No Man is Useless While He Has A Friend

By: Heidi

Category: OW GEN

Warnings: The author attempts to keep things as realistic as possible, therefore there might be ideas and situations presented that might have the "ick" factor for some readers.

Author's Notes: This fic was written as a "Christastrophe", and was mostly done before the author was advised that the story seemed similar in some plot points to Jeanne's "Found", a story that I have not read. I contacted Jeanne, let her read the story, and she said that it was different from hers, and graciously gave her blessing for me to continue with mine.

Special thanks to my SUPERDIVA beta Cin, who has patiently put up with a PNT during the writing of this fic, and giving me twists I hadn't thought of. Thanks to Brate for reading and giving me her treasured opinions.

The title is a quote by Robert Louis Stevenson.

Part One

The dark clad man stepped through the swinging door of the saloon and stood for moment on the dirty boardwalk. Gratefully, the noise level slightly decreased with the change of inside for outside, lessening the throbbing in his head. Pulling a cheroot from his pocket, he took a moment to light it up as he scanned the street. Hearing a commotion behind him, one hand went up to secure the saddlebags draped over his shoulder, and he stepped to one side. The beaded curtains flew open, swinging violently on their strings, when two combatants fell through them and out into the dusty street.

Impassively, his green gaze watched the pair as they continued to tear into each other. A pair of animals fighting had more finesse than these two angry drunks. Shaking his head, he thought it was long past time to leave this place.

Taking a few steps toward the stable, he swerved right to miss the disgusting remains of someone's dinner gathering flies on the rotted boards, and then stepped off into the street. He dodged the horse manure, and avoided all wet areas. The overwhelming stench of this place, as well as the liquor induced headache, only helped his stomach roll and debate emptying itself most forcefully.

"LIAR!"

Chris Larabee looked around quickly, seeing the source of the yell coming from one of the women. He spotted the man receiving the label of truth-changer voluntarily sprawl in the dust when a knife nearly hit him. Unfortunately, Chris was in the path of the same knife, and his fast reflexes had him ducking quickly to see it sail harmlessly over his head, landing on the boardwalk. A human scavenger immediately claimed possession. Larabee picked up his pace, since he didn't feel like getting hurt in his current condition, nor did he feel like hurting someone. Yet.

"COME BACK HERE!" she screeched at full volume, charging into the street from the other restaurant.

Chris Larabee may have been several things, but stupid wasn't his style. His aching head tracked the movements of both the man and the woman, knowing better than to turn his back on an armed, irate female, and found his diligence rewarded. He leapt left, keeping his head low, and saw the man run right through the spot Larabee just occupied, another knife hitting the dirt at the man's heels.

"Senor, you must protect me." The target of the woman's ire scrambled – or tried to scramble – behind Chris.

Larabee shoved the man away, finding him clinging to his left arm. "No."

The woman neared, muttering in Spanish.

It was hard to keep up with the shrilly spat tirade of words, they were coming so quickly, and the blond's Spanish was meager at best. Chris clearly understood, however, the words 'cut' and a part of the male anatomy. As he warily eyed the handful of knives in her hands, and the malevolent menace in her eyes, he was also wise enough to know he wanted no part of this showdown.

"Let go, or I'll shoot you myself," Chris growled to the quivering man, trying to free himself and keep some distance between his body and her knives.

The man shoved Chris toward the woman, taking off at a run.

"Shoot him anyway," the woman said, lowering her knives until he regained his balance.

"I'm leaving, it's not my fight." Chris backed away, one hand on his gun - just in case.

"Umpff," she grunted and spat at the ground by Larabee's boot. Finally turning her back haughtily on him, she ran after her target, letting out a banshee yell.

Shaking his head, he wondered why he ever thought this place would be good to get away from things for a while. Adjusting the saddlebags on his shoulder again, having been disturbed by the confrontation, the gunslinger started back for the stables. He was almost there when a voice called out to him.

"Senor? You need company?"

With the fresh memory of an armed domestic playing out in the street, and this woman's obvious lack of hygiene, Chris mustered a smile. "Maybe next time, ma'am." He continued on, finally reaching the stables and retrieving his horse. He led the magnificent mount into the sunlight.

"You sure, cowboy?" The soiled dove followed him there, trying to sashay enticingly.

"Real sure, ma'am, and don't call me cowboy."

"Then you give me your money." She raised a pistol from the folds of her skirt. "Or I'll kill you and take it."

He was saved from reacting when another man charged up, flung his arms around the woman, and lowered her arm. He held her securely around the waist while she tried to struggle in the man's arms. "Sorry, Mister. She's my sister and she's loco. Gun ain't loaded."

"Figure you should take it away before she gets herself killed."

"I aim to." The man tipped his hat, dragging the woman away. His voice carried back to Chris. "How many times do I got to tell you to go for the ones that ain't got mean and dangerous written on their faces? Find the stupid ones."

"Time to go home," Chris Larabee said softly to his horse, taking a final look around Purgatory, making sure someone wasn't gunning for his back while he rode out, and, for some reason, Chris wanted to take one more look around. Purgatorio, Purgatory, or colloquially known as hell, was barely a break in an almost barren stretch of land – a place – where the low and lower crawled to forget their troubles, to hide from the law, to step away from proper society, or came here to die. People fell into two groups – dangerous, and not so dangerous, which applied to both sexes.

He'd been here for three days, but a niggling part of his brain told him to look at where he spent his time. While he normally discounted the faded walls, the muddy, littered streets, and the air of neglect, he truly saw the decay with fresh eyes. Right now, it struck him that he and his horse sat in the middle of a wasteland. His more than attentive perusal did not go unnoticed; several faces gave him glares, suspicious stares, and blank looks. The glares and stares didn't worry him too much; he reflexively counted them as threats.

The blank eyes and faces he left behind unsettled him. Those who wore that look or those eyes fit into either category, but held an underlying sense of desperation. Many neared, or passed the point, of slitting a throat for a pair of boots or a shirt, and Chris had witnessed how the freshly dead lost their worldly belongings in minutes. Sometimes, he got the sense the blank eyes were dormant until provoked or given an opportunity, and others he felt had given up on life, settling on scratching out a pitiful existence here.

Where once he sought towns like this out for their anonymity, now he could only sense death and disease hovering over this place like a stagnant cloud, and it unsettled him. Flicking the reins on his horse, he rode further out of town and away from Purgatory, one hand on his gun, staying vigilant until he was sure that no one followed him. His mind continued to delve on and analyze his behavior.

After losing Sarah and Adam, he lived in the same manner as many of those people, not caring about life. Things had changed in the past several months or so – he was horrible with time – and the point of his trip down here these past three depraved days was to release the hate and despair that took up residency in his soul. That hate and despair needed an outlet from time to time, and he chose this miserable town. He let his own survivor's guilt and broken heart have free rein down here, dropping the tightly packed walls around his emotions, and indulged in the baser parts of life. The parts he'd thoroughly learned and explored during his wanderings, and counted those as the times he shot first, maybe asked questions later, and any challenge to fight was welcome. A challenge was a chance to die and end his pain, or it was a way to feel a little fear. Hell, he admitted, it made him feel something until he won. Then he felt as dead inside as the person he killed.

He kind of felt a little dead inside right now, too. The bright sun added to his headache, so he kept his hat brim low. He relied more on his ears than his eyes, but the bloodshot orbs continued to sweep from side to side, keeping the best watch they could.

The longer he thought about his past, followed by the heavy drinking and other things he did in Purgatory, the more all of it sickened him and soured his stomach. "Penance," he said softly, borrowing Josiah's term. Letting that concept roll around his brain, along with the guilt, and the slight hangover, Chris continued his journey toward home.

Since his conscience was determined to dwell on these dark thoughts, the whiskey bottle wasn't around to chase them away, and no one else was there to distract him. Chris reluctantly let his mind go where it wanted. Usually, this didn't happen, because most times he only indulged in a drink or two, and maybe a couple beers. But when he let down his walls, he needed the whiskey to help him control the pain, the anger, and all that overwhelming angst. Sometimes, his need of the bottle shamed him, and with his stomach threatening a revolt, combined with the feeling of mush in his brain, he wasn't too proud of himself. In his town, his new home, he kept the thoughts at bay as much as possible, and something went wrong often enough where he needed his gun and wits to defend the town, or his friends kept his mood lighter.

He finally admitted to himself he was lucky; he had friends. A faint smile crossed his lips as a picture of each one flashed in front of face. Friends. Six of 'em, and each one with their own problems and demons. Two images stuck around a little longer – his oldest friend Buck Wilmington, and his new best friend, Vin Tanner. All of them enriched his life, but Buck kept a heart-sore Chris from completely stamping out his humanity until Vin figured out how to bring it back out to the forefront.

Overall, Chris considered himself lucky to have such good friends, and wondered if he would have eventually moved to Purgatory like the blank faces. He'd been heading that direction, just waylaid by some drunken trail hands, and then some Confederate ghosts. If that – and everything that followed – hadn't happened, where would he be today on that other life path? Probably dead.

He pondered that for a long while, running possibilities through his head. Every time his mind whispered 'what if Sarah and Adam hadn't died', Chris forcibly shut down those thoughts. Finally, he told himself there was no use in thinking 'what if'.

A few hours later, he reached the pass cut through the foothills and canyons that he needed to journey through in order to reach home. It was the shortest, most direct route, and one of the best places for an ambush or two. Chris found it completely blocked, muttering a few choice words under his breath. Evidence of a recent landslide – along with the profusion of sizeable boulders haphazardly piled in the center of the beaten dirt and rock trail – caused him to frown. Now he had to go around the long way, and that would add a day or so to his journey. A day was a conservative guess because a lot depended on how fast he traveled, and how solid the ground was beneath their feet. Turning his horse, he started around, making it a pretty good distance before he had to bed down for the night. He wouldn't risk his horse at night on unstable ground, and he'd had enough of the saddle for today. Horse probably had enough, too.

He'd made his camp in a defensible position, and close enough to water for him and his horse. Both drank deeply from the creek to quench their thirst – his more from the hangover than working – and then Chris unsaddled his horse, giving him a quick brushing and feeding before ground tying him. That done, Chris ate trail rations instead of lighting a fire because the weather wasn't cold, and he didn't want to advertise his position. He was careful, knowing that others would have to go around with the pass closed, and he'd rather not be caught unawares, especially with what he left behind in Purgatory.

Having been in a thoughtful mood all day, his mind saw no reason to stop now. Lying on his bedroll, staring up at the stars, he realized his life was pretty good now. Chris admitted there was a part of him that wanted more, but in the grand scheme of things, it was better than most.

He earned an honest living, protecting and helping people, and he was a town leader of sorts. Chris wasn't naïve enough to believe everyone wanted him there, especially with his dark reputation, but those that didn't stayed quiet. Their moment of realization came at the expense of the town, when the seven were fired and left. After their return, someone made sure that the town knew the men were under no obligation to return after being let go. Now, the grumblers only spouted off when someone screwed up, or a large amount of property got damaged in an all-too-frequent fight.

Word slowly spread that their town was not easy pickings, and the newspaper – who often exaggerated Chris's own actions to discourage others – reported what happened in other towns with less protection. Chris knew he wouldn't get rich off his salary, but having room and board paid for helped him save some money, and fix up his place outside of town. Sleep finally claimed him as he dreamed the dreams he thought forgotten. Of a future, raising horses, having a home, maybe having another family, and of his friends.

The next morning, he had to swing wide of the foothills because the horse couldn't climb the steep, sandy slopes, and headed toward the flat land between the canyons. The terrain never ceased to fascinate him, and throughout the couple hours it took to reach the flatlands, he noticed life teeming around him. He was the only human out here, outnumbered by wildlife, but they seemed content to go about their business and not bother him. Painted in shades of brown and tan, the surroundings looked desolate and unforgiving, with the canyon walls jutting up nearby.

The landscape was another reason he loved the West. A far cry from the flat farm fields and lush green grass he remembered from Indiana, this area was stark and beautiful in its wildness. Different shades of green could be found, and in muted darker or lighter shades. Desert blooms created bright contrasts, little splotches of color here and there to break the monotony of the terrain. The ground itself was not a rich dark brown, but a sun-baked tan. Where there was no water, cracks filled the ground. But the weather was extreme out here, and flash floods happened all too often, especially if too much rain fell too fast, and overran the creek beds.

Lost in his thoughts, he continued to ride, letting his mind drift along with the miles. All the reasons for staying in his town filtered through his brain, filling him with a sense of contentment. He didn't notice the burgeoning quiet, or feel the humidity rise, just riding along in his own world of sorts.

Stillness and silence filled the air, and he finally noticed that the wildlife was not active any more. In fact, they had disappeared. Raising his head to the heavens, looking beneath the brim, he saw the storm coming his way. It looked to be moving toward him, and not taking its time. Chris cursed himself for not detecting it sooner because it looked pretty vicious. He and his horse needed cover before it hit.

Looking around, he saw some caves near the entrance to the canyon a distance on his left, and figured that would be the safest bet for him. Whirlwinds and dust devils didn't go well with horses and men, plus at least one of the caves he spotted looked big enough for his horse.

Nudging his mount into a gallop, he rode against time, seeing the black, heavy, ominous clouds getting closer and closer. He wasn't sure if he would make it or not, but he'd give it his best effort. Bent low over his saddle, Chris hung on to the reins, merging with his horse. Faster and faster, the ground disappeared underneath the hooves of the magnificent animal, leaving behind the open lands for the mouth of the canyon.

He made it.

Almost.

The storm moved faster than he reckoned, coming over him within minutes of his sighting of it. Wind and rains whipped him in sheets, the wind in one direction, and the rain striking with the force of tiny spears. His hat blew off his head, stopped from blowing away by the latigo, but that cut into his throat when the wind tried to rip it from him. He coughed when it tugged hard, taking in a mouthful of grit and rain.

His horse foamed beneath him, the foam sliding down off the wet coat in the driving rain, and the heaving breaths showed how hard the horse ran to get out of the storm. They were nearly there, entering the mouth of the canyon, walls stretching high above him filled with large rocks, and the rain ran down in rivulets. The sounds of booming thunder and crackling of lightening filled the sky, sounding entirely too close for comfort.

Almost there, he thought, turning the horse toward the cave entrance no longer so far away. "You'll rest when we're inside," he yelled to his horse over the wind. "Good boy," he praised.

Forked lightening struck right above and beside him. Electricity filled the air, and his horse screamed, immediately drawing up and tossing his rider in fear.

Chris hit the ground hard, almost rolling out of it, when the lightening struck again above him, on the rocky canyon wall. Rocks fell from their perches, pelting him and his horse.

The horse took off in a frightened gallop.

His voice drowned out by the wind, Chris could not call his faithful steed back, and lost sight of him in the whipping winds and blowing dirt.

A second later, the thunder boomed loud and close, combining with the falling rocks and rumbling earth, so painful that Chris lost his bearings. Everything coalesced into seeing the whipping winds and dirt, rain driving into his body, and chips of rocks cutting into his skin. His focus narrowed on the cave he was pretty sure – he knew it was – in front of him. It was so dark now, in the heart of the storm, and he staggered a few steps, nearly knocked over by just the rain and wind. His boots slipped in the quickly mudding earth, sending him to his knees. His hair hung down in filthy, dripping strings in his face, and one dirty hand pushed it back out of his eyes, only to have the pouring rain send it right back down.

Above him, lightening struck again, and the thunder boomed. The soaking rain, combined with too many lightening strikes, and the earth-rattling thunder, created a mud-and-rock slide. He didn't hear it coming; his intent was on gaining his footing and moving forward.

The slide hit him hard, pummeling his body, sending him flat on his face, and then the smaller rocks pounded his body in their roll, the precursor to the heavy mud and bigger rocks. Chris tried to get up, but it was no use. He tried crawling, but a small rock bounced off the back of his head, stunning him. It was enough time for the main force of the mud and boulders to catch him, the mud sliding under his body and lifting him.

Half dazed, he tried to claw for something to hold onto, but everything moved – below him, around him, above him, and he was out of control. He didn't know where up was, and every sucked in breath brought mud with it, filling his mouth and nose. The slide finally ran out of room, the mud shoving him hard against the opposing canyon wall, and the force of it – the big boulders pounding into that wall - set off another slide.

This wall came down directly on top of him, hitting him all over, and pain quickly overtook his senses from the multiple hits. A searing pain filled his left leg, followed by a bright flash in his eyes. Then nothing.

The storm ended just as quickly as it came, moving on to wreak havoc elsewhere. Only the destruction was left behind, extensive in this canyon. In the short length of time it took the violent storm to pass, the landscape had been changed. Both canyon walls had been reshaped by the torrential rains and rock slides, and the mud added several inches to the bottom, along with large rocks looking completely out of place in the center.

It took awhile for the wildlife to come out of their hiding, and a scared horse continued to gallop, coming to a stop where the canyon ended. He whinnied, pawed at the canyon walls, and then looked back. Shaking in fear, the horse stayed still, watching everything, expecting danger to come again.

At the site of the multiple slides, pieces of muddy material blended with the surroundings, but fluttered a little in the remnant breezes. Splotches of red on different rocks added color to the brown sameness, but only the fabric moved.

The smell of blood drew the bugs and insects. They slithered, crawled, and moved out of their holes, all heading for the intoxicating scent of their next meal. It concerned them not that the person beneath the loose pile of rocks and partially buried in mud was a person that mattered to others, or that the person wasn't moving.

Carried on the breezes, the smell wafted to the other wildlife, the ones with teeth and appetites for meat. Slowly, cautiously, they approached the canyon, growling and snarling at each other in warning. Even from a distance, they could tell the prey was still, and a meal was there for the taking.

They adopted aggressive stances, and they prepared to fight for their prize. Growls and snarls continued to fill the air, along with raised hackles and bared teeth. Only one question remained: who would claim the prize?

Agony. Sheer, unfiltered, pure, raw agony. All he felt was pain. The darkness – and release from pain – beckoned him, but one tiny spark of his mind wanted to know why he woke up. It was dark. He tried to open his eyes, but didn't think he succeeded. He tried to listen to what was going on around him. Something was trying to pull him out of his state of oblivion, where he couldn't feel the pain, but he couldn't hear anything, either.

OUCH! Son of a bitch! What the hell was that? Fresh waves of torture swept through him, making his body involuntarily shudder, but he couldn't move his hands. His feet – no, someone help him – he couldn't move them either. It came again and he thought he screamed.

His body was one big mass of torture, and he no longer fought oblivion. In fact, when it happened again – that ripping, tearing sensation – he welcomed the escape.

Part Two

The pain jarred him awake. A tugging that awakened a fire in his leg that spread up through his body and left him gasping for breath. Something was pulling at him. He tried to lift his limbs to bat the nuisance away, but he couldn't get them to respond. Movement brought more agony.

The tugging stopped. He tried to take in deep breaths, but found himself coughing trying to dislodge something foul from his mouth and airway. The violent expulsion from his airway causes more razor like pain to slice through his insides. Finally spent, he was panting, lost in a swirl of darkness that made him feel as if his whole world was spinning, leaving him disoriented and nauseous.

He struggled to pull himself out of the nauseous darkness, but after his previous struggles found the effort too much. Slowly, he felt himself slipping into a quiet abyss.

Startled, he felt tugging again. The struggle began anew to try to get away from the source. Now he was moving, and something pushed him over onto his side. The fire of pain blazed again, and swirling darkness called him to oblivion once more.

His mind woke again; dragging his consciousness from the pleasant place it took refuge. Feeling heavy and disoriented, he took a moment to try and get his bearings; his first thought was of agony. Chris stayed still, almost afraid to move for fear of the pain returning. Wait – it was already there, a silent specter attached to him, haunting his every move, but now muted to a dull ache. Not wanting to aggravate it, he continued to lie still.

Still feeling bogged down he tried to open his eyes. It was unclear to him if he succeeded; all he saw was darkness. He wasn't sure if it was night, or the effort was just too much for him. Instead, he listened, wanting to get his bearings. Not hearing anything, he allowed his body to relaxed slightly. His mind told him he was on his back, stretched out. Experimentally, he wiggled his right fingers, finding himself pleased to know they worked. The left ones responded, too, giving him another positive to concentrate on. He moved on to his toes and feet. His right toes responded, so he checked out the left side.

Mistake.

Chris groaned; at least he thought he did, but he heard nothing. He'd wakened the pain monster, who sent the message – quite clearly – his left leg was hurt, and hurt bad. Gathering his considerable will, he fought the screaming nerves and protesting muscles. His hands reached for something to squeeze, anything to distract him, and his right fingers encountered solid rock. His left found the blanket his body lay on. Concentrating on the woven feel of the blanket, he fisted his hand, rubbing the almost soft material through his fingers. Chris kept telling himself the suffering was manageable, and eventually it subsided back to a constant ache. Irritating, but he could tolerate it for now.

Knowing he needed to see how badly he was hurt, he tried once again to open his eyes. He thought he'd opened them earlier, but the room was still dark, and perhaps they closed under all that pain. Or they wouldn't open, and the effort to try hurt him too much. Gritting his teeth – making his jaw throb – he reached up with his hands, inspiring hereunto-silent injuries the opportunity to announce themselves most forcefully.

His breath came in shuddering, heaving, aching gasps. It was too much pain in too short a time. No matter how hard he fought it, the overload of misery overwhelmed him. He went screaming into the darkness, not wanting to succumb to the unprotected oblivion of unconsciousness.

Chris didn't know how much time passed, but it was dark and quiet when he woke. Then he realized his eyes were still closed. Since he knew his right fingers worked, he slowly brought them toward his face, stopping when he felt a pulling sensation in his right shoulder. He eased the fingers back to their original position. Thankfully, he had stopped himself before the shoulder pain became a full-blown, leaving him gasping for air after an attack of agony. Trying the same process with his left fingers, he was pleased when he made contact with his face, and no pain announced itself.

His hand brushed the scruff of beard on his face, and he paused trying to guess the amount of time that passed by the length it had grown. Hmmm…he figured he quit shaving when he left town for Purgatory, hadn't shaved since, but the scruffy hair didn't feel much longer than when he left Purgatory. He rubbed a little harder, and felt something flaky come off. Either his skin was real dry, which he could believe; sunburned – a distinct possibility; or it was dirty. Any of the three could be the actual cause, or a combination of them. It was useless trying to guess, he needed to see what had happened to him. His wandering hand continued up to his eyes.

Sliding his fingers up, he poked something he didn't expect – swollen skin that didn't like being disturbed. It protested in a nerve-screaming fashion, giving him an instant headache. In actuality, it was more of an increase in the incessant throbbing in the back of his head from an ignorable ache to an insistent screech. Riding out his body's defense mechanism of 'hey you - I'm hurt – quit poking', Chris decreased the amount of pressure in his fingertips, exploring beneath his eyes and over to his nose.

Yup, his nose felt broken. That explained the pain and some of the swelling. Continuing up to his forehead, it was seriously misshapen. Half of it jutted out over his eyes, telling him he probably had some spectacularly swollen bruises up there. Continuing around his head, he found more bruises spread throughout the entire distance, and vaguely remembered getting hit with something hard. What hit him, he didn't remember quite yet. His hair felt gritty and disgusting, dried together in chunks that stuck to what felt like a bandage he encountered wrapped around his head.

His conscience now joined the rest of his body, solemnly asking him what he expected. The memory was still muddled and elusive, but he somewhat recalled being in a tempest. He had been fool enough not to pay attention to his surroundings. Flashes of a knife-throwing woman appeared in his jumbled brain, along with a dangerous pair of siblings, one trying to rob him. What happened to him? His foggy memory confused him even further.

Ignoring the confusion for now, Chris opted to continue taking stock of himself and his surroundings. He'd lost his sight, at least until the swelling went down. So the big questions became where was he, and how did he get here?

Chris used his fingers to explore the blanket beneath him. It was softer than his bedroll, and since the last real thing he remembered was being outside under the slide, someone had to have moved him. A dark memory rose to the surface of ripping sensations, and he forcibly shut that down. He didn't want to recall that, no thanks.

His hand reached down for his gun, not finding it or the belt at all. Fear gripped him briefly, telling him he was sightless, hurt, and unarmed. It whispered to the very centers of his brain that he was a target, easy pickings, and had no control. The last two words – no control – bounced around, letting their full import play havoc with his ingrained personality traits, of always wanting to have some type of control over himself. Time passed while he mentally wrestled that demon into submission, reminding himself he needed his wits about him to figure out where he was and what happened. Rational thought took over momentarily, making him reason that he wasn't dead yet. Maybe one of his friends found him, or he was still? back? in Purgatory and Maria took him in.

He didn't know.

The not knowing bothered him.

It couldn't be any of his friends, could it? One of them would have been there when he woke up, unless they were doing something else important, like checking the area. Wherever this area was.

Lying here wasn't helping to answer any of his questions, so he called out. Didn't hear his voice, so he tried louder. His throat hurt something fierce, so he guessed his voice wasn't working. That's when he remembered the latigo cutting into his throat. He thought it cut into his throat; he wasn't sure. Could someone have cut his throat, or tried to strangle him? The holes in his memory frustrated him, and inside of his mouth felt like he swallowed chunks of dust, filling his pores and smothering his taste buds. Chris added a sore throat and no voice to his mental calculation of injuries.

A soft tapping started on his left hand. He hadn't heard anyone come up, and now he was being touched. His left hand snatched at the other in startled reflex, and missed. Instinctively Chris attempted to roll over, trying to raise himself to meet his unknown foe or savior. That hurt, but he toughed out the pain. He needed to know who this person was, and where they were now.

A slight pressure on his chest pushed him back over onto his back. He tried to snatch the hand again, but his arm was slapped away, and he was too weak to fight it anymore. He thought he was trying to ask the person who they were, but he couldn't hear anything, not even the scratch of his own voice. Yet he felt the rumble in his chest like he was trying to talk. It struck him then he'd lost his hearing, and mentally cursed himself for a fool because he didn't figure that out earlier.

He hoped it was temporary, because right now his world was dark and silent, sensation his only guide. With his nose broken, smell was an iffy proposition, and taste didn't do him any good if he couldn't see what he was picking up to eat. The senses he relied so much on to keep him safe…failed him.

Chris felt pain, and that was not good, because there was entirely too much of it. But the positive side was he knew what hurt where, based on his self-exploration, and kind of figured out how to move. This person had not hurt him yet, so he waited, his mind trying to figure out what was going on, and making the feeble attempt at planning. The thought that scared him was the wondering at what his damaged senses still hid from him, and what injuries were still undiscovered by his conscious mind? He clamped down on his fear, needing to deal with the here and now.

The long moments of nothing after being touched caused him to call out a simple, "Hello?"

He didn't hear it, but he knew he tried. He hurt his throat again, and it felt like tiny shards of glass tearing the tender skin when he swallowed.

Ignoring the pains, desperate to know the person's identity, Chris relied on the only sense he knew worked, touch. He raised his hand and reached out toward the unknown person, but quickly drew back when he felt a stinging pain in his hand as it was slapped with something hard. The jolt woke up some other injuries, and as he fought to control the pain again, he pulled back.

Chris groaned.

On the heels of the discovery of new pain, a secret his senses finally revealed, an insistent tapping started on his left hand. It felt hard, harder than a hand would make, and he guessed it a warning to be still. The tapping would probably turn into something a little more painful –were that indeed possible – if he continued gesturing and reaching.

With exaggerated movements to show no hostile intent, he lay back, leaving him momentarily alone and helpless. He didn't like this feeling very much, but his survival depended on the good graces of his visitor.

Chris felt hands at his back, trying to lift him, and did not resist. They did all the moving; he went along for the ride. The ride was doubled; he was sitting up, and enduring waves of fresh agony. He bit back the pain, wondering why the torture till he felt something near his mouth and a drop of wetness fall on his dry lips. Feeling that brief drop, his body reacted knowing it needed the moisture. He took a sip. Then another.

The refreshing liquid was taken away several times, as the person wouldn't let him gulp it down. It went away briefly, but was replaced again, and this time the liquid was warm. Broth. The water had eaten away some of the thick coating on his tongue, and his taste buds functioned. He recognized the broth, and that small identification pleased him. Chris drank it all – slowly – and decided right then it was the best 'meal' he'd had in a long time. Figuring it didn't hurt even if he couldn't hear it, he said thank you.

He felt a pat his good shoulder in response, the bowl was gone, and somehow he felt alone.

His stomach full of an herbal broth and water, and nothing to do, Chris allowed his aching body to rest, and he fell quickly to sleep.

When he woke, he called out. Not too much later, he felt a tap on his left hand, letting him know the person arrived. Chris made no moves, just lying still and oddly pleased to no longer be alone. He dared not project himself into something threatening, because he didn't know what the person would do.

He almost snorted, barely stopping himself from inflicting pain through his nose, but the thought finished that he probably couldn't threaten a simple housefly right now. In fact, the fly was probably more dangerous than he was lying on his back dependent on a stranger for his well-being. Chris had no plans on angering his benefactor.

A bowl was placed into his hands, and he welcomed the help to drink. Knowing trying to touch the caretaker would not be permitted, and not caring to risk losing out on water and broth, he stayed passive. He felt so weak and hot, guessing he had a fever. If the person couldn't do anything for the fever, he'd keep himself drinking to hold it at bay if possible. The water came first this time, followed by the broth. When he finished, he felt strips of cloth placed into his hands, feeling them carefully. There was a light tap on one of the bandages he found earlier, signaling the intent to change his bandages.

He nodded agreement, wincing at the pain, and then lay still while the person removed the old ones, gently rubbed some salve on them, and replaced the bandages with new. That took some time, making Chris realize how badly injured he truly was, and in so many places. Mentally, the sick man catalogued all the sites, and the discovery of new ones somewhat disheartened him. He gave his thanks when it was over. Worn from the constant battle of controlling the pain, he welcomed the oblivion of sleep once more.

The pattern continued for each time he woke, and on the third time, the person gave him a bottle and a bowl, placed them within easy reach, showed them how to find them, and let him draw his own conclusions for what they were for. He was grateful, needing help sitting up the first few times, but he wasn't too proud to say no to the help. His body was traumatized, and he couldn't do much for himself.

He was useless, a feeling he hated intensely, but one he was forced to endure. What good was an injured gunslinger? What if he never healed?

Time had no meaning to him. Chris just ate, slept, and survived, too weak to do anything else.

Part Three

Vin was worried. He didn't want to show it, but Chris was late. A full day late. Last time Chris was late, they found him in that hellhole prison. Since then, he and Chris had an understanding. They'd go wherever they wanted, but if they were a day late without sending word as to their delay, the other would go looking. Chris instituted that for all seven of them because he felt each man was valuable, but Vin knew Larabee meant it especially for him, with that infernal bounty.

Walking to his wagon, Vin shook his head. This couldn't happen at a worse time. Nathan and JD were on a transport, Josiah left for a spiritual retreat, and Buck was camping out at a newly arrived widow's homestead. Apparently, one of the cattlemen didn't understand that the fences she put up to keep the cattle out applied to them, and had been knocking them down. If needed, Buck could be called back, but Vin didn't want to do that yet. Ezra held court and peace in the saloon.

Larabee'd probably have his head for heading out after him on his own, but he didn't have much of a choice. Tanner gathered the supplies he needed from his wagon, and then raided Nathan's clinic for a remedy kit. That done, he saddled his horse and rode for the edge of town. He stopped long enough to tell Ezra what he'd done and where he was going, receiving a warning others would look for him if he failed to return. . . and to watch his back.

He left the town behind, hoping to catch Larabee on the road heading back. As each mile passed, his worry grew, not knowing for sure what could have happened, but a passel of scenarios – all bad – played through his mind.

Tanner rode the trail, checking for signs of a rider or horse in distress, and not finding anything. His progress was slow, halted because of the frequent checks for anything amiss. Vin took off his hat and wiped his forehead, more out of something to do than because it needed it.

The pass loomed ahead, and he hadn't seen another person come through it the entire time he'd been riding. Granted, not many people came out of Purgatory this way, but there weren't any tracks, and that bothered him. Vin felt like he was missing something important, something obvious, and that niggled at him, eating away at his conscience. If his friend needed him, he didn't want to let him down.

Finally, he saw what he'd been missing. The pass was closed because of a rockslide, and now he had to double back. It had been a long day, and the sun had already passed its zenith. He could camp here for the night, play it safe and secure, or he could turn around and try to make up some time. There really wasn't that much of a choice; finding Chris was imperative. He hoped his friend was in Purgatory sleeping off a good drunk, but the unsettling feeling in his gut said Chris wouldn't do that for this long, and something had happened to his friend.

Circling around, Vin rode back to the beginning of the pass, and then tried to guess which way Chris would have gone if faced with the choice on the other end. Putting himself into Larabee's mind wasn't easy, because Larabee didn't have the easiest mind to deal with, though the two seemed to read each others thoughts easily enough right from the beginning. It was something that had never happened to Tanner before, to bond with one person so quick. Right now, trying to think like that person was making his own head ache. Turning away from his thoughts, he took the time to study the terrain. Visualizing the blocked pass from Larabee's perspective, Vin reckoned that Chris would have a choice of going to the left – where Vin could tell there was cover and water, or to the right, which also offered water and cover. But the right side was rockier and steeper, requiring the horse to work harder. Knowing how Chris prized horseflesh, his own horse in particular, the gunslinger would have gone to his left, which meant Vin chose that path.

Judging he had enough daylight left to check for an hour or so, Vin rode. His eyes did not miss the signs of a recent storm that swept through, nor did they miss the stark beauty of the landscape. He liked being out in the wild like this, and he felt more at ease here than in town. Vin figured he could dandy himself up and polish his manners for polite company, but out here was where his heart considered home.

Home. The definition of home varied for him, but it was starting to mean a lot more when he dealt with Chris and the others. They gave him a sense of belonging – especially Chris – no matter what he did, or what he said. Hell, they didn't care about the fact he was wanted, other than the desire to help him clear his name.

Reflecting on Chris, he guessed not many men would plan on going to a place called Tascosa, Texas to help a man wanted to murder to clear his name without too many second thoughts, especially after just meeting the man in question. Granted, the fight when they first met determined the course of their trust in each other, but still, Chris gave him complete trust, something Vin was not used to receiving. It surprised Vin that someone would do that, and he surprised himself even more by returning that trust ten fold. It wasn't in his habit to introduce himself by telling someone he had a price on his head, but he'd told Chris…and he never regretted it.

That trust made the tracker more determined to live up to his profession and find his best friend. Something happened to Chris Larabee, and Vin wanted to find him. He'd ride all the way down to Purgatory and risk his own neck in a noose, or his body filled with bullets to find his best friend.

Wake up. Eat. Drink. Nature's call. Sleep. These factors comprised Larabee's world, with one significant addition – pain. Having forgotten what a pain-free existence was, Chris judged his time as 'good' or 'bad', depending on what hurt worse. Awake equaled pain, so sleep was preferable.

He dreamed about his life, and he relived some favorite memories. Images of times spent with friends, along with those moments that time captured forever carried him through the hazy fog of pain. One dream reminded him of the conversation on the rocks with Vin, where the tracker told him of the bounty, and the part about a friend collecting.

Friend. This wilderness man called Chris Larabee a friend, and the gunslinger found himself surprised. He'd been piss-poor at dealing with people, preferring to keep them away, and most got the message. In his rage to drive all those close to him away, he'd even managed to send his oldest friend away for a time. If the one person who knew him best for several years couldn't stand to be around him, it was no wonder all others cleared a wide path. But the man in buckskin called him friend, and that meant something to Chris.

He laughed at the way Vin rousted Buck from Blossom's bed, and the quiet sense of humor that sustained them all. Hell, it was sustaining him now, because he knew the tracker would kick his ass if he quit. Haunting Vin didn't sound appealing, either.

So Chris made himself eat and drink when he was prodded by his unseen benefactors. He allowed brief periods of intense, painful alertness to see if his friend had found him yet. For once he felt fear. He felt incased in a silent dark tomb, and he didn't like it. This was worse than any nightmare he put himself through. The dreams came swifter and swifter, and he started to feel hot all over. Yet another thing to tell Vin about when he arrived. Chris knew he would come, but the tracker was taking too long.

After a sleepless night, Vin downed his morning ration of coffee, using the dregs to kill the last of his cook fire. He made sure the fire remains were out, and minimal trace of his passing was left behind. The closer he got to Purgatory, the worse his gut clenched. He didn't want to find a body, but the kid who grew up fast and hard knew too much about death and the demise of hope.

Mounting, he headed back into the flatlands between the canyons, knowing Chris wasn't dumb enough to ride the slippery slopes. A flash of movement caught Vin's attention in the distance, so he raised his spyglass. What he saw caused him to knee his horse forward, riding hard for the distant speck.

When he reached his goal, he slipped off his horse, ground tying the ornery beast so he could approach his target. Pitching his voice low and soothing, he spoke quietly to the spooked horse, finally grabbing a hold of the reins and freeing them from the cactus they twisted around.

Blue orbs noted the injured coat on Chris's horse, along with the myriad of small cuts, and the saddle still on the beast's back, scuffed and mud coated. Looking around, his experienced eyes spotted a small creek nearby, and he led both horses to water. Larabee's horse drank greedily, notching up Vin's worry about his friend. Chris wouldn't leave the saddle on his horse, or deprive him of water if he had a choice.

Once the horses drank their fill, and Vin too, the tracker refilled his canteens. Slinging them over his shoulder, he walked the two horses back along Chris's horse's trail, seeing it coming from the entrance to a canyon. Climbing on his horse, he double-checked the leads for Chris's, so neither the ornery beast or Larabee's temperamental animal could pull away or break the leads. He rode for the mouth of the canyon, and watched Larabee's horse shy away. Experience told him about the recent slides, but the bloody rocks gave him pause. Dismounting and tying the horses off, he went to the pile, seeing dried blood and pieces of flesh on them. Digging under the pile, he felt relieved not to find a body.

His spine tingled, and that sense of being watched kicked in. His hands drew his mare's leg, while sharp eyes studied the canyon walls.

There…he saw movement high above him. Squinting, he couldn't make out details, so the spyglass came out again. He swept it along the entire wall intentionally, making it appear he didn't know where to find his watcher. He caught another bit of movement behind some larger boulders. He couldn't be sure if the person or persons hiding would be friendly, but he figured if they meant to kill him, they could have done so by now.

Putting his glass away, he began to move cautiously forward again, keeping an eye on where he thought his watcher was. His mare's leg stayed in his hand to be ready, but he didn't threaten with it. As he drew closer to the wall the watch made himself known.

"Inaji!"

The command to stop rang clear. Vin was not relieved, unsure how many warriors he faced, and the still unknown fact if they would be friendly.

"Wowahwa," Vin called back hoping they understood he came in peace. To show his good faith, or his own stupidity, he holstered his weapon and held his hands up. Still speaking in the native language he appealed to those in hiding. "I mean no harm. I seek my friend."

Vin's appeal was met with more silence. "Please. I think my friend is hurt." Vin tried again moving forward.

This time, instead of words, an arrow flew in the tracker's direction, grazing the sleeve of his arm.

Tanner stepped back and held his hands up again, glancing at the slice in the sleeve of his coat. This wasn't going well, he thought, and now he would have to try something else.

"If there are others hurt, I have supplies. I can help." As he made that declaration, he certainly hoped that was true. Seeing the area, he knew this was a bad slide by the damage; he could only imagine what it could do to a body caught in the melee.

There was still no response from whomever he was trying to reason with, but Vin had to keep trying. All his instincts told him Larabee was here, and this person knew something.

"I have food, water."

He heard a rustling then and perhaps a low murmur of voices, so he knew there was more than one person up there. And he was getting a reaction, so he had to keep going. "My name is Vin, I don't mean any harm."

This time he made out another distinct sound from another person. There was some more shuffling, and then finally he got what he'd been hoping for.

"Hi."

As the command to come forward sounded, Vin gave a deep sigh of relief. Still keeping his hands in plain sight, he moved forward slowly toward where the voice came from. As he neared the group of boulders, a form emerged. It took everything Vin had to keep his expression calm and neutral, and the deadly bow and arrow pointed at him helped a lot. The surprise came in the pint sized figure behind it.

It was an Indian, but a young one. It was tough for him to guess but he'd say around ten to twelve. Old enough to use the bow with accuracy probably close enough to his manhood test. The angry visage on the young boy's face gave him pause too. He had no doubt the boy would fire the arrow in his heart if Vin gave him cause.

Vin held up his empty hands. "I'm a friend."

There was a slight movement behind the boy. A small child peeked around the young warrior, a girl. She too watched Vin warily, but not with as much menace as the boy.

Vin gave a small smile at both of them, hoping to ease their fear of him. "Have you seen my friend?"

The little girl took another step away from the boy and eyed the tracker. "V…v..in," she struggled to say his name.

Vin nodded, astounded that she picked that up from his one utterance.

Bravely she stepped forward, ignoring the young boy's instance she stay back. She walked up in front of the tracker and looked up into his face. Finally she reached up and took one of his hands, tugging urgently she started leading him back into the rocks. The young warrior frowned as they went past and kept his weapon trained on Vin the whole way.

They moved along the narrow ledge along the wall until they came to the entrance to what proved to be a large-sized cave. Moving inside, Vin hesitated a moment to allow his eyes to adjust. The odor of wood smoke assailed his sense of smell. As he peered further into the gloom, he noticed the small fire further back from the entrance. An impatient tug on his hand had him moving forward again, and he complied. Rounding the fire, he came to a dead stop again and stared at the dark form lying before him.

"Aw, hell."

Chris woke again, and the skin around his eyes didn't feel as painful. Maybe the swelling was going down enough that he could start seeing soon. Still couldn't hear anything, but the fact he was alive after however so much time boosted his flagging morale. His leg was in agony, but less than it was earlier, however long ago.

While he was considering what to move and what needed his attention first, something felt off. His instincts whispered that someone was there, but this wasn't his guardian. Focusing, he tried to get any of his senses to work. Once again he was frustrated by the dark silence that left him helpless. Trying to work some moisture into his dry mouth, he couldn't even trust his taste or smell. He decided to keep himself still and he waited for his chance.

Larabee couldn't see, couldn't hear, but his body was telling him that someone leaned over him. Moving fast, he swung up with his right fist. He felt the connection, but he couldn't hear the response. Fearing the person was armed, he struggled to turn his aching body to fend off any attack and reach for a gun if there was one at the person's waist. His flailing fist made contact with the body again, but he found his strength waning and the pain reaching up to take control from him. His will to survive pushed him to continue his feeble fight.

Hands tighten around his upper arms and tried to hold him down. His leg twisted, and he screamed out at the agony of fire that raced through him, but he heard nothing, not even his name on worried lips. He panted heavily and collapsed back onto the blanket beneath him. His body betrayed him, and now he was at the mercy of whoever was above him. He swallowed roughly as the pain caused the nausea to awaken in his stomach.

He felt a cool cloth pass over his heated forehead. The grip lessened on his arms as the fight left him, but one hand remained. His right arm was in a familiar hold. The hand gripped his arm at his forearm and held tight. He felt the soft buckskin beneath his hand, and realized he didn't need his senses to know who held him now.

Vin

The coolness drew across his brow again and he finally allowed the darkness to claim him. He kept his grip on his friend's arm as drifted off to sleep. He knew he was still facing an unknown future with his injuries, but his friend found him. Whatever happened, he had someone to watch his back. Now he could rest.

Vin stared down at his friend in what neared shock. He didn't pull away from his friend's blow, because if it were he, he would have probably swung first too. The tracker let Chris hold onto him, seeing the body relax when it recognized who held him. With the way the man looked, he probably needed the reassurance that a friend was there. "Aw, hell, Chris, what happened ta ya?" The tracker had been exposed to some pretty banged up, injured people, and most times, he could handle it, but Chris in this condition made him hurt just to look at him.

"Hell, Larabee," he mumbled as he observed the damage. "You're the only onerous cuss I know that can get damn dirt mad at ya."

His face was a mass of bruises in several shades of purple, red, and yellow; his eyes appeared swollen shut; his nose was broken; his entire body was covered in dried mud, flaking off in places, giving him a grotesque appearance. Tanner could see the left leg was broken pretty bad. It looked like the children had tried to set it, but it would need to be done properly right away. Tanner refused to think it would be too late, and he did not look forward to doing that. Vin did see the bandages in several places, and those wounds would have to be washed, examined, and checked over. For kids, the two Comanche children did an incredible job of keeping Chris alive, but Tanner was sure he'd find lots of infection set in all over the place. That meant lancing and drawing the poison out.

All in all, Vin looked at hopefully keeping Chris alive over the next couple days, make him well enough to travel, and take the badly injured man back to Nathan for healing. From the looks of it, he probably had a lot of the supplies he needed here with the children, but much of it would be makeshift and make do with what he had on him. It still amazed him that the man was alive with the extent of injuries.

Vin watched the young girl as she brushed the cloth against Chris' face again. Vin could feel the heat from Larabee's body through the grip on his arm and knew it was another problem he would have to deal with. He caught the little girl's attention.

"You cared for my friend?" He asked softly in her language, and added the signs to be sure he was understood.

She smiled shyly and nodded, then pointed at the boy still standing with his weapon ready behind Vin.

"Thank you," Vin told her and nodded to the boy also. He pointed to himself again and repeated his name, "Vin."

" Kimana," the young girl pointed to herself. She then pointed to the boy behind Tanner, "Nocona, ciyewaye ki." She introduced her older brother, probably knowing he was not going to relax his guard duty enough to do so.

Vin nodded and thanked them again for the care they gave his friend. For the next several minutes he asked the young girl about the injured gunfighter's care, and what they had done. She explained and showed Vin some of the medicines she'd used on his various wounds. Tanner was impressed with her care, but still concerned for his friend.

"Has he eaten or drank anything?"

"Yes. Sick man drink water and sip herbal broth many times a day."

"He keep it down?"

She shook her head and made a face, wrinkling up her nose.

Vin smiled at her and acknowledged the ripe odor emanating from the sick man.

"How'd ya know how ta care for him?"

The girl's face turned sad. "Mother taught me. I watch her care for father and brother, others in tribe. She said I needed to learn, in case she get sick." The little girl's voice dropped to a soft whisper and Vin knew she would have cried if it would have been in her nature, but that was not their way. "I couldn't help her. Bad storm took her and father last moon."

Vin nodded in understanding. "I'm sorry about yer folks. Sounds like yer mother was very wise."

"I miss them," the girl replied.

"I lost my ma young. I miss her too."

The two were startled from their talk by the restless movements by the man on the pallet.

"VIN!"

Tanner's heart practically skipped a beat from the sudden shouting that came from the bed. He'd been so involved in the injury inventory and talking with the young girl that he figured Larabee was still passed out from the pain he incurred earlier.

He watched the young girl pat Larabee's hand. Looking up at Vin, she pointed to her ears and shook her head. Tanner didn't think he wanted to understand what she was trying to tell him.

"Chris," he leaned over the gunfighter and spoke softly. There was no response.

The blond shifted again, sensing Tanner close by. "VIN, I CAN'T HEAR YOU."

'Great', Vin thought, and sighed in resignation. Taking a cue from his friend's young nurse, he gripped Larabee's forearm again and reached up and gave a gentle squeeze. He felt his friend relax beneath his grip a bit, but it didn't tone his voice down.

"I CAN'T SEE," the gunfighter's voice cracked a bit as he revealed this to his friend. Vin patted his shoulder again.

Kimana moved forward and picked up a bowl. When she tapped Chris's hand and placed the bowl in his grip, she helped Larabee to quietly drink. Still feeling his friend's grip Chris's body release a little more muscle tension, but remained restless and warm from his rising fever.

Tanner turned to the young girl again knowing he needed to get his friend cleaned and the broken bones treated. "Kimana, do you have a large bowl I could fill with water to bathe him?"

She smiled shyly again, "You bathe, too. Both stink."

He looked down at himself, and saw the trail dust coated everything. Figuring dirty hands wouldn't help his friend, he nodded.

"Wait." She went to the fire warming the room, removing a kettle and pouring some broth into a bowl. Her hands added a thin layer of crushed herbs. As she moved back to the two men she said simply, "Help pain, sleep." Figuring she knew what she was doing, he let her feed Chris, who fell asleep within minutes.

"Come." She led Vin to a large pool, and showed him where to find the supplies he needed. Kimana left him alone.

Vin made quick work of stripping, scrubbing himself clean, and dressing in his spare clothes. He noticed the pool was fed by an underground spring, and the dirty water drifted out of sight with the current. This cave would have made a perfect home for the family. Filling the large cooking kettle that probably belonged to the mother; he placed it over the fire in Chris's niche, and then went back to his horse for supplies.

The young warrior followed him as his shadow, never relaxing his guard. As Vin started to return to the cave, he looked at the two horses. Larabee's especially needed care, but his friend had to be seen to first. He turned to the young boy.

"I'm not going to hurt you or your sister."

The boy's stare did not waver.

"These horses need care." Vin was hoping the boy would allow his own sense of care for a horse to overcome his distrust of Vin. "I just want to help my friend, help me."

Finally, the boy relaxed his stance and lowered his bow. He looked at the two horses, seeing the large black's head hung in weariness and several large scratches along his flank. His hard glance met Tanner's again and he gave a quick nod and nodded back over his shoulder for Vin to return to the cave.

Vin sighed and nodded, moving past the boy to return to his friend. He spared a glance over his shoulder as he went and saw the boy approaching the horses and murmuring softly to each. Vin knew he would have no troubles with the mounts.

Back inside the cave, arms full, he set up things the way he wanted them, knowing getting Chris clean would be a chore in itself. Hopefully, Kimana's broth would keep him down until the worst was over. Using his knife, he cut the shredded remains of Larabee's clothes off, revealing the filthy body.

It was worse than he thought; some injuries looked untreated and infected, while others made Vin wince to think about how they got there. "Ya got chewed on, cowboy, and that ain't good."

Steeling himself, Vin started cleaning, using a cloth and the warm water to wipe away the layers of dried mud and blood. Once he got an area clean, he removed any bandages in that spot, examining and washing the wounds with some of the supplies he retrieved from Nathan's clinic. While he worked, he felt the skin beneath him getting warmer, and realized the fever increased. He knew he still had to get the bindings off the broken limb and get it set proper too. Larabee moaned as the treatment awakened his pain, but thankfully remained in darkness. "Hell," he muttered. "It's gonna be a long couple of days."

Chris dreamed. Now that Vin was here, he knew his friend would take care of him. In the land between sleep and reality, Chris felt secure. Vin would protect him. He figured it was okay to relax for a bit, and let himself drift. For the first time in he didn't know how long, he felt completely free from pain, either awake or asleep.

Part Four

He screamed. Chris Larabee felt incredible pain in his leg, and that made him automatically reach for his gun. He couldn't find it, and his hand was seized in a tight grip, stopping his motions. Chris knew those calluses, and his mind finally subdued the pain enough to figure out that Vin held his hand.

"VIN!" It sounded a little tinny, maybe a bit far away, but Chris heard his own voice. "I CAN HEAR!"

"So can the rest of the world if ya don't quit hollerin'," Vin replied. "I can hear ya just fine."

Taking a deep breath, Chris regretted it almost immediately and he groaned. "Hell.. . hurts."

"Reckon so."

"What …?" Chris noticed that Vin had moved away from his ear, but the voice kept reaching him, sounding far away. Still, to hear that raspy Texan again was the sweetest sound.

"Had ta set yer leg."

"Hell," Larabee grimaced and his head fell back against the bedroll beneath him, while he tried to manage the ebbing waves of pain still generating through his body. He felt a brief brush of a hand over his forehead. A brief tap on his shoulder and he felt his friend help rise him back up, and a bowl pressed into his hands. With his friend's help, Chris drank, Vin making sure the gunslinger took slow sips to keep from getting sick.

Slowly, Chris managed to finish it all, welcoming the liquid into his parched body. Vin allowed him to rest a minute then asked, "More?"

Taking a deep breath, Chris thought about it for a moment, waiting to see if his stomach would agree. The nausea wasn't too bad, and he felt his need for liquid more. Finally believing his stomach would cooperate, he nodded.

Vin refilled the cup, placing the container in Larabee's shaking outstretched hand helping him guide it.

"How. . . bad?" Larabee finally rasped out the question he needed to know.

Vin helped his friend back against the bedroll and snorted, thinking to make light of the injuries to keep his mind from dwelling on them too much, he answered lightheartedly without thinking. "Took a good knockin' about, yer so ugly ya might scare the coyotes away. 'Course, that's about normal fer ya."

All of a sudden, Chris remembered and tensed. "Coyotes."

"Aw, hell!"

Chris felt a hand squeeze his. The memory, although spotted, was painful to recall. "Bit?"

There was a moment of silence, and then Vin let go.

Larabee reached for the hand, not finding it. "Vin?"

"Easy," came the soft drawl near his head. " Gonna wash yer ears again."

He felt a cloth on the side of his head, and a few seconds later, he could hear better on that side. The process repeated on the other, and he heard ragged breathing. Wait; that was him, and he sounded bad.

"Better?"

The distinctive voice was louder and a little clearer. It still sounded underwater, but not as bad. Larabee merely nodded, taking another deep breath to keep the nausea that lingered at bay.

"Ya got a bunch of mud between yer ears."

"In…not between," Chris corrected.

Vin snorted loudly, "Yer story."

"Horse?"

"Stuffing his fool head. Kids are tendin' him."

"Kids?"

"Comanche. Parents got killed during a storm two weeks ago."

Larabee took a moment to let that information process through his tired brain. Kids? He remembered the gentle taps as someone tried to communicate with him, and the brief feel of hands as he was helped to drink or see to his needs. Kids? Something seemed wrong there. Lost their parents, and it seemed like he should have been the one to help them. He felt another tap at his shoulder.

"Think ya can manage some broth?" Vin put the bowl in his friend's hand. "There's herbs ta kill the pain, and help the fever."

"Not. . .hungry."

"Ya need ta keep yer strength up. I've got more tendin' ta do." Vin encouraged.

To placate his friend, Chris took a deep breath to still his rumbling stomach, and then tried a sip of broth the tracker helped him drink. "How. . .kids?" Larabee was still trying to get around the fact his unseen benefactors were children. Apparently capable, but children just the same.

"Ya nearly ran in their front door. They saw ya go under, and waited fer the storm ta break. The boy killed some critters lookin' fer a free meal, and they dragged ya in. The girl's been carin' fer ya."

Time stretched out between them. Vin continued to try to get the injured man to take more of the medicated broth. Reluctantly, the weak man allowed his friend to help him more and more as his energy faded. Finally, with an exasperated sigh, the gunman fell back on the pallet. The silence was ended by a broken-voiced admission. "I'm useless."

"Fer now," the tracker reluctantly admitted. He tried to imagine how his friend felt being in the dark and silence for days, barely aware of his surroundings. Unable to communicate. Vin allowed a smile at that, knowing even aware the communication barrier would be great between the gunman and the kids, since neither spoke the other's language. Vin smiled, thinking if Chris' eyes were at full function at least him and the boy could have had a hell of a glaring contest Sighing sadly, Tanner took a cool cloth and laid it across the gunman's damaged eyes, hoping his friend would get the chance to see his rescuers soon.

"Vin." Chris lowered his voice.

"Don't, Chris. Ya will pull through. Ya will be back ta yer fearsome self soon."

A smile broke over the damaged features as relief filled Chris at Vin's words. As usual, his friend understood his unspoken fears.

"'Sides, if ya were messed up, I'd still be yer friend. Reckon ya know that, but thought ya might need ta hear the words."

Chris held out his hand, feeling the Texan grasp it in a forearm clasp. "Feel. . . useless."

"That's a piss-poor attitude."

Larabee tried to laugh. "Thanks. . . friend."

"Don't get soft on me, Chris. It ain't our style."

"Silent. . .deadly."

"Hell, I'll take the silence. Yer talkin' too much. My ears are ringin' from listenin' ta ya yell, and my throat's achin' from talkin' so much m'self. Finish yer soup." Vin released their clasp and wrapped Larabee's hand around the bowl. "All of it. Don't want ya movin' while I'm fixin'."

"Whiskey?"

"Don't think Nathan would like that."

"Ain't. . .here." Chris rasped out.

Vin was glad his friend couldn't see his face at that moment as he glanced over the injured body and deeply wished for once that their healer were by his side. He kept his silence, not wanting his friend to hear any unsurity in his voice…or his fear.

Chris sighed as he finally finished the broth. A wave of tiredness washed over him, and he didn't fight it, riding it into oblivion.

The responsibility of his friend's care weighed heavily on Vin, and he tried, from that point on, to keep a positive perspective, at least around Chris. The injuries were so severe, so extensive, that Vin knew he couldn't keep treating him here. There weren't enough supplies, and Vin didn't have the expertise.

He'd field treated before, but this was beyond field treating. It was beyond his skills, and required someone with medical learning. The tracker worried about the broken leg being set right, and all the wounds, especially those that were showing signs of infection. The fever that continued to plague his friend kept him restless and weak. What he didn't want to think about was what he might be missing. He needed to get Chris to Nathan as soon as he could. At the rate things were going, he had to do it soon.

Chris wasn't ready to travel; Vin snorted at that thought, hell in his condition he'd never be ready. He needed time though to get things ready and force water and broth in the man to give him some strength for the ordeal ahead. It probably wouldn't be until the end of the next day, which meant they'd leave at first light two days from now. The main questions were how they were going to travel, and what he was going to do with the children. As capable as they seemed, they couldn't stay here. They'd die, and Vin couldn't live with himself if he allowed that to happen. He'd have to convince the kids to come with them, and maybe having the girl along would help with Chris's care.

Taking a deep breath, he set himself back to the hard job of cleaning the wounds. There were so many, and the stench of infection nearly bowled Vin over a couple times. Continuing with the grim task, Vin was thankful he listened to his instincts and came after Chris. As good as the children were, this was more than they could handle. They were too young. He shuddered to think what would have happened if he'd stayed in town and not looked.

It took several hours, but he finally finished this round of cleaning. Now, to work on the fever, and that required keeping cold cloths on his friend. Resigning himself to no sleep, Vin started over.

After considerable argument, plenty of ingenuity, and all of Vin's persuasive skills, the tracker finally convinced the children to go with him. He'd already rigged a travois for Chris, knowing it would be the easiest way for the injured man to travel. It would still be painful, jarring the broken bones, but they needed to get back to town. Everything was packed quickly and quietly.

He watched the kids solemnly walk toward the memorial they placed, keeping back to allow them privacy. Where they were going to go after reaching town, he wasn't sure yet, but Vin hoped Chanu might have some ideas. Much as he'd like for them to stay here, where they were comfortable, he couldn't leave them to eventually die before adulthood. But their heritage would make things difficult in town, and Vin knew he wasn't prime father material.

Moving away, he returned to Chris. It was getting easier to look at him, but Vin knew that was because of constant exposure, not because Chris was getting miraculously better. He wasn't. The fever lingered, and all the infection hadn't left, but the wounds looked healthier. His friend's strength wasn't returning, but it wasn't fading, either. That core of spirit inside Chris Larabee refused to give up.

The voice belonging to that strong spirit interrupted his musings. "Vin?"

"Yeah?" Vin tapped his friend's hand in reassurance. "Time to go."

Chris nodded, and then winced.

"Drink." Tanner put a bowl in his friend's hands and helped him to drink.

Larabee could taste the medicinal herbs lacing the cool liquid. "Putting me to sleep?"

"Don't want ta year yer fussin' when I move ya."

"Don't. . . fuss."

"Sure, cowboy." Vin patted his friend's arm.

Chris drank the potion, quickly succumbing to sleep.

Taking a deep breath, Vin moved his friend onto the travois, securing him to the litter.

Quietly, Kimana entered and packed up the last of their belonging, putting some more padding around Chris. "We go?"

Dreading the journey he knew would be painful for his friend Vin replied simply, "Yes."

"What in the hell?" Buck immediately started his gray down the ridge toward the approaching riders. Having been out on patrol, he'd made a point of checking the rise overlooking the roads to town, and he recognized two horses. Before he got too close, an arrow cut through his jacket, slicing a section open and grazing his skin. Buck reined back, his hand drawing and pointing his gun at the person who fired right next to Vin. At a … kid?

"Easy, Buck," called a familiar voice. "Nicoma, hold. Friend."

Staring at the bigger man mistrustfully, the young warrior lowered his bow, speaking in his own language.

"What did he say?" Buck asked.

Vin sighed. "He said friends call out greetings, not charge."

Buck lowered his gun, trusting Vin who held out a hand to stay more protective gestures from the child warrior by his side, or by the friend he now faced. "Fair enough. Should have called out, but can you tell him friends don't try to skewer each other with arrows."

The tracker nodded, quickly translating, and adding something on the end about friends who forget safety when someone they care about is injured.

Nicoma bobbed his head once in understanding.

Wryly, Vin said in English, "Now that y'all reached an understandin', I'll need ya ta ride ahead and prepare Nathan's clinic."

"How bad?" Buck asked, moving his horse to see Chris on the litter. He made a face. "How many did he tangle with?"

"Got the damn dirt so mad it tried ta kill him."

A quick smile flashed across Buck's face. "That's Chris for ya. And your kid owes me a coat."

Vin smirked. "Just consider it part of your wholesome personality. Git."

"I'm gitting, and we'll be ready." Wilmington had a lot more questions for the tracker, but seeing his injured friend he knew they could wait. Wheeling the gray, Buck galloped for town.

"What do ya think, Nate?" Vin asked for what seemed like the hundredth time since they arrived back in town, and the caring healer's hands, two days ago.

"He's made it this far, and that's good." Nathan put down the last dressing. Eyeing the worried tracker he added to reassure his friend, "The kids . . .and you did a good job of caring for him. It's just going to take some time. Go get some rest, Vin."

"Reckon I'm comfortable." He lowered his hat over his eyes, leaning back in the chair. "Ya need ta rest, Nathan. Ya haven't rested in the two days since he got here. I've got it tonight."

Nathan appeared to consider, and then nodded. "All right. You call me if you need me."

"I will. 'Night."

"Good night. And if you need anything…"

"I'll let ya know."

Nathan left.

Vin propped his boots on the end of the bed.

"He gone?"

"Yup."

"Good."

"Yer soundin' better."

"I'm hunting my gun the next time he tries to pour that damn tea down my throat."

"Ya didn't mind when I did it. Or Kimana."

"You fed me Kimana's broth, and it tasted good."

"Reckon so."

"Vin?"

"Yup?"

"Thanks."

"Fer what?"

Chris remained silent.

Vin sighed. "If ya ain't got it through yer thick head yet, no man is useless while he has a friend. Now shut up and sleep, or I'll call Nate in here ta give ya somethin' ta make ya sleep. Hell, ya get hurt and start chatterin'."

"Arguin' I expect, them long sentences you're using. Ezra must be rubbing off on you."

"No reason to insult a friend."

A weak smile passed Chris's lips.

Vin saw it beneath the brim of his hat, hiding his own smile. Both settled into comfortable silence as the injured man finally slipped into healing sleep.

Larabee heard the shuffling footfalls coming up the stairs to Nathan's clinic. He'd been relishing the brief respite of being alone in the small room for the first time since coming back into town. The gunslinger could always count on Nathan's worried presence, or Vin's, but one of the others made their own appearance as often as they could during the day to check on his recovery. While he'd finally come to accept the caring concern of his friends, for a man who'd been a loner for several years, the constant company could wear on the nerves. Especially when those nerves were already on edge from being injured and helpless…a feeling the gunman hated.

He turned his head to the door as it opened. His eyesight was better, returning as the swelling from his injuries receded. Still a bit blurrier than he liked, fearing he wouldn't see danger coming, he sighed in relief as he recognized the form of his friend. As the tracker waved and smiled in greeting, the gunman tensed as he noticed two unfamiliar figures behind the lean form. The lumbering form behind the trio he recognized as Josiah.

"Figured it was 'bout time ya met some friends of yers," Vin stated as he moved aside and urged the two children out from behind him closer to the bed.

Vin chuckled as he saw his earlier instincts play out. The now welcomed green gaze of his friend stared hard at the lanky youth, whose dark brown eyes were staring just as fiercely back at the recovering gunman.

The green eyes were the first to break the contest as they drifted over to the other slim figure standing closer to the bed and smiling shyly down at the blond.

"Hi" Chris finally greeted, amazed that these children were his saviors.

The girl smiled and patted his shoulder in what he recognized now as a familiar gesture from when they cared for him.

Vin stepped up, knowing the lack of communication skills between them would be difficult.

"They took real good care of you," he told Chris. Vin placed a hand on the shoulder of the young warrior, "This is Nicoma. He watched yer back." Vin smiled and shared a look with Chris, knowing he'd already been regaled by the exaggerated tale created by Buck about how he met the fierce warrior protecting the group as they traveled back to town.

Chris stared at the young boy. Standing at Vin's shoulder he saw a boy, yet knew by looking into those dark brown eyes he knew there was a man just waiting for the body to catch up. Sadly, he looked at the man standing beside the boy and knew that in this territory it often happened way too fast.

"This is Kimana," Vin drew his gaze back to the young girl.

Larabee's gaze softened and he smiled at the girl, who was so brave, yet still so young and trying to hide the shyness that youth brought. The smile faltered as once again he thought of the waste of another child forced to grow up too quickly. Before he let his sour thoughts overtake him, he slowly reached for her hand. Taking it softly in his calloused, weak grip, he brought to his lips and kissed the back of her hand, as any gentleman might do, and gave her a brilliant smile. "Thank you."

Kimana smiled and giggled at the unusual gesture by the white man. She looked over at her brother. The boy looked uncertainly to Vin who nodded and cocked his head toward the bed.

The boy stepped forward. Larabee could now see he held something in his hand. The boy stepped forward, still approaching the gunslinger slowly, he allowed the man to see what he held. Then getting a nod from the gunman, he reached forward and helped Chris raise his head as he draped the rawhide loop over the blond's head. Finally placing his hand over the small leather pouch he'd placed over Chris' chest, Nicoma said, "Awayaye." He followed it up with, "Zaniya."

Vin smiled at Chris as he turned his questioning gaze up to the tracker for an explanation. "Kids figure you need somethin' powerful ta watch over ya, and keep you well."

Chris smiled and nodded his thanks to the boy, but looked up at the tracker and the preacher standing beside his bed. "Thanks. Got friends who do a good job, though."

"Vin," Nicoma said, falling in step with the tracker.

"Nicoma," Vin acknowledged.

In his own tongue, Nicoma asked, "Your preacher's taking us to an Indian village. Do you trust him?"

Vin replied in kind. "Yup. Want ta wait and I'll go with y'all?"

"No. You are needed here, with him. His strength is yours, and yours in his."

Vin smiled. "Ya spent too much time with the preacher."

Nicoma shrugged. "It is what it is. No more, no less. Kimana, come."

The girl came over to the pair.

"We are leaving now," said the boy. "Thank you."

Vin tipped his hat. "Yer welcome."

"Thank you," Kimana said.

Josiah walked over at the trail end of the conversation. "Vin."

"Josiah." Vin nodded back.

"Nicoma told me about his mother's sister who lives not too far from here. I'm hoping Kojay will help get them to relatives."

"If anyone can, Kojay will," Tanner replied.

After a few moments of final goodbyes, Josiah and the children left for Kojay's village, and JD tagged along with him. Tanner watched the party as they rode away, hoping for the best for the children, and wish he could do more for them. They saved his best friend's life, and for that he felt very obliged to them; they all did. He had no doubt they would be cared for, if their relatives could not be found, they would find a new home in Kojay's tribe. It would not be the same as having their own parents, though. It was a feeling the tracker was familiar with, one he wished he could correct for them. Sadly he knew that was something the Great Spirit took out of their hands.

"How are ya feelin'?" Vin asked, taking a seat next to his friend, who'd been freed from the healer's clinic for some fresh air for awhile. Nathan only relented with the excuse he could use the time to give his rooms a throughout cleaning.

"Like hell."

"Ya don't look much better."

Chris shot him a look.

"'Course, with all them blankets and pillows, I'm sure yer pretty comfortable." Vin referred to the collection of cushioning wrapped around the injured gunslinger, all the way to the pillows coating the barrels propping Chris's leg up.

"Hot as hell."

Vin chuckled. "Mrs. Potter's comin' over later with some soup fer ya."

Chris rolled his eyes. "I'm ready to float away on all the soup I've had the past week."

"Reckon so."

A few minutes passed in comfortable silence, broken only by the sounds of a fight that announced itself from the saloon across the street.

"Aw, hell." Vin jumped up, charging toward the building.

Larabee could only scowl in agitation as he listened to the destruction that was occurring and he was sitting helpless, not knowing how his friends were fairing. He sat up with interest as the brawlers decided to expand their fight out into the street.

The gunfighter watched as a confusing tangle of arms and legs attached to various bodies rolled out into the street. In the haphazard mess, it was hard to tell who was who. The melee was accompanied by grunts and yells, filling the street in front of the saloon. Fists flew, men ducked, and a good free-for-all, better known as the definitive bar brawl, announced itself in view of the whole town, and one pissed off gunfighter. A chair shattered over Vin's head from one of the three drunk men the tracker found himself trying to control, and one of the trio pulled out a knife.

Unable to sit and do nothing any longer, Chris did something. He fired a round in the air from the double barrel shotgun tucked under the blankets for an event such as this, and then prepped it to fire again.

Shocked faces stared at the apparent invalid sitting on the boardwalk, with a large smoking barrel aimed in their direction.

"Next one hits someone," he said clearly, significant menace in his voice.

More guns came out, but these belonged to the other protectors of the town.

"Fight's over," Vin declared.

The peacekeepers rounded up the miscreants and carted them off to jail to sleep through their drunk.

Minutes later, Vin rejoined the smirking gunman, rubbing his sore head. "Guess yer not useless."

"Guess I'm not. Could use a drink." Larabee nodded to the leg he was still not allowed to walk on.

"Water or broth?" Vin quirked an eyebrow.

"Beer or whiskey." Chris glanced around. "And do it fast before Nathan finds out."

"Ezra!" Tanner called across the street, miming lifting a bottle.

One flew across the street at the tracker, who caught it and passed it to the gunslinger.

After a healthy pull, Chris handed it to Vin, who took one shot, and gave it back.

"Better hide it, Nathan's comin' to check on the ruckus." Chuckling, Vin stood to block the view, letting Chris stuff the bottle under the blankets, but where he could reach it easily. "What else ya hidin' under there?"

"A gag for a tracker if he keeps yapping. He's talking so much he's giving me a headache." Chris grinned up at his friend.

Vin laughed. "At least I ain't yellin'."

Both friends chuckled as they heard Nathan's approach, as they were sure the whole town could. "Can't leave y'all alone fer a second!"

THE END