip of water and no food, had already seen to his bodily functions. He was empty now, empty and still, a vessel waiting to be filled.

Sage-scented smoke rolled over him in waves, entering his nose, his mouth, the pores of his skin, breathed in, breathed out, until it was his breath, carried to and through every part of him by his pulsing blood. He felt that pulse now, felt it in his head, his chest, his fingertips and toes, felt its steadiness and quiet power and timed his breathing to it. Then the smoke was heavier than he was, and he began to rise upon it, lifted his arms...

And began to fly.

He pushed himself aloft with a wild, harsh cry, pumping his wings furiously, straining to rise ever higher. Straining. Lord, since when did he have to strain to fly? But he had to now, and only gradually did he come to understand why.

Tired. God, he was so tired, his body heavy with it, aching from weariness and wounds. He needed strength, needed to heal, needed to go back to the place where he'd always found strength and healing before. With an effort, he wheeled in the sky and started toward the only place he'd ever known as home, picturing the fields of blue in his mind and remembering the scent and feel of the rich, dark earth.

Maybe that place was no longer his, but it would always be him.

As he flew, he heard voices whispering to him, calling to him, and felt his heart lurch in recognition. His mother's soft, sweet voice, before her final illness had stolen it from her, and his grandpa's deeper one, as dark and rich as the land he'd worked. Those voices stirred something in him, awakened remembrances he'd long since thought dead, and he joined his to them, loosing another cry.

He could see it then, the place he'd sought, the small, rough double log cabin with the dog-run between the two halves, its sagging porch and steeply-pitched roof, and the chimney of hand-made brick. No smoke came from the chimney, but he hadn't expected it to. Those who whispered to him were no longer in the house, but in the earth just beyond it. Seeing the graves beneath the sprawling live oak, he cried out again and flew toward them.

All at once, though, he was caught, snared, and his body jerked violently, then began plummeting toward the earth. As he fell, rope coiled about his neck and pulled, choking the breath and life from him. Panic erupted within him and he fought wildly against the noose, but only managed to pull it tighter.

He was falling, strangling, hanging...

He looked down in terror and saw a corpse tangled in the other end of the rope, hands clutching at it even in death. He struggled again and again to break free, but couldn't, and realized to his horror that he was being hanged by a dead man.

Shit, yeah, I understand what it means! he heard his own voice shouting. It means that bastard won!

He couldn't breathe, couldn't fly, was caught helplessly in the rope and falling ever faster to the earth. He heard his mother and grandfather calling to him, but he couldn't answer. Desperately he tried to flap his wings, but the feathers were heavy and stiff with blood - God, so much blood! - and simply wouldn't catch the air. Then the corpse began to laugh, and he knew that he had lost.

Despair rolled through him in black, crushing waves, and a wrenching sob broke from him. He didn't want to die, Lord God, he wanted to live, but he couldn't fight anymore. He was tired, too tired, and couldn't breathe, couldn't fight, couldn't fly. Couldn't do anything but fall. And hang. And die...

Hell, ya know me, Chris. I ain't afraid of dyin'. I jist don't wanta go out like that, strung up like some mangy dog.

I ain't gonna let that happen.

The dark, powerful shadow came streaking out of nowhere, uttering a savage scream and diving at him. Fresh terror assailed him and he fought to flee this newest threat, but there was no need. The larger bird was hurling itself not at him, but at the rope that bound him. Strong talons gripped it, a sharp beak snapped shut upon it, and suddenly he was free, the rope cut and the noose loosening enough for him to breathe.

Now frantic to escape, he pumped his wings and launched himself aloft, but was too weak and too tired to maintain the effort. Yet even as he started to falter, the larger bird turned and swept toward him, its powerful wings beating with ease and creating currents upon which he could glide. Then the dark form was above him, offering him refuge, and he hid himself in its shadow, suddenly feeling a safety and security he'd not known in far too long. Sheltered beneath those broad wings, floating on the drafts they created for him, he allowed himself to rest, and studied his protector.

An eagle. A sleek golden eagle, its dark body crowned by a head marked by blond feathers that glinted brightly in the sun, its broad chest bearing hailstone markings. Power that had nothing to do with strength radiated from the large bird, yet, for all its apparent menace, it was a power that promised only security, safety, to the exhausted, battered hawk seeking refuge beneath those great dark wings.

He recognized him then, the man he'd know in any guise, the soul as familiar to him as his own. Yet, as with so many other things of late, this knowledge came to him too late. Maybe, maybe if he hadn't spent so much strength fighting alone...

But he had, and no "maybes" could change that. Too exhausted now to hold them up, he simply let his wings drop, closing his eyes and never seeing the large, dark shape streaking after him as he plummeted toward the ground.

=======

"Vin!"

Larabee rushed forward, his heart in his throat, as he saw the figure lying motionless on the cave floor, much too near the fire for comfort. Ducking into the small, low-ceilinged space and throwing himself to his knees at Tanner's side, he snatched the unconscious man into his arms and held him close, terrified by his pallor.

"Jesus, Vin, don't do this to me!" he spat, clutching the younger man tightly and sweeping the tangled mass of sweat-damp hair off his ashen face with shaking fingers. "C'mon, Tanner, wake up! Goddamn it, Vin, wake up!"

Vin moaned softly, but did not awaken. Terrified, Chris shoved a hand to his throat and exhaled sharply in relief at the feel of his pulse. Faster than it should have been, but strong. His skin was cool, clammy with sweat, and Larabee swallowed hard past the knot that had formed in his throat.

Likely he was just exhausted. And probably hadn't eaten or had nearly enough to drink, either...

"Jesus, Tanner," he rasped, his voice strained and unsteady, "you're gonna be the death of me yet!"

He laid Vin back down gently onto the hard-packed ground and struggled to his feet, his legs still shaking, then kicked apart the fire, angrily stomping out its flames. When he was certain it no longer posed a threat to the unconscious tracker, he made his way outside to where he'd found Peso and left Pony. Off-loading and untacking his gelding quickly, he apologized for not taking the time to rub him down, then grabbed his bedroll. Muttering hoarsely, furiously, all the while, he stalked to another recess in the rockface where Tanner had stowed his gear and, noting that the spot was well shaded from the fierce afternoon sun by an over-hanging ledge, unfastened and spread the tracker's bedroll.

"Goddamn sage," he groused as he pulled aside the cut-down buffalo robe that was a standard part of Tanner's 'roll, still able to smell the heavy smoke that had filled the small cave. "It's no wonder you passed out!"

With that done, he went back to Vin and managed to get the unconscious man upright, half-dragging and half-carrying him to his blankets. Once there, he carefully lowered Vin down upon them and covered him with the buff robe, again noticing his terrible pallor and feeling another wrench of almost sickening fear at his gut.

God, what if he hadn't come after all?

He shook his head sharply to clear it, refusing to think along those lines. He was here, and that was all that mattered.

He went back to his gear, got his canteen and saddlebags, and returned to Vin. Settling himself once more beside him, he opened a saddlebag and dug in it for the strips of bandages Nathan always insisted they carry. Pulling out one, he wet it with water from the canteen and gently bathed Vin's face and throat.

"C'mon, pard," he urged quietly, "wake up. I need to know you're all right."

After several minutes, Vin's head began moving slowly against the blanket, and his eyelids flickered. A soft, breathless moan escaped him, and his right hand lifted slightly under the robe.

"That's it," Chris encouraged. "Come on, Tanner, lemme see your eyes."

Slowly, slowly, the eyelids pulled back, revealing two hazy slits of blue. Vin's head turned, the slits of blue found the face looming above him, and a slight frown pulled downward at the corners of his mouth. This time he managed to free his arm from the robe and lifted it, and immediately his hand was taken in a strong, warm grip that brought a faint sigh from him.

"Chris," he breathed, his eyes closing again.

"Oh, no, ya don't," Larabee snarled, squeezing hard at Vin's hand. "You come back here. Damn it, Tanner, look at me!"

Vin forced his eyes open and stared up in confusion, not understanding Chris's apparent anger; in fact, not understanding what the man was doing up here at all. "You followin' me?" he whispered.

"Yeah. And a damn good thing I did, too," Chris snapped. "Hell, Vin, ya passed out! What if you'd fallen in the fire? You could've-" His throat tightened abruptly, choking off the words, and he had to try again. "You could've been killed," he finished hoarsely.

Vin frowned more deeply still, trying to make his sluggish mind work, then sat up slowly. A sudden wave of vertigo hit him and he reeled dizzily, but was immediately steadied by two strong hands at his shoulders. Once again he was carefully lowered to the blankets and remembered the eagle in his dream appearing from out of nowhere.

I ain't gonna let that happen.

"Not likely," he sighed.

A puzzled frown knotted Larabee's brows and twisted his mouth at Tanner's words, and at the certainty behind them. "You're just damn lucky I came after ya," he growled.

Vin swallowed and shook his head weakly, then forced his eyes open. The normally bright depths were dulled by exhaustion. "Ain't luck," he murmured, his soft voice made even raspier than usual by weariness. "'S jist," he lifted his hand and waved it tiredly, "how it is."

"Yeah, well," Chris said shortly, "'how it is' is that you scared the shit outta me! Takin' off on your own when your mind's so clouded you didn't even know you didn't have your rifle, leavin' a trail a blind man could follow, and then hidin' yourself in a cave and breathin' in sage 'til ya passed out and damn near fell inta the fire. That's how it is, Vin, and if Yates hadn't already done it, I'd beat the shit outta you right now! What the hell were you thinkin'?"

Vin struggled to sit up, grimacing and groaning softly as he felt the heaviness of fatigue and the ache of that beating throughout his body. "Wasn't thinkin' too much of anything," he sighed. "Not real clear, anyways." He winced and bowed his head, running an unsteady hand through his tangled hair. "Reckon ol' Eli's got me twisted up somethin' good." He shook his head slowly. "Even dead, the bastard's still messin' up my life."

Chris looked away abruptly, his jaws clenching tightly, as a spasm of pain went through him. But, knowing his pain couldn't possibly be anything like Tanner's, he turned his eyes back to his friend and sighed. "I know ya don't wanta hear this," he said quietly, his green eyes dark with feeling, "but I'm sorry I had to kill him. Not sorry I did it, because I did it to save you, but I am sorry I had to. If there'd been any other way-"

"But there weren't," Vin said hoarsely. "Hell, Chris, I know that. It's jist..." He swallowed hard and looked away from Larabee, staring into the distance. "Y' know why I came up here?" he asked softly.

Chris could think of a number of reasons, but instinctively knew that none of them applied this time. "Tell me."

Vin sighed heavily and scooted around on the blanket until he was facing east. "Texas is thataway," he breathed, his blue eyes fixed intently on the horizon. "Figgered if I could jist find a place high enough, mebbe I could see it." Unbearable sorrow darkened his face and he abruptly bowed his head, closing his eyes tightly. "Likely it's the only way I'm gonna see it from now on," he whispered, his voice breaking.

"Shit," Chris breathed, only now starting to realize the true depth of Tanner's loss. Not just his name, but his home, the place where he'd been born and raised, the place that had shaped him into the man he was now. "God, Vin, I'm sorry."

"Ya keep sayin' that," Tanner said with mild irritation.

Larabee arched a golden brow. "I keep sayin' it because I mean it," he answered harshly.

Vin sighed and bowed his head, again feeling his weariness like a leaden weight within him. "Naw, that ain't... I mean... Aw, hell!" he rasped in frustration, rubbing a hand over his face. "Forget it."

"No." Chris moved to face Vin, positioning himself right in front of the tracker. "Talk to me, pard," he urged softly, determined to see this through. "I don't care how long it takes. I got nowhere else to be, and I ain't leavin' until I know what's goin' on inside that head of yours."

Vin didn't want to talk, but knew he didn't have a choice. Larabee was every bit as stubborn as he was and would sit here until hell froze if he had to. Once more, he ran a hand through his hair, searching his mind for the words that fit his feelings.

"I jist," he began haltingly, his voice thick and unsteady, "I jist don't know... how I got... so far away."

Chris waited for more, knowing patience was the first requirement for any conversation with Vin Tanner. But when it seemed no more was coming, he asked quietly, "Far away from where?"

Vin exhaled sharply and waved his hand in a gesture of helplessness. "From... from where... Hell, from where I'm s'posed ta be! I mean... shit... I'm a tracker!" he said suddenly, sharply, anger flaring within him. "So how the hell did I lose my own trail? I tried, Lord God, how I tried! But I cain't..." He turned his eyes back to the horizon and searched it intently, frowning and shaking his head in pain and confusion when no answer presented itself. "Why the hell cain't I find where I went so wrong?"

Chris tried to follow the disjointed words, but only grew more confused. He and Vin had always had an innate understanding of each other, but, at the moment, that understanding completely eluded him. "I don't get it," he finally admitted. "Vin," he leaned forward, trying to catch that wild, unsettled gaze, "look at me, pard, and talk to me." He reached out and laid a hand on Tanner's shoulder, gripping it with a steady, and steadying, pressure until that wide and wounded blue gaze turned slowly back toward him. "What makes you think you've gone wrong?"

Anger, blind and unreasoning, ripped through Vin in a hard, hot wave at that. He knocked Larabee's hand from his shoulder and shot to his feet in a single lithe motion. He walked away a few steps, then turned sharply and stared down at Chris through blue eyes glittering with fury. "How the hell can ya ask that?" he spat, his lean frame trembling from the force of his emotion. "Goddamn it, Larabee, I got men huntin' me fer money! I got a town waitin' ta string me up, got my face on wanted posters all over the fuckin' territory, I gotta slink like a scared dawg in 'n outta ever' goddamn town I go to and keep my eyes open ever' minute of ever' goddamn day, and you ask me what makes me think I gone wrong? Jesus fuckin' Christ, Chris, where the hell have I gone right?"

Chris stood up slowly, carefully, not wanting to startle Vin in his present mood. The tracker didn't have his mare's leg, but he still had his knife, and Larabee had seen him use it too often not to be wary of it. "First off," he said in a low, even voice, keeping his body and stance relaxed, "none of that is your fault. You're innocent-"

"I took in a dead man fer a bounty-"

"You didn't kill him-"

"But I might as well have!" Vin cried harshly, his pain running rampant through him. "Eli Joe killed him ta set me up, killed him jist ta get me off his trail. An innocent man is dead because a' me! Now tell me that ain't my fault!"

"That ain't your fault," Chris said obligingly, as calm as Vin was agitated. "You got no control over what others do. Eli Joe is... was... a murderin' bastard who killed just for the sport of killin'." Steady green eyes bored into Tanner's frantic blue ones. "You wanta take responsibility for Jess Kincaid? Fine. Are you also gonna take responsibility for all the folks Eli killed after he set you up and got you off his trail? Because if you're guilty of one, you're guilty of all. If he hadn't set you up, if he hadn't killed Kincaid, if you had caught him and taken him in, they might all still be alive." He stared unwaveringly at Tanner, watching the tracker flinch as each word landed on him like a blow. "Do you really wanta take all that blood onto your soul?"

Vin stared at him in shocked disbelief, then, his exhaustion again winning out, sank slowly back to the ground, crossing his legs and burying his face in his hands. "Lord, no," he whispered miserably, his whole body bowed in pain. "Reckon I got enough there as it is."

Chris went to him and sat down across from him again, his knees just inches from Vin's. "What does that mean?" he asked, determined to lance the wound festering inside his friend and release the poison. "What blood have you got on your soul?"

Vin exhaled unsteadily and lifted his head, raising a pale face heavenward. "Lord, what blood ain't I got on my soul?" he groaned in torment. "I turned ta killin' fer money, Chris. I always been good at huntin' and trackin', but I never... I only used ta do it ta stay alive, or ta help folks... But then th' Army an' the railroads... they was offerin' good money fer buff meat, and, Lord, I was tired of bein' hungry! Part a' me knew why they wanted the buffs dead, what it'd do ta the tribes... But another part said there's so many that it couldn't do no real harm... Only... only..." His voice broke and a tear rolled down his cheek. "Only there ain't so many no more," he whispered. "And the tribes are givin' up their freedom and goin' on reservations 'cause they're hungry..." He wiped at the tear impatiently and scowled bitterly at Chris. "But I reckon that's all right, ain't it?" he snarled. "I mean, so long as I ain't hungry no more, then don't nothin' else matter!"

Chris tried to think of an answer, but couldn't. He had no idea what it was like to be so hungry that he had to weigh a people's survival against his own, had no idea what it was like to know such hardship that slaughtering buffalo seemed like an attractive alternative. And, God, to be as young as Vin had to have been then and be forced to make such choices...

There couldn't possibly be anyone in the world who had an answer for that.

"Then, when I saw how thin the herds was gettin'," Vin went on, refusing to spare himself any pain, "I turned ta huntin' men. Fer money. Didn't know whether they was guilty or innocent, didn't care. Weren't none a' my concern. All's I knew was there was a poster on 'em and money waitin' fer me when I took 'em back. Buffs are big, but they're stupid," he said calmly, staring at Chris through eyes dull with regret and exhaustion. "Ain't no real challenge huntin' 'em, 'cept not bein' killed by Indians. If ya want a hunt that's got some challenge to it, ya oughtta try huntin' men. Ain't no creature trickier or more dangerous when he's cornered." His eyes narrowed to slits, and his lips pulled back from his teeth in a wolfish snarl. "But I've always been real good at what I do."

Chris shivered at the tone that had crept into Vin's voice - soft, but infinitely deadly - and found it difficult to reconcile the cold-blooded hunter with the tired and hurting young man before him. And he wondered yet again how he could truly know so little about a man he seemed to know better than himself, and care so little about not knowing.

"Reckon mebbe that's where I went wrong," Vin sighed, wiping a hand over his eyes and then running it through his hair. "Huntin' and killin' fer money... Reckon it was only a matter of time b'fore the Spirits turned it back on me. Man I was huntin' set the hunters on me. Fine line 'tween hunter and hunted, 'n I done stepped across it."

"You didn't step," Chris countered quietly. "You were pushed. By a piece of trash only lookin' to save his own miserable skin." He sighed heavily and shrugged helplessly. "I can't tell ya that what you've done is right or wrong, Vin," he breathed. "Hell, I got a hard enough time tryin' to balance my own scales without takin' on yours as well. I'm no preacher, and I for damn sure ain't God. I got no right to judge you. But I will tell ya this." He raised his gaze to Vin's and searched it intently. "We've all got our ghosts," he said softly. "We've all got sins and regrets on our souls. I'm not sure you can get through this life without 'em. But havin' 'em on your soul doesn't mean you have to let 'em become a stone around your neck. You don't deserve what's happenin' to you, Vin!" he said firmly. "You don't deserve bein' wanted, you don't deserve bein' hunted, and you sure as hell don't deserve bein' hanged. And I promise you, pard, I promise you, I will never let that happen!"

"I don't want ya doin' nothin' stupid, Larabee!" he protested hoarsely, knowing the man's words were not empty promises. "I ain't worth it-"

"You don't think goin' up against a cemetery full of drunk and blood-thirsty cowboys ta save a man you don't even know from hangin' wasn't stupid?" Chris asked coldly. "How about tryin' ta defend an Indian village with more women and kids than guns against a Confederate regiment and a cannon for a whole five dollars? Or how about signin' on ta protect a town you got no ties to when you'd be better off goin' back ta Texas ta clear your name? You think that ain't stupid?" he demanded, his voice rising with every charge. "You don't want me ta do anything stupid, Tanner? Fine. I'll stop when you do!"

Vin got to his feet again and walked away, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He stopped several yards from Chris and stood with his back to the man, his head bowed, his shoulders slumping. It's not the same! he wanted to protest, and in his heart he was certain it wasn't.

But he was equally certain that Larabee wouldn't agree.

Chris stared at the silent, dejected tracker, and ached for him. The livid bruises from the beating at the jail were vividly apparent across Tanner's naked shoulders and back, even worse than the ones that marred his chest and stomach. And scattered among the bruises were countless scars - some recent, but most long gone white with age - that attested to the hard life the man had known. He knew that those scars, some of them from wounds that had to have been almost deadly serious, also attested to Tanner's toughness and incredible will to survive. Just now, though, all he saw was a young man exhausted, battered, stripped of everything he'd ever held dear, including hope, vulnerable and lost as he'd never thought Vin Tanner could be.

Again the words I'm sorry rose to his tongue, but this time he bit them back, hating how completely inadequate they were. And suspecting that if he said them one more time, Vin might actually kill him.

Still, Larabee didn't have to say the words for Tanner to hear them. "Ain't yer fault," he rasped tiredly, never turning around, never raising his head. "Hell, I reckon it's a damn wonder somebody didn't kill that bastard long b'fore you did. 'Sides, ain't like there was ever any guarantee he'da told the truth even if we'da found a way ta cart his sorry ass back ta Tascosa." He shrugged heavily. "Ain't like there was ever a guarantee they'da b'lieved him if he did. Likely they wouldn'ta held off hangin' me long enough ta listen."

Chris winced deeply and bowed his head, knowing that, in his mind, Vin was already resigning himself to what had happened, was already finding a way to convince himself it was done and didn't matter. Larabee didn't know which hurt him more - the fact that Tanner had to do this, or the fact that he clearly had so much experience doing it.

Just how much of himself had the man had to let go over the years simply to survive?

"I ain't thanked ya yet," Vin said in that same flat voice.

Chris's head jerked up as the words startled him. "Thanked me?" he repeated in bewilderment. "For what?"

Vin raised his head and turned slowly back to face him. "Fer what ya done."

Chris stared at him as if he'd lost his mind. "I killed the one man who could clear you-"

"Not that," Vin rasped, waving a hand in dismissal. "Yates." He saw that Chris still didn't quite understand and tried to force his tired mind to put thoughts together. "When... when he took me, an'... Ya didn't know, but ya come anyways..." The magnitude of it defeated him then, and he heaved a weary sigh and shrugged. "Thanks."

Again Chris found himself picking through Tanner's words and trying to puzzle out their meaning. Goddamn Texan was gonna make a tracker of him yet! After several moments though, understanding dawned and he shot a look of mingled horror and anger at his friend.

"Shit, Vin, you didn't think I was just gonna let him ride off with you without doin' anything, did you?" he asked sharply. "Weren't you listenin' in the jail when I said I wasn't gonna let you hang? Didn't you believe me?"

"I's listenin'," Vin said quietly.

"But?"

Vin sighed again and bowed his head in frustration, wishing Chris would just let this go and knowing that he wouldn't. Folks accused him of bein' stubborn, but that goddamn gunfighter could give lessons in it! He grimaced and scrubbed a hand over his face, wondering just when the hell Chris Larabee had gotten so damn talkative.

"Well?" Chris prompted, determined to drag this out one word at a time if he had to.

Vin lifted his head and scowled at Larabee. "I's listenin'," he said again, his voice hard and rough. "'N I heard ya. But I've heard words like that a time 'r two before, heard folks tellin' me they wasn't gonna let this 'r that happen ta me... 'N damn if it ain't been a blame lie ever' time! So I reckon I jist figgered..." His voice lost its heat and began to waver as those green eyes bored into him. "Seems I kinda come t' expect... Why the hell should you be any differ'nt?' he demanded hoarsely, stalking angrily toward the seated gunman, his blue eyes filled with confusion. "Fer all you knew, Yates was a federal marshall! Why the hell would ya take him on fer the likes a' me?"

A thousand answers sprang immediately to Chris's mind. Instead, in a low, calm voice, he asked a single question. "Wouldn't you do it for me?"

Vin stopped abruptly and reeled as if he'd been hit, or shot, and gaped dazedly at Chris. Then a wild, almost hysterical laugh tore from him. "Hell, yeah! But I got nothin' ta lose!" He thumped his naked chest with a shaking hand. "I'm already wanted, remember? What would they do ta me? Hang me?" The laugh ended on a choked sob and he dropped to the ground, crossing his legs tightly and burying his face in his hands.

Chris watched the younger man through compassionate eyes for long moments, wondering how they'd all missed seeing for so long just how deep Vin's anguish at what had been done to him, taken from him, ran. Then he began to speak. "For all I knew," he said quietly, evenly, "Yates was a federal marshall. But he was a federal marshall takin' you away ta hang for somethin' you didn't do, and there was no way I was gonna let that happen. Because I did have somethin' ta lose. And I'd be goddamned if I was gonna lose it."

"You'da hanged, too-"

"I kinda hoped ta stop it before it got that far. Look at me," Chris directed quietly. "C'mon, Vin, look at me." He waited until the shaggy head rose and the hands dropped away from Tanner's face, waited for the bleary blue eyes to focus on his. "I wasn't lyin' in the jail. I'da gone all the way ta Tascosa if I had to. And the only way they'da gotten you to the gallows was through me."

Vin only stared at him, was incapable of anything more. He had no words for a statement like that, couldn't even begin to answer it. The pledge Chris had made - and, knowing Larabee, he knew it was nothing less - was completely outside the realm of his experience. He'd had folks say they didn't want to see him hang, had folks say they hoped it never happened, but he'd never once had anyone pledge to make sure it didn't, and offer their own lives as surety.

Chris saw the wonder creeping into Tanner's shocked face and hated everyone who'd ever had any part in convincing him that no one considered his life worth such a risk. Such a promise. How in the hell did a man get through life thinking, believing, there was no one, no one, who would stand with him? Hell, who would stand for him?

Vin continued to stare at Chris in numb and silent amazement. He remembered JD rushing into the street, rifle in hand, ready to gun down Yates and whoever else to set him free, remembered the hard rush of sick horror that had swamped him at the sight. But even as he'd been appalled, and touched, by the kid's foolhardiness, he'd also known that the rest of the boys would step in and pull JD out of harm's way, not wanting to see their youngest get himself killed for him. For nothing.

Or so he'd thought...

"They knew, didn't they?" he whispered, frowning thoughtfully at Chris as the truth slowly pulled itself together in his exhausted mind. "The boys... they knew... you was comin' after me... 'At's why they didn't do nothin'."

Chris wasn't exactly sure what Vin meant, but answered anyway. "We had a plan, yeah. We figured Yates would spot us easy if we all came tearin' after ya." One corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile. "As Ezra pointed out, subtlety ain't exactly our forte." That won a weak smile from Vin, and Chris was deeply relieved to see it. "We figured it'd be easier, and less obvious, for one man - me - ta trail ya, make sure he treated ya right. Then," he shrugged, "if it looked like I was gonna need help, I was s'posed ta stop somewhere and send a wire callin' in the cavalry."

"JD coulda got killed 'cause a' me," Vin breathed, frowning again.

"No," Chris countered, "JD coulda got killed because of the way he feels about ya. Because he didn't wanta see a friend of his taken away and hanged for a crime he didn't commit. Because he figured maybe you were worth fightin' for. Maybe even worth dyin' for."

"Glad Josiah stopped him," Vin sighed, lifting tired eyes to the sky. "I couldn'ta stood it if he'da died." He shivered hard. "Couldn'ta stood havin' his blood on my soul, too."

"Wouldn'ta been on yours, Vin," Chris said in a low, gentle voice. "Woulda been on Yates's, and on Eli Joe's. Just like Jess Kincaid's." He saw Vin shiver again and knew the events of the past few days were quickly taking their toll; the man was holding on by a thread. "You need ta get dressed, pard. If you get sick on my watch, Nathan'll have my hide."

"'M all right-"

"Yeah, you look it. C'mon," he rose to his feet, then held a hand down for Tanner, "you get dressed, then we'll see if we can't scare up somethin' to eat and let you get some rest." He eyed his friend's pale and haggard appearance. "I don't reckon you've had enough of either lately."

Vin looked quizzically at the hand held out toward him, as if not certain at first what he was supposed to do with it. Then, prompted more by instinct than by understanding, he simply reached up and closed his long fingers about Larabee's forearm, feeling an unexpected - and much needed - sense of comfort when Chris's hand wrapped about his arm.

Strange how little he'd ever cared for another's touch before, yet how much he needed it now...

Chris pulled Vin to his feet, then held and steadied him when he reeled. Only when he was sure the tracker would not fall did he release him. "You go sit down on your bedroll," he ordered, his firm voice allowing for no argument. "I'll bring your clothes to ya, then see to the horses."

"Watch that Peso don't bite," Vin warned absently, shuffling toward his bedding as if he were an old man, never noticing the hand that hovered only inches from his elbow.

"You hear a shot, you'll know he tried," Chris answered, smoothly taking Vin's arm when he stumbled, supporting him for a couple of steps and then releasing him, never breaking stride himself, as if keeping Tanner on his feet were the most natural thing in the world.

Which, he suddenly realized, it was.

Once at the bedroll, Vin sank down upon it without so much as a grumble of protest, which worried Chris no end. But, saying nothing, he walked over to the rocks where Tanner had left his boots, clothes and gun and cast a side glance into the small cave where he'd found the man unconscious, scowling deeply and shaking his head as he gathered up the clothing.

Damn fool Texan...

When he returned to Vin, the tracker had his knees pulled up to his chest and his head resting on the arms he'd folded atop them. Tanner's hair spilled down in a disordered, uncombed mess, and his lean frame shook as if from an icy chill. Larabee sighed.

All right. He'd get a fire going and then see to the horses.

"Vin?" he called quietly, kneeling before Tanner and setting his boots and gunbelt down beside him. He held out the tracker's shirts and jacket to him, but got no response. "C'mon, pard, get dressed," he urged gently. "You'll feel a lot warmer."

Vin raised his head slowly and studied the items held before him as if he'd never seen them before, blinking owlishly. Then recognition dawned and he reached out, taking his clothes with noticeably unsteady hands.

Chris watched for long moments, almost able to see him puzzling out what he was supposed to do with the garments and feeling a sharp twinge of anger that Tanner had ridden out of town with his brain so near shutting down. Goddamn it, what if a bounty hunter had found him here instead of a friend? Or any one of the outlaws who haunted this country?

Why the hell couldn't the man just stop runnin' and rest?

He stayed and watched long enough to see Vin draw the faded, dirty undershirt over his head and get his arms through the sleeves, then turned on his heel and walked away as Tanner began pulling on his tan and brown striped shirt.

At least he'd had the sense to wear clothes that would let him fade into his surroundings...

As he scrabbled over the rocks and through the brush gathering firewood, he managed to startle a covey of quail from their cover. Lightning reflexes kicked in and he dropped what wood he'd collected, drawing his gun and downing three of the birds with one shot each. Supper was taken care of. He holstered his gun, picked up the wood, retrieved the quail and returned to Vin, feeling immensely better for having killed something.

"Better not've shot m' horse," Vin drawled.

"Not yet," Chris assured him. "But I'm sure his time's comin'." He searched the ground for a suitable spot downwind from Tanner and squatted, setting the dead birds aside and laying the wood for the fire. No sense having the man breathe in any more smoke than he already had. "Supper's gonna be plain, but I figure it's all you're up for."

Vin screwed up his mouth and nose and shook his head. "Don't matter none. Ain't hungry."

"Don't matter none. You're eatin'." There was no give at all in Larabee's voice. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a lucifer, struck it on a nearby rock and dropped it onto the small pile of tinder he'd laid. The blaze caught, and he fed a few small, dry twigs into it until flames began licking through the nest of larger sticks he'd arranged over the tinder. He nodded in grim satisfaction as the smoke blew exactly where he'd wanted it to.

It was nice that some things worked out...

He stayed a bit longer with the fire and nursed it carefully, adding just the right sizes of wood at the right time. There were few things that irritated him more than having to build a fire twice. When he was satisfied with it, he glanced down at the birds, then over at the horses and back to the birds, trying to decide where to start. The horses needed care, but he still had to build a spit for the quail...

"You g'on, see t' the horses," Vin said quietly. "I ain't quite up ta wrasslin' Peso, but I reckon I c'n take on a few dead birds without too much trouble."

Chris sighed heavily and scowled, not at all sure he liked the thought of Tanner handling a knife in his present state. The boys wouldn't be at all pleased if he brought Vin back missing a hand. Of course, they wouldn't be real happy if he brought him back with Peso's hoofprints all over his insides, either.

They definitely had to teach the man to stop runnin'.

"Just remember," he finally said, "Nathan ain't here and it's all I can do ta sew on a button. So whatever ya cut off stays off, ya got that?"

Vin stared at him, too tired even to scowl. "I's dressin' game b'fore I wore britches," he said in a flat, gravelly voice. "I c'n use a knife in m' sleep."

"Good," Chris grunted, rising to his feet, "because I figure that's exactly what you'll be doin'." He cast a last appraising look over Vin, liking neither his pallor nor the unsteadiness of his hands, and liking even less the air of loss, and of being lost, that hung about him. Hurting deeply for his friend, and frustrated by his own inability to help him, he shook his head and walked away without saying another word.

It was gonna be a long damn night.

PART 2

Chris had been right; supper was plain. Just the quail, a few of the hardtack biscuits Tanner always seemed to have in his saddlebags and coffee dosed with the whiskey Larabee always seemed to have in his. But, realizing the man was simply in no state to handle much liquor, Chris gave Vin's coffee only a light dosing and braced himself for the tracker's outraged protest. Instead, Vin never even seemed to notice, which troubled Larabee no end.

Hell, he never would've thought he'd miss Tanner's prickly temper!

But Vin registered only the presence of the whiskey, not the amount, and figured he knew why Chris had given it to him; likely it was for the same reason the man was determined to see him eat. Hell, likely it was for the same reason he'd come chasin' up here after him in the first place. Larabee felt bad about what had happened in general and what he'd done in particular, and was just tryin' to make amends.

And that would've been fine, except that no amount of liquored-up coffee or fresh-killed game could fix this.

He sighed heavily and set down his battered tin plate, unable to eat any more. He stared at the remaining portion of his quail for long, long moments, as if willing it to disappear on its own, then slowly lifted his head and fixed hollow eyes on the man seated across the small fire from him.

"Y'ain't gotta stay, y'know," he breathed, his voice a listless, lifeless rasp.

Chris pulled a portion of meat away from the bone, stuck it in his mouth and licked the juices from his thumb and forefinger, then arched a brow at the tracker. "Oh?"

Vin glanced up at the sky, gauged the position of the sun with experienced eyes, then looked back at the gunman. "Got a few hours a' daylight left yet," he pointed out. "Ya start now, likely you'll make it down 'fore dark. Gonna be a full moon tonight, give ya plenty a' light fer headin' back ta town."

Chris pulled another piece of meat loose, slid it into his mouth and chewed slowly, then swallowed. "You gonna tell me why I'm in such a hurry ta leave?"

Vin exhaled tiredly and shook his head, wondering why the man had to be so difficult. Or more difficult than usual. "Look around," he said at last, sweeping out an arm to take in their surroundings. "Ain't nothin' but rocks 'n dirt here, an' the ground's real hard. Ain't no cloud cover neither. Once the sun goes down, temperature's gonna drop like a rock. Could get mighty uncomfortable."

Chris cocked a brow at the tracker. "There some reason you're confusin' me with Ezra?"

Vin sighed sharply and scowled, shaking his head harder. "Damn it, Larabee," he spat harshly, "I'm jist tryin'-"

"I know what you're doin'," Chris interrupted calmly, his supper forgotten. "You're just tryin' ta give me a reason ta leave. Or an excuse. But," he shrugged negligently, "I'm not lookin' for one, so you can stop. I'm not leavin' here until you do."

Vin's scowl deepened as resentment twinged through him. "Don't need ya holdin' my hand," he protested in a low, hard voice. "I can take care a' m'self."

"Yeah." Chris swept appraising eyes slowly over the younger man, taking in the gray tinge of exhaustion in his face, the defeated slump of his shoulders and the meal he'd barely touched. Right now, Tanner looked as if it were all he could do to sit up. "I can see that."

But what Vin lacked just now in strength he made up for in sheer stubborn pride and managed somehow to sit up straighter and lift his chin with a weary defiance. "I'll be all right," he said harshly. "I been takin' care a' m'self fer a long time now."

"Yeah, ya have," Chris agreed easily. "But, see, here's the thing - you don't have ta take care of yourself anymore. Not when ya got others standin' by ta do it for ya when ya need it. Or at least ta help ya do it." His gaze softened and his voice gentled. "You're not alone anymore, Vin. And it's no sin or no crime ta let others help ya carry a load you been staggerin' under alone for too long."

Tears abruptly stung Tanner's eyes and he bowed his head to hide them, and the damning testimony they gave to his addled state, from his friend. "Don't matter none," he whispered, the words falling from him by long, tired habit. "Cain't nobody help me with this. Ain't no help fer this. It jist... is."

Chris wanted desperately to argue that point, but didn't see how he could. How could this be fixed? Vin hadn't just been accused of murder, he'd already been condemned for it, and the man who'd set him up for that fall, the only man who could prove it was a lie, was dead.

He'd seen to that himself.

"Ain't yer fault," Vin said tiredly, flatly, seeing the shadow darkening Larabee's face and knowing at once what thoughts it heralded. "Gotta quit whippin' yerself. What's done is done an' cain't be changed. What happened up on that roof..." He shrugged and sighed, then again ran his hand through his hair. "Hell, I reckon it was meant ta happen. Ya couldn'ta stopped it. Likely this was all set a long time ago, long b'fore I ever met ya. Back when I first stepped off the trail."

Chris frowned in confusion, still trying to understand what "trail" Vin had stepped off, and still failing. He knew if he couldn't come to some understanding, he'd never be able to help Tanner through this.

Whatever the hell "this" was.

"You're gonna have to help me out here, pard," he finally admitted. "I ain't a tracker and I ain't ever been much at readin' trails. I wanta understand what you're talkin' about, but right now it makes about as much sense ta me as one of Josiah's stories."

Vin sighed wearily and closed his eyes, not at all certain he could explain what he meant. It wasn't something he'd ever put into words, wasn't even something he'd put into thought. It was simply a truth that existed so deeply inside himself that it had become a part of him. It was bred into his bone, knitted into his sinews, was in every drop of blood that coursed through him and in every breath he took.

Hell, he might as well try to explain himself.

And if it had been anyone else sitting across from him he wouldn't have tried. But it was Chris Larabee sitting there, watching him, waiting; the man who'd never once asked more from him than he was prepared or able to give, the man who'd accepted him for exactly who and what he was from the first without ever asking for either an explanation or apology, the man who'd trusted him in a heartbeat when so many others had never even made the effort. They'd backed each other so many times, pulled each other's asses out of so many fires, shed blood and shared whiskey and sometimes, so many times, just simply sat and enjoyed the silence of a perfect understanding between two very imperfect men. Lord God, if anybody deserved an explanation it was Chris Larabee.

Vin just wasn't at all sure he could give him one.

But those green eyes were holding steady upon him and Chris was still waiting, patient as the man only ever seemed to be with him. Vin sighed again and scrubbed his hands over his face, then opened his eyes and raised his head, licking his lips as he tried to find words for what he'd lost. And how he'd lost it.

He was as surprised as Chris when the words came.

"I still dream about home, y'know?" His voice was soft, hoarse, his blue eyes wide and dark. He still sat slumped, his legs crossed, his forearms on his thighs, his hands dangling limp and still between them. "'S always the same when I do. I can see the cabin where I's born an' the big ol' live oak out behind it. That tree was made fer climbin', 'n I reckon I started tryin' 'bout as soon as I could walk. Whenever Ma or Gran'pa needed ta hunt me up fer somethin', they always knew ta start lookin' in that tree. They's both buried under it, along with my pa." A look of almost childlike wistfulness, of soul-deep longing, crossed his ashen, dirt-streaked face, and he swallowed hard against the painful knot growing in his throat. "I used ta go back there 'n visit 'em ever' chance I got. I'd kneel at their graves, put my hand in the dirt, and know that we was all one again. But I cain't go back now. Cain't ever go back again. I ain't seen a bluebonnet since I don't know when. I ain't knelt at my mama's grave... I'm losin' 'em, Chris," he rasped in torment, his eyes filled with unspeakable pain. "I done let myself get too far away."

Chris set his plate aside and reached for the whiskey, pouring himself another drink. He had no intention of getting drunk, knew Vin needed him far too much for that, but only wanted something to fortify himself. Yet even as he sipped, he felt a sharp pang of guilt.

Tanner was bleeding from countless unseen wounds, and he was the one seeking relief from the pain.

"Last time I seen the place," Vin went on, his gaze turned eastward but fixed on something only he could see, "it looked the way I always loved it best. Field out back that stretched on forever was covered in wildflowers. Lotsa paintbrush an' tickseed ever'where, others of ever' color you could imagine. Mostly though it was bluebonnets, stretchin' out like the sea itself, bendin' an' blowin' an' whisperin' in the breeze... Lord God, fer as far as I could see it was a livin', breathin' field of blue, almost exactly the color of my mama's eyes 'n the purtiest damn thing I ever seen." His voice broke and a tear slid down his cheek. He closed his eyes tightly and clenched his jaws, then bowed his head and shook it slowly as he fought for his composure.

Chris couldn't help himself. He had no idea how Vin would react, didn't even stop to think about it. Instead, he grabbed his cup and the bottle, rose to his feet and walked around the fire to Tanner's bedroll, then folded his long, lean frame onto the blankets at the younger man's side.

He'd told Vin he wasn't alone. This seemed as good a time as any to prove it.

He set his cup down and reached for Vin's, pouring more whiskey into it. This time, he didn't bother adding coffee. "Here," he said gently, holding out the cup. "Take this, but drink slow. I don't want you passin' out again."

Vin lifted his head and opened his eyes, staring at the offered cup. Only after long moments did he seem to realize what it was, then he took it with an unsteady hand. "Y'ever seen a field a' bluebonnets, Chris?" he asked.

Larabee shook his head slowly. "Don't think so. Not that I remember anyway."

Vin smiled slightly. "If you'd ever seen it, you'd remember. I mean, even jist growin' here an' there in clumps they're purty. But, Lord, when ya see a whole field of 'em it'll take yer breath away. So blue they're almost purple, with these little white caps... When the wind blows through a field of 'em, them white caps dance an' shine like waves breakin' on the ocean."

"You've seen the ocean?" Chris asked, strangely surprised by that fact. He suddenly realized how closely he'd come to associate Tanner with this land, with the deserts and mountains the man seemed to love so, and had simply never imagined him in any other setting.

Which he knew was ridiculous because Vin wasn't from here.

"Yeah, I been ta the Texas coast a couple'a times," Vin breathed. "It's a sight ta see, too! Makes ya feel awful small standin' there 'n lookin' out over all that water 'n knowin' y'ain't seein' but the bare beginnin' of it." He shrugged slightly, then sipped again from his whiskey. "I don't know," he said thoughtfully when he'd swallowed. "I reckon ever'body oughtta stand by the ocean at least once. Seems ta me it's important ta know there's bigger things in this world than us." He nodded once. "Kinda puts us in our place."

Chris chuckled in wry amusement. Only Tanner would take comfort in knowing there were things out there bigger than he was, forces out there stronger than he was. The man had a truly unique way of looking at the world and fitting himself into it.

"Reckon that's the problem," Vin sighed softly, staring down into his whiskey as he swirled it around in his cup. "I done lost sight of my place."

Chris squinted and chewed his lower lip, still grappling with Tanner's convoluted thoughts. He'd always known the seemingly uncomplicated tracker was a much deeper thinker than most folks gave him credit for, but, damn, he'd never realized that Vin was just a younger version of Josiah.

And Larabee was starting to wish he'd brought the preacher along.

"Thought your place was here, with us," he said slowly after a few moments.

"Naw, that ain't it," Vin breathed. Then, seeing the shock - and the hurt - that flooded his friend's face, he cursed his own lack of ability with words and added quickly, "I mean, that ain't what I meant. I... Hell," he exhaled sharply in frustration, setting his cup down beside one knee and again running his hands over his face. "This ain't comin' out at all like it should!"

"Just talk to me, Vin," Chris urged gently. "Just tell me what's goin' on and we'll figure it out together."

"Could be more'n ya bargained fer," Vin warned, studying the gunman warily. "Still ain't too late fer ya ta ride outta here, y'know."

Chris smiled slightly at him, meeting that uncertain blue gaze steadily. "Yeah, it is," he said softly. "It's been too late for that for a long time now."

Vin exhaled unsteadily, and was surprised to recognize the feeling rising through him as relief. Hell, it wasn't as if he'd been hoping Chris would say that! He was used to folks not sticking around, especially when leaving would be easier; he expected it of them. As he'd said before, he'd been taking care of himself for a long time now, and mostly because there'd never been anyone else around to do it. It had always been that way and he'd just accepted that it would always be that way. Had never imagined it would or even could be any other way. He just wasn't that big a fool.

Or hadn't been, until now.

"I appreciate that more'n ya know," he breathed, feeling something hard and painful unknot within him. "Got so used ta seein' the backside of folks as they rode away, I reckon I jist come t' expect it."

Chris gave him a slight, wry smile. "Yeah, well, I ain't ever been real good at doin' what's expected of me. Figured you'd know that by now."

Vin winced and looked away, stung by those words. This was, after all, the man who'd come after him when they'd all thought Yates was a real federal marshall. What in the hell had made him think Larabee would leave now?

"Reckon I ain't thinkin' real straight. Hell," he sighed tiredly, bowing his head and running a hand through his hair, "reckon I ain't been thinkin' straight fer a while now. Been twisted up fer so long..." He lifted his head and stared into the distance, squinting as if to make out something there. "Always used ta be able ta see things clear, y'know?" he drawled softly. "Was always real sure of where I's goin', what I's s'posed ta do when I got there, never got lost along the way." He swallowed hard. "Could always see the trail so plain..." He dropped his head again and closed his eyes, aching at the thought of all he'd lost. "Then I lost it," he whispered hoarsely, "'n I ain't sure I'll ever git it back."

Chris studied his friend for long, long moments, still not at all sure what the younger man meant but hurting for him nonetheless. Of them all, Vin had always seemed the surest of himself, seemed to have found his peace and his place when the rest of them were still searching for theirs. Chris had often envied that certainty, had often leaned upon it when his own was in ruins. It had never once occurred to him that it might be every bit as fragile as his own.

Or that Vin might be just as lost as the rest of them.

He dragged his gaze from Tanner and fixed it on the distant horizon, narrowing his eyes in thought. "I know this fella," he said quietly. "Tracker. Hell, probably the best tracker I've ever seen. Man could follow a flea through a sandstorm. Sees things ever'body else misses. Most amazin' damn thing I've ever seen. Man's a two-legged bloodhound."

Vin raised his head and opened his eyes, turning them on Larabee and staring at the man in bewildered attention. Chris wasn't like so many others who talked just to hear their own voices, didn't use fancy words like Ezra, didn't tell complicated stories like Josiah. When the man had something to say, he just said it. And it usually paid to listen.

Chris reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a packet of cheroots and a small box of lucifers. He drew out a cigar and put it between his lips, then replaced the pack. Next he drew out a lucifer and struck it, lighting the cigar with one hand while putting the box back into his pocket with the other. All the while Vin watched him, noting the sure and effortless ease with which the gunman's hands worked.

Lord, how he wished he could take some of that sureness and ease into himself right now...

Larabee puffed on the cheroot until the end glowed red, then shook out the lucifer and tossed it into the fire. He took a long drag, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs, then exhaled slowly, releasing it in a long stream. This was an old habit, a personal ritual used for gathering his thoughts. He knew it often irritated others, made them impatient. But he'd known two people in his life who understood it and would wait for however long he made them. One slept in the ground now; the other sat beside him.

And would still be sitting there when the rocks around him turned to dust.

Chris exhaled another cloud of smoke, squinting into the distance. "One thing I've learned from this tracker fella," he said at last, his words as unhurried as his previous movements had been, "is that when ya lose a trail, best way ta find it again is ta go back ta where ya lost it and look over the ground again. See what ya missed that first time." He puffed on the cheroot and nodded slightly. "Seen him do it often enough ta know it works."

"'At's jist it, though," Vin breathed. "I don't know where I lost it. Seems like I jist woke up one mornin' 'n it was gone. 'N I been lost ever since."

"You think goin' back ta Texas would help ya find it?" Chris asked softly, afraid that Tanner was considering that very thing.

Vin sighed and rose slowly, tiredly to his feet, walking away from the fire with heavy steps. When he stopped, he turned his back to Chris and stood like a man braced against some unspeakable pain, his shoulders hunched and tight, his arms folded protectively across his middle, his feet set wide as if to keep him from falling. His whole body was rigid, but he held his head high in defiance of that pain as he stared into the east.

Toward Texas.

"Cain't go back," he rasped brokenly, the whole weight and depth of his suffering in his rough voice. "Cain't ever go back home again."

Chris bowed his head with a groan as the pain in those words tore through him. God, why hadn't any of them seen this before? They'd all assumed that Vin drifted because he was free to, and had never once realized it was because he'd been ripped away from his roots.

"I'm sorry, pard," he said softly, raising his head with an effort. "I never thought about that. Never thought a place would mean so much ta you."

"Ain't jist a 'place,'" Vin sighed, still staring toward the east. "It's more'n that. It's somethin' inside me, somethin'... Hell, I don't know," he groaned, turning away abruptly, unable any longer to stand the pain of looking at something, for something, he knew he'd never have again. "Ain't sure I can put words ta what I feel-"

"Try," Chris urged gently. "There's no hurry. I got nowhere else ta be."

Vin stared at him for long moments more, reading the truth of those words in the gunman's green eyes. Chris Larabee, who wasn't normally a man to wait when there was something he wanted, was prepared to wait until the mountains themselves fell down for this. For him. The realization sent tendrils of warmth and gratitude curling through him.

Then his mouth twisted into a grimace and he looked away as guilt stung him. Yates and what was left of Eli Joe's bunch were still back in the jail and, with him and Chris both gone, the others would be stretched thin between watching the prisoners and the town. Larabee had knowingly left them shorthanded to see to him...

"Boys'll wonder where ya are," he said softly. "Wonder why y'ain't where ya should be-"

"I doubt that," Chris said with a small smile, remembering Buck waving to him and Josiah lifting his hand in something very like a benediction as he'd raced out of town. "They know I'm exactly where I should be."

Vin looked sharply back at Larabee, startled by the words. The past few days had brought so many revelations to him, given him glimpses of so many truths he'd never realized until his last and most desperate hope had been snatched from him that he still couldn't take it all in. For not a single moment of the past few days had he been alone, whether in that jail cell, in Eli Joe's clutches or chasing after the bastard. Even when he'd not known it, someone had always been watching over him, working to free him...

He remembered Chris sitting so calmly on the other side of the bars as he'd paced that hated cell and felt like he might explode at any moment; thought of Mary burning up every telegraph wire between here and Texas in a frantic search for someone, anyone, to take his side; again saw JD stepping into that street, armed with a rifle and his unyielding sense of right; and felt again his shock as he'd stepped outside the hardware store and found six men ready to put aside their lives and concerns to scour every inch of God's earth until they'd found ol' Eli and dragged him back to set things right...

Lord God, when had this happened? How had this happened? He'd gone most of his life without ever having anything he could really put his hands to, had precious little he could show for his years spent on this earth. And Lord knew he hadn't mattered to anybody in so long he'd forgotten what it was like. He'd gotten used to slipping around and among folks like a shadow, never more than something they glimpsed from the corner of their eyes, making no impression when he arrived, leaving no hole when he left. Leaving no tracks upon the earth for anyone to follow.

Not even himself.

Now, though...

He looked again at Chris and knew all that had changed. Larabee had come up here after him, had followed him... because he'd left tracks to follow. Tracks in the earth...

And tracks in Larabee's life. And in the lives of the others. Tracks deep enough to lead JD out into that street, tracks deep enough to draw Ezra out of the ruins of his own shattered dream in an effort to keep a friend's last hope from falling into similar ruin. Tracks deep enough to lead them all to his side...

God, Lord God, when had he stopped bein' a ghost and become someone that mattered so much to so many?

Chris sat and watched in silence as Tanner moved slowly back to the fire and folded himself stiffly once more onto his blankets, the pain from Yates's beating chasing across his face and sounding in the muffled groan that escaped him as he settled. Anger at what all had been done to Vin again flared within him but he tamped it back and willed himself to remain relaxed. Saying nothing, he sipped from his whiskey and puffed on his cheroot, content to let the younger man puzzle out in his own time whatever was stirring around inside his head. Something had spurred the tracker's mind into a gallop, Larabee could see it in the darkening of the wide blue eyes now fixed so sharply upon him. It was the same look Tanner got when he suddenly found a trail that had eluded him before.

Maybe this time he'd finally picked up his own trail.

Vin stared long and hard at Chris, watched the man replace the cigar between his lips after a drink from his cup, and was suddenly thrown back in time. All at once, he was stepping out again onto a boardwalk with a borrowed rifle in his hand, unable any longer to stomach the thought of letting an innocent man hang without firing so much as a shot in his defense. He wouldn't abandon another to the horror that haunted his own dreams. Yet even as he decided that he'd be acting alone, and would likely die for it, he looked up and across that street and was startled - hell, staggered - by the gaze fixed so intently on him, a gaze as piercing as any bullet and that seemed to sear straight through to the deepest part of himself. Those eyes looked at him, into him, took his measure in one instant and drew him out of the shadows and into the sun in the next. He'd grown so used to folks looking past him, around him, over him, that he'd forgotten what it was like to have somebody look at him...

And see him...

He'd stepped out into that street wanting to know exactly what the stranger had seen. Now, after all this time, he still wasn't rightly sure what those penetrating green eyes had uncovered in him, but reason told him it had to be something right and true. Else Chris wouldn't have stayed by his side after they'd gotten Nathan free. Wouldn't have risked taking on a U.S. marshall for him. Wouldn't have killed the man who was his last chance at clearing his name...

Unless he believed, truly believed, that, good name or no, Vin Tanner was worth far more alive than dead and would risk everything to keep him that way. Unless what Chris had seen in him across that street so long ago and every day since made him believe that.

Vin frowned and stared harder at the silent gunman, brows drawn tightly together. Now more than ever he had to know...

"Jist what is it ya see when ya look at me?" he asked softly, the question pulled from him by his need.

Once again, Chris was startled by words that seemed to come from nowhere and that he'd never expected to hear from this man. Vin had never given a plug nickel for what others thought of him. He was who he was and goddamn the rest of the world.

Except...

Chris looked closer at the young man staring so intently at him, saw uncertainty and confusion in eyes where those things so rarely shone, and sighed heavily and shook his head slowly as understanding dawned. Hell, just now Vin didn't know who he was, had lost that sense along with everything else that had been torn from him lately. And the man who'd never needed anybody for anything suddenly needed Larabee to help him get it back.

All at once Chris wished he'd had time to put a second bullet into Eli Joe.

He tossed the remnant of his cigar into the fire, then raised his cup to his lips and drained the rest of his whiskey in a single swallow. All the while, he felt the weight of those bewildered blue eyes upon him and wondered what in the hell he'd ever done to make Vin think he could give him what he needed.

He really wished he'd brought Josiah!

"What I see," he began at last, his voice quiet, his steady gaze locked with Vin's, "is a man who's tired, who's hurtin', who's had ta fight more battles than he should and who's lost more than his fair share of 'em. Lost more than his fair share of everything. Hell," he breathed, seeing the lines of exhaustion and pain etched so deeply into the tracker's haggard face, "I see a man who should be young but who's already older than sometimes I think I'll ever be."

"Feel old," Vin sighed, dropping his gaze and bowing his head. "Feel older'n the hills. And tired... Lord God, I cain't remember the last time I felt this tired! I ache inside from it."

"I know," Chris murmured, his own gaze drifting to the distant horizon. "You've had so much taken from ya, and you've been workin' so hard, fightin' so hard, to hold on ta what's left. Been runnin' so long ya forgot what it's like ta rest..." He grimaced deeply and shook his head slowly. "It's a helluva life."

"It's the only one I got, though," Vin rasped, the words coming with a weary resignation that hurt Chris to hear. "Thought I'd made m' peace with it..." He winced and swallowed hard against the aching knot in his throat and shook his head slowly. "Reckon I ain't, though," he whispered roughly, closing his eyes. "Musta lost it somewheres along the way, too."

"Or maybe havin' Eli Joe so close again just reminded you of what all you've lost," Chris suggested quietly, knowing only too well how it felt to have such wounds re-opened. "What all he took from ya." He hesitated a few moments, not really wanting to give voice to his thoughts, but knowing he owed them to Vin. If he was gonna keep prodding Tanner to open up, then he'd have to do some of that himself. "I know... when Blackfox surfaced..." The words caught in his throat and he had to clear it, had to brace himself for the pain that would come with them. Damn, maybe he understood Vin better than he'd thought... "I knew I couldn't get... them... back..." He clenched his jaws hard and stared up at the sky with stinging eyes.

"'S all right, Chris," Vin breathed as he saw the pain again sweeping through the man. "Y'ain't gotta do this." Not quite sure of himself, he reached out and laid a tentative hand on his friend's tight shoulder. "I think I know what yer tryin' ta say. Blackfox brought it all back. Even got yer hopes up that mebbe ya'd finally find out what happened. Then Fowler tore 'em all apart again."

"Yeah," Chris whispered hoarsely, bowing his head and closing his eyes tightly.

Vin nodded once and dropped his hand. "Jist goes ta show," he said in a tired, flat tone, "hope's a dangerous thing. Ain't worth the trouble it causes."

"No!" Chris countered sharply, lifting his head abruptly and shooting a fiery gaze at Vin. "No, that's not what I'm sayin'! Jesus, Vin-" He stared hard at the startled tracker, seeing plainly the confusion written in his face, and exhaled heavily, desperately wishing Josiah were here. The man was so much better at this than he was!

But Josiah wasn't here. And Vin was depending on him.

Shit.

He bowed his head and raked a hand through his hair. He had to be so careful here! Vin simply wasn't up to seeing things with his usual clarity, was exhausted and hurting and had sunk as far into despair as Chris had ever seen him. He was hanging by a frail and fraying thread, and one wrong word from the man he trusted above all others would snap that thread completely.

Maybe he wasn't good at this. But for Vin's sake, he'd have to get good.

He returned his gaze to Tanner's, stared intently into those faded, bewildered blue eyes and said in a low, firm voice, "I still have hope, Vin. Fowler didn't take that away from me. I still have hope that one day, one day, I'll find out exactly what happened to Sarah and Adam and why. I have to," he declared in a voice harsh and thick with emotion; with conviction. "I swore on their graves that I would, and I will not let the likes of Cletus Fowler make a liar of me to my family!"

"But-"

"And you," he went on ruthlessly, brushing aside Vin's weak interruption as if it didn't exist, "cannot let the likes of Eli Joe make a liar outta you to your ma and grandpa!"

Vin stiffened and gasped as if he'd been hit, his eyes widening, his face going paler still. "What-"

"Tell me," Chris nearly spat, leaning forward abruptly and catching Vin's arm in a hard grip, his green eyes aflame with certainty, "tell me you didn't stand over their graves and swear to make this right! Tell me you didn't do that!"

Vin's mouth opened as if he'd deny it, but the words didn't come. Couldn't come, because they would've been a lie. He'd done that very thing...

"H... how did ya... know that?" he stammered weakly.

Chris sighed and released Vin, his intensity fading, his face gentling. "Because I know you, Tanner," he said softly. "I know what that name means to you. Hell," he breathed, watching the countless emotions flooding those unguarded, almost childlike eyes, "it's just about all of them you have left. I just can't see you leavin' Texas without promisin' them that you'd undo the damage done to the name they left in your hands."

A single tear slid down Vin's pale and dirty cheek as he stared at Chris. "I n... I never meant no harm ta come to it," he rasped brokenly. "I swear-"

"I know," Chris assured him, again reaching out to take his arm, but this time much more gently. "And they know. None of this is your fault, Vin!" he insisted quietly. "You didn't do anything!"

"Then how come... how come I feel... like I let 'em down?"

Chris exhaled slowly and squeezed his friend's arm lightly. "For the same reason I feel like I let Sarah and Adam down," he said softly. "Because we can't always see everything as it's happening, because we can't always know what our decisions will lead to. I decided to spend one more night in Mexico with Buck. You decided to go after Eli Joe. They seemed like easy choices at the time, not all that important. But we just... never know."

"So what do I do now?" Vin whispered, certain there had to be more behind all that had happened than one single, unimportant choice.

Chris shrugged and let his hand fall. "The same thing any of the rest of us do," he said quietly. "You go on. One step at a time, one day at a time. Fix what you can and leave the rest."

"But how do I fix this?" Vin asked roughly, eyes pleading for an answer.

Chris had none to give him. "I don't know," he admitted sadly. "I don't know that we can." He saw Vin's whole body sag and again reached out to take his arm before he fell forward. "Listen to me," he ordered with a quiet urgency, staring at Tanner until the exhausted blue eyes slewed slowly around to him. "I can't promise that we'll ever get your name cleared. But I can promise that we'll never stop trying. And we will never, ever, let anyone take you back to Texas, you hear me? We will not let you hang!"

Vin wanted to refuse that offer, that promise, knew he probably should. If true lawmen ever did come for him, there'd be nothing that anyone could do to stop them, short of getting themselves either killed or in a whole heap of trouble. And he sure as hell didn't want that for any of these men; not on his behalf.

He should make Chris take back that promise, should tell him how crazy it was, how stupid...

Except that he couldn't, because he'd never heard anything that had ever meant more to him in his life.

"Reckon mebbe I'll stop dreamin' about it now?" he breathed, sagging heavily in Larabee's firm grip, his words slurring as exhaustion washed through him.

"What?" Chris asked, moving closer to Vin and pulling the man more securely against him. Jesus, why didn't Tanner just let go and pass out?

But sheer cussed stubbornness had kept Vin alive more than once, and it kept him now from sinking into the sleep his exhausted body so craved. The man had ever been dogged when on a trail, and he seemed determined to follow this one to its very end.

"That damn rope," he whispered unsteadily, shuddering hard as he felt its weight dropping around his neck once more, its rough fibers scratching against his skin. "Been hauntin' me fer so long, like a damn shadow I cain't get out from under..." He shuddered again and absently raised a hand to his throat, even now able to feel it drawing tight. "Sometimes I swear I c'n jist see it from the corner of my eye, hangin' there, waitin' fer me-"

"It's not gonna get ya, Vin," Chris assured him, his voice soft but determined. "Not while I've got breath in my body."

Once again Vin was tempted to argue, and raised his head to do so. Then his vision swam, shifted, and for a few dizzy moments he saw before him not Chris Larabee, but the fierce golden eagle from his dreams. Lightning flashed in the glittering eyes and thunder seemed to rumble from the hailstone markings on the dark breast. The power of a desert summer storm swept over him, searing against his skin, but then great, dark wings opened above him, offering shelter and safety from the storm.

I ain't gonna let that happen.

Vin groaned and slumped into that shelter, the last vestige of his stubborn strength deserting him. The dark wings closed immediately about him, catching him, but in the instant before unconsciousness claimed him he felt not sharp eagle talons lowering him against his blankets, but the gentle hands of a friend.

He sank without struggle into the darkness under the watchful gaze of lightning-bright eyes. And this time, no shadow of the noose came to haunt his dreams.

=======

He drifted slowly upward through the darkness, not yet ready to leave the safe embrace of sleep but unable to resist the tug of wakefulness at his mind and body. The bright glare of sunlight was too intrusive, the aroma of coffee too insistent. He tried clutching sleep more closely about him, but, like grains of sand, the harder he closed his hands around it, the more quickly it slipped through his fingers.

But wakefulness did not necessarily bring awareness with it, and a confusion of memories and sensations twisted and knotted in his sleep-fogged mind. Pain. It thrummed through him now, steady and insistent, seeming to center at his back and radiating outward. He shifted slightly beneath his blankets and had to bite back the groan that rose from deep within him. With the hard wrench at his muscles came a flash of memory... the jail... Yates... a fight...

Then Eli Joe's leering face loomed before him, an evil grin twisting at the man's lips, and panic surged hot and heavy through him as a rope dropped about his neck.

Let's do this.

"NO!" The harsh cry tore from him as he sat up abruptly and clawed frantically at his throat. "Ya cain't-"

"Vin!"

Strong hands gripped his arms, held them firmly, but he fought against them. Fear raged within him, the rope drew tight, cut off his breath, and his racing heart threatened to explode through his chest. He cried out again and struggled wildly against the arms imprisoning him as cold terror raked through his soul. "No, don't! Eli, no!"

"Ssh, Vin, it's all right, it's all right!"

Powerful arms snaked around him but no harm came to him, and a familiar voice poured out a litany of reassurances to him. He went rigid and ceased his struggles, a wild creature caught in a snare, but still no hurt befell him.

"It's all right, Vin," the voice soothed, low and gentle. "You're safe now. I promise, pard, you're safe!"

Safe. The word went through him with an unexpected warmth and force, tearing a ragged gasp from him. He shuddered hard and then slumped heavily into the arms restraining him. Protecting him. Sheltering him from harm.

Chris.

"Yeah, Vin, it's me," Larabee sighed in relief as his name issued from the tracker in a breathless whisper. "I gotcha, pard. It's all right. You're safe now. I gotcha."

Vin dropped his head onto a broad shoulder and shuddered again. "Eli," he gasped. "He..." He swallowed hard as memory returned in full. A body hit the ground and he flinched. "He's dead," he breathed, "ain't he?"

Chris winced and lifted his gaze to they sky. "Yeah."

Vin swallowed again, then slowly lifted his head from Chris's shoulder. His face was pale and lined with exhaustion, his eyes rimmed by circles as dark as bruises. "Then I reckon he cain't do me no more harm."

Chris jerked his gaze back to Vin's; that wasn't at all what he'd expected. "What?"

Vin pulled slowly away from Chris and crossed his legs, then ran a shaking hand through his hair, his fingers snagging on the tangles. "He never woulda stopped huntin' me," he rasped. "He was too scared... Weren't enough, settin' me up fer murder. He wouldn'ta stopped 'til I was dead at his feet."

Chris frowned, not quite understanding. "Vin-"

"'S all right, Chris," Vin assured him, blue eyes filled with the first, faint glimmer of a peace that had been completely lacking yesterday. "Ya done what ya had ta. Ain't what either of us wanted, but..." He shrugged one shoulder resignedly. "I reckon we both know we cain't always have what we want."

Chris stared at Vin, studied him, and saw that he was not just saying the words, but actually believed them. "If there had been any other way-"

"I know that," Vin interrupted softly. "I do. But ol' Eli weren't a feller ta leave a man any choices. He was like a rabid dawg. Only way ta save yerself is ta put him down." His mouth twisted in a grimace and he hung his head. "I's jist foolin' m'self ta think any differ'nt. Even if we'da took him alive, we'da never got him back ta Texas that way. And we sure as hell wouldn'ta got him ta tell the truth. Bastard woulda gone t' his grave spoutin' lies." He shrugged again. "'S all he knew."

Chris sat back and exhaled slowly, watching Vin intently. The tracker was still exhausted, still in pain, but at least he didn't look as lost as he had yesterday. Or as defeated.

"So what now?" he asked carefully.

Vin gave a soft chuff of laughter and shook his head. "Hell if I know!" He looked at Chris and his wry smile faded, replaced by a thoughtful frown. "But I reckon I'll have help figgerin' that out now, won't I?"

Chris's mouth twitched and humor glinted in his eyes. "More than you'll probably want," he quipped.

But Vin shook his head. "Don't think so," he murmured. "Fact is, I... I reckon I need all the help I c'n get with this." He swallowed hard and ducked his head to hide the emotion crowding so close to the surface. "I been alone a long time," he said softly, almost inaudibly. "Hell, prob'ly too long. Done forgot..." His throat closed abruptly and his voice broke. He closed his eyes tightly and took several moments to compose himself, then lifted his head with an effort and fixed dark, uncertain blue eyes on Larabee's face. "I'm sorry I run out like I done. I jist... I couldn't..." Words failed him and he dropped his gaze to his blankets. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "Reckon I wasn't thinkin' too clear."

Chris nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Vin. "It's all right," he said quietly. "Kinda hard ta think straight when your life gets torn ta pieces."

"Yeah," Vin breathed with weary resignation. "But ya think I'd be used ta that by now." The aroma that had awakened him was growing steadily stronger and he raised his head, licking his lips. "Reckon I could get some coffee? Figure it oughtta cut through the mud in my head."

Chris chuckled quietly. "I'll take that as a compliment." He arched a brow. "You got any ideas for breakfast?"

"Should be some beans in one a' my saddlebags," Vin said. "Likely some jerky an' mebbe more biscuits, too. I try ta keep 'em stocked." At Larabee's questioning look, he gave a wry smile and explained, "'Tween huntin' bounties an' then bein' one, I've kinda learnt ta keep m' bags packed. Never know when I'll have ta light outta somewheres in a hurry." He shrugged. "Might's well have food when I go."

Chris's stomach clenched at those words, at their flat matter-of-factness. He'd always known that Vin could be ready for a sudden ride faster than any of them. He'd just never imagined it was because the man was constantly prepared for his own immediate getaway. He rose to his feet and moved to the fire, poured two cups of coffee and brought them back to the tracker's blankets. As he handed one cup to Vin, he couldn't help but wonder why the man wasn't crazy by now.

His own loss three years ago had damn near killed him. How the hell had Tanner survived a lifetime of that?

Vin cradled the cup in his hands but didn't drink from it yet, content just to feel its warmth. As Chris settled himself at the foot of the blankets, he glanced at the man and said softly, "Ain't thanked ya fer yesterday."

Chris frowned thoughtfully. "Didn't do anything ta be thanked for."

A faint smile pulled at one corner of Vin's mouth as he stared down into his coffee. "Yeah, ya did. More'n ya know." He looked up then and glanced about their rocky surroundings. "Ain't many folks who'da come all the way up here after me."

"Yeah, well," Chris snorted, "when you're feelin' better, believe me, we're gonna have a talk about where you choose ta go ta ground."

"Ya didn't have ta come," Vin insisted softly, seriously.

Chris sighed. "Yeah, I did. There wasn't any way I was gonna let you go chasin' all over creation in the shape you were in." He directed a sharp gaze to his friend. "And it wasn't like you didn't leave a trail a blind man could've followed."

Vin grimaced at the rebuke in Larabee's voice. "Reckon I weren't in the best shape," he rasped. "But I jist..." He lifted his gaze back to Chris, figuring Larabee was the one man who surely could understand. "Bastard'd took everything from me, y'know? Jist like he had a right ta do it. But..." He cocked his head to one side and stared uncertainly at Larabee. "Ain't nobody got that right, do they?"

"No, Vin," Chris said softly, saddened that the man should have to ask such a question, "nobody's got the right ta do that. Not ta you, not ta me, not ta anybody."

Vin nodded and swallowed, dropping his gaze once more to his coffee. "Didn't think so. Didn't seem right. But," he sighed tiredly, "there's been s' many who's done it..." He shrugged. "Reckon I's startin' ta feel like folks jist had a natural right ta whatever piece a' me they wanted." He gave a soft, humorless laugh. "Not that there's a whole lot left ta take anymore."

Chris studied the young man before him intently, remembered the many times Tanner had stood with him when it would have been so much easier, and so much smarter, to leave, how many times the tracker had set aside his own wants and needs for the sake of a town whose folk had scorned him more than once. He remembered Orin Travis once asking him what he believed in, remembered so many times he'd asked it of himself. But as far as he knew, no one had ever had to ask that of Vin.

"Oh," he mused at last, "I think there's more left than you know." He lifted a blond brow and gave Vin a slight smile. "I wouldn't come chasin' up these damn rocks for somebody I didn't consider worth the effort. Or the price of the new shoes I'm gonna have ta buy Pony."

Vin heard the concern, the friendship, behind the teasing and his eyes warmed. "Well," he breathed, "reckon I'll spring fer the shoes. I owe ya that much at least."

Chris's teasing manner faded and he shook his head. "Don't owe me a thing, Vin," he said quietly. "I don't believe in countin' costs when it comes ta helpin' a friend."

Vin's eyes widened as Larabee's words struck true. He'd gotten so used to thinking of himself as "a bounty," a man whose worth had been precisely calculated down to the last dollar, that he'd forgotten how to think any other way; forgotten that others could think any other way. Had forgotten that others might not attach a price to him at all.

Strange, how much that meant...

As Vin raised the cup to his mouth and drank from it, Chris watched him carefully, noting the subtle but still visible shaking of his hands and the pronounced list of his body to one side. Tanner's back was a chronic source of discomfort to him; the beating he'd suffered couldn't have done it any good at all.

"You gonna be up ta headin' back ta town today?" he asked, half-hoping the tracker would say no. He knew the others were worried and would want to see Vin as soon as possible, but figured Tanner needed rest more than they needed reassurance.

Vin sipped from his coffee and considered Larabee's question, plagued by a deep uncertainty. Not about his ability to make the trip back; hell, he'd ridden further in much worse shape than this. What ate at him was the thought of the townfolk, of what they might think, what they might say, what he might see written in their eyes. Before all this, he'd suspected that a few of them might know he was wanted. Now... Hell, now there couldn't possibly be anybody who didn't know the truth.

Or at least Eli Joe's twisted version of the truth...

He looked around at the camp Chris had made, sorely tempted to stay. He was safe here, he knew that. More important, he was comfortable here. With the sky above him, the good, solid earth beneath him and the sun and light breeze chasing the shadows from his mind and soul, he was perfectly at home. He knew this butte as few others did, knew all the hidden ways up and down its formidable height, knew where caves honey-combed into its depths, knew even where water could be found. Hell, he could stay here forever...

And hide...

Except that he was goddamned sick and tired of hiding.

"I wanta go on back," he rasped, fixing his tired and pleading gaze on Larabee's startled face. "Mebbe rest up fer a while first, eat somethin', but..." He sighed heavily then, a sound of utter exhaustion wrung from his soul. "I jist wanta go home."

=======

Chris watched Vin without seeming to as the tracker disposed of the remains of their breakfast, which had included a rabbit Larabee had snared. Tanner had eaten, more than the few bites he'd choked down last night but still not nearly enough to ease the worry niggling at the gunman's anxious mind. He'd also cleaned up some, using water from a canteen and one of his ever-present bandannas to wash at least the top layer of grime from his face and upper body, had changed clothes and even managed to drag a comb through the snarled mop of his hair.

At least he'd look like a more presentable version of death warmed over...

But fresh clothes couldn't conceal the damage done to the body beneath, not when the tracker's movements held none of their customary fluid, flowing ease but were slow, stiff and painful just to watch. Chris found himself gritting his teeth each time Vin had to bend, felt himself straining with the man each time Tanner struggled back to his feet. The tracker made no sound, but Chris knew how he had to feel; he'd had more than a few run-ins with rifle butts himself, knew how deeply they could bruise. He also knew that unless something were done, there'd be no way in hell that Vin could make the ride down from the butte. The treacherous trail would be difficult enough for even the most skilled rider at the best of times; but for a man who could barely bring himself to move...

They really needed to talk about Tanner's penchant for rocky perches.

Vin returned to his blankets and went slowly to his knees, pain creasing his face deeply as he did. That look sealed it for Chris. Praying that just this once the stubborn tracker would cooperate, he rose from the boulder on which he'd been sitting and started toward his friend.

"Leave it," he called quietly as Tanner started rolling up his bedding.

Vin looked up and frowned in confusion at the approaching gunman. "Need ta get this stuff all t'gether an' packed," he said. "Sooner we leave here, sooner we'll be back in town."

"Ain't leavin' just yet," Chris countered, reaching Vin and dropping down to squat before him. "Gotta get you taken care of first. Gonna need that liniment you carry in there," he said, jerking his chin toward Tanner's saddlebags.

Vin narrowed his eyes slightly, a guarded look coming over his face. "Ain't nothin' wrong with me," he said quietly.

Chris regarded the tracker with a knowing patience. He'd expected this, would've been shocked if Vin had admitted to hurting. "You been walkin' around like an old man with rheumatism," he pointed out evenly. "You're not gonna be doin' yourself any favors ridin' down from here so stiff and sore ya can't sit a horse right. And you for damn sure won't be doin' Peso any."

Vin dropped his gaze from Chris's as the man's words struck home. Truth was he'd been dreading the ride down. His back ached like a sonuvabitch, and just the thought of all the ways he'd have to move to keep Peso under control and properly balanced sent sent fresh twinges of pain through him. If he didn't need to keep his head clear, he would've asked Larabee for some of his whiskey.

Surrendering to the inevitable, he ducked his head and nodded. "Reckon yer right," he finally allowed, his soft voice just reaching Larabee's ears. "But, damn, I hate it!"

Chris knew how hard it was, how very nearly impossible it was, for Vin to admit to needing help, how it scoured against the tracker's ingrained sense of self-sufficiency. And how, just now, it must make the man feel more vulnerable, more stripped of everything.

Another piece of him taken away...

He smiled sympathetically and reached out to clasp the tracker's shoulder in a firm grip. "I know. And I'm sorry. But if we don't do this now-"

"I know," Vin sighed. He lifted resigned eyes back to Larabee and gave a small, forced smile. "Hell, ain't no tellin' what mischief Peso'll get inta on the way down," he joked, knowing the mountain-bred gelding could be trusted to behave himself perfectly on such a trail. "Think he's pissed at me 'cause I didn't bring him no apple pieces."

Chris chuckled and shook his head. "Yeah, he was lookin' awful sulky when I watered him and Pony."

Vin frowned sharply. "Didn't bite ya, did he?"

Chris arched a brow coolly. "Didn't hear a gunshot, did ya?"

Vin scowled deeply in disgust. "Goddamn uppity gunfighter," he grumbled. "Thinks he's got the right ta go 'round shootin' other fellers' horses."

"That ain't a horse, Tanner, and you know it," Larabee scoffed. "He's a damn hoofed and hide-wearin' rattlesnake." He was relieved to see the tracker's prickly humor returning, but recognized it for what it was. Like some mythic warrior suiting up for battle, Tanner was pulling on his protective armor, carefully shielding himself so that, when they returned to town, no one would see just how much damage Eli Joe had done him.

"Yer jist sayin' that 'cause yer jealous," Vin retorted.

"Oh, yeah," Chris snorted. "I lie awake nights wonderin' how I can get a man-eater like that for myself. Now," he aimed a pointed stare at Tanner, "take off your gunbelt, get your shirt up and let's do this. I don't aim ta spend one minute longer than I have to up here with the birds and the bugs."

Vin's lips twitched in an insolent grin as his long fingers worked to remove the heavy belt. "Gittin' soft in yer old age?" he taunted in his raspy drawl.

Chris heaved a martyred sigh and bowed his head. "Next time," he groaned, "I'm sendin' Josiah. You two can drive each other crazy and just leave me out of it."

Vin stripped off the belt and laid it aside, then pushed the wide leather suspenders from his shoulders and began tugging his shirts from the waistband of his pants. "Didn't nobody ask ya ta come," he pointed out. He stretched out and lay stomach-down on his blankets, then pulled his shirts up to expose his darkly bruised back. "Me 'n the birds an' the bugs was doin' jist fine on our own."

Chris remembered the shattered man he'd found yesterday, and stared down at the man who was only marginally better today. "Yeah," he muttered, leaning over and opening the flap of a saddlebag, "you were doin' great. Didn't need any help at all." He pulled out a small jar and twisted off the lid. "I coulda just stayed home."

"Yeah," Vin breathed softly, his armor slipping from him as strong but gentle hands descended upon his aching back. "All the same, though, I'm glad ya didn't."

=======

The ride down was long, slow and difficult, undertaken with far more care and attention than the ride up had been for either man. As was his habit in such situations, Chris kept Pony behind Peso and simply followed Vin's lead with complete and unquestioning trust in the abilities of the tracker and his hell-spawned horse to get them all safely to ground. At times he would have sworn they weren't following any trail at all, were riding over ground he'd never seen before, but his faith in Vin never wavered.

Deep in the bedrock of his soul, he knew with unshakable certainty that it was simply impossible for Vin Tanner to lose his way.

Vin sensed that absolute trust and had to wonder at it. Lord, what had he ever done to make Larabee believe so completely in him when the man believed in so little else? How could Chris bear to place his faith in a tracker who'd gotten himself so terribly lost?

How could he, time and again, put his life in the hands of a man who'd made such a goddamn mess of his own?

Made almost angry by Larabee's foolishness, he spurred Peso to a faster pace, getting some distance between his mountain-wise horse and the more cautious Pony. As he rounded a bend in the trail, however, he drew up sharply and rapped out a foul curse.

Rocks from a fall lay across the trail, blocking it completely.

"Shit!" he spat, glaring bitterly at the obstruction.

"Well, hell," Chris said more calmly as he drew up rein beside the seething tracker. He leaned forward in the saddle, crossing his arms at the wrists upon the horn, and glanced at Tanner. "Now what?"

Vin exhaled sharply and dismounted angrily, striding forward to the pile of rocks. He set his hands on his hips and studied the obstacle for long moments, then loosed another obscenity and kicked furiously at it. Behind him, Chris winced and averted his gaze, knowing that had to wrench painfully at the man's bruised back.

"Goddamn it!" he snarled, turning back to Larabee, his blue eyes burning under the wide brim of his hat. "Ain't no way around it! Sonuvabitch wasn't here last time I came this way!"

Chris turned his gaze back to his friend and frowned. "This isn't the same way we came up?"

Vin sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. "'Course not! This way's easier. 'Least," his lips thinned in a tight scowl, "it was 'til them rocks changed that!"

Chris allowed himself a small breath of relief. He wasn't completely blind, then; he really hadn't seen this ground before. "All right," he said quietly, his calm acceptance of the situation a marked contrast to Vin's fury, "whatta we do now?"

Vin looked around, then up at the sky, and swore again. "Might's well rest fer a while," he rasped impatiently. "Give the horses a breather, let 'em graze." He swept his eyes over the rocky ground and the craggy side of the butte. "There's scrub enough, I reckon, long as they ain't too picky."

Chris nodded and slid down from Pony's back, giving the gelding's sweaty neck a pat. He dropped the reins and loosened the saddle girth a few notches, then removed his canteen and walked over to the slight but welcome shade provided by an overhanging shelf of rock. With a sigh of relief, he sank to the ground, leaned against the wall of rock at his back and unstoppered the canteen. Vin remained where he stood, still visibly fuming. Chris shrugged and took a deep drink of water.

At last, with another growled curse, Vin returned to Peso and loosened his girth, then took his canteen and left the horse to graze. He stalked over to Chris and dropped with a heavy gust of breath to the ground at the man's side, his face as hard and grim as the rock around them.

"Wanta tell me why you're so pissed?" Chris asked quietly. "We're not stuck up here, are we?"

"Hell, no!" Vin snapped. "There's two or three other ways down."

Chris arched a brow, thought a moment, then took another drink. When he had swallowed, he wiped his mouth with the back of a hand and turned his steady gaze back to Vin. "Then what's wrong?"

Vin jerked the stopper out of his canteen and took a drink, swishing the water around inside his dry mouth and then turning aside to spit it out. "This is the way I wanted ta go." He took another drink, swallowed it. "I'm sick a' trails not leadin' me where I need ta go!"

Chris puzzled over that a few moments, trying to remember just which trail had frustrated Tanner before. Then he recalled the tracker's scattered, disjointed ramblings from last night, and understanding hit him with a near-painful jolt.

Was always real sure of where I's goin', what I's s'posed ta do when I got there, never got lost along the way. Could always see the trail so plain... Then I lost it, 'n I ain't sure I'll ever git it back.

Shit.

He took another slow drink, thinking all the while. When he lowered the canteen, he asked quietly, "Tell me again why we're stopped here?"

Vin shot him a look as if he'd gone insane. "Y' wanta look over there?" he drawled hoarsely, pointing toward the obstruction. "Them things layin' over the trail is called 'rocks,' an' they're sorta blockin' our way."

Chris turned his head and looked, studying the sight for long moments. At last he nodded and turned back to Vin. "Happens a lot with trails, doesn't it?" he asked thoughtfully. "They get blocked, washed out, sometimes just go where we can't follow. Sometimes happens without us even knowin' about it."

Vin regarded him warily from beneath deeply furrowed brows. "Yeah," he answered grudgingly.

"So I guess bein' a tracker, even bein' a good tracker, don't always mean you can follow every trail. I mean," he shrugged lazily, "some of 'em just can't be followed."

Vin licked his lips slowly, still staring at Chris. He had no idea what the man was talking about, but was pretty damn certain it wasn't about that trail buried under those rocks. "I reckon," he allowed uncertainly.

Chris nodded, fell silent a moment, then frowned in puzzlement. "So, whatta you do when your trail gets blocked? Or disappears?"

Vin exhaled fiercely and shook his head. "Ya find another way," he said with exaggerated patience.

"But not always the way you wanta go?" Chris prompted. "Not always the way you think you're supposed to go?

Vin swallowed hard, now certain that Larabee wasn't talking about this trail. "N... not always," he rasped softly, his eyes riveted to the gunman's face.

Chris stretched his long legs out before him and crossed them at the ankles, then stared idly down at his dusty boots. He could feel Vin's gaze boring into him, knew he had the tracker's rapt attention, and prayed he could make his point.

"And sometimes," he continued in that same quiet, conversational voice, "followin' this new trail takes you ways that the old one wouldn't. Takes you in directions you weren't ready to take, maybe didn't wanta take. But you can't turn around and go back to the other one, because you know it doesn't go anywhere. So you just have to keep followin' this new one, makin' the best outta whatever it gives you, and hopin' that it'll get you where you need to go, right?"

Vin's eyes widened and grew dark as understanding slowly dawned upon him. He wanted to argue, wanted to tell Chris that it hadn't been that way with him...

Except that he knew it had. Time and again he'd thought, been certain, he knew where he was going, only to have some obstacle he couldn't cross block his way, forcing him in another direction entirely.

He'd thought he'd grow up, grow old and die on that farm in Texas. Instead, his family had died, the farm had been taken from him, and he'd been passed around like dry goods from one family to another until he'd had enough and run away.

He'd thought he'd be a buffalo hunter forever, following the endless herds as they blackened the earth. But the herds had ended, and now their bleached bones littered the earth.

He'd settled on being a bounty hunter, keeping body and soul together using the only true talents he had. Then Jess Kincaid's body had fallen across his path...

One way after another taken from him, denied him, closed to him. And each time he was forced to turn and travel in another direction, one he hadn't foreseen and didn't know. But all the while, all the lost, hopeless while, he kept trying, kept turning, kept following on the chance, on just the bare, slim chance that maybe, maybe one of those twisted, unfamiliar trails might just lead him...

He sucked in a breath sharply, his eyes going impossibly wide, his soul going impossibly still. Stunned even past the point of breathing, he stared at Chris in open-mouthed wonder and saw his answer written in the gunman's face.

"It worked, Vin," Chris said softly, leaning forward and gripping Tanner's shoulder hard. "You didn't lose the trail, it just changed. You followed it, and it brought you to us. You hear me, Vin?" he asked in a low, intense voice, his long fingers digging into the tracker's flesh. "It brought you to us. Doesn't matter how you got here. All that matters is that you followed that trail, and it got you exactly where you needed to go."

Vin stared into the green eyes locked on his, remembered another day, that first day, when he'd done exactly the same, and understood now why even then those eyes had pulled so strongly at him.

In that moment, he'd stopped being lost. The twisted, broken trail had led him home.

=======

They rode into town just as the sun began to set, both coated head to toe in dust, tired to the center of their bones and in desperate need of a meal, a bottle and a bath in precisely that order. Chris couldn't remember the last time he'd been so glad to see the ugly little no-account place he'd come to think of as home; hell, it was probably the last time he'd had to go haring off after Tanner.

Why the hell couldn't the man be like the rest of them and seek refuge in a saloon?

Vin's relief to be back, however, was mixed with a deep sense of unease. The secret that could cost him his life was out, and his fate now lay in more hands than he could count. He knew of a lot of folks around here to whom five hundred dollars would come as the answer to a lifetime of prayers. What he didn't know was how many of them would care if it came stained with his blood.

Nor did he know how the townfolk would take the fact that one of the men charged with keeping them safe was wanted for murder. He know folks had been put off back when Travis had first hired the seven by his rough manners and rugged appearance, remembered how they'd eyed him as chickens would the wolf taken on to guard them. But over time that had changed as people had gotten used to him and his ways, as they'd learned to look past his coarse exterior and see the man beneath. He realized now how much he'd come to prize their acceptance, how much he'd come to appreciate the smiles, friendly words and firm handshakes that greeted his walks through town, and how much it would hurt to go back to being seen as the threat lurking in their midst.

Lord, what had ever made him think he could do this?

Even as sudden panic took hold of him and his hands tightened instinctively on the reins, a dark shape edged closer from his left and green eyes slanted to him from beneath the black brim of a hat.

"Just settle down," Chris urged in a low and steady voice, easily reading the thoughts and fears chasing wildly across the tracker's usually stoic face. "I ain't chasin' ya all over hell's back yard again. Besides," a faint, thin smile tugged at his mouth, "nobody around here wants or needs five hundred dollars bad enough ta go through me ta get it. Or," the smile widened, "through them."

As if on command, five other regulators appeared on the boardwalk or stepped into the street - JD emerging from the jail, Ezra from the saloon, Josiah and Nathan from Watson's Hardware, and Buck from Mrs. Potter's - to converge on gunman and tracker in a brilliant ring of broad smiles. Vin was startled by how fiercely the worry and the welcome in five pairs of eyes swept through him, by how deeply the hands reaching to grasp whatever part of him they could reach touched him.

And by how quickly those eyes and hands chased away any last urge to run.

Too overcome to speak, he simply bowed his head and offered a small, shy smile and a less than steady hand to each of his friends in turn, a deep blush staining his high cheekbones as he basked in their warmth.

Reckon it was time he stopped runnin' after all.

=======

The dream wasn't always the same.

He was standing in the light, the sun bright golden and hot overhead, its warmth pouring over him in living waves and banishing forever the shadows that for so long had haunted him. And that for so long he had haunted. The wind, itself warm and alive, swept over him, danced around him, moved through and sang to him its age-old invitation. Unable to resist, feeling all darkness and weight falling from him, he raised his face to the sun, lifted his arms to the wind...

And began to fly.

Higher and higher he soared aloft, like one who'd never forgotten how. His heart surged in his chest, the sharp, fierce cry tore from him, and he was streaking through the shining canopy of the sky, powerful wings pumping without effort or strain.

Oh, Lord God, how he'd missed this! How he'd feared he'd lost it forever!

How he'd feared he'd lost himself...

Upward and still upward he shot, racing toward the heart of the sun. Then with another cry he abruptly leveled off and, fitting great wings into warm currents, began merely to glide in lazy, joyous circles. His heart throbbed in his breast and his blood pumped hard and hot as the exhilaration of pure freedom shot through him.

He'd stepped out of the shadows and broken the shackles that had bound him to the earth.

That earth now turned below him in a vast expanse of muted browns and grays and greens. Mountains thrust upward in jagged peaks while valleys dropped away in deep hollows. Here and there, rivers flashed bright silver in the sun, their music rising to him. The stark beauty of this land filled him, moved him, called out to and echoed in the wildness within him.

He loved this land, he knew that now. He had learned its secrets, its rhythms, knew its beauty and its treachery as he knew those things in himself. It had worn into his skin and he had watered it with his blood. It was home, but, so much more than that, he and it were becoming one.

He'd wandered here lost, and here had found himself again.

He wheeled again and saw below him now the little town where that finding had begun. And for the first time ever he saw in all its clarity the trail that had led him there. Lord, no wonder he'd thought he'd lost it! Like a huge, tortured serpent it twisted and coiled and crossed and re-crossed itself, nowhere near straight, portions of it hidden and parts of it completely blocked.

Some of those obstructions had been thrown before him; others, he knew, he'd put there himself. Wrong choices, bad decisions, times when he'd denied what was truest in himself. Times when he'd looked for his way with eyes too dimmed by weariness to see, too clouded with fear and bitterness to trust, times when he'd been too caught up in and too bowed down by the day-to-day struggle of just walking his path ever to lift up his head and see it!

But he could see it now and, fascinated, he pumped his wings and flew back over it, amazed that he'd been able to keep to it as well as he had. And even as he wondered what had guided him, he heard voices whispering in the wind, then felt them whispering in his heart, and knew they were what had kept him true. The further east he flew, the stronger the voices grew until he heard them as clear as he ever had.

Mama. Grandpa.

The longing rose up sharp within him all at once and he gave in to it, shooting across the sky to the place that still beckoned so strongly to him. Home. He knew it was foolish, knew what he risked by returning there, but he couldn't help himself. Faster and faster he flew toward it until the brown earth beneath him gave way to a brilliant field of bluebonnets. Wave upon wave of the white-tipped flowers rippled and danced in the sun like the waters of an inland sea. Then, like an island in that sea, he saw it, the dark and quiet cabin and the graves just beyond, beneath the live oak tree.

Home.

The first and for so long the only one he'd ever known, the place that had given him what he needed to walk straight along a crooked trail. Realizing yet again just how long he'd been gone from here, and just how far away he'd wandered, he flew almost desperately toward the graves, knowing such moments as this might never come again.

Even as he descended toward them, though, he felt a rush of the old, instinctive fear and looked around anxiously for any sight of those who would keep him from this place. Those who would seize upon him and hang him if they knew he was here-

I ain't gonna let that happen.

He heard it then, the wild, fierce cry, and looked up to see the powerful golden eagle with hailstone markings circling just above him. A feeling of safety, of security, swept over him as great, dark wings opened above him, and, as the last of his fear drained from him, he dropped his wings and settled gently upon the earth that bound him to all who'd come before. And for this little while, protected by the eagle above, he lay down between the graves, set a hand on each...

And let his weary body and soul find rest in his field of blue.

The End