He was there then, alone at a corner table, his good side turned toward the hotel's many diners, and Chris stilled, eyes flitting from shadow to shadow through the dining room as he absorbed all the goings-on with quick-speed; no apparent threat, directed his vision back to Prescott. A toothy blood-hungry smile came to the gunman as he watched the almost albinistic man, eyes red-rimmed and horrified, startle like a rabbit cornered.
Blackwood rigid and inky-dark, the gunman's duster flowing outward, menacing shadowily like predator wings, as Larabee hovered over the jack-a-dandy. With a sudden, lurching fear, John Prescott sensed he might have met his match in Chris Larabee, as the gunman seemingly possessed a killer-cunning, a volcanic rage that hotly froth from him, darkly demonic, standing there like the right hand of retribution.
Ragged, rabbity breaths, appalled at his timidity and fear, Prescott gripped the rim of the table, white-knuckled, as the gunman loomed like a mystical apocalyptist holding Prescott's life in his absurdly, or so it seemed to Prescott, incongruously gentle-lithe hands.
"I'd like a word with you, Prescott."
Prescott's voice hitched momentarily in his throat and then croaked out in an incoherent garble, becoming paralytically mute, now only capable of nodding his head. Coal oil; liquidly black, as the gunman slid, volatile and smooth, into the cushioned chair, a dramatic, menacing silhouette against the whitely pure curtains. A cheroot brought with a pointed deliberation to his thin, tersely, tight-drawn lips, and Chris fully aware of the appointed smoking room, lit the cigar with an exaggerated snappish draw and then released a grayish veil of chokingly dense smoke. "Well, Mr. Prescott, I ain't been feelin' too agreeable lately. In fact, I've been downright prickly 'n I'm thinkin' you're the reason why. Now mind you, I can't quite put a finger to it, but I'm more than certain you ain't been behavin' yourself 'n that makes me downright unhappy. I never been one not to give a body a second chance, so figure this to be it. Play your cards right, figure you live, play dirty, figure you're dead."
Reason lost to Prescott then as a maddeningly blackish rage shot up from the bowels of him, remembering too many times of being cowed, intimidated and brutally punished. Fear overcame in that instant, and his mind working swiftly, calculatingly, the key to finding the soul of Chris Larabee, some vulnerability, even men as tempered and tough as this gunman still carried deep inside them. Prescott squared back his slight shoulders and straightened his weakly small-chested frame, arrogant assurance propelling him to speak. "I would have placed the true culpability for your malaise more so on Mr. Tanner's recent delusions. His psychosis may be something that warrants discussion. I must say I'm not all together confident in Mr. Tanner's mental stability for the task before us. Are you?" A madly bright gleaming came to Prescott's eyes as he watched Larabee jolt back as though slapped, a ghost of fear haunting the pale eyes, and then an indiscernible mask quickly cloaking his flinty rock-hard features.
"My men are my concern." Chris rose from the chair, his hand flashing to the haft of his colt, articulately deafening in that silenced hanging moment. "You need only be concerning yourself with what I said and know that I don't speak lightly, Mr. Prescott."
A nod given by Prescott as Larabee walked away, the rhythmic, tinny tambourine-like chinking of the jingle bobs on spurs seemed to be the only thing heard through the suddenly quiet room, a collective breath held and then released when the gunman was no longer in sight. A pallid, almost feminine hand as Prescott snapped his finely manicured fingers with impatience, calling over a waiter. "Scotch and be quick about it."
The drink quickly dispensed sat before Prescott, as he raised the glass to his lips feeling the heat, wanting a woman again, but the risk too great, turned his thoughts to future pleasures, now aware of Larabee's weakness, Vin Tanner himself, making Tanner's demise that much more intensely anticipated. A whispered defiance spoken as he lifted his glass high, "Harsh lessons learned, Mr. Larabee."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"Ain't one for churches, Josiah." The older man smiled at the sound of his name, noting how the younger man emphasized the first syllable; his sister always spoke it in the same smoothly melodic way.
"Just want t' show ya something, Vin. I think you'll appreciate this." Josiah placed his broad hands on Tanner's shoulders and guided him forward. "It ain't goin' t' kill ya, Brother Vin."
"I reckon." Vin stopped, eyes tracking the building. "Sure is purty."
Josiah gazed at the Gothic Revival-style chapel. "The church is called the Loretto chapel, some know it as Our Lady of Light Chapel. It's similar t' King Louis IX's Sainte-Chapelle in Paris."
Vin squinted up at the chapel's door. "A lot different than all them adobe buildings. This sure is mighty interestin' Josiah, but I best be gettin' our supplies t'gether for the trail."
"Prescott's got his people at the mercantile workin' on it 'n J.D. 'n Nathan are there. Ya don't always hafta carry the load, Vin. Other people are here t' help ya now. 'Bout time ya started getting' used t' that. Besides ya still need t' take it easy fer awhile, get that arm healed up right 'n rest yerself a mite more." Vin was quiet and Josiah felt the man close into himself, though unsure why. "Come on, let's go inside."
White sand-stone walls and ceiling, so purely bright that Vin blinked his eyes, and momentarily stilled as he adjusted to the light, then an intake of breath as he transfixed on the wooden spiral staircase monolithically rising to the choir loft. "Ain't that a wonder." Josiah grinned hugely as the younger man reverently walked towards the staircase. "Ain't that a wonder."
"Sure is Brother Vin. It comes with a story, if yer a mind t' hearin' it." Josiah rested his bear of a frame onto a bench as he watched Vin Tanner run his hands over the steps and tentatively place a foot on the lowest stair, a nod of his head at Josiah's words. "It's been said that a staircase had been forgotten when the chapel was built 'n the Sisters of Loretto were told there weren't 'nough space now t' build one t' the loft above. Well, them Sisters wouldn't give up 'n they prayed t' Saint Joseph the patron Saint of carpenters."
"Jesus' father." Vin offered, still viewing the staircase with mesmeric amaze. Josiah grinned at that, the younger man surprisingly able to hold within him an ingenuously unspoiled goodness.
"Yep, Jesus' father. God answered their prayers 'n sent them a carpenter. He worked night 'n day building this masterpiece 'n then disappeared without thanks or payment. It's b'n said God guided the carpenter's hands 'n I'm inclined t' believe it. With no visible means of support 'n not one nail used just wooden pegs, it's just plain miraculous. Great architects are baffled by its design." Joisah continued. "This staircase is 'bout believin' in things that ya can't see, believin' in things that can't be explained, things that don't make sense. It's 'bout havin' faith in God, havin' faith in y'self 'n havin' faith in humankind."
Vin faced Josiah just then, eyes bright, his mind working, chewing on things. Speaking quietly, Vin sat beside Josiah. "I reckon we're kinda like them stairs." The soothing softness of the chapel with its colored windows and earthy richness of volcanic stone washed in white comforted Vin, waiting a moment, hoping he would have the right words to explain what he was feeling.
"How so, Vin?"
"Well, I rightly figure it jes' don't make a hell of a lot of sense why we stay together, the seven of us, different in our ways. I reckon we hold t'gether on faith, believin' in each other, keepin' us strong 'n true jes' like them stairs." Vin was quiet for a long while. "I'm thinkin' mebbe that's what it's like t' be a family."
Vin's words almost brought up tears in the big man's eyes, so expressively longing, so genuinely hopeful that Josiah took a huge, containing breath before speaking. "Ain't nothin' else t' call it, but family, Vin."
Vin stared at Josiah long and thoughtfully hard, then nodded his head once, followed by a few smaller bobs, giving one more nod as if to bear out Josiah's words, a wistful, soft smile playing on his lips.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Plunging forward through the hotel's hallway, guests startling as he passed, Chris Larabee churned in a twisted fury so near to being loosed from him, clutching it back with gritted teeth and clenched fists. Pounding on Travis' door, the rage ripped away from him as he barreled through the half-opening, nearly toppling Buck.
"How the hell did Prescott know? Who the hell told him?" Words lashed out like quirt on flesh, raw and wounding, the eyes close to a nightmare's edge, drilled into each man accusingly. "J.D.?"
The young man's name was spoken with a hissing vehemence, as Chris tossed back his duster, a habitual placement of black fabric behind colt, causing J.D. to recoil at the movement's unspoken malice. Buck protectively positioned himself in front of the kid, hoping that the gunman would calm, but knowing it might lead to ugly before all was said and done. "Settle down now, Chris. What the hell are ya talkin' about? You know J.D. would never say nothin' to Prescott. Not one of us would."
"Well then, BUCK, you tell me how he knew 'bout Vin?" The gunman stomped towards the pedestal table, grabbing up a whiskey bottle, pouring it agitatedly and sloppily into a crystal glass. Tossing it back, liking the burn that surged through him, quieting the anger for a moment as he sat in a wing chair next to the Judge who watched the gunman with a patient, concerned eye.
J.D. pushed in front of Buck, eyes wide, incredulous. "Prescott knew?"
Running a hand through his willow-blond hair, and scouring it across his face, Chris released a disheartening sigh. "That man's goin' t' be trouble."
Nathan stood in front of Chris, always a man to admit blame if need be, and he spoke in his deep, strong, pure voice. "Mighta b'n when I's talkin' t' Judge Travis out in the hall. Prescott came by right afta I was done explainin' everythin'. Gave me an odd feelin'."
Orrin Travis cleared his throat and stood with his hands clasped behind his back, turning towards the window watching the town's activities, not liking the thorny mess that was cropping up around them. "I guarantee Prescott was nosing around and overheard everything. I'm sorry, Chris."
Crabbed eyes scuttered over the hugely rising insurmountable cliffs and gorges that rounded Santa Fe, as a mounting, hammering trepidation filled him. With no evidence, Travis could do little, but watch Prescott as he continued to brutalize and maybe kill; he would be damned before he allowed it to happen to one of the seven. On faith alone, they followed him, especially Vin Tanner whose stake in this venture was far greater than anyone.
"I'm beginning to regret getting all of you involved. Grant has been known to be lenient on his cronies. There's no way of knowing whether this will come to any use at all. We could be spinning our wheels, going through hell for not. I trust the Senate Committee and Joseph Blackburn. There are still some honest men in politics, namely the Secretary of State Hamilton Fish, a good friend of mine, though he is becoming more and more disillusioned with the entire administration and President Grant, himself."
"Not your doing, Judge. I'm the one that agreed t' all of this 'n talked Vin int' comin', thinkin' it was the right thing t' do . . ." A puff-dry, disdainful skirr of laughter whirled like a dust storm from Larabee as currents of tension raised up hairs on all the men. "We'll be leavin' come sun up. J.D., Nathan, the supplies 'n horses ready?"
"All set t' go, Chris."
The gunman showed straight-set, determined teeth, angling his head toward the window's light as it caught the iris showing a mesmeric scattering of colors like that of a cat's eye. "It's plain t' me that Prescott is goin' after Vin and that just ain't goin' t' happen."
A quiet gulf of time, as the anxious nods of the men bobbed in unison, each trying to regain a control that seemed to roll and spurt from their fingers like frantically elusive marbles in a deadly game. Larabee stood facing the men, nodding, "All right, then. All right."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Thickly damp, fusty air clung to him, creeping into his nose, eyes, mouth as Vin coughed back a gagging nausea, quickly trying to settle himself under Josiah's watchful, benevolent eye. "I'm fine, Josiah. Feel better than I look." A quick nod to Vin as Josiah espied the men all ready seated at a back table, and began to steer the shaky marksman to a seat left for him; back to the wall, clear view of all doors.
"Charming establishment, Mr. Larabee." Ezra settled back in the worn chair, pulling out a deck of cards and worked them through his fingers as J.D. watched always fascinated, the saloon light flashing across his face, making him appear almost porcelain-delicate and disturbingly young.
"Boys." Vin brought a quick hand to his hat as he sat beside Chris, feeling the tension tangle and twist through the men in that quiet chasm when only breath and the shuffle of boots were heard, while the much louder grinding, crushing unspoken sounds and silent thoughts of worry seemed to scream and swirl noisily around them. Vin expelled a sigh that shuddered from him as he lifted up his eyes, but then a chuff released, climbing into a laugh as he studied the saloon walls.
"What's so funny, Vin?" J.D. happy to see Vin alert and quietly laughing, wanted to join in with the man and then nearly fell off his seat as the sound of gunfire suddenly spit through the saloon. J.D. pulling nervously on the molded brim of his bowler hat, dropped to the table's edge, eyes to Buck and the men in frightened amaze. "What the hell is goin' on?"
"See them walls, J.D.?" Vin pointed to the whitewashed muslin that was pinned up throughout the saloon. Bowler hat and strings of shoeblack hair swiveled loosely as J.D. looked around the room and then gave a nod.
"See them flies on them walls, J.D?" Again a nod from J.D. as a gun flashed in the semi-darkness. Echoes of several belching guns briefly interrupting Vin as all the men watched with half-eyed concern at the shooters.
"See them holes in them walls, J.D.? Well . . . ain't no more flies." The men released various degrees of amusement at that as J.D. watched the patrons of the saloon sporadically throw down on the flies that lit on the muslin walls. "Jes' an evenin's entertainment, J.D."
In quick-speed, J.D. bolted up with his colts of ivory like steely elephant tusks, splintering the heavy air with sooty, lightning barks that rumbled out and up, filled with bravado and ferocity. "I got one!!"
Chris, impassive; Buck, head tottering back and forth in apparent disapproval; Vin, hunkered down low, lifting a beer to his lips; and Ezra, Nathan and Josiah quiet, waiting for J.D. to calm.
"Any man with a lick of sense wouldn't waste his lead." No malice or judgment, Vin knowing J.D's exuberance outran his reasoning most times.
"Just havin' some fun, Vin." J.D. holstered his guns and looked at the men.
"Can't afford t' be playin' J.D." Vin spoke smooth and soft, again showing no malice or condemnation.
"Don't need t' be drawin' attention, Son." Chris ran a match up the length of his black denim pant's leg, the friction torching the flame as a luciferous glow shaded and illuminated the hollow and flats of his finely carved face.
J.D. mutely chagrined, sat down heavily into his chair. Buck smiled, knowing J.D. had a stretch of life's lessons ahead of him and grateful to be able to guide the kid through, grateful for that and the men around him. A newborn grizzly cub, that boy was, full of spit and play, getting into all kinds of trouble and Buck wondering most times, if the kid was listening at all, learning at all . . . but, then surprising Buck, being sensible and brave and clear-headed when it counted. Buck's smile growing now as he nudged J.D. "Looked t' me like ya got two for sure, J.D."
Vin played along with half-smiling lips and eyes. "I rightly figure five. What say, Chris, five sound 'bout right t' ya?"
"Yep five, I'd say." Chris grinned toothy and wide, taking a long draw on his cheroot, letting the smoke thin-line and then spoke again. "Good shootin', J.D."
Smiling wide, taking off his bowler hat and running a youthful, lively hand through his coal-black hair, J.D. flushed brightly, cheeks afire almost as deep red as ember-glow.
"I don't know, Vin. Five seems like a hell of a lot. I don't think I got that many and thanks, Chris."
Ezra leaned forward. "I believe a wager is in order. A friendly competition. What do you say, gentlemen?"
"No, Ezra."
"But, Mr. Larabee, surely you can see the profitability of this . . ."
"No, Ezra."
"But . . ."
"Don't make me shoot you, Ezra."
The gunman slid his greenwood gaze towards Vin, his smile crumbling as he thought of Prescott, recalling those lapis eyes spangling brilliantly with madness. "We need t' talk, Vin."
"Listen, Chris. B'n mullin' over everythin' 'n I reckon Tascosa ain't goin' t' be too much of a problem, if'n I keep t' the shadows 'n stay low. I rightly figure my placard ain't hangin' in the local jail 'n folks pretty much musta forgotten 'bout Jess Kincaid 'n Vin Tanner, 'pecially with the likes of William Bonney 'n a passel of other bad hombres roaming the Canadian Valley. Hell, when I was in Tascosa, it weren't even a town, just a bunch of sheepherders from New Mexico. Nothin' more than a few adobe buildings, b'n told it's a lot bigger now. Called it Atascosa Plaza back then, most of them River Boys called it Tascosy, that was some time after the pastores left and the cattle started comin' in along with the hide hunters."
Vin trailed off for a moment, back in some distant time, before Eli Joe, before his name was taken from him and then returning, leaned his sharply blue eyes on Chris then straightening himself began to talk again as the men listened, knowing this to be an uncommon occasion. "Mebbe if'n I meet up with Pat Garrett or Charley Goodnight, mebbe they'd back me. Used t' hunt buff with Garrett, he kept on even though the herds were dyin' off . . . Billy Dixon, too. Heard Dixon was a hero at Adobe Walls. Some hero fightin' the People with them Sharps buffalo rifles, ain't no contest there. Wrangled fer Goodnight when I was jes' out of the war, mebbe he'd have a good word fer me."
The gunman not wanting his words to be like a shot to the heart, to the hope of Vin Tanner, squashed the disbeliever inside himself with a heavy, crushing sigh, shuffling his thoughts within his mind, before speaking. "Vin, maybe we just stay in the shadows like ya said 'n not draw too many people to us. Garrett 'n Goodnight are pretty well-known 'n Garrett don't seem t' be big on loyalty." Gaze shuttling to Vin, waiting, watching, wondering what the marksman would choose to do, Chris trusting Vin's instinct sometimes more than his own.
"All right, Chris. I'll stay low." Vin shrugged down into his coat and drank his beer slow and thoughtful, pulling his hat lower over his eyes as Chris watched Vin become a stilled shadow as silent as death, bringing a melancholy to Larabee at the sight of it.
"Ezra, you stay with Prescott. Watch him closely. I want t' know everythin' he's up to."
Jade eyes flashed brightly at Larabee, and with a quick smile, golden incisor gleaming, Ezra nodded amicably, riffling the cards deftly through always active fingers. "I am at your service, Mr. Larabee. Prescott is far more despicable than I had previously suspected and whatever I can do to help keep Mr. Tanner out of that man's clutches, out of harm's way, I am more than willing to do so."
Vin back from the edges of shadowy silence, jerked up his head at Ezra's words and thought to his time with Abigail Roberts, overwhelmed by a need to apologize to the man. "Ezra . . . I reckon I owe ya an . . ."
"Mr. Tanner, there is no need for that. What is done is done and no one is worse for wear. I prefer that the entire matter be dropped." A quick nod from Vin met with a full-toothed smile from Ezra.
"Let's get us some rest, we'll be headin' out before sunrise." Chris rose at that said and the other men followed. "How are the odds, Ezra . . .us against Prescott? Buck figures it to be 7 to 1."
Buck flipped back his coat at that, settling his long fingers on his narrow hips and with a dancing shuffle, let out a laugh. "Where's Mary Travis, when we need her?"
Laughter shot out like bullets, boisterously ricocheting through the saloon and then dead quiet as the men walked out into the menacing blackness of night.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Vin's hair flew behind him, a brownish golden glow in the late morning sun, eyes like slits with hints of blue peered through the treasured telescope, holding a breath almost too long as his heart thrummed rapidly at the sight of Tascosa. The cerulean-eyed paint stomped and blew, mane whipping up with each head toss, restless and wild as though the peoples' spirit called to it from the grassy valley below as Vin sat quiet in the saddle, observing the land that appeared to be on the verge of change, already different to his eyes, just three years past.
Recalling a clear-running stream edged with bushes of wild chokeberries, plums, wild gooseberries and grapes with cottonwoods on hilly scattering of grassy knolls. The bushes gone now from the cattle's trampling and the trappers' beaver kill, leaving behind deteriorated, useless dams, the Canadian waters breaking free as Tascosa sat on that river's edge; bold, mud-ugly, but spirited, filled with youthful dreams and possibilities. Vin still with glass to eye reached out a hand towards the distant mottes, smooth and rounded as a woman's finer parts, and Vin loving the land, loving the Panhandle even with all its betrayals.
He watched the town through the glass like a small child on the tiptoed edge of a windowsill, nose pressed against the foggy, cobwebbed pane, writing his name in misty breath circles, hearing their voices: "He's not like us." as they all turned away . . .
Not even a jail to bring the body to, only two stores, a blacksmith shop and an adobe house as Vin recalled names being shouted out as Kimball and Rhinehart, McMasters and Briggs and no one listening to his pleas as their eyes dismissed him: "He's not like us." Turning away as they locked him up in the back stockade of Howard and McMaster's store. Decent, God-fearing men willing to give the condemned a trial, but Vin not a mind to being strung up, twisting in the wind, not ready to die with his boots on or being the first resident of their newly named cemetery Boothill, a haunting knoll above the town. Tanner handily escaped with Indian-cunning, finding Peso; knowing this to be the day he did die, the day his name could no longer be written in misty breath circles, only to remain for now as a quiet, unspoken echo in his heart.
A smooth downslide of spyglass to that grisly knoll, Vin's breath catching in the constrictions of his throat, wondering if Jess Kincaid lay under the dirt of those knee-high grasses. Pausing there in thoughts almost too overwhelming, a floodtide and Vin wanting to run away again from Tascosa, from Prescott, Bridget, the memories of the war, prison, and the bounty. Wondering too, if this might be the end of it, the end of him and grateful that he was not alone, no matter the outcome.
Chris watching Vin, holding his breath, sensing flight and half-hoping Tanner would do just that, fear close to the surface of Larabee as he looked down at the damnable town that stole so much from this man. "Ready, pard?"
Vin whispered a sliding glance at the gunman before speaking. "I reckon I'll jes' slip in quiet-like. Them folks'll be thinkin' the damn circus come t' town with that rig of Prescott's. Best backdoor it 'til I can get the lay of the land." Handing over the glass to Chris, Vin pointed his fingers to a building. "Sign says Exchange Hotel. Looks like the best place in town, so Prescott'll be headed there. Mind gittin' me a room n' then in say 'bout twenty minutes meetin' me next door at the Equity Bar?"
Chris giving a nod then, forearms locking and Vin tipping his hat to the men in the passing cavalcade with a wary eye to town. His thoughts too scattered to hold fast to a true direction, wishing all things squared away just by the truth of his word; a chuff and a shake of his head at that, incredulously amazed at the stirrings of hope still alive in him.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
He sat among the wooden markers, resting against one of stone, a telltale of modest wealth, etched with the name RUSSELL. If Jess Kincaid was laid to rest here among all these unfortunates, he certainly was lost to mortal memories; Vin not finding his name, until he slanted a glance to one that was unkempt, overgrown with prairie grass knee-high, and Vin wading through, parted the yellow blades like water, plucking up the sign. Faded lettering with only the J and the ID legible, feeling an electrical bolt run through him, Vin mumbled some vague reassurance to the man long decomposed. "He's dead, now. He's dead." Not truly sure if the reassurance was for himself against the pestering whispers of judgmental winds on that hill or for Kincaid, hoping to offer the man a peace at the knowing that his murder was avenged, that Eli Joe was dead.
Stone still for a while after that, not praying just quiet, never being a praying man, never a man to expect help on this earth and less so from a white man's God. Respectful though, his mother believed and that was good enough for him, vowing to learn more about the Bible and its stories, if given the chance.
Taking his knife from the sheath, Vin slashed and tore at the overgrown grasses, clearing Kincaid's grave and setting the marker back in place. Putting his knife away, Vin then removed his coat, folding it into a compacted, worn-brown square and tied it behind the cantle underneath his blanket roll. Reaching into a parfleche, Vin grabbed hold of a thin, string of leather, removing his hat, dangling it from the saddle horn by the rawhide ties as he finger-combed up his hair into the tight grip of his left hand and at the nape tied the leather strip securely around his thickly wavy, dark hair. Replacing his hat, Vin removed his canteen and took a long pull, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Vin returned the canteen to the saddle and then walked back to the tombstone . . . waiting.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
In the back smoke-filled gambling room of the Equity Bar, Ezra Standish reigned over the gaming table, green eyes gleaming brightly at the prospects, concern for Vin Tanner long forgotten as the sweet silvery sound of casually tossed coins steadily grew in a shiny mound in the center pot and the oh, so much sweeter stack in front of him kept a perpetual smile on the gambler's face.
Unsavory group, Ezra knew most were, but money was money, who was he to judge as he rubbed his well-dressed, refined elbows with robbers and horse thieves, cattle rustlers, gamblers and conmen, not unlike himself; most given the heave-ho out of Mobeetie by Texas Ranger Captain G.W. Arrington. They arrived with salaciously greedy intent, gamblers and sporting women alike and Ezra shrugged a dismissive shoulder, brushing aside a newfound ethos that brought him a distracted distress not wanting his concentration broken by principled, moral thoughts. Ezra Standish would leave such nonsense to the likes of Vin Tanner and now surprisingly, the likes of Chris Larabee.
All Vin Tanner's doing, really, with that look of squinted-eyed disapproval; no words needed to convey his judgment, just a shake of head and a quick-heeled turn without waiting for explanation, too well-schooled in the baser side of men, but that damnable ability to forgive, to overlook a man's flaws, to offer second chances. Yes, even Ezra Standish, himself, was now in a steady state of ruin and decline, afflicted somehow with a sizable dose of this "Robin Hood-esque" philanthropic nature that caused a shudder to nearly unsteady his well-set self. Not now, not today, today was for him, for winning. His own perfectly choreographed game, he the hunter and those around his prey. Yes, this was his wilderness as skillful and cunning as Tanner at his own game.
Again Ezra drifted into clouded thoughts of the marksman, worried now, hoping trouble would not find Vin, knowing the man was a fool to be here in Tascosa and quite understandably worried about his own rather delicate neck. Still smiling though, as he laid down his winning hand with a flourish of long, elegant fingers, bejeweled, purely white silk cuffs with a hint of ruffle, displaying a dancer's grace with arms extended and body bowed forward clothed in a garnet-hued frock coat, as he gathered up the pot, listening to that silvery, shimmering tumble of coins. Running a hand through them, causing a jangling, flashing rivulet to splash down on the green tabletop and then sparking a brilliant smile, "Another game, gentlemen?" His thoughts of Vin Tanner tabled for the moment.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
All gathered around a back table now, except Ezra, and Buck almost gone too, dark eyebrows waggling at the women posing sensually against the bar and at those straddling men's laps in long-legged shameless sprawls. Ready to choose the lucky lady, Buck started to rise, but stopped up short at Chris' softly voiced, "Need ya t' stop thinking below your belt just 'til Vin gets here. I'm not expectin' trouble, but the more of us here watchin' his back the better I'll feel."
"All right, Chris." Buck smiled wickedly at the waiting woman, obvious disappointment on their faces as the handsome, dark-haired man turned away from them and picked up a deck of cards. "Friendly game, boys?"
Nathan, Josiah, and J.D. nodded as Chris poured himself a glass of whiskey, watching the room with aloof, disinterested glances like a blinking, nodding cat, but bone and sinew tensed and coiled, a loaded, lethal, menacing spring, held back with terrific effort, only noticed by a slight gun-finger tremble. Almost thirty minutes gone and Chris, now long past worried that Vin might have been recognized as they sat here unaware, too late to get the man away from Tascosa and a hangman's noose. Buck saw the worry on Chris, rolling in like a brewing storm, letting his eyes circuit the room, easy and slow along with gunman's and then an illuminating grin coming to Buck with a kick of his chin in the direction of the back door. Chris smiled to Buck, elated that Vin safely made it through town, but relief too far off to rest easy, needing to get out of Tascosa before their luck high-tailed it.
Glances at each other then, all the men's eyes bright, but a quiet remove not wanting to draw unwanted attention toward the approaching figure whom to Chris looked more like an ordinary man, someone's son, rather than a cunning predator, a deadly shot, with his red flannel bib-front shirt and butternut pants. Chris remembering a poem that Mary had shared with him, words of being 'just a man' and the gunman always knowing there was more to Vin than he allowed people to see. Chris coughed, suppressing a rogue laugh, amused at Tanner's defiant, fearless display of red shirt, though Vin did not wear his hide coat and his hair worn long, pulled back instead, showing the striking angles of his face more clearly. Again a smile came to Larabee, as the saloon women watched Vin cross the floor, not one turning away and Buck shaking his head at that with a softly muttered appreciative, "Damn!"
"Boys." Vin found a seat between Chris and J.D., the large frames of Nathan and Josiah protectively in front of him and Buck to the side of Chris blocking Vin from plain view.
"You don't hardly look old 'nough to shave without that nest of hair showing. Shoot, you look younger than the kid, here." Buck leaked down low into the chair, tucking a hand into the high front of his pants, chuckling softly to himself.
J.D. stared at Vin. "You sure look different, Vin."
"That's what I was goin' fer, J.D. 'n Bucklin, mebbe ya'll should try t' git yerself a mite more sleep instead of cattin' 'round night 'n day. Them women ain't goin' t' be interested in a dried up old man, they'll be clawin' after the likes of the kid 'n me whilst yer settin' them old bones in a rocker."
Buck laughed at that loudly and good-naturedly and spoke softly so only Chris could hear. "They're after ya now, boy, they're after ya now."
Chris smiled dustily, swiveling his head to Buck, looking at each other for a long, despairing moment, knowing Vin did not often let his guard down, pleasures seldom indulged. Chris cursed Tascosa and the damn bounty. He wanted out of this town with every fiber of his being, the first step tomorrow, meeting with a man by the name of Gene Watkins to purchase cattle; a deal that Prescott set up beforehand. The Judge was all ready working on the necessary legal documents, search and arrest warrants. The New York Herald screaming for an investigation with claims of President Grant's brother Orvil Grant benefiting from profits of an Indian trader-post without doing a lick of work while women and children starved. Worse still was the allegation that President Grant's wife was also benefiting. Chris Larabee wanted to bring them all to justice; John Evans, Caleb Marsh, and more so, William Belknap, a trusted public official, using his position to gain illegal profits. The gunman relished bringing these men down, having no use for men of amoral character. Honest men would soon be assigned to the post traderships and better treatment of the Indians would follow. Chris could only hope that it would be a quick and easy task and they would be in Four Corners soon with their skins . . .
"Got the willies when I seen the stockade they locked me in behind Howard 'n McMaster's store. Kimball's got himself a blacksmith shop now. I reckon those boys might have a recall of who I am so I best steer clear of them. Mebbe I'd be less likely t' meet up with folks that know me over t' East Tascosa, goes by the name of Hogtown." Vin settled back with his arms resting on the hollow of his lean stomach, food not being foremost in his mind of late and his body showing it. A good ten pounds dropped in the past three weeks, and Vin knowing he couldn't spare another pound; not an ounce of fat to be found, purely muscle and bone.
"Got us a room together, Vin. Accommodations ain't the best. Rooms are small 'n most of them were taken. Let's sleep on it b'fore we start makin' decisions. See who's around 'n what folks really remember. Besides, we'll be meetin' up with that Watkins tomorrow 'n then we'll get the hell out of here."
"I was hopin' t' git a chance t' talk t' them witnesses 'n see what they had t' say 'bout the murder of Jess Kincaid since I'm here 'n all. I ain't goin' back empty-handed . . . I cain't." Sorrow immediate and hanging heavy over the men at Vin's words and Chris remembering his promise to Vin about returning to Tascosa to help him clear his name. Now, they were here and Chris was not willing to risk Tanner's life, empty-handed or not. Larabee's thoughts interrupted by a quietly spoken, though intense drawl. "Thinkin' mebbe when they heard Eli Joe was planted in a shallow grave, they'd be willin' t' tell the truth."
"Maybe, Travis can get hold of the witnesses' statements, but I'm thinkin' that most of them witnesses 'n the truth aren't a likely mix."
"What cha tryin' t' say then, Chris? Ya sayin' there ain't no way t' clear my name?"
"Vin . . ."
"I'll git 'em t' talk, t' tell the truth. I gotta! I got too much at stake not t', Chris. Too much."
"All right, Vin. We ain't given up yet." The men rallying around Vin with murmurs of support and Vin grateful for that, growing comfortable with and trusting in the loyalty of these six men, even Ezra Standish, whom Vin knew cared more than he showed.
A quiet, almost shy nod and Chris grinned full-toothed and honest at the sight of it, dearly liking this man and feeling a deep need to keep Tanner in his life for as long as he could. No guarantees, Chris knowing firsthand things got taken away, most times senselessly. Three years ago, nothing mattered to him, nothing; not his life, not anyone else's, and Chris could not have sunk any lower, only way was up or dead, and Chris wasn't ready for dead, no matter how much he tried to convince himself, no matter how many times that gun barrel found his mouth or temple. There was no explanation why he was still standing, still living, recalling something his mother would say from time to time; a musing smile coming to him, eyes coated in dusty memories, and then brightening with the love of his mother, remembering her tolerance and benevolent, forgiving heart. Her voice whispering softly like a stir of rustling autumn leaves, "God watches out for fools and drunks." Chris knowing he was both; thoughts coming to him of Buck and Vin Tanner, never truly appreciative of their vigilance until now, and Chris offered a silent toast to family and friendship.
An hour later found the men still together at that table, enjoying each other's company, and even Buck seemed content with only an occasional glance to a passing tawdrily dressed flirtation. Vin catnapped while the men played cards around him, comforted by their laughter and good-natured barbs. Occasionally, feeling their eyes on him during the pauses in their play. Felt damn good to know they were watching his back and Vin nestled down further in the chair, legs kicked out to the side of the table, as a trail song hummed in his head, wishing he had his harmonica, giving a contented sigh anyway, which spiked a grin on all the men's faces.
Ezra stretching his legs, having won every game, alert to a rising grousing among the losers, decided to make himself scarce, until the ill winds settled. Surprised when a black-haired, blue-eyed Celtic beauty grabbed up his hand; Ezra recalling her dealing Monte and sharing an occasional hug with an Irishly chipper gentleman by the name of Mickey.
"Please tell me you're not leaving so soon. You'll surely miss a big poker game tonight at McCormick's Livery. The best gamblers of Tascosa will be there; Lon Jenkins, Tom Emory, Louis Bousman and several businessmen and lawyers of significant wealth. You might find it lucrative. I'm extending an open invitation to you. I do have to say you are a striking fellow, surely you'll give Temple Houston a run for his money." A petite thing she was with her dark hair tied up in a bun, leaving her milky white neck, the porcelain-perfection of her face and the white, white of her teeth clearly exposed to the admiring gambling men as she floated beside Ezra, all grace and balletic beauty.
"Temple Houston, Sam Houston's son?" Ezra's eyes sparked with curiosity and more than a flicker of greed.
"That he is, also a fine lawyer and an expert marksman. He outshot Bat Masterson and Billy the Kid in a friendly competition. He's the District Attorney for Oldham County."
"Will Mr. Houston be among those at this poker game?"
"Yes, along with Judge Wallace, Mr. Cone and Mr. Duran, both well-known businessmen."
"Well, my dear lady, thank you for the invitation and your flattering comments. I was just on my way to partake in some lively conversation with my fellow colleagues and garner a well-deserved libation. May I offer you a beverage, perhaps a cup of tea?" This woman seemed to be well educated and displayed a touch of breeding well above the frontier women that haunted these virulent backwaters. Maybe a bit of spirited conversation would be a welcome distraction from those dreadful matters of cattle drives, sleeping on mercilessly pestilent grounds, dealing with those horrific heel-flies that Mr. Tanner spoke so eloquently about, along with every other sundry cattle infirmity that nearly caused him to disgrace himself, bile rising with each reprehensible ailment. Surely, they do not expect him to ride this thing called 'drag' or to chase after simple-minded beeves that did not have the good sense to stay out of quicksand and frightened so easily that a mere clearing of one's throat could have the entire herd stampeding. This certainly was not in the job description and he most certainly must not have been in his right mind upon agreeing to this ludicrously obscene plan.
"An Irish whiskey would be lovely." Ezra nodded with a charming smile and offered an arm to the woman whose smile rivaled his own.
Standish pointed an elegant finger towards a back table and smirked at the lifting of a questioning brow as the young woman gazed at the men who sat in the shadowy darkness of the saloon. "It appears you have an unusual assortment of friends. A gunfighter and a freedman, quite open-minded of you. I do agree that your discussions most certainly must be lively." Ezra saw no recriminations in her deep blue eyes, only what could be perceived as admiration. No, this woman was not stodgy, a wildness in that sweet whisper of a voice, and more so in the flash of her quick smile. Again she spoke, watching the workings of the handsome man's keen mind. " Please, don't try so hard trying to figure me out. No one truly knows who I am. It's the way I want it to be and I have a strong feeling, you feel the same."
"You are very perceptive, madam. Shall we?"
Josiah spotted them first, amazed by God's generosity offering the world such bountiful beauty. Rising quickly and surprisingly, agilely for a man as broadly built as he, as the men glanced at him curiously and Buck beside himself, laughing at the tunneled-vision grin, knowing that stuporous face of Josiah's could only mean one thing, a beautiful woman. All turning now, following the steady line of cavernously set blue eyes, all except Vin sleeping deeply beside Chris as the gunman snatched a swift glance at Tanner, making sure his face was hidden and cursing Ezra for drawing attention to them. No one could be trusted, not even a woman; Buck learning that lesson the hard way, almost losing J.D.
"Ezra." Chris raised his head, eyes sharp with a biting hostility and Ezra faltered, a step back, as if a wall stood between him and the men. Not the first time, seemingly never meeting Larabee's expectations, but at this moment he was in too good a humor to allow even the dark angel of despair to ruin it.
"Gentlemen. The lovely lady has kindly agreed to join us for a drink." Interrupted by Buck and Josiah, both men falling over each other, retrieving a chair from the next table, fighting over it for a moment with Josiah the victor, as he placed it next to his seat. Buck took her arm and guided her to the chair, as Josiah scowled and Ezra threw up his hands at the disgusting display. J.D. and Nathan sat quietly with amused grins, their foolish behavior almost making J.D. feel 'normal', instead of fearful and anxious as he felt since Vin's distress. Laughing boisterously now at the men's antics, desperate to make it 'stick', but the fear clinging to him no matter how loud he laughed or tried to pry it from himself.
All sitting now and Ezra starting the introductions, just then realizing he did not know her name, about to speak when he was interrupted by a raspy voiced drawl. The gambler's mouth gaping widely and each man sitting, quietly shocked by the words spoken, "Elizabeth . . . Elizabeth McGraw."
Nothing stirred in that quiet moment, everything suspended surreally around them, as two old friends reacquainted, or was it more than that, Chris wondered, watching them in a slant of sunlight, a dusty haze, catching the struggle of emotions on both faces. Deep intimate memories, and Chris nearly strangling on that, daguerreotypes taken out, lay open and recalled like bittersweet breathless bursts, heartwarming and painful. Closeness between the two, which unsettled Chris aware that he knew very little of Vin's past, though he considered the man a close friend, feeling a maddening resentment kindle towards the woman.
A breath expelled by the gunman as Vin's hand with its long-fingered competence, both deadly and tender, reached toward the woman's . . . toward Elizabeth's, and knew in that moment of Vin's touch of hand to hers that it was a passion of old love's lost. So different the two were, she as brash and bright as a warm summer day and Vin like the quiet of a soft star-filled night. All the men stunned silent, disbelief that the two could possibly have a past, especially Ezra, dumbfounded that he lost the woman again, wondering with a quiet amaze at what just occurred.
* * * * * * * * * * *
There, Elizabeth McGraw sat, flesh and blood, as beautiful as Vin recalled . . . Lord; he thought never to see her again. The first one he let close to him, the first one he allowed inside himself, allowed to see his soul. Vin never figured why she chose him, so beautiful, so fine, this Elizabeth was in her fancy dresses; a burlesque dancer; the cowboy's favorite; the Belle of Mobeetie. Walked right up to him, Vin Tanner, all dirt-dusty skin and bones, nothing to offer, but a calloused, trembling handshake, recalling her laugh at that as she kissed him, full and hard, but with a truthful caring, on his surprised, but willing lips. With all those cowpunchers slapping his back, a good-natured teasing, shaming him to no end, and Vin ready to skin each one of them alive from head to toe.
Elizabeth from the first day did most of the talking and Vin listened as she read him poems and spoke French to him; a language like music and Vin was content to be with her, even in town, even in a room too small to breathe. Vin stayed because she loved him and Vin, her.
A thousand questions sparked in their eyes as Vin stood, ready to leave the Equity Bar with this woman; the marksman, dark and distant as a night's sky, and Chris, a vortex of emotions, spoke flatly in deceptively quiet, pale-tones, "You think that's smart? I'm thinkin' ya best not be goin' out int' those streets alone."
"I reckon that'd be my decision t' make." Vin not ready to share the woman or his past, a need to be only with her, with Elizabeth and him knowing, he riled Larabee with those words.
In that deathly still, hanging moment, Vin watched the men; Buck wanting the hell out of there like crazy, wanting only to be lying beside a good woman; J.D. bug-eyed with fearful bewilderment, wondering why Vin seemed annoyed with them, with Chris, when they were only worried for him; Ezra blankly impassive, only a hint of concern in those poker-faced eyes; Josiah silently beseeching Vin to wisely reconsider going alone into the Tascosa streets and Nathan almost as fearful as J.D., not wanting to see Vin hanging, his own memory forever vividly clear. A memory haunting him more than the many flaying, or the master's cruel fencing games, or even that of leaving behind his mother. Nathan learned to live with all of it somehow, but not his hanging . . . the knot of the rope, not breaking his neck outright, fortunately, he supposed; Vin Tanner his saving grace, but what if Chris and Vin chose not to help that day. How long would he have hung there, dying slowly, frighteningly slowly, a shuddering doddered through him, his trembling hand weakly raising a beer mug to his lips as he turned to see Vin's attentive, concerned eyes on him.
"Best b' careful, Vin." A nod from Tanner to Nathan at those words and the men watched as Vin looked to the gunman.
"Chris . . ." Vin could not find voice to explain things to the man, wholly aware of Chris' disapproval and the gunman's mounting feelings of a betrayal that Vin plainly understood. The right to be angry with him, Vin knew that for certain, bringing them nothing, but worry for weeks now and here he was about to traipse around Tascosa, as sweet as you please, with a woman on his arm. "I won't be, but a coupla hours."
"No concern of mine." Vin's eyes steady on Chris, pleaded uselessly, as the gunman shifted himself away from Tanner and Vin quiet for a moment, turned then to leave with a building sadness in his heart.
"He's comin' back, right Buck? Chris 'n Vin ain't mad at each other are they?" J.D. panicked, swiveling himself around from man to man, his huge, black eyes wide with worry. "We ain't goin' to turn our backs on Vin. He needs us."
"We're not turnin' our backs on anyone J.D., least of all Vin. So stop yer worryin' 'n get me another beer." Buck watching the gunman, knowing Chris was stewing, but not, yet dangerous. If Larabee stayed away from the bottle, from drinking too much, things might not get too ugly. Buck looked over to Josiah and Nathan, hoping they would keep an eye to Chris, he wanted to stay himself, but put off his pleasures far too long all ready. "Don't seem right to let a man drink alone. I'm thinkin' Chris might like a little company." Nathan and Josiah understanding with a thoughtful nod.
"Go t' hell, Buck." An infuriating jolt shook the gunman at the looks shared between the men and Buck's words, Chris more afraid for Vin than angry and hating to have to worry on anyone. Having more sense than to drink on a job, especially in Tascosa, knowing Vin needed them to watch his back, even though Tanner was taking stupid chances with his life. Chris' hackles rising up every time he thought of Vin walking those streets blindly, a fool with women, Chris seeing this more and more lately. Damn, Buck too, thinking he would drink himself into oblivion . . . hell, he kept out of a bottle for months now. Last time he put on a good drunk was back with Ella . . . damn . . . Ella. Not going there now, Larabee knew he had to focus on Vin and keeping him safe.
"I'll give Vin, his coupla hours 'n if he don't come back, we'll just hafta go lookin' for him. We can't trust anyone; Vin can't trust anyone. And it looks t' me like Vin ain't thinkin' straight right about now. So we'll just have to do it for him."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The muddy wagon-rutted street dried in perfectly shaped casts of hoof and boot prints, as Vin and Elizabeth gingerly made their way to North Bridge Road toward her house. Walking silently beside him, an enchantment to her from the first day, Elizabeth continued to remain quiet; fearful her words would be like that of a jarring slap, causing this dream, this man to vanish into misty, thin air . . . just as the night he left.
It was nearly three years after the war, Elizabeth all of sixteen, a runaway with only one dream, to dance on the stage, doing so at the Benedict Bar and then moving on to Mobeetie. He was nineteen and dirt poor, no doubt of that, and his attire even dirtier, quietly drinking with cowboys, wild after a long drive, but all she could see was his face, his eyes, his smile, though rare and fleeting, and his hair, running well past his shoulders in loose, light-brown rivers that sparkled with a flickering of gold. Slanting her eyes to snatch a glance at him now as they walked, seeing that his hair was darker with the years, but still worn long, still the wild in him that she deeply loved and fiercely hated. A shiver then at the loss, but quickly recalling happier times as she danced, the first dance that he watched with tenderly sweet blue eyes, almost misted in tears as the touchingly doleful piano strains of 'Weeping, Sad and Lonely' filled the saloon. Dramatic and poignantly graceful, she danced for him only, watching those eyes and that perfectly sculpted face, now no longer hidden under the slouched-brim of his battle-worn Confederate cavalry hat, so mesmerically enthralled he was by her.
Thoughts trembled maddeningly within Elizabeth, unsure of what to say, always so easy with other men, but not him, not this man, this enigmatic Vin Tanner. It took nearly two months for him to speak about himself and nearly two years for him to truly believe she loved him, though Elizabeth believed Vin the moment he gave his heart to her, knowing him to be a man that spoke only the truth, not knowing any other way. Yet, even with his heart given, his love professed, that truth spoken, he still left her; love was just not enough.
Almost as if Vin heard those thoughts, he touched his fingers to her face, running them gently, lightly down her cheek. "I'm sorry, Lizzie." A grieving stillness, as he waited, not taking a breath, not expecting forgiveness; could only imagine the hurt he must have caused her, remembering a simple note scrawled in a child's hand, paying 'two bits' to some kid playing marbles in the street, and Vin feigning a pained wrist at the hideous grins of the kid's friends and the unvoiced questions in their eyes and them knowing, horrifically ashamed, even in front of small boys. Vin then making the kid read the note to him three times, not satisfied with his words, but could not think of more to say and once again making the kid read aloud:
Elizabeth,
I tried to stay. I'm sorry.
Love,
V.T.
Hoping he might change his mind about leaving, half-sure he was making a fool mistake, but going, no matter, to their room, placing the small scrap of dog-eared paper on their bed, along with a pale pink rose. The shopkeeper's wife giving one to him when she spotted Vin eyeing them, a birthday gift from her husband. Kind-hearted folks, always good to him, and Vin knowing it was more than not because of Lizzie; everyone loving her so, even the judgmentally pious ones, forgiving the vulgar occupation, aware of her love of dance and certain of her fine-breeding, Elizabeth being well-educated and able to speak French effortlessly.
She turned now to watch Vin as they walked, his hand holding hers, feeling the ghosts of loves lost shroud her like smoke and mist, haunting her with an incredible longing, and the sweetest of passions, yet filling her with an utter desperate despair. Elizabeth knew Vin Tanner to be truly unattainable; not to be kept within anyone's grasp, though she tried to keep him, to love him and Vin desperately tried to stay with her, knowing Lizzie loved the towns, the crowds, the stage, all things estranged to him. Elizabeth saw his struggle everyday to please her, to give her the life she wanted and Elizabeth despairingly knowing, if she truly loved this man she would let him go. Finding the note broke her heart, still kept in a carved wooden box of cedar with the dried rose, often wondering where he found the flower, being winter when he left. Long ago forgiving him, loving Vin Tanner too deeply to do otherwise, and Elizabeth strongly needing to know if he ever forgave her.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
They reached a small adobe dwelling with a slanting, scraggly cottonwood in the front yard, the window frames and door tilted drunkenly on the house and the shutters hung raggedly, one missing, laying forgotten in the grasses. Not where Vin would have imagined his Lizzie living, but knowing she was full of spit and vinegar, stronger than most without a real need for civilized comforts, just the need for excitement and Tascosa was that kind of place; a gambling cow-town with lively women and fearless men.
Elizabeth looked to Vin, her eyes wide filled with memories of the old time and her mind a freshet, bursting and overflowing, too much for her to take, as he brushed near her, too close . . . too much for her to speak of, a feyness stirring as she struggled with herself, knowing her words would surely change all things between them. Leaving her that night, still lovers and in love, maybe never to be together again, but always having that dream, now to be taken from them with just an utterance; their love like wind-tossed leaves, forever lost to the shelter of its bough.
"I married last spring." Regret, then guilt at that regret, her thoughts and words seemingly a betrayal to both men. Almost a curse to love each man so strongly, but choices made, beds laid upon and she, forever loyal to her husband.
Vin grabbed her hand, giving a forgiving squeeze, though knowing forgiveness was unnecessary, glad she found happiness and always sure she would. Who could not lover her? Even, touching his soul, his heart, so deeply buried long before and more so after the war.
"I'm happy fer ya, Lizzie."
Elizabeth nodded, knowing his words as truth.
"I care for you, Vin. Very much."
Their eyes deeply searching, watching as the memories surfaced and faded with each smile or sigh or sweeps of sadness; twirling, dancing, aching, cradling them, tasting their love on lips of long ago, and then both back now, sitting in her adobe house with its white-washed muslin walls and desperate touches at beauty; strings of colorful beads and pictures of faded flowers and cheap bits of sparkling glass, but Vin only seeing joy in her, even in the midst of ordinariness.
Always alert to him; Lizzie saw the flicker of uncertainty in his gentle eyes, forever wanting the world for her and she gave a squeeze to his hand still holding hers. "I know it's not much, but I'm happy here." A sigh blew out from her, a breath held back since his departure, not completely breathing, until all things were said. "I'm sorry for holding on so tightly. For the pain and guilt that I caused you. We needed different things from life and I'm sorry for closing my eyes to that. I never once regretted loving you, Vin Tanner."
Almost struck senseless with a forgotten delight of being loved, remembering the eiderdown comfort of it, threading its way through his heart, his soul and with that words came to him with trusting ease.
"Elizabeth McGraw, I ain't never known a day more brighter than when I was with ya, ain't never b'n more happier than when I was by yer side 'n I ain't never had a moment's regret fer knowin' ya, fer loving ya. I need ya t' know that, Lizzie. I jes' want ya t' know that."
Remembrance then, deep and sweet like a whispering, lingering kiss; those days of love, not touching the sadness as they traveled that time together. "We had good times, then?" A hope of that spoken by Elizabeth as the words softly fluttered about them, Vin lifting up her hands to his lips, giving a gentle kiss to them. "More 'n this boy coulda ever hoped fer."
"Will you be staying in Tascosa for awhile?"
A slice to him, a jagged pain knifed his heart; the truth of his life now, far more urgently real than love's old dreams. "There's somethin' I need t' tell ya, somethin' ya need t' know 'bout me." Grit-weary eyes traveled dust-filled roads, recalling all those days between then and now and Vin lowered his head, ashamed to tell her, but began anyway, only once in his life trying to escape from things. Or was it twice, and would he again?
"I gotta price on my head fer a murder I didn't do." A deprecating, growling laugh came from him, surprising Elizabeth at the scornful sound, but stayed quiet as Vin began to speak again.
" I'm wanted fer murder right here in Tascosa. Some of yer neighbors might not take too kindly t' me being in town, recollectin' how I escaped from Howard 'n McMaster's stockade. Might prefer t' seein' me on the knotted end of a rope. This fella, Eli Joe, a real bad hombre, set me up good. I was bounty huntin' at the time 'n I was trackin' him, wanted fer murder, but he got the drop on me, trickin' me by killin' a farmer, a sheepherder by the name of Jess Kincaid. Thought he was Eli Joe 'n brought the body int' Tascosa, but them good citizens knew the dead fella t' be Jess Kincaid 'n not Eli Joe. I lit out then 'n I started hearin' tales of witnesses comin' forward about the murder. Ain't no one saw me kill that man, jes' talk comin' out of fear of Eli Joe, mebbe threatenin' t' kill 'em or mebbe talk comin' from money paid fer them lies. I'm workin' fer a Judge now, in a town in New Mexico Territory. Four Corners. I cain't ask the Judge fer help, don't want him goin' against his beliefs fer the likes of me 'n I cain't jes' waltz in 'n git them depositions without drawin' a hell of a lot of suspicion 'n the boys have other things t' be worryin' on. It's a hell of a mess. But, I cain't be in Tascosa 'n not try t' clear my name. It's all I got."
Still believing he was on his own, alone, out of old hurts and habits, afraid to trust and only time and a thousand-voiced reassurances, would Vin then put stock, faith, credence in those voiced oaths of friendship and loyalty.
"That's not true, Vin, you've got more than that. I saw six men who care for you and I believe would stand by you. That's a lot in this world, a heck of a lot. And you have me, always did and always will." Vin nodded in quiet agreement, knowing in his heart that those men would die for him, and Vin hoping it would never need come to that. A smile then came to her, Elizabeth all ready knowing what she would do and Vin seeing that glint in her eyes, shook his head intently watching her.
"Lizzie, I ain't wantin' you t' git involved in this. If'n they know yer helpin' a wanted man, ya'll be lookin' at prison time 'n I'd hang 'fore I let that happen."
"I didn't realize your memory was failing you." A teasingly tilt of her voice and head, as she watched him.
"It ain't 'n ya know it. Don't try 'n change the subject, Lizzie."
"My mind is made up, Vin Tanner and you should remember that once it's made, you can't change it. I have a lot of powerful, important friends in this town and I know a few lawyers. Good, honest men. We'll get to the bottom of this."
"I don't have much time. Be leavin' on a drive in a day or two up int' Indian Territory. We'll be buyin' cattle tomorrow."
A panicked silence as her brow trembled into a corded line of worry. "The Oldham County courts have outlawed mavericking and some brands. The Panhandle Cattlemen's Association hired Pat Garrett to track down the mavericks and confiscate all cattle that carry those outlaw brands. A lot of the cowboys aren't feeling too friendly towards Garrett and his boys, calling them LS men, thinking they're working for the LS and the other big ranches, even though they're Texas 'home' Rangers and Garret's been made Captain. The 'working' cowboys are afraid the big ranchers are going to eat up all the land and they won't be able to make a go of their own. There's a lot of unrest out there, so you and your friends have got to be careful."
"I was acquainted with Garrett when I was huntin' buff, but I best steer clear, if'n he's a Ranger. Wasn't as concerned when he was the law in Lincoln County. Those Rangers, now that is a whole other ball of wax. I heard he finally got the Kid."
"Yes, killed him in New Mexico at Pete Maxwell's place. A McKinney and Poe were with him. A few River Men rode with Garrett the first time they caught up with Billy. Jim East, Tascosa's sheriff was one of them. I know William Bonney did wrong, but he had a lot of friends and Pat Garrett used to be one of them. That goes to show, you can't trust anyone, Vin. You just promise me you'll be careful."
Her words like worry beads fiddled with him, rolled over him and Vin gripped her flustered hands in his, reassuringly with a softly whispered, "I promise." Then a need for distractions, Vin smiled, angling his head, as he spoke: "So tell me what this husband of yers is like. Knowin' ya'll, I expect he'd be someone t' ride the river with."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"How long's it been, Chris?" J.D. fidgeted with his bowler hat, and then finally taking it off, placed it on the table. "Should we go look for Vin, now?"
"J.D., it's only been an hour 'n Vin told us he'd be back in a couple of hours, so we'll give him that." Emotions settled now, no longer a frothy, turbulent tide swelling over all in its wake, a shot of whiskey, bringing Chris calm.
Josiah, Nathan and J.D. sat vigilantly, but especially J.D., taking on his duties with fervor, Buck depending on him to watch Chris, and J.D. wanting to get Vin back, not letting him out of their sight, again. Of course, Ezra was back to the gaming table and Buck was bedding a red-headed beauty with a bountiful bosom, fleshy pale knolls that could smother a man, if he was not careful, and J.D. snorting a laugh, hearing Buck speak in that swaggering way of his, "But, what a way t' go." J.D. half-believing that it surely would be heaven to die in those arms, those breasts and needing to do it at least once before he died. God help him, if he did not have a 'poke' just once before he died. Thoughts distracted and then J.D.'s head shot up, twisting around like a loose knob at Chris' curse, following the gunman's line of vision and grabbing up his hat with angry hands, thrusting it on his head, annoyed. "What the hell is he doing here? This isn't his kind of place."
Chris dragged a match up his pants' leg and let it glow fiery-hot for a moment, watching with tight-lidded blistering eyes, as the inferno haloed Prescott, then bringing the match up to the cheroot, took a long drag, and caustically blew a gray haze at the dandy, as Prescott stood before him.
"Mr. Larabee."
"Mr. Prescott."
Larabee sat upright, his spine like a ramrod, eyes like flint, hands like agitated vipers ready to strike, distractingly unnerving to Prescott and the cowboy who stood next to him.
"I would like to introduce you to Catfish Kid. He will be escorting us to our rendezvous with Gene Watkins and from now on will be in my employ."
Chris showed a hint of smile on the edges of his mouth, watching a warring rise within the cowboy as the man rested his hand aggressively on the butt of his six-shooter, eyeing Larabee, and Chris recognizing the soullessness within, a man who enjoyed the kill, but a coward that feared his own death, more.
"Yuh famous or somethin'?" Nathan was the first to speak, feigning interest and a naive curiosity, but inwardly baiting the man with those words.
"Most folks know of me in these parts. I git m'self a certain amount of respect."
"Not because of your name." Chris grinned, enjoying the flash of anger in the man's snarling eyes.
"Ya'll got a problem with my name?"
"Hell, yeah. It's stupid." Chris still grinning cast a glance toward the men around him. "Don't ya think it's a stupid name, J.D.?"
"Sure do, Mr. Larabee. That's what it is, all right."
The cowboy dropped down his hand, no longer in a threatening stance. "*The* Chris Larabee?"
"That would be me." Gunfighter-eyes sighted on Catfish Kid, steely quick and darkly menacing, Larabee rising slowly, causing the cowboy to step back, a slight cowering, as if pistol-whipped, the scent of fear strong on him as he watched Larabee with craven, enviable regard. Prescott was appalled, a twitch jumping sporadically across his scarred-ravaged cheek and J.D. could not help, but laugh at the scene.
Voices from the back room interrupted them just then, pulling their attention away and towards a black-haired man with a face lit bright and as lively as Ireland, itself; robust and jovial, blue eyes brimming with Irish lore and no one seeming to grow tired of his tales, as the crowd shouted out to him with good-natured salutations. "Has anyone seen where Frenchy's gone off to?"
J.D. shrugged at the men as several cowpunchers pointed and waved toward their table. Chris now becoming uncomfortable with all the attention being directed toward them, by Prescott, Catfish Kid, and now this fool and Chris grateful that Vin was not in the midst of this damn social hour. His face was hard, drawn tightly closed, pinning the anger down; reverberant roils within him, evident only in the gunman's flaring nostrils with each huge, containing breath.
"Good Evening, Gentlemen. I was told you might have seen my wife. Her name's Frenchy McCormick. Little bit of a thing with black hair pulled on top of her head, blue eyes."
J.D. with youthful impetuosity, spoke, "The only woman that we've seen goes by the name Elizabeth McGraw."
Prescott still hovering, still lingering with his cat-on-prey eyes, ready to pounce hissed out one name, almost inaudibly: "Vin Tanner."
Chris sprung up frighteningly fast, his black duster umbrellaing out like wings of a bat; the gunman crazed and blood-thirsty, but then grounded by Josiah's ministrant hand like a stake, tethered Larabee momentarily, as he regained a calm. "Prescott, you best move on. This is no concern of yours 'n take your flunky with ya."
"Is there no limits to your loyalty, Mr. Larabee? Protecting a man that seems to have little respect for the sanctity of Marriage. Why Mr. Sanchez, surely you don't approve of Mr. Tanner's behavior."
"Go now, Prescott!!" Chris still braced by Josiah's broad hand.
"Good Evening, Gentlemen. I shall leave you to your ungodly devices."
"Well now, Gentlemen. That was quite a show, but still I'm without an answer. Did you mention an Elizabeth McGraw?" The dark-haired man stared at J.D.
"Yes, sir. A friend of ours knew her." J.D. flicked a questioning glance to Chris who gave J.D. a reassuring nod.
"Vin Tanner? Name has a familiar ring. Well to clear up any confusion, Elizabeth McGraw is my wife. She now goes by the name of Frenchy McCormick, Frenchy being a cognomen given to her by some cowboys awhile back and, of course, McCormick given to her in Marriage. I'm Mickey McCormick, her husband."
Chris reached for the extended hand offered and with a disgruntled shake of his head, muttered a softly voiced: "Oh, boy." Wondering what trouble Vin Tanner was getting into now.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
She came back alone and Chris' stomach flip-flopped at that, worried to the extreme lately and hating everything about it. Heartbeat tattooing in his ears, feeling the thrumming rhythm of his jugular, so fiercely his blood pumped through him, and Chris half-listening to Mickey McCormick's good-natured tales of Tascosa; just now becoming a booming cow-town and his livery thriving, a wealth of riches to be had for the free thinkers, the visionaries. Something about meeting Frenchy in Mobeetie some time ago, a good luck charm to him at the gaming tables, bringing her to Tascosa only the year before, and him settling down, a self-proclaimed bachelor. Chris hearing a smattering of laughter from the men; Nathan, Josiah and J.D. still present, still vigilant, grounding Chris with a glance or a word, as he seemed ready to catapult from the chair at the slightest provocation.
Once more McCormick's voice came to him, talking about opportunities for the taking, Chris half-listening as he watched Elizabeth_ no_ Frenchy coming towards them. A side-glance to the men, seeing J.D. enraptured as McCormick rattled off the names of ranches that rose up and out of the Tascosa Valley on every bit and scrap of land; a mulligan stew of names like the LX, the LIT, the LS and the XIT, the Frying Pan, the Tabletop, the Spider X, the Anchor-T, along with the Triangle Dot. Some outlawed and some carnivorously hungry and huge, swallowing up the rest.
Pointedly distrustful eyes locked on Frenchy as she walked towards them; Chris pushing down a recurring fear, an unholy terror that prevailed his every thought, breath, and heartbeat, waiting for someone to shout out: "We've got him!! We've got him!!" Oh, so clearly this vision came to the gunman in his wide-eyed wakefulness, and he, never a man of superstition, never, but this premonition just_would_not_shake. Her soft footfalls brought him back, Chris rising in front of her as Frenchy stood at the table, her hand resting on Mickey McCormick's shoulder, giving a quick expressive nod to her husband, silently letting him know that they would speak later. Chris, not noticing Mickey's sudden silence or the man's arching eyebrow, more than a little piqued at the gunman's stance toward his wife, and not noticing all the men watching him, set his jaw tightly, holding back his impatience tinged with fear as he confronted the woman. "Where is he?"
Frenchy sensed his angered impatience, reading it only as concern for Vin, nodding to the gunman as she leaned down to give a kiss to her husband, then jutted her delicate porcelain chin toward the saloon door. "Let's talk outside, shall we, Mr. Larabee."
A snappish nod given as the gunman looked determinedly ahead, the tintinnabulation of his spurs lost in the jouncing of voices and laughter and the jangling of piano keys; the notes of 'Yellow Rose of Texas' filling the bar's thickly staleness. Stepping outside in the alleyway between the saloon and hotel, Chris leaned back against the single-storied adobe building, lighting a cheroot as he tipped up his face, taking in the sight of an absurd cow's head hanging above the entryway of the Exchange Hotel, and again directed a hard stare at the woman. "Where is he?"
"Vin went to the hotel. He seemed a bit done in. Is he all right, Mr. Larabee?" Worry for Vin in her words, but Chris was not willing to befriend this woman, not caring about her time with Vin, not able nor wanting to trust her.
"He's got a lot on his mind lately." Blowing out a thin line of smoke over her head, as Frenchy stood unimpressed and unafraid.
"Vin told me and I'm going to take care of *everything*. There's no need to worry yourself about Vin and his *situation* any longer." Her blue eyes emphasized her determination, not even this imposingly intimidating man would stop her from helping Vin Tanner as he was a part of her life *long* before Chris Larabee appeared. Vin loved her, for God's sake, and this hired gunman would have little say in what she did or did not do for Vin. No say at all.
"Oh, I'm not worried. And there's no need for you to be taking care of *anything*. We're doing just fine, ourselves."
Firecracker-flash of anger ignited within Frenchy, as she studied the man while he coolly smoked his cigar, a gloriously frightening man, but something else was there, too. So powerful, she felt it effusing from Chris Larabee, him not able to breathe from the intensity of it, desperately hiding it away from himself, from everyone, but Frenchy saw it and just now understanding the reason behind all his scorn, his anger, and his fear. Oh, yes! What men could not control, they feared and that fear became a fierce and bitter anger.
"I care for Vin Tanner deeply, Mr. Larabee. I love him *too*."
Taken aback with her forwardness, a straight shooter for sure, and Frenchy seeing through him, leaving Chris to wonder when he became so transparent, as she read his deep fondness for Vin Tanner plainly, this nearly causing him to reel, powerfully ill at ease by the truth of her words and then his mind running rapidly back to his conversation with Prescott. Chris recalled that same knowing glint appearing in Prescott's eyes as the man spoke of Vin, and Chris cursing himself for allowing his feelings to show, knowing somehow he betrayed Vin Tanner because of it. His caring, his love only seemed to bring people a load of hurt, Lord help him, bringing them nothing, but dead. Her voice pulled him out of his thoughts.
"I need to do this for Vin, Mr. Larabee. I know people that can help. The District Attorney, lawyers, Judges. My husband and I are good friends with Jim East, Tascosa's Sheriff. I really *can* do this and Vin need not be involved at all. No one will know that he was here or that he's living in New Mexico Territory. I *can* do this for him."
Chris was deaf to her words, not wanting too many hands in the pot, afraid that she would only draw attention to a seemingly forgotten murder and to the $500 bounty on Vin Tanner's head. "Appreciate the offer, Frenchy, but we'll handle it." At that he tossed away the butt of his cheroot and turned on his heel towards the hotel, leaving her speechless, but all the more determined.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Only one bed sat in the center of the room and Vin cursed at that, too tired to go for his blanket roll, decided he would round it up later, but for now all he wanted was sleep. His strength still ebbed in the evening hours, the wound in his arm finally healing, but the worry running him into the ground. Not a man that slept deeply most nights, but he found that changing, living in Four Corners, feeling sheltered with Chris and the boys by his side. Never really having that before, and Vin finally believing in it, trusting it, and trusting them.
Jamming his right heel into the bootjack, Vin pulled out his foot with a contented sigh and decided to sit down as he took off the other. Dog-tired, he was, as her removed his hat, throwing it on the carved wooden spindle of the bedpost, and then pulled the leather strip from his hair, finger-combing it loose as he laid himself gingerly down onto the patchwork quilt and cowhide blanket, his head sinking softly into the down-filled pillow.
Almost giving himself over to a needed slumber, but then abruptly jolted awake by the skirled screams of a woman, reflexively grabbing up his mare's leg, trampling, stumbling forward, Vin still layered in the musty edges of sleep, as he heaved open the door. Only clipping, frantic, womanly footfalls echoed through the hall as Vin felt a shiver of a breeze stir across his cheek from the woman's swift passing, leaving a wisp of honeysuckle in its swirling wake. Still the mournful cries reached him as he entered the hallway, stocking-footed and groggy from an interrupted sleep, and his stomach clenching at the sight of Prescott coming toward him that only meant one thing to Vin, reacting only to the fading cries of the woman. Mare's leg braced and locked snugly against the sturdy, sinewy branch of collarbone; his shoulders tensely rigid like a brittlely taut hanger; a thunderous rage blindly filling him as he hurtled towards the weakly small man who stood shudderingly paralyzed in place with his mouth gaping widely at the maddeningly incensed eyes of the plainsman, a savagery of the wilds Prescott only read about in dime novels, watching with huge, round frightened eyes as Vin Tanner lunged menacingly towards him.
Vin could think of nothing else, but Bridget, could see nothing else, but Bridget as she lay so achingly beautiful in death and it broke him into a thousand shards to think of it, a pain so deep inside of him, he could not breathe. A hot biting anger tore at him, gnawed at him and then broke free as Vin brought up the butt of his gun and slammed it hard into Prescott's face. "You son of a bitch!!! I'm gonna kill ya fer every woman that ya brought pain ta. Damn you, Prescott. Damn ya t' hell. If ya ain't gonna go back t' the rock ya crawled out from, then I'll jes' hafta send ya straight t' hell instead."
Vin dropped down on his knees, mare's leg released absently from his hands as he wrapped his fingers like death around Prescott's neck, ready to choke the life from the man and not caring about his own, only Bridget's, only Bridget's . . . an anguished cry, as broken as any man could be, suffered from him, mournfully melancholic, a release of a thousand dying souls from within him. Faces of the ones lost to him, so many, too many and Vin was angry for the losing of each one and Prescott would pay. So deep in grief and maddening rage, Vin was mired in a darkness that only gave sight to the man in his deadly grip, blinded to Catfish Kid sneaking up behind him, unaware as the man raised up his gun butt and slammed it solidly on the side of Vin's head; rage then turning into a black void.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"Vin . . . Vin . . . can ya hear me?" Chris squatted beside Vin, his back deeply curved as he brought his hand to the side of the marksman's neck, releasing a breath when he felt a strong pulse tapping against his fingertips. "Come on, Tanner. Time t' open up them eyes of yours."
A moan escaping from Vin then, hearing a familiar voice that dragged him back into a blinding light, bringing nothing, but pain. "Chrriiss?" Slurring drunkenly, his mind fuzzy, lost and confused, struggling to remember things. "Chrriiss?"
"Yeah, it's me, Vin. What the hell happened t' ya?" Chris slowly lifted Vin up under his arms and rested the unsteady man against his chest as Chris lowered himself down on the hallway's wide-planked flooring. Then Chris startling for a moment at the feeling of blood, damply warm soaking into his shirt, suddenly turning sharply cold against the bareness of his skin. "Who did this t' ya, Vin?"
"Don't know, but somebody done gave me 'nother "cowpuncher's shampoo". Jes' don't seem right that folks cain't seem t' leave my damn skull alone. Hell, I might be dumb as dirt, but my head sure ain't hard as rock." Vin searched for the gunman's face, eyes squinted tightly showing only a thin strip of blue, blurred vision causing him a sickish dizziness that made his stomach churn. "Damn, Chris . . . I reckon I better git up 'fore I git sick all over you 'n me." Panic plain as Vin spoke, "I'm gonna need yer help here, Larabee 'n ya best make it quick."
"Hell, Tanner, I ain't in any mood t' be cleaning up after ya, so let's get your sorry hide up off this floor, pronto."
"Ya'll ain't gittin' no arguin' from me. Aw, hell . . . Chriiss . . . hurry . . ."
Lithely rising from the planked flooring, Chris reached for Tanner's hands, pulling the weaving man to his shaky feet, watching Vin's eyes nearly roll back, showing only the whites. "Come on now, Tanner. Stay with me. Let's get ya int' the room." Draping Vin's arm around his neck and across his shoulders, Chris then gripped around Vin's waist; distractedly thinking the man was too scrawny and would see to it that Tanner ate more. Chris half-carried, half-dragged the bone-thin man reminding Chris of a lean greyhound, almost getting Vin to the bed, but then stopped abruptly, feeling the spasmodic convulsions of Vin's chest jarring against his own, deciding then to grab the chamber pot stowed under the bed. It was none too soon, as Chris folded Vin into a kneeling position, placing the chamber pot on the floor underneath the man's face. "Easy, Vin. There ya go. Hold steady, now."
No words from Vin only the strained sounds of retching and Chris wondered if Vin's stomach would be making an appearance shortly, so powerful was his convulsing, shaking the man to the marrow, until there was nothing left in him to give. The retching continued, tearing through the bowels of the slight man, and Chris gave an occasional, reassuring squeeze to Vin's taut shoulder with each moan released. Chris removed Vin's bandanna and wiped away vomit and sweat from the injured, painfully ill man. "Easy, Vin. You all done, now? Feelin' better? Okay, now let's get you into bed. You can rest easier there. No Vin, come on, now. Help me out here. I know you're spent, but I'm not lettin' you sleep on the floor."
Vin curled himself around the chamber pot on his right side, pushing away Chris' hands. "Sleepin' here, only one bed." Vin opened one eye and stared for a while at the chamber pot. "J.D. ain't goin' t' be too happy, ya'll lettin' me spew my guts out int' his hat."
A loud laugh at Vin's words, Chris' ironwood control lost around this man. Vin made him laugh and that made him feel good, almost half-human and one thought kept playing over and over in his head, holding tightly to him: "Can't lose this man. Can't lose this man." A raspy, raw-throat cough cleared Chris' mind, reaching down to the man on the floor who was curled into himself like a dried-up leaf, and Chris patting Vin's shoulder repetitively to get the half-conscious man's attention.
"Get up now, Vin. Or do ya expect me to pick you up off this floor like I used to pick up Adam. You're not a five year old, now. Come on, pard. Wake up." Seemingly natural to speak of his son with Vin, to speak of Sarah, never talking to anyone about it, and Chris grateful for Vin, grateful that he never asked, just waited for Chris to speak of them, giving Chris that choice to share or not, no judgments either way. Words whispered aloud then, "Can't lose this man."
A mumble from Vin, almost incoherent, "Ya won't." Chris lowering his head, trying to hear and then a small smile coming to him, as Vin raised up a shaky, groping hand to him. "Ya gonna help me up or what?"
Chris reached for Vin's hand, straddling the lean man, grabbing for Vin's other hand that was sandwiched between his knees, Vin still lying on his side. "I need your other hand, Vin. Okay now, on three. One...Two...Three." Vin moaned and staggered into Chris, nearly losing his legs and Chris grabbing him under his arms, as he set Vin down on the bed, gently lowering his head, pillowing a bandana underneath the bloody wounds and straightening the weakened man's legs. "What were ya doin' runnin' around without your boots on?"
Vin's eyes opened a narrow slit, looking through a shadowy layering of dark lashes. "Took 'em off t' sleep."
Chris nodded and gave a pat to Vin's arm. "We'll talk about it in a bit. I'm gettin' Nathan. You stay put. If I catch ya wandering the hallway, I'll shoot ya."
Vin's eyes opened wide and than narrowed humorously. "Ya don't scare me, Larabee. Never did, never will.
"Go t' hell, Tanner 'n like I said stay put."
"Shoot, Chris, I ain't goin' nowhere. My head's split so wide open, I 'pect you c'n look inside of me 'n see clear down t' my toes."
Chris, bringing the patchwork quilt up over Vin, smiled down at the man. "Rest easy. I'll be back."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Arms and hands, chocolate-brown suede, mocha-smooth, lifted, prodded and twined themselves around Vin's head, and Vin feeling with each jab and touch a piece of it, cracking apart like a fragile egg, membranously close to loosing the contents of his aching, shattered skull all over the bed. Eyes watching, but Nathan so intent on his examination, did not notice the disgruntled features or the corded brow lined with pain, until Vin released a muffled moan when a well-directed poke nearly shot him from the bed.
"Sorry, Vin."
Vin did not speak, could hardly breathe and all ready vowed he would never move his head again. He was feeling a sickness creeping up on him and he squashed it down, close to bargaining with God, praying the nausea would pass and then a low moan released again. "Lord, Almighty."
"Not feelin' too good, huh, Vin?" Nathan lifted a cup up to the marksman's thin-lined lips. "Drink this now, it'll help that headache a yers."
Vin looked skeptically at the cup. "Ain't that charcoal brew ya gave me one time is it, Nathan? I ain't goin' t' drink that again, even if I got one foot int' the grave. That stuff jes' 'bout put me six feet under." Nathan slapped at Vin's hands that tried to push away the cup.
"It ain't. Now drink." No time for playing, Nathan shoved the cup up to Vin's mouth. "Drink."
A taste of mint soothed Vin's stomach and he sighed at the relief, thanking Nathan with a nod. "Where's Chris?" Blue eyes skirted the room and then stopped at the door.
"Prescott cornered him. Ya broke his nose, Vin 'n he ain't too happy with ya. Chris is tryin' t' calm him down. Ya ain't makin' this easy fer us or yerself." Nathan shook his head, muttering and huffing about men who don't have a lick of sense. Darn fools going to get themselves killed.
"Prescott hurt some woman. I seen her running away from him."
Brown eyes steady on Vin then, as Nathan spoke, "It ain't what ya think, Vin. That woman was upset with her husband. Prescott didn't touch her. Yuh was wrong, Vin 'n we're hopin' Prescott won't be pressin' any charges against ya. Chris got J.D. gittin' the horses ready in case we gotta make a run fer it, but I don't wantcha movin'. I had t' sew up a few gashes in yer scalp. Looks like that Catfish fella got ya with the butt of his gun more 'n once."
Vin turned away from Nathan trying to understand all the man said, a moan escaping from the small movement, and Nathan seeing the distress of the man, lifted up the chamber pot to Vin as the convulsive retching took over again. With nothing left, Vin's insides torn and raw, throat hurting too badly to swallow, and Vin lay back with a moan, jamming the heel of his hand into his temple, rubbing distractedly, finally falling into a restlessly, pain-filled sleep.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Chris was there on the edge of the bed when Vin woke up again, a serious, stern gaze locked on him, causing Vin to turn his head away. Lord, he was just not ready to have a *talk*.
"Are you tryin' t' get yourself hung? Cause if you are, I'm walking away right now. I'm figuring if you don't give a damn about your own life, then why should I? Why the hell should we? Can ya tell me what your thinkin', Vin, cause it ain't makin' a lick of sense to me."
"I thought he hurt that gal."
"Well, Prescott didn't." Chris, quiet for a moment, not sure how to begin, not wanting to hurt this man lying so fragilely broken before him. Straight out was the only way Chris knew how to do things. "Bridget's not *your* Elizabeth."
Vin's head lurched up, sending flashes of pain through him. "What the hell ya sayin', Chris?"
"I'm just sayin' I see the resemblance between the women 'n I think your confusin' Bridget with your memories of Elizabeth. Well they ain't the same people, though they could be sisters. It's spooky how much they look alike. I didn't notice right off 'cause Bridget hasn't been uppermost in my concerns, but Vin if ya really think about it, they're a lot alike in hair and eye color, height and temperament. This war you got waged with Prescott has nothin' t' do with Elizabeth."
"You ain't makin' sense, Larabee. Prescott don't even know Elizabeth. He killed Bridget."
"Maybe, he didn't, Vin. Maybe, Bridget killed herself like Nathan said." Chris sighed and shifted himself closer to Vin, placing his hand on the marksman's arm. "I'm thinkin' you got 'em mixed up somehow, knowing Elizabeth 'n how strong she is, thinkin' Bridget's just like your Elizabeth. Ya see where I'm goin' with this, Vin?"
Josiah and Nathan quietly entered the room, listening to Chris and hoping the man would be able to reach Vin Tanner.
"Even Josiah, who got to know Bridget while you were gone, believed she killed herself."
"Josiah's not sure, Chris. Right, Josiah? You think something ain't right 'bout it all." Vin was almost desperate, now.
Josiah stepped closer to the bed, contemplating his words. "Well, Prescott is despicable and I wouldn't put it passed him, especially after Mary told us about the murder of that woman in Long Branch."
Chris let out a low growl and glared at Josiah, eyes silently shouting, 'not helpin', Preacher'.
"What woman?" Vin's resolve rebounding at that.
"No evidence, Vin 'n that don't have anythin' t' do with Bridget or you." Chris rubbed a hand over his face. "You got everything muddled up inside yer head, Vin. Confusing Bridget with Elizabeth and the war getting thrown in the mix. Ya see that, Vin? It's all just jumbled up. I've been there, I know. One thing leading t' another thing, making ya crazy."
"I ain't crazy."
"No one said you were, just a lot of things coming back to ya too fast, a lot of things that got buried away. Ya see that don't ya, Vin? Ya see that goin' after Prescott ain't right? Hell, I'd love t' shoot him right where he's standing, but we can't. Let it go, Vin. Let it go. I'll see if Travis can get those depositions and get the names of the witnesses. We can work on it from Four Corners, some place safe. We'll get the truth 'n your freedom. Ya got t' quit this vendetta 'n ya got t' trust me on this."
"Don't want t' cause no trouble fer the Judge."
"Judge is a smart man. He'll know what t' do. You with me on this, pard?"
Vin was resigned, nodding. "Mebbe yer right. I thought I had a sense of Bridget, but mebbe yer right. My head's so addled I cain't even think straight no more. I'm tired, Chris. Jes' plumb tired."
"You rest then, Vin. Just trust us, trust *me* t' take care of everythin'. We've got enough ahead of us with the damn cattle drive 'n getting' Evans to fess up to his part in the tradership corruption 'n getting you out of Tascosa alive. Just don't need t' take on anymore, Vin. Don't need t' be takin' on Prescott in the middle of all this. I'll always watch your back, Vin, but it's not the time. It's not the time to be buttin' heads with the likes of Prescott. He could turn ya int' the law in a heartbeat 'n I can't figure out why he hasn't. Troubles me some, but let's just let sleeping dogs lie 'n get the hell out this town." Staying silent after all that said, waiting to see what reaction the weary man might have to his words; Vin possessing a lightning sharp mind that sparked with humor and a hard learned sense of survival, making decisions for the good of the men and Chris waited, knowing Vin would make the right choice.
Vin gave a nod. "All right, Chris. I'll do it yer way. At least we c'n git one thing right, will feel real good t' do somethin' fer the People. I'm lookin' forward t' bringing down those dirty politicians. They're so stinkin' corrupt you c'n smell 'fore ya even lay eyes on 'em." With a rhythmic tamping of fingertips to his temple, Vin vaguely aware of it, as he tried to relieve the constant ache in his head, only stopping when Chris touched his forearm. Blue eyes deepening in color as Vin watched Chris through his watery vision and blinked rapidly, seeing three cups coming towards him and choosing the middle as he reached a hand to it.
"Whoa there, pard. I think I best handle this for now." Chris lifted up Vin's head, holding the cup to his lips. "Okay, Vin. Rest up. I need ya t' be in on the buyin' of those cattle. Dammit! I'm hopin' Nathan won't put up too much of fuss, but I'm countin' on ya to be there. Let me know if I can. We'll see how you're feelin' come morning. Maybe with some sleep . . . maybe . . . "
"Chris?" Vin swallowed hard before speaking, blue eyes showing the weariness and sorrow of the past month. "Ya don't never hafta ask."
A quiet moment, and a nod between them as Chris spoke, his voice breaking slightly, "I know, Vin. I know."
A searching, expressive glance from Vin and again a nod, as if to reaffirm those words, hanging tightly to Chris' belief and trust in him.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Following the Rita Blanca Creek northwest out of Tascosa caused Nathan nothing, but concern as he watched Vin lurch in the saddle, then unobtrusively right himself, a guilt on Vin like an errant child hiding away his lapses. Unnoticed by the others, just Nathan, not looking anywhere else, but at Vin's back held rigid-stiff with pain. Nathan knew this for a fact, stubborn cuss. A resigned shake of his head, brown eyes clouded, distressed, Nathan understanding the quiet man, and all he was thinking, feeling that he was a burden to them, with all his physical and emotional ailments. Vin not wanting to let Chris down, let them down _ again, and Nathan wanted to shout at Tanner that he did nothing wrong, nothing.
Once more a slight shift in the saddle, pain and dizziness causing Vin to misjudge the sway of the paint's gait, Nathan cursing at that, wanting Vin to stop, to rest, to go back, needing him to know no matter what he did now or before, it did not matter. Vin would always have his loyalty and if need be, his life. Nathan kneed his horse, getting alongside Vin, straining to see under that "Reb" hat, now of a nondescript color and worn from the elements and time, never connecting the war to Tanner nor the Confederacy and Nathan feeling no anger at the side chosen, learning long ago to judge a man by his deeds and nothing more; Vin Tanner earning his respect right from the get-go.
"How yuh holdin' up, Vin?" Nathan's gifted hands fluttered fretfully ready to alight upon the marksman's arm, but pulled back when a wary, grudging side-glance shot at him.
"Nev'r better, Nathan." The expressive eyes pleaded with Nathan to let things alone.
"Why's it, I don't believe yuh?" Nathan's tone was patiently imploring, giving a small smile, trying to gain the man's cooperation.
"Why's it, yer askin' me when I reckon ya'll don't think I'm speakin' true in the first place?"
"VIN!" Nathan's exasperation caused the men to turn, Vin giving a shrug and an embarrassed grin and not until they all turned back to the trail, did Vin speak.
"I got me a headache, Nathan. Plain as that. Like a herd a buffs are trampling though my skull, but I felt worse b'fore 'n I 'spect I'll feel even worse later on. Ain't nothin' goin' t' change that. Now quit goin' on the worry 'bout me. I ain't worth all that . . ."
Nathan reached out and grabbed the pony's bridle, frothing, words pouncing on the stunned man. "Now yuh listen t' me, Vin Tanner. I ain't never met me a man I respect more 'n you. I owe yuh my life 'n I'll never forgit that. Don't nev'r tell me yuh ain't worth it. Yuh never walked away from a soul that needed help 'n that's more than most would do. I know men that ain't worth spit, but you, Vin Tanner ain't one of them. Won't be havin' no more of that talk."
Shucking from the surrounding layer of men, J.D., Buck, Josiah and Ezra on all sides as Chris pulled back on the black's reins, not so much to notice, eventually settling between the clustered groups with Nathan and Vin on his flank and Chris straining to hear Nathan's words over the clip-clop of shod hooves on hardpan. Worrying now that maybe he drove Tanner too hard, maybe should have left him back at the hotel to rest up some, as Nathan sounded vexed and Chris, hell all of them, knew that look that came to the healer when he worried over their injuries. Might be nothing, though, just Vin feeling low, Chris never knowing the man to be one to speak of himself, not showing vulnerability, but that was *all* so different of late. No never mind to Chris, finding himself helping out a passel of people the past year that hardly meant anything at all to him, doing right by them, and Chris not having to think twice about standing by Vin, no matter what. Nothing needed asking, nothing needed saying; Chris would be *there* . . . end of story.
A comfort rising within Chris, happy that Nathan voiced his loyalty to the man, half-afraid Vin would light out on his own, him not wanting to bring trouble for the men, and Chris wanting to shout: "Be worse with you gone!" Never did say it, never could; it was too close, too real to how Chris felt, even though he knew Vin would never want to cause him harm. Almost a lifetime of living alone, being on their own becoming second nature, sometimes easier that way for Chris; a thousand losses and good-byes, all of them used to life's way of taking from them. Resigned, yes, they were all resigned to being alone, only J.D.; his chances still good for love and roots. Was that what was offered to the seven now, back in Four Corners? Josiah and Nathan would stay, but Buck was as drifty as tumbleweed just hoping to find a *good* bed at day's end. Ezra followed his fortune, always a town away. Vin, well, Vin claimed it to be the bounty that kept him on the roam, but Chris saw more than that in the man's eyes. A fear, plain as day, fear of finding a home, finding happiness, like a man days in the desert without water, drinking it in, though half-worried and half-overjoyed at the sweetness of it, as well as, the ending of it, needing it, wanting it too badly. Best to go without than having to suffer the loss of it.
Chris knew loss, about split his soul wide open, his heart becoming stone cold. His sorrow becoming anger, pushing all away, not wanting or needing anyone, pushing away Buck, a constant reminder of all that went so utterly wrong, could not look at that hangdog face one more time, nor could Chris keep down the anger at Buck's need to make him feel better, make things all right. Nothing would do that, nothing, but then this town happened and things started changing, he started changing, feeling unmistakable signs of, Lord help him, happiness, calm, less anger. It all started on that walk to save a good man, feeling right to have Vin Tanner beside him, the measured rhythm of their steps perfectly harmonized, a keen sense of timing, feeling each other's familiarity, a lifetime of knowing, caught up and recognized in those mortal moments, fragmentary and frail, so easily ended. Chris did not question it, growing up listening to his Grandmother's stories of old souls and unexplainable connections, as mystical, mysterious, and misty as gossamer on the wind. Evasive, unanswerable, just a quickening of the heart, a deja vu breath released, a niggling thought, gnawing on the bone of a question, but never tasting marrow. Let it go, let it be, be thankful, and Chris twisted himself back to watch Vin, his eyes bright, peering beneath the flatly black brim of his hat, a voice within murmured and stirred, shivered his heart and then released: "Be worse with you gone." A rough cough clearing his thickly constricted throat tight from sentiments awakened so intensely within him it hurt. Putting himself out there, part of him believing the pain, the loss would come again; maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but it would come.
Chris turned away and watched as Buck and J.D. took the lead, nudging aside Prescott who rode a fine Arabian outfitted with a fancy English saddle, a low snicker as he thought of Buck's words spoken at the sight: "Sissified saddle. A man could hurt himself on that thing. Not near enough room for his saddlebags so t' speak." Prescott did show spunk though, more than Chris figured on, coming with them after all, his face bruised badly, black eyes a stark contrast to the pointedly white-blonde hair. The butt of that sawed-off could have done far more damage and Chris was relieved the man let the assault go, at least for now, anyway.
Orrin Travis' skin crawled being so close to Prescott, angry that the law that was his life prevented him from taking action against a man so unquestionably guilty and duty-bound him to take action against another who was innocent. Well, *that* duty Travis overlooked for a good long time now; made it a practice to know everything about the men who worked for him, but all ready knew the character of Vin Tanner that day against James. The first to speak, letting Travis know right off, he would have a man at his side, if it came to a fight. A brief smile at the words recalled: "Don't hardly seem fair." A coolly spoken drawl, a young face hidden beneath the slope of a felted brim, the man's integrity was straightforward and true. Travis did not once suffer from any moral dilemmas or sleepless nights overlooking the bounty, knowing the man, knowing Vin Tanner. About time that nonsense was all cleared away, just yesterday quietly searching through files at the courthouse, a fairly impressive stone building on the aptly named Court Street, but came up empty-handed, no records to be found on the murder. A deep sigh rattled through him, not relishing his fate of telling Chris Larabee the discouraging news.
Chris came up behind him then, the Judge startling a bit at the timing, knowing it was best to lay it out as to make the necessary choices. A quick upswing of his stern chin, acknowledging Larabee and a slanted side-glance towards Prescott was all Chris needed to know that Travis wanted to talk, things that Prescott needed not to hear. About Vin then, and Chris' heart hammered, a frighteningly quick beat like that of a newborn babe, feeling a weakness in his limbs, a numbness settling, almost too afraid to hear.
Reining in his black, Chris waited for the Judge to come alongside him, then allowed some distance between them and Prescott, Catfish Kid next to the man, Prescott's shadow the whole ride now. Chris looking over his shoulder to Vin and Nathan, still a distance away, unlike Tanner not to be in the lead, scouting ahead and knowing that only meant one thing, the man was hurting.
"Chris." Larabee nodded, yanked away from his worry, only to be brought back to more worry at the sight of Orrin's distressingly pensive face.
"Judge." Momentary silence hung between them, except for the creaking and popping of leather and the comforting, rhythmic thumping of horses' hooves. A dry throat cleared, aged and dusty, the Judge forever conscious of so much needing to be amended, needing to be done in this country, this great West and him losing to time.
"Unfortunately, I came up empty-handed. No files, no depositions to be found." Frustration obvious as the Judge spoke, "I don't enjoy tiptoeing around, but I am aware for the need to be circumvent."
Chris pulled in the reins, jabbing his chest with his fists from the force of it. "Dammit!! She took them!!"
"Who?" The Judge stopped quickly, surprised at Chris' outburst.
"Frenchy McCormick. I told her t' stay out of it."
"Trouble?"
"Better not be for Vin, so help me. But I promise you, there sure as hell will be for her, if this thing gets out of hand." Orrin Travis knew there would be no doubting that, watching the man's determination fill him, stiffly unwavering in the saddle, head set rigid, eyes focused.
"Has Vin mentioned anything about his time in Tascosa?" Travis spurred his mount as he focused on the trail ahead.
Larabee followed bringing the black in line next to the Judge, recalling the day Vin Tanner without hesitation spoke of the price on his head. Easy between them, this trust, this deep-rooted familiarity, a fondness that Chris did not want to lose, but knowing in life nothing often stayed the same. "Just about Eli Joe and bringing Jess Kincaid's body int' town. You know as well as I do, Tanner's not what ya would call talkative, but never met a man more honest. Took him at his word that day 'n not once doubted it." Chris' eyes wandered skittishly from the Judge to Prescott and then towards Vin.
"We will get those names and the truth. I won't let an innocent man be hunted or hanged. Unfortunately, the tradership investigation needs to come first. I know that's difficult for Vin being here in Tascosa, but he'll only find himself on the wrong side of a jail cell, if he starts asking questions and bringing attention to himself." A sharply keen look to Chris, letting the gunman know the full impact of his words, the dangers lurking, if Tanner was imprisoned and them not nearly close to proving the man's innocence. Judge or no Judge, his hands would be tied.
"Vin's worried about you getting involved in all this. He doesn't want you to compromise yourself because of him and I agree, Judge. I don't think you should get involved, not just yet, anyway."
"I may not be comfortable with the circumstances, Chris, but I would be less comfortable seeing anything happen to Vin Tanner. Eli Joe has him in quite a difficult situation. You get me the proof and I will see to it the charge is dropped. If that fails, I will go directly to the Governor of Texas to see if a pardon could be granted for regulatory services rendered for the Territory of New Mexico. Those services proving that the alleged outlawry of Vin Tanner is highly improbable, we could put forward a strong case. If not a pardon, maybe a parole . . ." Orrin's words trailed off, not willing to accept parole as the young man's fate.
Chris mused over that said and gave a thoughtful nod, not quite sure if Vin would agree to a pardon and less so a parole, knowing his only intent has been in clearing his name, needing it known that a Tanner did not commit murder, would not be the kind of son to bring disgrace to his mother nor his family name. Vin Tanner's ignominy ran as deep and painful as Chris' sorrow. There was still hope for Vin to regain that, which was lost to him, a hope that would never be Chris' again.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Hidden by a brake of cottonwoods, the Rita Blanca running to the right and bluffs beyond, Vin now in the lead, scouted the grasses with his distance glass, spotting near to five hundred head of longhorns a few miles straight on lazily grazing the rich grasses. Great wintering spot; protection given to the cattle against the severe blizzards and snowstorms by the distant bluffs and dense trees with water plentiful, keeping them from drifting too far south or west to New Mexico. Vin sensing that this land was not open-range country, more than likely belonging to one of the many large spreads that snatched up the Tascosa Valley lands, recalling the LS and the LE ranches being on the Rita Blanca, his hackles rising like the neck-scruff of a cur before a broil.
Vin knowing the many ways of mavericking, and also aware, it was now illegal to roundup the drifting herds and strays, but many still doing so, taking an iron to all ready branded cattle, being able to alter many of the valley brands. Large ranches making it more difficult for the cowpunchers to start their own spreads, buying up the lands and the increase in mavericking leaving few unclaimed and unbranded cattle for them to roundup. Moonlighting was one way a poor cowboy could rope and claim unbranded longhorns, waiting at waterholes late at night while the cattle drank until their bellies were filled, causing them to be sluggish and slow allowing the cowpunchers to roundup four to five cattle on every run; sleepering, another means the cowpuncher gained cattle, but this truly was thievery, mixing the ranchers' unbranded calves in with all ready branded cattle and then a few months later, placing their own brand on the calves; and then the outright brand tampering, Vin able to "pick" an old welt to identify the true brand faster than most, Goodnight calling on him many times to identify strays and drifters, during his cowpuncher days.
Who was Prescott dealing with here? Questions rising as Vin lowered himself to the grasses, tethering the pony to a few cottonwood switches as he viewed the herd closely. Several cowboys were spread around the small herd, a wariness about them that unsettled Vin, looking more like outlaws then cattlemen. Three more men sat astride their mounts under grand cottonwoods sallying amongst themselves, relaxed knowing the men on herd were vigilant. Vin took in the weaponry, fully stocked for *just* cowhands, no doubting now that they were about to buy stolen cattle. Vin cursed Prescott; sure the man knew exactly what they were about to be getting into, even with a Judge at his side and Vin knowing right then that the whole plan was shot to hell.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Larabee watched Vin, the man acting more like they were heading blindly into an ambush than a cattle buy, the flesh of Chris rising up in goose skin eerily as death. Tanner gave Larabee the willies sometimes with his intuitiveness and the way he vanished and then reappeared with just a hint of warm breath creeping along the back of the neck to let it be known he returned. It was as if Vin became the grasses, the bluffs, the osprey and the ocelot, becoming a part of the land as naturally and quietly as morning dew. His movements as gentle as leaves teased by whispering breezes, as soft and sure as the clarity of moonlit nights across endless land and sky, and Chris, awed by it, overcome by it, and a bit envious at the man's ease and deep affection for the land. Something the gunman did not possess as strongly, almost fearing that connection, that pull the land claimed over Tanner, knowing somehow it would be *its* call, rather than the bounty, that would take Vin Tanner away.
Resting on his haunches, a lone wolf, a predator, Chris keenly alert to the scent of danger as he placed a hand on the shoulder of the marksman. "What's botherin' ya, Vin?"
"I got a feelin' them cattle are stolen." Vin quiet then, waited for the gunman to grasp his words.
"Ya sure about that?" Chris took in a breath, no matter this investigation, the gunman refused to buy maverick cattle. Tascosa was the worst place for them to run afoul of the local law; Vin also mentioning that Captain Pat Garrett and the Home Rangers were patrolling the area for rustlers.
"Cain't really know fer sure 'till I see them brands. I don't reckon they'll be too obligin' t' that. Not peaceful like anyway."
"They won't have a choice. We'll watch your back while ya check it out. Ya think you can tell by just looking?"
"Like lickin' butter off a knife. Fresh iron burns are easy 'nough t' spot 'n I c'n "pick" an old welt right quick. Hell, c'n "pick" m'self any brand that I want t' be there." An easy smile lit up and sparked bright the blue of Vin's eyes, though a slight squint gave the telltale sign of pain still gripping the man.
"That good, eh Tanner?" Chris gave a wide grin at Tanner's words. The man surprised Chris most every day with all his savvy.
"Better than most." Not a boast, just truth spoken as Vin stood, placing his spyglass back into the soft, protective cloth and gentling it into his saddlebag.
"I can believe that." A slap and a quick squeeze to Tanner's shoulder, as Chris rose and stood beside the marksman. "Let's get this done."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~