Before the Wind

By Kimberly KBJ

PART FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

They came down off the slope easy, one behind the other, by all appearances only men looking to buy longhorns as they rode through the vega of lush grasses, riding in a tight thrumming line of horses and men. Close to being invisible, Vin hunkered down even lower in the saddle as he rode at the tail end, ready to break away unnoticed into the herd of cattle. Chris all ready voiced Vin's concerns to the Judge and the rest of the seven, each unobtrusively prepared for gunplay.

Catfish Kid, now in the lead, extended a sociable hand to the three cowboys that snaked their way toward Chris and the others and Larabee not liking the camaraderie shown by Catfish to the leader, Gene Watkins. Seeming to know each other and more than not, ran together on the wrong side of the law.

Travis sat darkly sharp-eyed, quietly keen to lawlessness, watching, listening as Prescott dickered, offering only $8.00 a head for cows, $10.00 for beef steers and far less for the yearlings and two-year olds. Prescott, a true businessman, able to get the lowest prices for the herd, predicted the beginnings of a glut in the cattle market. Most cowboys painfully aware of this with the amount of cattle coming through and seeing prices plummeting, nowhere close to the market highs of 1871, getting nearly $23.00 a head for steers. The man called Watkins grudgingly agreed to the offer as Chris listened, watching the herd, waiting for some sign from Tanner.

Surreptitious as a ghost-shadow, Vin like silence settled upon the unsuspecting beast, hooves uprooted and tossed smoothly, lightly finding ground like seeds of windswept dandelions. Swift loops formed between hock and dewclaw, a flick of wrist and twist of lariat, so quickly accomplished no cow, steer nor yearling took heed, but for a slight lift of head and dispassionate glances, a moment's annoying interruption in their feeding.

Working hastily now, eyeing the scattering of men around the herd, easy on their watch, aware that a deal was close to hand and money in their pockets soon enough. Stolen money, as Vin picked the last tuft of hair from the flank of the yearling, seeing an LS brand replaced not that long ago by a Tabletop marking. Dirty money for sure, mavericking clearly crossing the line into rustling, out and out thievery, and Vin stood up among the longhorns just in time to see Prescott close the deal with a handshake. Prescott was savvy_ smart, made Vin wonder why the man did not check the brands. No inspectors then at Fort Sill or them in someone's pocket; Evans having that much power. All of them dirtier and more cunning beyond Vin's understanding, but then always a gradual crushing acceptance of man's treacheries, the acknowledging of it forever wounding the heart of him.

>From his position, Vin accounted for most of the men, but knew he was vulnerable on his right flank. Nathan and Josiah guarded his left, but not able to be as close to Vin as they hoped, Vin more than 50 yards away and a wall of beef between them. Buck and J.D. keeping another group of men distracted to Vin's right front, bringing a smile to Tanner as he watched the gunman snatch off J.D.'s hat; stirring up the kid and the cowboys joining in with the gibes, tossing the bowler hat from one to the other. The marksman feeling fairly confident with the boys close by, raised up his mare's leg with a pendular motion letting Chris know the longhorns were stolen, a cold glare coming to the gunman and then Vin surprised to hear his name shouted in warning. Cursing loudly, Vin looked behind him, his one disadvantage. "Dammit!!"

No time to think, just running like mad to get to his paint as two rustlers came racing through the herd at a gallop, Vin peripherally seeing Josiah and Nathan as in a race to beat out the men barreling after him. Finding himself losing, not able to outrun the rustlers and not able to get to the Indian pony left ground tied, only 10 feet away, might as well have been 10 miles as Vin was knocked off his feet by the huge chest of a black, pummeling him. Tanner instinctively twisted his body away from the tamping of hooves desperately trying to avoid being trampled. His head screaming now, pain leaving him blindly groping for his mare's leg, involuntarily released along with breath from the impact of the hard, unrelenting ground. Shots fired then and a thunderous sound growing around him, rumbling and Vin forcing himself up, terror deep within him, recognizing it all at once to be . . . God Almighty, not that!

As though his thoughts heard by all, shouts rising above the clamor and Vin needing to get out of the way fast before he was trampled into the earth. "STAMPEDE!!" "STAMPEDE!!" A crazed shouting came from him as he stumbled towards what he believed was the location of the paint, not able to see and then grabbed by the arm, feeling himself being lifted almost effortlessly, floating in mid-air far too long for comfort and then thudding onto the croup of Josiah's chestnut, instinctively tightening his thighs around the huge horse's flanks.

"Hold on, Vin. We're getting the hell out of here."

"Gotta turn 'em!!!" Dizzy like crazy, right hand holding tight to Josiah, fearing he might fall off and embarrassed at that happening, held on with a fierce determination. Feeling a cold stickiness on his neck, furrowing between the sharp blades of his shoulders, tracking slowly down the length of his spine and pooling into the small of his back. Sick . . . he was going to get sick all over himself, if Josiah did not stop and then humiliated not being able to hold it back. Vin wished he was anywhere, but here, feeling anything, but what he felt and shamed at being sick. Josiah gripped his fingers tightly around Vin's left leg, locking his huge hand above the slight man's knee, making sure the man would not plunge headfirst into the grasses as he leaned precariously close to the rapidly passing ground.

"There's enough men handlin' it, Vin." Josiah wheeled his mount toward the cottonwoods, speaking in calming tones to the marksman; just hoping Tanner could hang on, listening to the powerful retching behind him.

"They got 'em, Vin! They're turnin' 'em! No need t' worry, now. There's Nathan comin' right at us. Good, Chris is right there, too. Buck 'n J.D. All accounted for. Well, I'll be damned, if it isn't Brother Ezra pulling up the rear. He looks as pale as death. Shakier than a willow in a big wind." A big laugh rumbled up from the cavern of Josiah's belly and soothed Vin at the comforting sound of it, still sick and desperate to stop jostling, wanting off this horse with everything in his being.

"Jo...si...ah, ple...ease...stop! Stop...now!!!" Could not get free, those fingers like steel talons held him tight. Then wild with the need to get off, Vin threw himself sideways, falling and Josiah released him, fearing Vin would hurt himself as he dangled on the left side of the horse with only a weak grip on the cantle.

Vin landed with a thud. Hurt badly on the impact, but better than the constant banging and shifting of his brain to the top of his skull and crashing back down again. Just got to be split open. A man's head could not feel this broken and not be cracked wide open. Josiah hovered above Vin and Tanner lifted up his right hand to shove him away. "Leave me be. If ya wanta live, leave me be." Feeling his fingers gripped around the mare's leg trigger, Vin lifted it in a feigned threat to the broadly built man. "If ya ever had a kind thought in yer heart fer me, now's the time t' remember that 'n let a man jes' die in peace."

"I want t' clean ya up some, Vin. Let me do that fer ya. How 'bout it, Vin?" Josiah poured water on his bandana and wiped down the man's face as gently and lightly as he could. Vin looked sick, not well at all and with each wipe, each touch a moan released from the man. "I'm sorry, Vin. Almost done. I'm gonna turn you over now 'n look at that head of yours. It's bleedin' all over the place 'n I surely don't think Nathan'll be too pleased to see his fine stitichin' torn apart."

Josiah waited for a response, but nothing was said as Vin lie still, eyes drawn tightly closed, a futile attempt to keep the pain at bay. "Vin?" No answer. "Okay, son. Jes' relax. I'll try not to cause ya too much grief."

Josiah rolled Vin over, limbs loose and weighty, only a moan surfacing as the marksman lay on his right side, his arm wedged beneath him, feeling the hard, cold metal of the mare's leg digging into his hip. Feeling his hat being removed and his hair being pulled apart, clumps of it caught in thick fingers and areas of dried blood, but freeing easier with the flow of fresh bleeding. Another moan and Josiah swore at the extent of gashes that covered the man's scalp, two long lines of stitching zigzagged grotesquely covering a large share of the man's head.

"I got it now, Josiah." Nathan squeezed the preacher's shoulder reading the pain in the big man's eyes. "Vin'll be fine, jes' fine. Looks like I'm gonna need t' do some more sewin'."

Nathan crouched down beside the frighteningly motionless man, a sigh released at the sight of blood flowing down the nape of Vin's neck, a line darkening the length of his dun-colored shirt. Vin's legs and arms lie limply, almost boneless in his stupor, his left leg crossed at the knee over the right, left arm extended out in front of him. A shake of the head as Nathan noticed Vin's right hand still gripped tightly around his mare's leg, though it was wedged uncomfortably beneath the man's right hip and leg.

"Well, Vin Tanner, I 'spect yuh ain't feelin' too good, right 'bout now. How 'bout yuh lookin' at me 'n tellin' me how you're feelin'?" No response as Nathan rested his hand on Vin's shoulder and knelt on the left side of him, crouching as low to the ground as he could bring his large frame, peering at the still face. "Vin, I know you're hurtin', but I need yuh t' talk t' me now. Come on now, Vin. I know yuh c'n hear me, so stop playin'. I ain't in no mood fer this." A light slap given and a moan escaping from slacken lips, though the eyes were squeezed tightly closed.

"Leave me alone!" A growling whisper, but the eyes stayed closed, the man as still as death.

"Vin, open those eyes, now!!" Nathan needed to examine the pupils and see if the man's sensibilities were intact, hoping that getting the marksman riled would do the trick.

"Nathan, ple...ease... thought ya were a kindly man, but I reckon I'm off the mark_again."

"Whatcha mean, again? I always known yuh t' judge a person dead on. Yuh c'n tell the nature of man right off. I never known yuh t' be wrong."

"That ain't so. Wrong more times than right lately n' ya know it."

"Yuh let your heart git in the way that's all. A man can't rightly see straight when there's a woman involved." Nathan gave a forced laugh and a big-handed, though gentle squeeze to the lean man's shoulder, rigidly stiff from pain. "Now open them eyes."

"Cain't."

"Vin..." Nathan exasperated now.

"Cain't...things'll start spinnin' 'n I'll jes' git sicker than a damn dog. Be fine right here. You boys c'n go on without me. I reckon I'll jes' lay here 'n die quiet-like, be less trouble fer all concerned. Don't want t' move, Nathan. If ya make me move, I might jes' have t' shoot ya 'n yer the last fella I want t' shoot."

"If you don't do what Nathan tells ya t' do, I'll open them eyes up for ya 'n if ya make the mistake of getting sick all over me, I'll just have t' shoot *you*." Chris Larabee folded himself down on his lean haunches, arms dangling over his knees, concerned at the sight of an uncooperative and unmoving Vin Tanner.

"Chris...the herd?" Vin opened his eyes and then closed them quickly at the brightness of sun, a pained, uncontrolled moan released.

"Turned 'em quick before they got off too far. Didn't lose any... I need Nathan t' take care of that head of yours 'n than ya have to get on that horse 'n stay alert in case this whole thing comes down to gunplay. Prescott smoothed things over claiming you were inspecting the cattle by his orders. Said you were only letting us know that the longhorns looked healthy 'nough. Appears they bought it. Judge's not goin' t' buy stolen cattle that's for damn sure, so I expect things are goin' t' play out quick. I need ya ready, Vin. Just get on that pony 'n stay low. I don't want ya in the middle of it. Ya hear me, Tanner? Just get that scrawny hide of yours out of the way when the lead starts flyin'. You won't be any good t' us dead." Chris reached over and gave Vin's shoulder a soft nudge to get the man's attention.

"Prescott knew those beeves were stolen. Knew from the git-go they were bad hombres. Sure as shootin' those steer were mavericked from the LS. Who's the damn fool that fired those shots?" Most cowboys on the drive did not wear their sidearm for just that reason; impulsive shooting caused stampedes and killed men and cattle. The herd so blindly frightened, even trampling over each other in their wildly mad charge.

"Don't know for sure, but I think it was that cowboy tried t' ride over ya. I saw a couple of the rustlers working over one of their own. Figure they were teaching the fool a thing or two about cattle." Chris was close to putting a few holes in the greenhorn, himself. Nearly lost Tanner in the whole mess. The cowboy on the black did not know how lucky he was, Chris lining his sights on him, only Travis keeping him from the kill.

"Shoot, coulda kilt all of us, even J.D. would have 'nough sense not t' shoot 'round a skittish herd of cattle. They best send that man packin' fer sure."

"Not our concern now. They're all goin' t' find themselves locked up behind bars, if things go the way I plan. I don't want ya in the middle of it, not the way you're feelin'. You'll just get in the way 'n I don't want anyone getting bloodied because they're worried about watchin' your back."

"All right, Chris. I reckon I'll stay outta yer way, but jes' 'til ya need me t'save all yer sorry hides." Blues eyes focused unsteadily on the gunman as his head was gently turned toward Nathan. "Aw hell, Nathan."

One pupil slightly enlarged and the vomiting caused Nathan concern, aware the man needed to be resting quietly. Nathan held several layers of muslin cloth on the lacerations, pressing firmly and as gently as he could, the process necessary to stop the flow of blood. Each moan from the marksman elicited a hard stare from the gunman toward the healer. Blood flow almost impossible to stanch on head wounds with all its mazy workings of blood vessels, and Nathan sure Chris worried at the fierce reddening of saturated cloth, and the healer's own blood-red hands. Him used to the sight by now, always so much blood, the fingernails near impossible to clean and Nathan carrying every wound, every death on him, on his heart.

A low moan from pain, but more so from the dizzying sickness, Nathan worried if Vin could even set a horse without falling off...another moan, interrupting his thoughts, followed without fail by the gunman's intense, reflexive glare, a deeply innate protectiveness of Vin Tanner, recognized by all, but Chris Larabee, himself.

"Yuh aimin' t' shoot me too?"

Chris startled at Nathan's question and gave a self-conscious grin, sensing he was caught somehow with his heart laid wide open. Clearing his throat, he gave a gentle squeeze to the narrow shoulder of the marksman; Vin's face drained to a whitish cast the color of chalk dust. "I'll be over with the Judge. Get him on his horse 'n keep an eye on him. We'll take care of the rest."

Josiah just then came up silently behind the gunman, jutting his broad chin towards the slope. "Company coming in."

Chris instinctively placed his hands on the haft of his colt and slowly walked around and then stood in front Vin, an immovable wall. "Hell of thing this is turning int'."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Tension pounded Chris hard like a hammer, standing solid as rock in front of Vin whilst Nathan worked with rapid dexterity, hemming together scalp like a fine tailor. Josiah to Chris' left, mountainous and implacable, barricaded the two men. Waiting mulish and fierce, as a string of men and horses plunged their way down-slope seeming to not even notice the gunman and preacher, their only intent on Gene Watkins.

Chris swiveled round as the harried, distant shouts of outlaws called out to each other in warning, the rustlers' loyalties evanescent as rains on sun-scorched stone. The strand of riders finally reached the valley grasses, untwining, as they put the steel to their mounts and made chase after the retreating rustlers. All but, Gene Watkins fled as the horsemen blasted forward to the right of Chris and the others. Cottonwoods shielded their back, the herd of longhorns to the front of them, Prescott, Watkins, Catfish Kid and Travis to the left and a quick movement just then, bringing a wolfish grin suddenly to the hard edges of Chris' face, watching keen-eyed as Travis rigidly sat astride his mount, clothed all in mortuary black from toe to tip, his carbine aimed at Watkins' abdomen, a silent, grave offering of death.

A need to escape obvious as Catfish Kid backed away, apologetic to Prescott and Watkins, his empty hands raised high above his gun belt, desperate to voice his innocence, as he met up and spoke to the leader, a large well-built man with a well-favored face, most women would call handsome. A head of thickly dark hair displayed as the man removed and ran a bandanna across the crown of his hat, resting easy in the saddle and almost amused at the Kid's diatribe. A muskrat of a mustache furred his upper lip and curled itself around a fine straight set of white teeth. Appeared to be an affable fellow, but Chris still unsheathed his colt as he mounted the black. A nod directed at Josiah to watch out for Vin and Nathan, while the gunman hastily wheeled his mount, intent on covering the Judge's back.

Buck, J.D. and Ezra held at gunpoint made their way toward the grouping of men under the cottonwoods. Prescott was there, quiet, watching, not wanting to be implicated in the disastrous turn of events, but aware that there was no evidence to be used against him. Certainly, this was all an unfortunate situation with the stolen cattle and him being innocently duped, believing that Gene Watkins was of merit, was legitimate. Travis remained unflinching, carbine still sighted on the rustler as the leader came towards him.

"Name's Captain Pat Garret with the Rangers. I've got a warrant here for Gene Watkins' arrest. It looks t' me like you fellas were buyin' maverick longhorns 'n that's most regrettable. Now, I suggest ya'll put down that rifle before ya find y'self in more trouble than you're all ready in."

"Now you listen to me young man. I'm a Circuit Judge, Orrin Travis. I need this man's testimony for a governmental investigation. I'm taking Gene Watkins as my prisoner." Steel gray eyes did not waver nor did the carbine.

"Well, Judge that jes' might be debatable. This here is J.E. McAllister, manager of the LS ranch and county judge. I 'spect he might have some things t' say on this matter." Garret pointed to a stocky man of short-stature with light brown hair and mustache.

"Judge McAllister, I was asked by a senatorial committee to look into certain matters and it appears that Mr. Watkins will be instrumental in effecting the arrests and gaining pertinent testimony from the parties involved. This investigation will move forward and it most certainly does take priority over your arrest warrant. I'll need Watkins ready to travel to Indian Territory, Fort Sill, in a day or two. Now, I suggest you have your men lower their guns and release my men."

The sound of a gun's hammer behind Garrett then and a low, lethal voice, "I suggest you do just that, if you value your life."

"No need for that, Chris. I'm sure these gentlemen will be cooperative." Orrin lowered the rifle as he directed his attention to another largely built man with hawkish features, adorned with a full mustache. "Would you cuff him then..."

The man extended out his hand to Judge Travis. "The name's Jim East, Sheriff of Tascosa."

"All right then, Sheriff, I'll need you to take this man into custody. If that's all right with you Judge McAllister?"

"I have no objections, Judge Travis." J.E. McAllister nodded to Garrett. "See that Watkins is placed in custody and ready to travel. Tell your boys that these seven men are working for the good guys."

"How's Vin, Chris?" Orrin glanced towards Nathan bowed over what appeared to be an uneven patch of dried, brown grasses, Vin the color of earth.

"He's talking 'n seems alert. His head's giving him some grief, but Vin's survived worse." Chris holstered his colt and leaned forward feeling easier, crossing his wrists over the saddle horn, reins twined loosely between his swift and skillful fingers. Then speaking to the three lawmen, abrupt with most strangers, Chris aloofly kicked up his chin toward the herd. "Had one of my men 'pick' a longhorn. Came up stolen."

Garret nodded his head and extended his hand to Chris. "Pat Garrett."

"Chris Larabee."

"Heard talk of a Chris Larabee. They say you're greased lightnin' with that gun."

"Heard that too."

Garrett swiveled his head toward Nathan and Vin. "That fella laid out, he the one that picked the steer?" A squinted eye turned back to the gunman who gave a nod. "Like t' speak t' him, if I might."

"Don't think he's in the mood for a chat." Flat out 'no' and Garrett tensed at that, his horse dancing underneath him, sensing his displeasure.

"Can't you keep that horse still?" Chris no longer sociable and was not about to let Sheriff East nor Pat Garrett near Vin Tanner. Larabee stared intently at the Judge. "Think we'll be headin' for town."

Travis nodded, clearly understanding Chris' urgency, the lines around the judge's eyes more prominent with the worry of things. "I'd like to speak with the owners of this herd. The reservation is still in need of beef and I'm not about to let women and children go hungry under any circumstances." With a dismissive glance to Prescott, Travis, smooth and cool as marble stone, spoke, "There's no need for you to join us, Mr. Prescott. You've done enough. Go back to town and stay clear of my men."

"I believe Vin Tanner is the one you should be speaking to, Judge Travis. The man persists in harassing me and physically attacking me every chance he gets and I'm tiring of it greatly. So, I suggest your men stay clear of me." Prescott pulled back on his reins and turned his horse away from the men. "I'll need an escort back to town. Sheriff East, would you be so kind?"

Pat Garrett was contemplatively quiet, Chris pensively watching the wheels turning, knowing the connection would be made soon. Damn that Prescott, Larabee knew it to be a deliberate slip of Vin Tanner's name. A quick nod to the Judge as Chris turned his black, the other men following behind, not looking over their shoulders as they cantered to Nathan and Vin, both men now mounted. Vin was close to unconscious, Nathan gently tying strips of soft cloth around Vin's wrists, wrapping it several times around the pommel and then knotting it tightly. Chris grabbed hold of Vin's reins. "Gotta go, now!"

"HOLD UP!!!" Pat Garrett raced toward them and Chris throwing back the long black length of his duster brought his hand on to the haft of his colt, close to clearing leather, but Buck's intensely piercing blue eyes seemed to physically restrain him. Chris then breaking free of Wilmington's stare with a disgusted shake of his head, waited for Garrett and Jim East.

"Yeah?" Did not matter to Chris what they said, his hand on the colt was the only talking he was willing to do when it came to them taking Vin Tanner.

"Was wonderin' if this here fella was the same Vin Tanner that hunted buffs with me?"

"Don't know and don't care." Chris started to turn away, seeing Travis coming up quickly toward them.

"Well, Jim here seems t' think that a Vin Tanner was wanted fer murder in Tascosa awhile back. Not many folks 'round at the time, but there was suppose t' be a few witnesses. It seems Vin Tanner killed a Jess Kincaid. Don't suppose that fella there is the same Vin Tanner that done the killing?" Pat Garrett saw Larabee's posture and knew the man was close to throwing his gun. "The Tanner I knew wasn't a man that killed innocents. A mite too kindhearted as far as I was concerned. Went on a tear most times about wastin' buffalo, giving most of his share to them Comanch." The men quiet waiting for the next move. "We're goin' t' have t' take him in. I ain't got no choice in the matter."

"Always got a choice." Josiah stared hard at Garrett, deep-set eyes searching, hoping for kindly mercies.

"I know he's a friend of yours 'n I know him t' be a good man, but the laws the law 'n Jim East here says Vin Tanner's got a $500 bounty on him." Pat Garrett reached for the paint's reins, unsure about taking the unconscious man. "How is he?"

"How the hell does he look? Nearly got trampled out there by them rustlers. Got a head injury 'n I ain't letting you take him." At that Chris drew, the other five men following his lead.

"Chris...Chris...let it go. I'll see to it that nothing happens to Vin. You have my word." Orrin Travis locked eyes with Chris meaningfully. "I won't let anything happen to him, Son. This isn't the way, Chris. If Vin was able, he'd tell you so himself." A tense moment and then Chris lowered his gun, angrily holstering it.

Eyes of unholy hell glared at Garrett. "Nothing happens to him until the Judge gets back. Nothing. You keep folks away from him. No hangings. I'll kill ya myself, if anything happens to the man. I'll hunt ya down like a dog."

A shiver ran through East and Garrett at that. "My word, Larabee. Nothing happens to him."

"Leave them reins be. We'll be ridin' in with ya, just t' keep ya honest." Chris turned to Travis, face drawn tightly with anger. "I'm countin' on ya to' make this right, Judge."

Travis sat deeply into the saddle, worn down, but nowhere near defeated. "I've never let an innocent man hang and I'm not about to start, Chris. I'll make this right. Just don't do anything foolish. I need to take care of a few things, but I'll be back by evening. We'll talk then. Do I have *your* word you won't take the law into your own hands? Promise me, Chris. I need to hear you say it."

Again a long silence, an angry agonized moment as Chris lowered his head, hiding himself away and then a decision made. "Alright, Judge. You've got my word, but just for now."

"That's all I'm asking, Chris." Travis reined his mount around to McAllister. "Let's get this done. I need to be back in Tascosa before nightfall."

Chris brought the paint around to stand by the side of the black, resting his hand on Vin's back. The marksman responded with a moan to the touch as he struggled to turn his head towards the figure beside him. "Chr...is?" A whisper barely heard as Chris lowered himself closer to the man to listen. "Yeah, Vin. It's me."

"Not yer fault...not yer fault." Tanner's head dropped against the paint's neck, passed out and Chris adjusted the man to keep him from falling sideways.

"Hell if it ain't, Tanner. I promised ya I'd watch your back." Chris nodded to Buck and the boys, all of them unsure, willing to risk everything at that moment. Chris shook his head, silently acknowledging that loyalty with a tight, thin smile. "Not yet, boys." Chris kneed the black, the paint riding close to his side, one eye to Vin. "Let's go."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The expanse of lands and rivers, mountains and lakes, all things so much grander than him, recalling moments he associated with those things. A time lost to him and people lost to him, those vistas a reminder of what he so passionately desired, but could not quite lay claim to or obtain. A vague, deep longing that was as sorrowful as the long shadows of winter. A deep sadness evoked in its vast perfection. His heart breaking as he took the land in to him, the keeper of his heart and soul. It was all lost to him now, sorrowed that his life would end *this* way and not amid the land, dying by its lovingly fierce brutalities, surrendering himself to it, becoming the earth, but to be strung up like a cur dog, to have his name forever sullied and his sweet mother's tears forever flowing on his eternally damned soul.

Vin Tanner rounded into himself, knees encircled by his taut arms, a need to find comfort, to find a peace, but to little avail as he viewed the steely impenetrable bars surrounding him. Freedom forever lost. Chris was there quietly sitting beside Vin outside the cell, though Vin's back was turned to him for hours now. The man refused to speak and Chris was aggrieved, angered and was one breath away from breaking Tanner free. Cursing bitterly, knowing he gave his word to Orrin, believing in the Judge, but unsure of what the man could achieve today that was impossible to achieve yesterday. Travis seemed so sure, so confident in his ability to make things right. That and only that kept Larabee from a bold and irrevocable act. Try as might; Chris could not bolster Tanner, watching as the sorrowed man closed himself off, defeated, wounded. Knowing it was not the dying, but the dying as a murderer and Chris would be damned if he allowed that to happen, any of it.

Nathan and Josiah entered just then, acknowledging the deputy on duty with a somber nod and stood silent, staring at the rigid back of the mute, forlorn figure of a man sequestered behind bars. Josiah's massive hands grasped the steely cylinders with a frustrated white-knuckled intensity seemingly attempting to bend metal so strong was his ire. Nathan pressed a hand on the big man's shoulder lending him calm that he, himself, was fighting desperately to maintain. The men were ready to risk it all to free Vin Tanner and only now waiting for Chris' go-ahead.

Nathan talked curtly over his shoulder to the young deputy, knowing his anger was misplaced, having no other release, but towards the man. "Need t' check on, Tanner."

The young deputy nodded and walked to the jail cell door charily, a nervous look towards the large men that stood more than a head taller than him and then a sneaking glance at the imposingly dangerous and malevolent gunman. Kid Dobbs wanted no part in this fix, figuring the man behind bars to be falsely accused and sure that these friends would no more allow a hanging than him seeing pigs fly. Knowing it was just a matter of time before the break and him not wanting to be around to stop them.

"Back away and keep them hands clear of yer sidearms. Seeing Sheriff East trusts ya, I guess I don't need t' be takin' yer guns from ya, but if'n yer feelin' a need t' break the law, I ain't gonna fight ya. I ain't no coward, I'm jes' feelin' that man there might be innocent 'n I ain't wantin' t' be a party t' his hanging." Inserting the key into the lock, Kid Dobbs directed his words to Larabee. "That's my feelings on the matter, but it ain't everyone's so ya know there'll be a posse hot on yer trail right-quick. It'll fer sure be dead or alive on that Tanner fella so ya'll best think twice 'fore ya do anythin' foolish."

"Just open the door and be quick about it. The Judge is takin' care of everything, so there's no need t' be worryin' 'bout escapes or hangings. Tanner will be freed soon enough." Chris glanced toward the prone, solemn figure lying still on the jail cell cot, hoping his voiced assurances would hearten Vin.

"Only him inside. Both of ya stay where ya are." Kid Dobbs closed the cell door behind the healer and relocked it. "Let me know when yer ready to git out."

A breath suspired from Josiah as he embedded his large frame nearly between the bars, trying to appraise the condition of the all too quiet man. Chris sat back down again waiting and hating that his choices were hinging on things not within his control. He lowered the severe, flat-edged black brim of his gaucho over his face, listening to Nathan's ministrations and straining to hear_ hoping to hear something from the marksman. No words spoken by Vin, only the rhythmical, deep-voiced hum of the healer as he checked his stitching and then Vin's eyes. Chris tensing at the worry in Nathan's tone as the healer noted that one pupil was still slightly enlarged.

The healer working quietly now with an occasional question, but resigned to the silence of the man so detached that Nathan feared Vin Tanner might never return to them. "Yuh rest easy now, Vin. We'll be back 'fore yuh know it. Ain't no way yuh gonna be left here. Ain't no way, I'm leavin' yuh here. Yuh hear me Vin? We ain't lettin' nothin' happen t' yuh." Nathan stood, shoulders stooped dejectedly, then lifting his head, shouted to the deputy. "Let me out."

The three men stood together not wanting to leave Tanner, Chris feeling as though he had failed the man. Grabbing hold of the bars, Chris pressed himself fiercely against them as he called to Vin. "Listen, Tanner, it's just tonight 'n then I'm getting you out of here. You hear, no matter what."

Vin stiffened at those words, not wanting Larabee or the boys to go up against the law. " NO!!"

The men smiled in relief to hear the man speak, angered as it was, but no matter to them. It was the sweetest sound to Chris, some fight still in the man. Lord, they needed that to get out of this jam. "Well, it's 'bout time ya showed some spunk. Thought ya were just goin' t' curl up 'n die. Never known ya t' give up so easily."

"It ain't that, Chris." Vin slowly rolled over, a low groan released, dizziness still a relentless bane to the man. Unsteadily, Vin pushed himself up to sit, throwing his legs over the side of the cot, feet hitting the floor heavily. Arms resting on his thighs as he propped his aching head into the hollows of his palms, controlling a sweeping nausea that nearly choked him. "I ain't lettin' you 'n the boys do anythin' stupid. I'd rather swing than let any of ya be hounded by the law fer the rest of yer days. Ya hear me, Larabee. Cain't live with that. Dammit, I won't live with that!"

"Now don't git riled up, Vin. Lay y'self back down 'n rest. Yuh ain't doin' that head of yers any good by getting y'self vexed. We'll speak on it tomorrow." Nathan soothed the man back down on to the cot. "All right now, Vin. Close them eyes 'n sleep fer a while. It'll do ya a world of good. The Judge's goin' t' take care of everythin' now, so don't be worryin' on us. That's it, yuh rest."

Vin struggled to keep his eyes open, but Nathan's reassuring words and his own overwhelming weariness curtained him in an immediate sleep. Chris still gripped the bars until Josiah rested a broad hand on his shoulder. "Get yerself somethin' t' eat 'n some rest, Chris. Ya won't be any good t' him on yer last legs."

Chris turned his head towards the preacher, momentarily intent as though weighing those words and then a despondent nod. "Vin, I'll be back in a few hours. You rest easy 'till then." A press to his shoulder as Josiah gently nudged the gunman away from the cell.

"Won't let nothing befall the man." Kid Dobbs walked behind the men as they left the stone jail. "I give ya my word on that."

Josiah extended his hand to the young deputy. "Much obliged, Son."

The three men silent, scanning the dark distant knolls restlessly, almost unsure of their next step, direction lost to them, and then Chris stopped, lighting up a cheroot, a deep drag taken in, a wolfish grin skulking across the handsome face, eyes lit bright. "The way I see it, we got only one decision t' make... *when* are we getting Tanner out."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Ezra Standish lie fully dressed and extremely restless on the hotel bed, listening with a repulsed fascination to the rattling-click of scampering, scratching snatches of thin bone-sharp claws on walls, floors, seemingly in all places; mice forever frantic in their frenzied hurry to Lord knows where, and preferably far away from him. A sigh released then, at least Ezra chose to believe them to be mice, but the weighty sounds greatly belied that. Rats...quite appropriate, Ezra mused, to be surrounded by rats, four-legged as well as two.

Hiding himself away now, visibly shaken, distraught over Vin Tanner's incarceration and Ezra dearly not wanting the others to see how deeply he cared, truly an abysmal display to say the least. Ezra needed a drink, needed a game, a distraction, aware that Chris Larabee would soon lose patience and blindly, foolhardily execute Vin Tanner's release, with an almost suicidal indifference to his personal welfare. Expecting the same from each of them and with a slow resigned sigh and a wry, twisted smile, Ezra lowered his head: 'And most assuredly getting it.'

When did he, Ezra P. Standish, allow 'things' to get so out of hand? He dealt in 'chance', but he always maintained 'control'. Although the monetary rewards were slim to none, Ezra conceded that he received something far greater from the others. While, it would not even be able to pay for a bad meal at a seedy hotel or contribute to the purchase of his 'dream' tavern, it gave him a pervasive sense of joy. A shake of his head, embarrassed at his voiced sentiment, nearly mortified admitting to it, but then acceptance. One never knows when even this could be worked into some sort of angle, giving him a laugh as he rose from the bed, cards quickly found in his vest pocket and shuffled deftly, a needed distraction before his life would be irretrievably changed. So much for the hard-gained pardon, knowing all too soon, he would be looking at life imprisonment or his own hanging. Lord, what had become of him? Self-preservation, once his motto, was increasingly taking a backseat to these men.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Exchange Hotel 'lobby' consisted of two chairs wobbly residing near a dulled-dingy window, the panes of glass pitted and gouged from wind-driven sands, a filmy clouded glaze allowed little sunlight into the room and very little vantage of outside activity. Ezra sat for a moment still needing solitude, not relishing listening to J.D's interminable questions and his youthful gung-ho exuberance, believing himself to be close to immortal, far above the baser things of life, like death, with 'right' on his side. Amazingly, the seven had so far survived and succeeded against insurmountable odds, only heightening J.D.'s belief that 'right', that justice would never lose, that they were invulnerable to bullets, to death itself.

Voices drifted toward Standish, interrupting his thoughts as he recognized one to be Prescott's. Ezra rose from the chair, dust puffing around his hands as he pressed his weight onto the arms, and then disgustedly wiped away the settling scatter of dirt off his coat's sleeves and cuffs.

"Tanner...escape..." Only catching pieces of the conversation, Ezra did not recognize the other voice, knowing it not to be Catfish Kid's. Nothing more was spoken as Prescott entered the lobby and Standish noting a widening of the man's eyes, startled to see the gambler, acting as though he was caught with his hands in the kitty.

"Mr. Prescott."

"Standish." Prescott regained his composure and gave a pale smile, all teeth and treachery. "I'm glad I saw you. I'll be leaving for Kansas City tonight and I have a proposition for you. I was hesitant to discuss this matter with you, as I know there is a great deal of animosity toward me by your fellow comrades-in-arms, but as a businessman, I find it sometimes makes for strange bedfellows. To get right to it, I have acquired a tavern in your quaint town, the Standish Tavern. Do you have any ties to it?"

"I was the former owner." Ezra spoke calmly; his words clipped offering little for Prescott to read. The man was manipulating him for some reason, distracting him, more than not from Prescott's recent conversation. About Vin, but what could be done to Tanner now? He was exactly where Prescott surely wanted the man to be, one step away from a hangman's noose and death. Ezra waited for Prescott to continue.

"Shall we go to the Equity for a drink and discuss my plans for the future of the Standish Tavern? I think you will find it most pleasing and extremely profitable."

Ezra nodded, a voice of warning loudly shouting at him, but Standish shrugged it away, so close to his dream he could taste it, rationalizing that it would not hurt to hear the man out, following Prescott toward the darkly lit Equity Bar.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When Tanner woke up, he was surprised to hear a scuffling around him, a panicked shouting and then a knife-gouge guttural sound like that of blood rushing out and slowly soaking silently into fibrous age-rings of wide-planked wood flooring. Vin's vision somehow was now a shadowy blur and all he could make out was a figure clothed all in black before him and behind that a shamble of things, like a heap of fabric, a man down...dead. Vin was not sure of that or if it truly was Larabee in front of him now. He rose from the jail cot in an unsteady roll of lanky arms and legs, his head weighing more than his neck appeared to be able to hold, lifting a hand to it with a groan. "Larabee, what the hell are you doin'?"

No answer, only the shrilly jangling of keys against steel bars in a convulsive nervousness of rushing and retreating before being noticed. Vin's arm was suddenly grabbed with fierceness, a cruelty seeded in anger and a malice that took the marksman by surprise and knowing right at that moment it was not Chris. Kicking out with his leg at the figure, off-centered and vertigo playing tricks with him, his attempts futile, and then grabbing hold of the bars tightly, like an obstinate child being made to obey. A butt of gun solidly crashing against his clenched fingers and a reflexive release, numbed more than pained, useless hand dropping to his side. "What d'ya want from me?"

"Just git moving. No questions." A gun thrust hard into his ribs then, and a tripping shove as Vin stumbled forward, falling on the bundle of man, clothing dampened in a bloody flow. Vin frantically searched for the deputy's neck, his fingers reading the prone man blindly as if a book of Braille and a quiet reassurance that the man was still alive at the slow, steady rhythmic tamping of his jugular's pulse. Pulled up by his hair cruelly, a white flashing illuminated before his eyes from pain, fighting to stay alert as the white grew to a dully-grayish veil, and then a frustrated growl at the sudden, immobilizing darkness.

~ ~ ~ ~

The claw-sharp rowels on his spurs dug angrily into the thin-worn patchwork quilt, fragile threads brittlely snapping and long-ago faded cloth fraying and splitting with each agitated shift of the gunman's boots. Chris would not allow himself to give into sleep, his mind whirling, running the what-ifs and possibilities through his exhausted mind. Vin's cooperation would be hard-won, the most difficult part of the break, and Larabee understanding and admiring that most about Vin Tanner. Would rather die than cause the others hurt or trouble and Chris not giving a damn about himself or the others at that moment, only Vin Tanner not being strung up in this God forsaken town. A twinge of regret, thinking of J.D., knowing he was too young to be on the run, frantically thinking of a way to keep the kid out of it all.

Chris sprung up from the bed, tearing away thin fabric with a curse, throwing his legs over the bed side and burying his aching head into the smooth, cool concave of his palms, slowly bringing the heels into the hollows of his eyes, intently pressing in a vain attempt to alleviate the dull, throbbing pain. It was all falling apart now and Prescott clearly behind it all in some shadowy, subversive way from Bridget's death to Vin's jailing. Chris only acknowledging one thing - it would all end now.

A steady knocking on the door, on the verge of becoming louder, more frantic as Chris walked to it with a hoarse-voiced, "WHAT?"

"It's Buck. Open up." Worry deep and immediate, Chris knowing that tone in his old friends' voice. Trouble brewing and close by, for sure.

Buck crashed through the door, dark-blue eyes wide and frightened.

"WHAT?" Chris like ironstone barely breathed in air. So still the gunman was that everything within and without vibrated with whip-sharp intensity. The blood coursed through him like white, frothing rapids, his heart so deafeningly loud to him in that moment of hanging, doomed silence.

"WHAT??"

"The deputy was nearly killed, jumped and knifed. Bled out a lot, but still alive...Vin's gone."

Chris wobbled back on his boot heels, almost going down, but Buck caught him and guided the man to the bed. Chris gave a grateful, dazed nod.

"They're comin' for ya, Chris. They think ya done the break. Ya gotta light out now. Yer horse is tacked and ready to ride. We'll take care of things here. Go find Vin. Someone's got him."

Chris stunned silent, tried to control his breathing as Buck continued. "Prescott's gone. Supposedly left fer Kansas City. I checked his room and it's cleared out."

Buck paced the room before going on, letting his hat drop down the length of his back, the latigo catching at his neck. "Ezra came to me all worked up about overhearing a conversation of Prescott's."

Buck stood in front of Chris, hands on his narrow hips, dark eyes intent. "Now when I tell you this next part, Chris, I don't want ya goin' off on Standish. It weren't his fault." Buck waited as Chris gave a noncommittal nod. Larabee cursing to himself, Standish always somehow involved in these messes.

"Ezra didn't feel too concerned about the conversation since Prescott had Vin just where he wanted him and well...Prescott side-tracked Ezra fer a while offering him a business opportunity and then that poker game came up over t' McCormick's livery. Standish got a mite distracted...pretty near the whole town was there so no one found the deputy for a few hours."

A frightening quiet and Buck knew what was coming, been at the end of the gunman's wrath more times than he could recall. But, then nothing came from the gunman, just a slowly released sigh, scaring Wilmington far worse.

No time to talk as voices grew louder, coming closer toward the room. "Go now, Chris. We'll catch up. Find Vin 'n head to New Mexico. Just git the hell out of here, now!!!"

Years of friendship, pain and joy shared, a deep bond surfacing in that tightly held hand clasp, eyes fixed and unwavering and then Buck, not able to carry worry too long, gave a grin as Larabee attempted to crawl through the opening of the narrow window. "Brings back memories, don't it?"

Chris popped his blonde head back through the window, his hat hanging behind him, wearing a toothy grin. "Yeah, but it was yer sorry ass they were usually after."

"Never knew father's could be so dang overprotective..." Buck jerked his head around, voices closer now, causing him concern. "Git going, Chris. Stay low. Stay safe."

Buck watched as Chris hid against the shadowed-side of buildings, blending into the darkness and then gone. Turning towards the bed, casual as you please, Buck rested his long limbs and broad frame slowly on the bed. The door burst open then, and Wilmington with a wide white-toothed grin gave a wave. "Well, howdy boys! Looking fer someone?"

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Larabee bolted quickly across Spring Street and ducked into the shadows behind Howard & McMaster's store, taking in the grim sight of the stockade that Vin spoke of only two days ago. Now both running from the law and Chris worried more about who held Vin captive than the all too soon to be gathered posse. Sneaking through the alleyways grateful for the darkness, Chris ran silently, resting and watching against the clapboard siding of a millinery shop, noting Shelton's drug store to his left. Fortunately, all closed for the evening and most of the town quiet with the exception of the Equity bar and the wild, late night hooting and hollering of cowboys off in Hogstown.

Again on the run, Chris darted across Main Street and hid near the back of McCormick's Livery, hoping to unobtrusively retrieve the black and be on his way unnoticed to find Vin. Safe for now from the buzzing, grumbling gathering of men in front of the jailhouse, only a street away, all itching to ride to find the murderous outlaws. Chris knowing the doctor was not in town, a month gone now, visiting family and hearing worried distant shouts and calls for that healer, Jackson. Larabee silently hoping the young deputy lived, a good man, and also the only witness to the whole business. Once Dobbs thought things through more clearly, Chris felt confident that he would be vindicated, knowing Judge Travis was adept at helping people find their way through the confusing murkiness of half-truths and misconceptions.

Still bent deeply into himself, lowered into the loamy earth and musty scent of the aging dung of horses, his black apparel serving him well on this overcast night, but seeing snatches of moonlight, struggling to break through the thickness of clouds. Not yet, Chris prayed to no particular god, only to the sky itself; the moon's light not needed until his time on the trail. If the paint went missing that would be easy enough for him to track, the pony unshod, this giving Larabee a tenable fragment of hope. A low whistle drifted toward him and Larabee curled lower into the tufts of high grasses that sprung up determinedly around the corral fence posts and then his name whispered, "Larabee?"

Sounded like McCormick, Chris waited still wary, no matter Vin's past with the man's wife. Again the whisper urgent and insistent, "Wilmington was here. You're set."

Chris then made the decision to trust this man and prayed it was the right choice for Tanner's sake. Rising slightly, but still in a low crouch, crab-walking and keeping to the darkest shadows, Larabee entered quickly through the livery door, only a snatch of black raven's wing, his duster feathered silently, frighteningly behind him. Just a slip of shadow seen in the slant of lantern light that poured through the small spaced opening of the door.

Mickey extended his finely manicured hand to Chris as the gunman stood stone still, allowing his eyes to adjust to the light before noticing the outstretched hand, clasping it then, not quite completely trusting the gambler. A look to his left, giving a slow, small nod to a young towheaded boy of about thirteen who sat forlornly atop several crates, looking nervously at his hands and back to McCormick and the gunman.

"This is Johnny. He worked for me tonight while the poker game was going on in the back building. I thought you might be interested in a few things he has to say." Mickey turned to the boy and walked over to him, giving an encouraging squeeze to the slender shoulder. "Go ahead now, Son. Mr. Larabee won't hurt you. He only wants the truth. What you know could save a good man's life."

Johnny looked to Mickey and nodded, took a breath and swallowed hard, his brow cording in deep thought, trying to recall all details of the evening. "Well, sir, this fella comes in dressed like you, all in black. He scared me somethin' fierce. Told me to get some fella named Tanner's horse. Only way, I knew which horse was Tanner's cause Mr. McCormick likes t' keep things orderly 'n writes everythin' down. I's hired 'cause I c'n read real good." Johnny looked to McCormick and the affable Irishman gave a wide smile and an agreeing nod.

"You're doing very well, Johnny boy." The blonde youth once again looked to the gunman whose eyes now appeared kind, patient, but still a nervous edginess in the coiled length of him. The green-eyed man kneeled on one leg, eye-level to the boy, the other leg an ell of limb, the loose drape of arms crisscrossing the upright knee. No movement, but the keenly lit eyes like a cat on the prowl, watching.

"I got the paint saddled fer that man, but he kept pacin' back 'n forth, tellin' me t' hurry it up. Hit me in the head a coupla times, that jes' got me plumb mad, but I guess I's scared more 'cause I tried t' move fast like he wanted. Most people'll give me half bit or somethin', but he didn't give me nothin'. Didn't care none, just wanted him away from here. Didn't like the man, he's real mean. I watched him tryin' t' pick up this fella with long hair like an Indian, was real rough with him. I jes' figured the other fella t' be skunked, got too drunk ' n passed out. But, I reckon I's wrong. Didn't know that man was hurt...didn't know..."

McCormick squeezed Johnny's shoulder tenderly, handing him a few coins. "You best get home now son, before your mother starts to worry. Keep this all to yourself for now. Just for a while, until we find the man that's hurt. He's a good friend of Mr. Larabee and to Mrs. McCormick. You're not doing anything wrong. Hurry along, now."

Johnny jumped up, ready to leave, relief obvious and then his blue eyes sparked with memory. "I jes' thought of somethin', might be important. I heard voices outside before the man left and it wasn't the passed out fella. I heard 'em talkin' 'bout goin' t' the old rock house. Ain't no one lived there fer awhile now. Ya know Kid Dobbs' father-in-law's place at Red River Springs." Johnny's eyes misted up a bit as he looked toward McCormick. "Is the Kid all right, Mr. McCormick? He ain't hurt too bad is he?"

"Kid Dobbs will be just fine. Mr. Jackson, another friend of Mr. Larabee's is taking care of him while Doctor Shelton is away. No need to worry now. Off with you, run along before your mother sends out your brother Shamus to fetch you home. That's a good lad." Turning to Chris, McCormick spoke confidentially, "Red River Springs is easy enough to find. Just follow the Canadian west out of Tascosa. Can you track?"

"The paint's unshod and if there's two other men, should be easy 'nough. Moon's breaking through the haze, should be full 'n bright. Thanks McCormick. I owe ya."

Mickey McCormick reached for the gunman's hand extended in gratitude. "You owe me nothing. Just get that Tanner fellow back alive or Frenchy will have both our heads. She's fiercely loyal to the ones she loves and her heart is soft for that Vin Tanner."

"I owe her an apology." Chris ducked his head and reached for the reins passed to him by the livery owner.

"I think my wife's close to something. Frenchy's been traveling around to different farms and ranches in the area, tracking down some of the witnesses. She's got Temple Houston and I.P. Ryland, a local attorney helping her."

Chris' head rose up at that, curious and one step toward a fragile hope. "I figured she took those statements. I was pretty angry at that." Shaking his head with the memory, Chris gave a chastised grin. "Have her go to Judge Travis if she's got somethin' that might help. He'll know what t' do. Get the boys too. Tell them I'm fine. Appreciate all this, McCormick. I was wrong about everything."

"You had a right not to trust anyone in Tascosa. Tanner got railroaded in this town years back. You were just watching out for a friend. Can't wrong a man for that. It pays to be cautious, prudent. Godspeed, Mr. Larabee."

Chris walked the black towards the livery door as McCormick doused out the lantern's flame with a ragged, worrisome breath. The livery owner acknowledging the gunman's silent nod of gratitude with a raised hand and dip of his full head of black hair, blue eyes eloquent in their silence, whispering a prayer for the safe deliverance of both men.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Nausea hard and immediate roused him as an intense pain hammered his skull, Vin with little recourse rolled to his right side disoriented, rising on to his knees and retched uncontrollably and powerfully on to the hard-packed dirt floor. Watery eyes slowly gave way to sharper vision as Vin's retching ebbed to only painful heaves wracking his weary frame. His bones as brittle as tinderbox kindling, a dried twig-snap away from splitting apart, breaking, becoming dust.

A slow awareness of his surroundings coming to him and then a heart-bursting panicked discovery of shackles on his wrists, the chain attached to the rock wall by a heavy steel spike. Vin took in deep breaths attempting to ward off another bout of nausea and a survivor's need to keep a clear-headed calm. Resting back against the cool, supportive comfort of the sandstone rock of wall, looking around; a lean-to of sorts, noting the back wall of the house built into a slope of hill.

Again panic was swallowed back down hard as Vin reached for a tin cup placed near him, a coffeepot beside it. His thoughts wandered frantically, questioning who took him and why? Could not make heads nor tails of anything at all, slowly, clumsily lifting the coffee cup to his lips, feeling the pull of chains as his hands rose toward his face. Rinsing his mouth with a cleansing, streaming release of the acrid liquid, repeated and then a long deep pull taken in, his thirst powerful...tasting a peculiarly earthy-strong bitterness as his dulled senses intensified and gave warning, a fear growing at Vin's realization that the coffee was tainted.

A low muffled groan expelled as his head laxly drooped forward to his chest, an immediate numbness, falling stuporous to his left side, face impacting with the coolly dampness of earth, even that, unable to restore the opiate-drugged man. Blue eyes opened wide then, though in a trance, his limbs tingling, a lifting of all anxiety from him, his fear evanesced in those moments, the earth itself seeping into every pore of him, and he suddenly felt a heightening peace. Eyes blinking for a moment at the sight of high-glossed boots, the oil lamp's glow shining on the rounded toes, a laugh convulsed from the prone man at that, not raising his head, mesmerized.

"Well, Mr. Tanner, I'm glad to see you're in better spirits. All your pain alleviated now?" Prescott crouched down in front of the marksman, trying to right the almost boneless man into a seated position, surprisingly accomplished quickly by the weakly slight-built man. Prescott wrinkled up his nose in disgust at the sight beside Tanner and called to the taller man dressed still in a black duster to clean up the vile gorge of vomit.

A gruffly voiced protest at the order and then acquiesced, digging and burying the mess with a barrage of curses. Again a low laugh convulsed from Tanner as Prescott's mad lapis eyes shone with a bizarre merriment, running a smooth, well-manicured, feminine hand through the marksman's long hair. "No more nausea, I hope?" Prescott's hand rubbed lightly across Vin's cheek and along the finely chiseled jaw and square chin. "What a grievous injustice I have done to you. Thinking you were a barbarian of sorts, not seeing the true beauty, as they say, a diamond in the rough. Mr. Tanner you are truly a striking specimen of man."

The hired gunman beside Tanner and Prescott completed his cleaning and gave a disgusted glance to Prescott. "I'll be waitin' outside. I don't go for them oddly ways 'n I ain't wantin' t' know about it. If ya need somethin' from me, I'll be by the corral."

"Don't worry, Mr. Taylor. I have no desire to act in the manner that you are implying. I find my pleasures satisfied only with the female gender, though one cannot deny splendor when it is seen." Prescott slowly brought his hand down Vin's chest with a light brush of fingers stopping at the top of Tanner's high-front pants, whispering now only to the marksman. "Though, it is quite tempting."

Blue eyes vacant and dazed, calmly euphoric, Vin felt a touch burning into him, pleasurable, sending his muscles almost into convulsing shudders at the sensation of it, not comprehending what was happening to him. Prescott reached for the tin coffee cup, and brought it to Vin's slack lips.

"Drink, Mr. Tanner. It will do you good. Be happy while we wait for Mr. Larabee to rescue you and then the posse will come to render their form of justice, hunting you down like the unworthy animal that you are." Vin drank down the liquid with a sated smile, relaxed and free from all worry. "That's it my friend. That's it. Rest now, only wonderfully blissful thoughts. So close to heaven, wouldn't you say? God's own medicine." A hand pushing back the long hair, almost lovingly and then Prescott rose, leaving the marksman alone in his halcyon calm.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Prescott returned two hours later, freshly bathed and fashionably attired, giving an appraising look to the quietly introspective man, gazing fixedly at the oil lamp's flickering wick of light. A satisfied smile loped perversely across John Prescott's wolfish lips, jackal-eyes obscenely blue-bright in the rock house's dim shadowy light. Turning his attention to the sleeping gunman, Prescott gave an angered kick to the man's outstretched legs crossed at the ankles, completely relaxed.

"Taylor!!"

The man awoke, reflexively bringing his hand to his gun, clearing leather and then calming at the sight of the dandy before him. "Prescott, you best not be doin' that again. Can't guarantee ya won't end up deader than a doornail next time."

"If you want to see your money, *you* better make sure that does not occur. I certainly am not paying you to sleep. How has Mr. Tanner been behaving?"

Taylor stood up slowly, his tall, broad frame filling up the small room, walking toward the sedate marksman. "Been like this the whole time, quiet...jest starin'. Hardly moved at all."

Prescott nodded and picked up the coffeepot and tin cup that now sat on the rickety-built timber table lashed together with thin strips of hemp cordage. "Did you make the tea as I instructed? Grinding the pods, letting it steep in the boiling water? Did you add the aniseed and mint into this lot?"

"Yeah...yeah. I done everythin' jest like you said. You need coffee t' mix it into this time too?"

Prescott studied the slight man huddled in the corner. "I think Mr. Tanner will be more than cooperative, though I must be careful not to let him ingest too much. Opium poisoning will lead irrevocably to death."

"Thought that's what you wanted, him dead, I mean?"

"Why, of course, I do. But, that would be far too pleasant a way for Mr. Tanner to perish. I prefer a horrifically slow death at the hands of a rampaging, angry mob. Don't you agree, Mr. Taylor?"

"Yeah, whatever ya say, Prescott." The gunman stood in front of the oil lamp, causing the marksman to blink and resettle his dulled blue-eyed gaze on the black form in front of him. "Don't cha talk?" Taylor grinned and gave a hard, vicious kick to the back of Vin's boot heel, causing the leg to lose purchase and extend out almost boneless in front of the inert man. "This one's jest way too easy."

Prescott gave a rueful shake of his head. "Don't let the lamb fool you, Mr. Taylor. Have you forgotten this man was injured before his capture by you, disoriented and fairly compliant? The poppies are quite potent and can render a man nearly senseless. We will continue to dispense the tea until the hour draws near for our guest to be a bit more aware of his surroundings. Might I suggest at that time, Mr. Taylor, to wisely remain alert. Make no mistake, the wolf *will* without a doubt remove his sheep's clothing and Mr. Taylor; I have never seen a more dangerous, lethal man than Vin Tanner. Although I must say, Chris Larabee comes frighteningly close.

"Chrisss?" Vin hearing snatches of conversation within his dreams; voices and faces not recognized, but that one name. "Chrisss?"

"That's right, Mr. Tanner." Prescott knelt close to the marksman, his hand once again fondled the long tresses of dark brown hair, pleased at the softly, silky feel of it. Turning Vin's face toward his own, noting a vague fleeting fear in his captive's eyes, watching as the mouth worked to form his name wordlessly: "Prescott." Just a breath...a soundless whisper.

"Yes, Mr. Tanner, you are correct." Prescott lifted his chin to Taylor. "Get me the tea."

Crouching down again alongside Vin Tanner, a soft gentle caress feathered lightly against the marksman's cheek, then placing his withy fingers up to the man's mouth, opening the lax lips slightly, carefully working the cup of tea between the stuporous man's lips, cooing, soothing the man to drink, to swallow, to give into the calming peace. Vin did so with little struggle, his fear now completely gone.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Chris reined in the black, reaching for his canteen as he scanned the distant knolls and river valley. Riding all-night and feeling no closer to this rock house, bone-weary tired and more than a little worried. Finally picking up the trail as the sky gradually lightened, seeing the paint's unshod hoof prints, noting that three men traveled along the river's edge.

He could think of nothing else, but finding Vin Tanner, no concern for himself or the approaching posse. His gut voiced a truth known to Chris from the beginning, pointing to John Prescott's guilt, the perpetrator of Vin's abduction. This frightened Chris greatly, not sure what this man would do to Vin, Chris becoming more and more chillingly aware of Prescott's deeply dark insanity.

A slow drifting of green eyes over vast, flat lands, seeming to hold the secrets of Tanner's whereabouts tightly in its grasp as Chris stood up straight-legged and tall in the stirrups, emotion rising, a hoarsely voiced shout erupting from him: "VIN!! VIN!! I'M HERE! I'M HERE!!" The agonized shouting painfully filled up the imposing starkness of grasses, settling its weariness, its worry in the limb of a willow, in the eddy of a river, in the haunting caw of a crow. "Where the hell are ya, Tanner? Where the hell are ya?"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Circuit Judge Orrin Travis entered the stone jail in a cold, black cloud of fury, a teased tiger unleashed. His gray eyes flashed lightening-bright and dangerous at the sight of J.D., Buck and Josiah penned behind bars. Their warder, a man of seemingly disreputable character, insolently chided and provoked his prisoners unaware of the two men thundering towards him. Sheriff Jim East on the Judge's boot heels lunged for the man; a quarrelsome, hardened Monte dealer that oft times stirred up trouble amongst the trail-herd cowboys.

"Mexican Frank! What in blue blazes are ya doin' here and where the hell is the Kid?" Sheriff East shoved his six-shooter into the belly of the man, angered and impatient. "Where's Tanner 'n why 'n hell are those men locked up?"

Travis reached for the keys on a nearby hook and worked the lock irritably as the three men waited in a coiled silence, their thoughts only on Vin and Chris. Buck ran his damp hands down the length of his legs, anxiously distressed, worried the posse was close to finding the gunman; full of rabble-rousers and cutthroats with little conscious or qualm when it came to hanging a man. Bad enough that fate was dogging Tanner, Buck would have to be long dead and buried before he allowed Chris or Vin to be strung up on some hanging tree; dying slowly_ mercilessly_ strangling because no one thought to make a knot large enough to snap a neck, quick and clean or make sure the hemp was oiled enough to keep it from slipping.

A trembling fear rolled over him in staggering waves at those thoughts, turning away from them fast, but then finding himself staring into the wide, hazel eyes of J.D. filled with faith and fright, needing Buck to reassure and assuage his concerns. The black mustache thickly curled around a grin hard-pressed for Buck to give, but well aware the kid read him as well as the day's weather and desperately trying not to let it show that one hell of a storm was fast blowing in on them.

"Can't seem to leave you boys alone for a moment without finding you in some bind." Orrin gave a smile to the men, noting the lines of worry on their haggard faces and the anxiety steeping deep within them, watching Josiah with fists clenched in tormented prayer. Turmoil clearly sounded in the haunting telling of words spoken: "...deliver us from evil...Lord of mercy and wonder, Almighty God most Powerful, who can be all things, bestow all things to your children, though we are wayward and undeserving. I beseech Thee, Oh Lord, to watch over our Brothers in their time of most desperate need ...again I pray to Thee, Our Father most High...deliver us from all evil... Amen."

Buck and J.D. bowed their heads and released a quietly sorrowed, "Amen", and then jerking up quickly at the anguished wailing squeal of hasps and hinges with the jail cell door's slow release.

"What happened here?" Orrin ushered the men out, waiting for answers, Buck about to speak when the dark-haired Mexican twisted free of Jim East and stood eye-to-eye with the Judge.

"I'll tell ya what happened here. Yer man Larabee pretty near killed Kid Dobbs. Jumped him 'n like t'gut him near clean open. Left him fer dead. Tanner 'n Larabee, the two of 'em are murderin' sack of..."

Buck snaked out a long-limbed arm, viper-quick and deadly, fanged fingers embedded tightly in to Mexican Frank's neck, though quickly released as the gunman was gently, but forcibly subdued by Josiah. "That ain't goin' t' help no one, Buck. Let the Judge work things out now." Buck slowly retracted, calming as the preacher soothingly patted the kindhearted man's shoulder.

The Judge gave a stray glance to Buck as he collected his thoughts and regained his own calm. Travis clearly dismayed over the events that transpired in his absence, shook his head and ran a curved thumb down the bridge and length of his nose, brow cording as he watched the man before him, defiant and vindictive, oil-slick black hair and complexion the color and substance of burnt butter.

"I assume you have witnesses to this alleged murder attempt?" Orrin Travis, steadfast and solid; unyielding as New England granite; Connecticut-Yankee born and bred; Yale Law School scholar, stood puritanically imposing, stone-still rigid, his eyes glinting like that of crystalline quartz. "Well, Mr. Frank?"

"That I do. Dobbs, himself, said a man wearin' black came int' the jail. Said he wore a black duster 'n a black flat-brimmed hat jest like Larabee was wearin'. Everythin' fit. Who else woulda done it? Ain't nobody would, jest yer men."

"Did Dobbs say straight out that it was Chris Larabee that did this to him?"

"Ain't had t' say no such thing. We knew right off who done it jest by describin' them clothes. Catfish Kid got t'gether a posse t' go after them murderin' dogs, but first we locked up the Larabee gang for safekeepin'. Our safekeepin' ya might say."

Judge Travis turned to a stunned Jim East; worry plain for his young deputy. "Let's go see how Kid Dobbs is faring and maybe find some answers."

Buck no longer able to remain quiet, ran a hand through his thickly black hair and pulled nervously at his mustache. "I have those answers 'n it all points t' Prescott. Chris felt that he was after Vin from the start because of Vin's accusations 'bout Bridget 'n Vin wasn't too tactful 'bout lettin' Prescott know how he felt. I'd say tryin' to strangle the life out of man twice might get even the most reasonable of men a mite hot under the collar 'n Prescott's not a man that's playing with a full deck as far as I c'n tell." Buck sighted darkly blue eyes on Travis. "And that just 'bout scares me t' death. Vin is hurt 'n Prescott's got him. A posse's on their trail 'n it just don't look too good fer them, Judge. We got t' ride 'n ride now."

"I agree. Sheriff East, when do you expect Garrett and the Rangers back in town?"

"They could be gone fer days, Judge. Tryin' to track down the rest of them rustlers. It's a big country out there." Jim East shrugged his shoulders, gripping Mexican Frank's arm, roughly bringing the man to him. "I want ya gone now. Git out of my sight 'n ya best stay out of trouble or ya'll be findin' yerself on the other side of them bars."

"We need t' go*now*, Judge." Buck sidestepped with a nervous edginess and placed his long willow-withed hands on his narrow hips, long brown coat tossed behind his gun-belt.

Travis gave an agreeing nod and returned his attention to the sheriff. "Are there any men of merit that might be willing to ride with us?"

"Well, there's McCormick 'n a few others I might be able t' round up. It looks t' me like that posse ain't full of our finer citizenry, 'specially with Catfish Kid their leader 'n that's trouble fer yer men. Some of 'em might be quick t' hang."

"Mark my words, if anything happens to Larabee or Tanner, they will find themselves behind bars or hung." Josiah lowered his head at the Judge's warning and voiced a loud: "Amen."

A nod to each other and turning on their heels, each in a harried rush to get their mounts saddled and gather some more guns to ride with them, unaware of a man of slight stature coming through the door, wearing clothes of a humble Mexican-style, revealing a timid demeanor.

"Excusa, Senors." The man removed his weatherworn sombrero, his fingers working nervously around the tattered brim. "I am seeking a Judge Travis. It is of grande importancia that I speak with him."

"I'm Judge Travis. Now's not a good time. Come back tomorrow." Travis dismissed the man, thoughts on more pressing matters.

"Si Senor. Muy arrepentido. But, as I said it is of much importance."

"Very well, Mr...." An eyebrow raised in curiosity, finally giving full attention to the man before him.

"I am Miguel Trujillo. I have news of Jess Kincaid's asesinato. Testigo, I see this killing."

"Por favor, Mr. Trujillo, please sit." Travis looked to East and the men. "I'm going to need to hear this. Sheriff East, Josiah, I would like you both to remain as a witness to this man's testimony. J.D. and Buck go on and get that posse together. Bring our mounts to the jail when you're set to ride. I think we should be ready by then."

Buck nodded and hustled J.D. out the jail's door. "What do you think that's all about, Buck? Do you think it might be good news for Vin?"

Buck settled weary dark blue eyes on J.D. then drifted a distant glance to the open lands. "I hope so, kid. We sure as hell can use some right about now."

~ ~ ~ ~

Far beyond the Stinkingwater River where the winds carry traces of the Hot Springs' sulfur scent, musky pungent and earthy strong, Vin stood deeply quiet within the Secluded Valley, reaching his hands out and open to those stirring winds, those forever skies, those lifeblood lands. Joy beyond all things in this dreamer's moment and he was gladdened, his heart full to be there again. Wandering through mountains of granite slate and sandstone that gave life to pines in soil, fertile and rich, the scent of them powerful, dizzying. Then past a tumbling of timbers, he journeyed. Down mountains he went, watching a grizzly clawing through dirt of marshy lands, eating roots among the willows. Now into a small prairie valley, he kneeled to drink from a clear running stream, a branch of the Yellowstone, a child born of its mother. Again, through densely, thick forests he roamed, entering into a small valley with beautiful groves of cottonwoods embracing the low banks of the stream that ran through, and grand, dark mountains enfolded and shadowed him. Following the stream again between mountains cut by waters that coursed through_a thousand lifetimes_infinitival years, and below him stretched a valley touched only by God. Here he would truly love to spend the remainder of his days.

John Prescott stood over the marksman, watching the quiet, striking eyes and the mouth that whispered secrets beyond all of humankind's knowledge, holding an enviable peace; a fury growing within Prescott as he knelt beside the drugged man.

"Where are you, Mr. Tanner? Some place wonderful, perhaps? Enjoy it while you may for your time is drawing near." Prescott pressed against Tanner, his face and hands as pale as winter, softly brushing the brown, wavy locks of hair away from the marksman's ear, his whispers like the breath of ghosts, misted coldly soft and sinister around Vin in his sleeper's dreams.

"I give you such pleasure, do I not, Mr. Tanner? Truly you must see that I am a most kind and caring fellow. Abundantly benevolent, even to my enemies and let there be no mistake of this for you, Mr. Tanner, are my most despised and mortal enemy." Turning Vin's face to him, Prescott brought up a cup to the man's lips. "Here now, drink up one of life's most precious resources. You must be parched and we are fortunate to have a spring at our disposal. Yes...yes...there you go. My ... we are rather thirsty. I have been remiss in my duties as your host."

Drinking greedily as water in cool rivulets ran down his chin and soaked into his blue flannel shirt, Vin at that clear running stream, him happiest at that valley, never wanting to leave again. "Tell me, Mr. Tanner...tell me where you are? What peace have you known that I have not been privy to even once in my life? What God allows a man like you that joy and a man of my standing left forsaken? Where do you go in your thoughts with so little education or knowledge of this world and its splendor? I have been to distant lands, seen all its wonders. What do you see in your dreams...what do you know?"

Taking the cup from Tanner's lips as the marksman reached his shackled hands out, still searching for the coolness of the waters, Prescott placed a palm to Vin's forehead. "You're very warm, Mr. Tanner. It appears your running a fever. Taylor help me with him for a moment will you?" Taylor grumbled quietly, stretched his limbs and then swaggered slowly over to the two men.

"I need to examine the back of his head. Lean him forward." Prescott pointed to the nearby table. "Get that lamp and hold it close for me."

Reaching for the lamp, Taylor then lowered himself down on his haunches in front of the marksman, Vin slumping forward into the annoyed gunman's shoulder. The lamp held above Vin as Prescott prodded roughly at the red-raw lacerations. "Well, Mr. Taylor, I believe you've managed to destroy quite a bit of suturing on this unfortunates' scalp."

"I aim t' please." Laughter as coarse as sandpaper chafed roughly against Prescott's tightly strung nerves.

"See to it you continue that, Mr. Taylor. Now, hand me the carbolic I have in that satchel and some of those cloths."

"Why 'n hell are ya wastin' yer time with this fool?" Taylor dropped the bag at Prescott's feet, shaking his head at the dandy's thorough ministrations.

"I need him to be ambulatory, Mr. Taylor. What enjoyment would there be if the hunted was not able to offer up chase?" Prescott then draped a blanket around Vin's shoulders, instructing Taylor to slowly rest the marksman against the rock-faced wall. "No more tea, he's far too under now and his health is deteriorating. I need you to see if Mr. Larabee is finding his way. Make sure you're not seen."

"No need t' worry, Prescott. I just got one question fer ya, though. How d'ya know Larabee's coming?"

"Oh, he's coming, Mr.Taylor. Do not fear. Chris Larabee is coming."

Again the name stirred Tanner from his dreams. "Chriiss?"

"Yes, Mr. Tanner. Chris will be here soon." A gentle rub to the marksman's shoulder as Prescott spoke. "Be on your way, Taylor. Do not dawdle."

The gunman left with a nod, grinning widely, smugly satisfied at the fragile state of the marksman, giving a disgusted snort at the sight of the dandy intimately pressed into the man. John Prescott, so absorbed with Vin Tanner, gave little notice to Taylor's show of distaste as he gently glided his fingers like palely icicles through Tanner's hair, across the inflamed brow and down the faintly rising chest. "Be well, Mr. Tanner. Don't ruin it all for me now. Rest and be well."

~ ~ ~ ~

The skirred winds with their imperceptible, feather-light steps, unseen, fiddled and danced and shuffled across the prairie's stage of endless rustling grasses. In a deeply contemplative silence, Ezra sat watching the hushed bow and sway of the lyrical lands as slips of pinkish light caught the edges of the eastern skies, an eye-blink instant, a muted rose awakening, giving way to day. A breath taken in that purest of moments and then startled at a haunting cry, a lamentation that hung heavy and forlorn on those very winds. As the crow flies, it came in its inhumanly strange agonies and Standish heard it to be a name called, a name he knew well, the name: "Vin..."

Pulling up tightly on his reins like a bolt of lightening struck through him, Ezra's thoughts only on that call, as its echoed confusion glanced off distant knolls, and then forever lost to him in the hauntingly still silence. "Good Lord...Chris..."

Unnerved, but with a practiced composure, Standish straightened his lapels and dusted his frock coat, his hands distractedly searching pockets reassured by the deck of cards always there. Then touching his fingers to folds of paper, removing it almost unseeing, Ezra opened it slowly, reading the name 'Standish Tavern' and with an angered, frustrated shout, balled the paper and released it into the winds and grasses, watching as it loosed itself, forever lost from sight.

"Damn you for this Prescott! DAMN YOU!!!"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"What brings you here now, Mr. Trujillo? After how many years...three...four... or more since Jess Kincaid's murder? Orrin Travis perched his head on his fisted hands, elbows squarely set on the desk's top, dark gunmetal eyes sighted keenly on the pastore.

The man quiet then, not able to release the secret kept for so long, was strangely unsettled trying to speak of it now. Trujillo worried the brim of his sombrero, remembering it all, began to talk. "We all only hope to survive, to live in peace without temor, fear. I was a cobarde, a coward."

"Had your life been threatened, Mr. Trujillo?" Travis rubbed his temples, eager to hear the man's story, but aware time was running out for Vin Tanner and Chris Larabee.

"Yes, my life and that of my wife's." Miguel sat back in his chair, head lowered shamefully. "Like Judas the betrayer, I no longer can live with dinero de sangre on my hands. My wife prays to Santa Maria de Guadalupe each day for the forgiveness of this betrayal. A young man was blamed for this asesinato unfairly." The older Mexican stood up and ran a hand over his face. "Two days ago a woman came to our well needing water. She was overcome with sorrow. A man she loved was in trouble and she was not, yet able to help him. She spoke of a man by the name of Eli Joe and told of his death. This was the man I saw murder Senor Kincaid. He gave me money for my silencio, allowing my wife and I to live. The money gave to us a good life, a home, land. But, the fear was always there that he would come back."

"Will you sign a sworn document attesting to that?" Judge Travis looked at Jim East as the sheriff pulled paper from a side drawer along with ink and pen. A smile came to Travis as the man nodded his head.

"Will that be 'nough t' clear Vin, Judge? A heart-skipping elation grew within the big man, pleased to think of Vin forever free of this albatross.

"It's a start. Mr. Trujillo's testimony along with retractions of the other witnesses' statements will be more than enough to acquit Vin Tanner of this crime."

Noisily entering the jailhouse, Buck trying to cajole J.D. into better spirits, worried the kid would lose that needed edge to save himself, being too distracted over Vin and Chris, stopped suddenly at the sight of Josiah's full-toothed smile. Buck let out a loud whoop, vaulting towards the preacher with a large, loud, backslapping hand on the big man's broad shoulders and gave a grizzly bear of a hug just about knocking the wind from Josiah. "Hey, now Buck. I guess ya know what's going on then."

"By the look on yer face, I'm thinking Vin Tanner's 'bout to be given the best gift of that boy's life." Buck turned to J.D. who stood stunned next to the Judge. "Ya hear that J.D.? Things are lookin' up. You just think on that when we go git Chris 'n Vin. Ya hear me boy?" Buck grabbed up J.D. into his arms, lifting the kid off the ground, feet dangling.

"So your sayin' everything is goin' t' be okay now, Buck? Is it true, Judge? Is Vin free t' leave Tascosa, then? Will he be able t' go home?" J.D. still skeptical, afraid to believe it was that easy, looked at the Judge for those answers.

"Things look good, J.D." Travis handed the pen over to Trujillo for his mark and stood to shake the man's hand. "Don't leave the county. I'd like to hold a Bench trial and clear this matter up entirely."

Dark hazel eyes opened wide with amaze as J.D. jumped into Buck's arms with a whoop and threw his hat into the air. "Hot Damn, Buck! Hot Damn!"

"You said it, kid." Buck set J.D. down with a lighthearted thump, but then became serious. "We've got t' ride. That posse's got some time on us 'n daylight's burning. Not going t' do Vin much good, if he's not alive t' enjoy it."

"Gentlemen. Let's get the bad guys." Orrin grabbed his hat and strode ahead of the men, all of them still shaken, suddenly recovering, followed quickly behind him. "By the way, where has Standish gone off to?"

Each man looked to each other and gave a shrug, Buck grinning. "Well, if it was me you were lookin' for, it'd be with a good woman, but for Ezra, I'm bettin' it's one hell of a poker game."

"Well there's no time to find him, now." The Judge mounted and gave a nod to Nathan as the healer trotted up alongside the men. "Dobbs is holdin' his own. Said it weren't Larabee that jumped him. The man was a good four t' five inches taller 'n had brown eyes."

A slow smile came to Travis and a quiet nod given, the Judge's eyes distant, thoughtful. "I had no doubt. Chris gave me his word. Let's ride, Gentlemen."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Vin returned again to Texas on the blowing winds, not able to stay away, as though his mother's voice forever called to him from those endless plains. Somehow knowing that he belonged to those lands more than any other, though the ancient glories of the Big Horn and Wind River Mountains embraced him, captivated him, consoled him as his heart was nearly broken for the leaving of a fine woman. He tried to stay with Elizabeth McGraw, his Lizzie. So hard he fought against every instinct in him to take flight from Mobeetie, Vin losing the soul of him in that world, unable to see the skies or stars or distant mountains. No longer able to breathe, his balance once more lost to him, as it was lost to him during those dark days in that Tennessee prison. Knowing choices had to be made, be it right or wrong, his paths decided and needing to be walked, always seemingly to be alone. So, he lived and trapped along the Wind River, the Big Horn, the Popo Agia, and the Yellowstone where buffalo, mountain sheep, elk and bear were plentiful. Vin finally finding 'a good way of life,' though it was ofttimes filled with hardship and deeply lonely, even for a man like himself that enjoyed the quiet solitude.

More than two years passing, he came down from the high country in the moon of the snows, a curious sight to the River Men along the Canadian, dressed in buffalo skin leggings, leather breeches, a buffalo robe coat and moccasins made of deer elk. Still wearing his Confederate slouch hat, a flannel shirt of red, a luxury he allowed himself, cotton and flannel shirts often hard to come by, though on occasion he wore a shirt of antelope skin. His hair was now well passed his shoulders and his saddle was adorned with six beaver traps, a blanket roll, an extra pair of moccasins, a butcher knife, a small wooden box for beaver bait and a hatchet attached to the pommel, his carbine in his hand habitually rested in front of him at the ready.

Vin wandered then across the Panhandle and farther north following the herds, the buffalo still plentiful on the southern plains, pleased to be among the People again. It was a 'good way of life' for Vin, until the buffalo started to diminish, the hide hunters leaving an ugly, senseless scatter of carcasses across the buffalo grasses while the People felt the first stirrings of deprivations to come. Vin could no longer be a party to this slaughter, though he took very little profit from the hunt, offering most of his buffalo to the Comanche and Kiowa bands that camped close.

On the roam again, penniless, and the land offering him little game, Vin with no schooling, chose his first Wanted Poster in Amarillo, though not able to read, remembered faces and names with keen clarity and a better shot not soon to be found in Texas or the Territories. Choices made and paths chosen becoming the hunter of men, his balance once more lost to him, again no longer 'in true'...

Vin twitched spasmodically awake with a groan, his throat dust-dry and scratchy, his head painfully sore, eyes red-rimmed, gritty and him feeling woozily logy. His mind, a cobweb, captured only fragments of memory, feeling as though he wandered in a gentle faraway dream, first so clear and pure, but then becoming clouded and tainted; now so lost.

My God, Almighty! Where was he? Where were the boys? Where the hell was Chris?

A quick, frightening, pale remembrance came to Vin of Prescott beside him, too close, hovering on the edge of his dreams. Vin's heart hammered, an anvil against his chest, his ears pounding loudly with the rush of it all. Stone-cold terror filled him as he groggily eyed the shackles around his wrists, feeling a weakening numbness settle into his limbs and then becoming all at once so hot as if engulfed in steaming bathhouse waters, Vin feeling half-crazy expectantly waited for clouds of misty vapors to rise around him. A desperate desire for water, a need to drink...a stream ... clear running and cold, he wanted to go back...a slip of feverish smile came to him...momentary lucidity lost ... recalling a valley. Vin there now, was floating in a sickly delirious dream, no longer able to fight against the weighty burden of his weariness, giving slowly into sleep.

"No, no, Mr. Tanner. Mustn't sleep, yet. Not until we drink a bit more. I'm sure you're still so dreadfully parched." Prescott tapped Vin's face and brought the tin cup of water to Vin's slack lips. Vin drank instinctually in his twilight sleep, responding sluggishly to the questions voiced to him.

"Much better now, Mr. Tanner?" Vin's head moved slowly down then up, nodding 'yes', a strong effort made to respond to the silk-soft voice.

"Not feeling very well are we?" Again Vin struggled, needing to answer, needing to ask for help from the 'voice' beside him. His head slowly moving side to side and a whispered, "No." Eyes too heavy to open, Vin's brow corded in frustration with his unsuccessful efforts.

"There, there, Mr. Tanner. No need to worry. Rest. Sleep. Mr. Larabee will be here shortly to take you home."

"Home?" Vin confused by that one word spoken, lost to old sorrows and endless wanderings. "No ... home."

"Why, of course, you do Mr. Tanner. Four Corners is your home with Mr. Larabee and your fellow colleagues." John Prescott watched Tanner's face as he battled again, noting the fever's toll on the man, quickly weakening him and the residual effects of the opium; Vin's mind still muddled and murky.

"Larabee..." A name Vin clung to like that of the 'voice'.

"Yes, Chris Larabee will take you home. Would you like that Mr. Tanner?" Again Prescott raised the cup to Vin's lips and Vin drank until it was removed, grateful and compliant. Placing his palm against Tanner's flushed cheek, Prescott gave a gentle rub of his fingers across the smooth skin, calming Vin. "Would you like Chris to take you home?"

Again fighting to open his eyes, desperate to tell the 'voice' that he wanted to leave, that he wanted to get out of this dark, damp place, that he wanted Chris to come *now*, trembled with the effort and then a sound burst from him, "Yyyeess..."

John Prescott nodded and rewarded the enfeebled man with more water, smoothing and straightening the lengths of dark brown hair that fell across the marksman's dampened forehead, feeling the man relax trustingly into his touch.

"Chris will come soon. Rest now." Vin nodded and fell into a heartened sleep, a soothing comfort spilling over him from Prescott's repetitive, hypnotic touch and the melodious sounds of words, now indistinguishable to him, clinging to the reassurance of the 'voice.'

~ ~ ~ ~

"Larabee'll be here 'n about 'nother ten minutes." The gunman paced around the small rock outbuilding where Prescott calmly sat, studying the sleeping marksman who lay agitatedly curled into himself like a wolf restless in its captivity. Not getting any response, Taylor slammed his hand down on the unsteady tabletop sending a loose, rattling chitter through the tin cups and coffee pot, jolting them precariously close to the table's edge. "So what's the plan, Prescott? I mean what the hell is the damn point t' this whole thing? Tanner more 'n likely was goin' t' hang anyway."

"I don't pay you to ask questions, Mr. Taylor, but if you feel the need to know what the damn point is, I shall tell you." Prescott stood slowly, running a hand down his trousers' legs hand-pressing the wrinkles out with great interest. "Yes, Mr. Tanner more than likely would be hanged for his crime, eventually, but I do not have the time nor patience to wait for that to occur. Furthermore, I relish the prospect of rendering my own form of justice, namely a bullet between those striking blue eyes. Two men on the run with a posse in hot pursuit, wanted dead or alive. This is a plan so cleverly devious that it allows me the pleasure of the kill without ever being implicated for murder. Scott-free. So you see, Mr. Taylor, that is the point."

The gunman let out a cold, dark laugh. "Now *that* point I do agree with, Prescott. What d'ya want me t' do?"

"Disarm Chris Larabee without bloodshed."

~ ~ ~ ~

He was close. He knew it. He felt it, felt it strongly in the heart of him and in the rising of his hackles like a cur dog ready for the fight. Stormy green eyes as frothy as turbulent seas drifted over a tide of grasses and rolling swells of hills. The tracks along the riverbed leading him directly to the old rock house, no effort made to hide that fact. Chris, knowing it to be a trap, sat watching as thick, curling ribbons of smoke rose up from behind the hillocks, wrapping and twisting around thin streamers of clouds. No need to question the reasons behind this fix, Prescott just plain crazy; wanting him dead as well as Vin, and Larabee not willing to let that happen. A bullet sure to greet him on clearing that rise, Chris opting to ride farther along the river to get the lay of the land, backtracking, if needed.

Easily traveling along the riverbed, luck with him, as the bank remained traversable, not encountering the pervasive, impenetrable willow brakes or banks too narrow and steep to continue. A good mile downriver, Larabee stopped his black and studied the hills seeing the smoke plumes now to his left flank. Turning towards it, backtracking, the gunman now threading over a small rise, reaching the crest, dismounted and tethered the black to cottonwood switches. Crouching down on his haunches low to ground, he watched the rock house and outbuilding.

His hat flung down his back, hair like prairie wheat blending with the tall, sun-yellowed grasses, all the while watching as his heart beat frantically, a trip hammer, his breath far too quick. Chris needed to settle himself, if he was to do Vin Tanner any good. Terrified for all that he was feeling, emotions long buried, now surfaced, and he felt near to choking on them. Always was easier just to walk away and Chris cursed himself for forgetting that, getting too close, too damn close. If he lost again...then what ... if he lost again ... he'd damn well remember next time just to walk away. With a low curse and a shake of his head, Chris scuttled along the ground staying low, angry for the caring, muttering to himself. "Shoulda left a long time ago."

~ ~ ~

Whispering through the grasses like a spectral breeze, Chris ghosted his way down slope, only a keen eye able to spot the slight bend and separations of the sunburned stems. Larabee edged his way to the north side of the old rock house, bare of windows and doors, unnoticed, his colt drawn and ready. The corral was set about four hundred yards away, Chris counting two horses in addition to Vin's paint.

Worm fencing zigzagged the boundary of the house and outbuilding, giving desirable shelter to the gunman as he spurted forward jackrabbit-quick from jutting ell to jutting ell. His head lifted up, eyes nearly shut tight from the sun's glare, thin green lines, but taking it all in, uneasy for nothing, but the quiet around him. Then voices drifted from the smaller building of the two, Chris balled into a coal-dark speck, listening, suddenly flicked out long and reedy like a slender ebony snake uncoiled, rushing toward the narrow door.

Breath held, no sound and then a quick hard kick to the door with his thick-leathered boot, full impact opening it wide, Chris momentarily unsighted for the change in light and then eyes widening in anger at the spotting of Vin handcuffed and chained to the rock wall.

"Welcome, Mr. Larabee. Please join us." Prescott stood, waving Chris over to a chair, spokes missing and wooden arms broken and jagged. "But, before you do, I would appreciate it if you would relinquish your firearm. As you can see, Mr. Taylor has you dead to right with his six-shooter and if that does not persuade you to cooperate, you might also take note of another gun sighted on Mr. Tanner."

Foolhardy, did not think straight most times when it came to things of the heart. Barging in with only a deadly cold faith in his gun, always formidable, unconquerable, though now a grave mistake made. Tombstone eyes, marble cold, loomed deadly on Prescott, the gunman unwavering and unwilling to voice defeat. "Maybe, I'll just shoot you instead."

"Maybe you will, but then Mr. Tanner will die. And if I'm not mistaken saving Mr. Tanner's life was the whole point of this exercise in futility. Of course, as I said I may very well be mistaken. Am I, Mr. Larabee, mistaken? I'll give you a moment to ruminate. Please take all the time you need to make your decision." Prescott walked to Vin, kneeling beside the prone man as the barrel of Chris' gun followed the dandy like a magnet drawn to metal.

"Get away from him." Chris did not waver, though his insides quaked at the sight of Tanner so immobile and plainly ill. "What's wrong with him, Prescott?"

"He's only sleeping, Mr. Larabee. Though, I did give him a dose of my special tea to keep him from causing harm to those around him. Opium has such a calming effect, even on the so-called wild and woolly types. He is feverish which is making him a bit logy along with the opium aftereffects. The head wound seems to have developed a rather nasty infection, but I should think someone as rough and tumble as Mr. Tanner would be affected very little by this malady." Chris tensed as Prescott ran a hand softly across Vin's back, rubbing gently. "We seem to have developed a trust."

Chris unthinkingly bolted for Prescott. "Get your hands off of him now, Prescott or I'll kill ya. Damn you to hell."

A hammer clicked soundly in Chris' ear then, as Taylor's gun burrowed into his neck. Prescott's chin lifted up triumphantly as spider-fingers spun and wove through Vin's hair, his face filled with mirth. "No, Mr. Larabee, damn you."

"Let...him...go..." Vin breathless, rolled himself sluggishly away from Prescott, wincing at the tug of the man's fingers catching in the strands of his hair, Vin's scalp screaming as he kicked out his legs and knocked the man forward face-first into the dirt floor. His boot heels digging forcefully into the hard-packed ground allowing him leverage as Vin scrambled and shimmied unsteadily backward and then stopping as the unyielding rock wall slammed into his shoulders. Pushing himself upward with great force, his arms locked tightly into his sides, manacled hands jutting out in front of him, Vin terrifically angered and terrified at his tightly bound hands, frustrated with their uselessness.

Wild and confused as he clawed at the bindings, blue eyes lost, searched the room, his mind still musty with old dreams and haunts, only wanting to leave, to be set free. Then all at once, focusing on the man he was waiting for, the man the 'voice' promised would come, who was now mercifully here. Vin thrust his narrow hips forward away from the wall, his legs unsteady without that support, newborn-weak not able to hold the weight of himself and then falling as Prescott shot out a hand, grabbing at Vin's pants' leg.

An almost mortal groan shot out from Vin, unable to hold it in, as his head hit the rock-hard soil. Rolling into a tight ball as if a dying spider, spindling legs protectively curled around its defenseless frame, Vin lay deadly still, working ploddingly through the pain and confusion, the humiliation and anger. At last finding calm with a familiar clasp of a hand to his shoulder, Vin's eyes dull-blue and listless, opened cautiously, sparking a fraction of a moment at that recognized touch. A smile dinned then quieted on his fever-flushed face, a blissful comfort filling him at the words spoken. "I'm here, Vin."

"Quite touching, Mr. Larabee." Prescott rose from the dirt floor, disgustedly wiping at his trousers and elegant frock coat, snatching Larabee's gun from Taylor's hands. Prescott openly appreciative of the fine, meticulously maintained firearm, ran his hands over the steel, awed by the commanding strength of the colt.

"I'll give the two of you some time together, a chance to catch up on things. Mr. Tanner's been waiting for your arrival. Please, Mr. Larabee, make yourself comfortable...relax. Rest while you have the chance. You'll certainly need your strength for the things to come and by all appearances, Mr. Tanner's life may depend solely on *you*."

"What the hell are you up to, Prescott?" Chris grimly planted his knees into the dirt, grabbing Vin under his arms and raising the man upright against him. Not waiting for an answer, knowing Prescott's words would just bring him a whole lot of mad, concentrated on Tanner, his mind working on ways to get them out of this mess alive.

Prescott gave an expansive, toothy smile at the deliberate slight from the man. Truly respectful of this gunman, this Chris Larabee and exceedingly thrilled at the noticeable tie between the two dangerous, hard-edged men, knowing his instincts were right, Larabee surely would fight to the death to save Vin Tanner's life.

Prescott nodding to Taylor, his chin jutting towards the door, silently ordered the gunman outside. Ready to lock the door behind them, Prescott watched the two men in the muted lamplight, smiling at his coup d'état. "Happy hunting, Gentlemen. Happy hunting."

~ ~ ~ ~

Faraway, glazed eyes narrowed like glassy moon-slivers of blue drifting aimlessly, Vin trapped in a twilight place with a half-awareness of someone close to him, holding him. Without warning, Vin fought hard against those surrounding arms and iron-grip hands with a panicked heave and arch of his back; the sinewy musculature of his limbs becoming tense and corded, the chiseled etches and cuts of his abdomen flexing tightly around the arc of his ribs, his breathing rapid and harsh from the struggle.

"Uhka nii posarenapi? a vunin." (I saw the crazy man.) Tanner's words became more urgent now. "Uhka nii posarenapi? a vunin!" Chris held Vin close as the frantic marksman jerked about spasmodically, fighting Chris, wrapped in a delirium. Then this whispered, "Ukimana nii supana?iti." (I know he's coming.)

Vin's dreams frightened the gunman as the fever caused violent, terrifying visions, the Indian dialect adding to Chris' anxiety. Comanche heard once before, another time with Tanner's fevered ravings and Chris knew that Vin was far from well. "Hinnitsa ketsaati...Hinnitsa ketsaati." (Something's not right.)

"Vin, stop it. It's all right. Prescott's not here right now. Vin, do ya hear me? He's up t' something 'n I need ya t' help me figure it out. C'n ya do that for me, pard...Vin?" Larabee held fast to the struggling man and let out a weighty sigh, looking down at the shackles, Tanner's wrists now marred and bruised for all the battling against them. Chris was unchained, though his gun was taken, causing the gunman nothing, but unease to be without it. Not sure what John Prescott was conspiring to, but knowing Vin was not strong enough to play any of the man's games.

A canteen alongside of him left by Prescott, Chris lifted it and removed the stopper, tentatively sipping at the water, assessing for traces of opiates, not quite sure how to recognize it. Fairly assured it was just water, brought the silvery rim of the canteen to Vin's mouth trying to keep the metal edge from hitting against the man's teeth as Vin bucked and thrashed. At first a difficult task to get the man to drink for his continual battling against his very tangible restrictions, but then Vin slowly relaxed into the finally recognized voice. Chris' attention went to the chains again, angered by Tanner's restraints, pulled forcefully on them in a gust of curses, but abruptly settled as a hand gripped his arm. "Larabee...don't. It ain't comin' loose."

Breathing coming to Chris with powerful draws, rattling the body and soul of him from exertion and rage, Vin still propped against the gunman fell slightly sideways from the jostling of it all. Chris grinned down at Vin who was watching the gunman from that sideways slant, blue eyes snapping bright and lucid, for now anyway and Chris grateful for that. "Hey, Tanner..." A quiet fell between them, words held back, though much wanting to be said, eyes searching, intent and then a nod given.

"My fault...this whole fix...from all I done b'fore. Comanche say everything's connected..." Vin's words trailed off quietly like pale threads of smoke blown away on the four directions of the winds. Vin struggled now to hear a whisper of their wisdom as his mind tracked back to choices made, ancient and curst.

"Before?"

"What I done 'n prison. All these years on the roam, everythin' that's gone on, leading me here. Won't be done with...ain't nothing goin' t' be set right fer me 'til I make things right fer Bridget."

"I don't buy that, Vin. You're tryin' t' tell me that Eli Joe framin' ya for murder 'n Bridget's death...Prescott...even, me here with you now, all these things happened, are happening because you made a wrong choice when you were a kid?"

"That's 'bout the size of it 'n I gotta make it right, Chris."

"And if ya can't, Vin? Then what?"

"Then I die."

"The hell you will."

Chris brought up the canteen to Tanner's mouth, wanting to end the whole affair, but then Vin shoving it away, causing the chains to clatter unnervingly in the dark silence, a disturbing reminder of their fate.

"The hell I will..."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Josiah Sanchez was a grand, strapping man whose intelligence ofttimes came as a startling discovery to most. Brain and brawn a rare combination; also, bearing a sensitivity that belied his hugely powerful, imposing exterior, a grizzly with a heart of gold. His eyes, close-set and blue-vibrant, lively, but then a fugitive flash of a sinner's cynicism struck hard, turning Josiah deadly frightening in those dark times, unapproachable. Vin Tanner was not afraid, held a belief in Sanchez stronger than the preacher chose to hold in his own self, this all at once welling up tears in the gritty hollows of Josiah's eyes, the boy never once losing faith.

Tanner carried his burdens quietly with a courage and strength that Josiah strived to achieve, but failed more often than not. Wallowing in self-hatred and despair, forever the deceiver, offering guidance to the supposed lost sheep of the Lord, when he, himself, was the seed that fell on badlands, the lamb gone astray. A disparaging grunt released into the great grasses surrounding him, painfully aware of his insignificance and the pettiness of his struggles. The truth of Vin Tanner, straightforward and spare, an acceptance of things, released and relinquished, but never surrendering the hope that all things would be put right. Josiah needed to be strong now for Vin, to hold a belief that they would find the men unharmed, that the righteous would be set free.

Buck watched Josiah and saw despair suddenly grow into determination, his shoulders becoming straight and broad as a yoke, steadfast strength, unwavering, able to bear all burdens. The Judge, Nathan and J.D. close by, and Tascosa's better citizens riding with them brought a relief to Wilmington, though the gunman was a long way from calm. At least an hour now behind the rouge posse, but several gone by since Vin was taken and Chris pursued, causing Buck a nervous tension that settled into his twitching jaw. His straight white teeth locked tightly, a slow throbbing ache running across his brow and down the corded length of his neck as Buck brought up a hand and rubbed, trying to loosen the taunt muscles.

He would not lose Chris Larabee again, did not want to ... and that was that. Yes, he survived a few years without the man riding by his side and more than likely could survive again. Just did not want to is all. Felt too damn good to have the man back in his life. Oh, a different Chris, for sure, but Buck, himself was different, changed in ways that suffering caused, not taking things for granted anymore. Never wanted to leave Larabee in the first place, but could no longer martyr himself for that man, smashed so hard against that rock of anger and despair, Buck in a thousand pieces on the leaving. Shattered for a long time, finding his comfort and consolation in the arms of women, their tender care a constant in his life. Faces and towns long forgotten to him, the loving of those women a momentary balm for his wounds, but the true healing coming to him on the day he saw Chris Larabee in that dull-dust town and nothing and no one would take that away from Buck Wilmington again.

Uncurling the vertebra of his spine, a ramrod-determination coming to Buck now, looking to each man and them to him. In that moment, clarity of what needed to be done came, each giving a single-minded nod.

~ ~ ~ ~

Ezra Standish followed the tracks with a proficiency that astounded him; unaware of how much the quiet tracker influenced him, taught him during their time together. Did not realize he was learning or even being tutored in the ways of wilderness, so soft was Vin Tanner's touch, so unassuming, so uncomplicated, and now so essential to Ezra Standish's life.

Dust plumes rising behind him and curls of chimney smoke to his front, Ezra feeling like an English fox trapped, and waiting for the haunting bays of the hounds. Even, he not foolish enough to top that rise, looked to the ground again and saw hoof tracks separate from the group, heading straight downriver. Surely, those were the prints of Chris Larabee's black, assuring Ezra that the gunman was not rushing precipitately into the clutches of that madman, rather keeping a calm head about him. Chris Larabee did not fear death, and Ezra often wondered if the man did indeed, long for it, welcome it. How many times did Ezra watch astonished as the stoic gunman faced down a street full of reprobates with nothing, but fortitude and his colt? Pure lunacy as far as he was concerned, no sense of self-preservation at all and Standish truly in amaze of the man, but never quite understood that bravado.

Ezra left Tascosa amid the grumbling and rabble-rousing, avoiding imprisonment as the others could not. Concerned for Vin Tanner and Chris Larabee heightening, Standish slipped out of town, unnoticed. Quite easy, really, having left more towns under the drape of darkness than the gambler cared to recall. Aware the clouds of dust were gaining and would soon be upon him, mindful they were men looking to hang, whether the men in question were innocent or not. Good sport, a day's entertainment and Ezra knowing, even he, a rather persuasive orator, would not be able to dissuade them from their hunt. Putting his high-priced leather boots to hide, Ezra continued forward along the river's edge, well aware there was little time to squander.

~ ~ ~ ~

Vin woke this time feeling nearly whole, and not dreamy, half-there as he did those other times. Aware of a soft, comforting warmth against his back and another's hand protectively resting across his chest, the black fabric of that arm seeming to melt into the pitch-dark around him. Vin all at once stiffened awkwardly, becoming unnervingly aware of being cradled against Larabee, hearing the man's heartbeat in his ear and the soft, but strong snores of a deep, exhausted sleep.

The oil of the lamp running low, only now a dull, yellow-glow offering little light, spread shadows in ghostly huddles along the rock walls. Chris was here and Vin's heart ached and filled at the comfort of that, not used to needing or wanting something or someone so powerfully, but damned, if it did not feel half-bad. Vin all ready knowing sometime ago that he was too caught up in the town and even more so in these men; would rather stay and risk capture and hanging, than be on the roam safe, but alone...

But, alone he would always be and alone he should be now. Damn Larabee for coming and damn himself for wanting the man to be exactly where he was, right here with him. Lord, when did he become so needful, like a young boy craving a comforting hand from his mother? It was all going to hell now, his name not likely to be cleared and for sure a posse riding hot and hard. Trapped. A deadfall. Vin knew this was to be his fate, saw it clearly that night in front of the hotel back in Four Corners. Believed Chris back then, needing to believe strongly that everything would work out just fine. Placed his faith in this man so deeply, only finding Larabee to be flat-out wrong. Never paid no never mind to other people's say so, listened only to his own voice, his own heart-song, but Vin knew in the soul of him, it not to be Chris' fault, but his own. Returning to Tascosa was a risk and Vin, himself, chose to take that risk, always made his own decisions. This one was no different and he would live or die with the choosing of things.

Vin remembered his last words spoken to Chris before he faded out as quick and soft as breath on candle flame, about needing to make things right, about all things somehow being connected in life. Vin believed that strongly and somehow forgot those teachings in between the heartache and running. Lost his way more than one time and Vin knowing it would more than likely happen again. An overwhelming truth, all coming back to him in those odd moments of dreaming, the clarity of his life's path walked in that misty world. Lord, the remembering of things so dear to him just about made him burst, and even if tomorrow was to be his last day, having walked God's lands and having been loved by a good woman was more than enough for a man like him_ could not wish nor hope for more.

A trembling ran through him before he was able to hold back his body's movements, not wanting to disturb Chris, just yet. It was too late though, as the tremors came so quickly and surprisingly fierce that Vin could only control the chattering of his teeth and little more. That protective hand still there encircled him closer, trying to offer warmth, bringing a smile to Vin, his teeth flashing ermine-white in the half-light and shadows as he twisted his head up to look at the still sleeping face, instincts of a father too hard to bury, not able to forget. Needing to offer Chris some sort of thanks, could only think of one thing to say, whispering so soft, barely heard, simple and plain: "Ya were a good pa."

Chris heard those words; throat strangled tight, almost choking on the emotions rising in him. No higher praise could anyone give to him and no higher praise could Vin Tanner give, Chris knowing *family* to be powerfully revered by this straightforward, gentle man. A gruff clearing of his throat to let Vin know he was awake, then feeling the sudden tension in the slender, sinewy frame, but chose not to break his hold around the shivering man. "How ya feeling, Vin? You're actin' like a man half-froze?"

"Purt near feel like it all of a sudden. Cain't seem t' stop this dang shaking." Teeth chattering just as loud as the chains rattling and Vin sucking in breath so deep, holding it, tensing his muscles tightly, trying to gain control over his convulsing limbs and furious for the loss of it.

"Try t' relax yourself instead of tensing up like that. Yeah, that's right...there ya go. Come on ... some more now...that's it." Chris talked Vin through the spasms, until they became less and less frequent and then finally a sudden calm as Vin's body slackened against the gunman, exhausted. Chris ran a strong, soothing hand up and down Vin's arm and then a few quick pats to Tanner's shoulder. Vin giving a nod of gratitude as he pushed himself away from Larabee, the weight of him pinning the gunman and Vin embarrassed at that, mumbled a quick apology as he shifted himself to the corner of the room, eyes intent on the steel spike and chains that held him captive.

"Ain't stayin' here no more."

Chris saw an increasing panic come to the man that was not there in those hours before and Chris knew the drug was the only thing that kept Vin Tanner calm in his confinement. Fearful that Vin would hurt himself more against those shackles, talked to the man calmly and forcefully, sensing Vin to be deaf to all else, but the strident, screaming terror that cries out to all things wild when trapped.

"Vin, don't be pulling on those cuffs again. You're only goin' t' cut up your wrists worse than they all ready are. We're getting out of here 'n we're getting out of here alive. Ain't got 't worry about that. Ya hear me, Vin?" Rising up slowly onto his knees, Chris' legs still somewhat tingly as the blood flowed more freely through, ready to grab hold of Vin's arm, but swiveled bullet-quick toward the slowly opening door. Vin seeming to be unaware of the intrusion, almost on the verge of wildness, sat crouched down low on his haunches, his back to the furthest corner of the room, staring strangely at his hands.

"Shit!" Chris' eyes darted from Vin to the door, setting himself in front of the marksman who was once more showing signs of fever; clearly noticeable in the wide slant of sunlight that slammed suddenly through the coffin-black darkness of the room. The flush of color vivid against the palely white face, cheekbones edged suddenly bright, a sickly blush, blue eyes glazed and distant, shivering again, though unnoticed this time by Vin. "Keep your eyes now, Vin. I need ya t' be alert. Depending on ya now, pard."

Prescott entered after Taylor, the gunman sighting his revolver on Larabee's heart. A warning from Prescott voiced then, "Settle down, Mr. Larabee. I have news that I'm sure will please you tremendously. I've decided it's time now for you and Mr. Tanner to go. I'm releasing you both, giving you your freedom. Emancipation, my good man, so you best take flight before the hounds of hell are on your heels."

"What the hell are you talking about, Prescott? What are you up to?" Chris was confused, distrustful and knew that it could not be as easy as just walking out the door.

"Do not waste your precious time trying to understand, Mr. Larabee. Just take advantage of this opportunity. You see I'm not being completely selfless, there is still that pressing matter of a posse hunting you and Mr. Tanner down. Dead or alive, I believe. Mr. Taylor assesses that the posse is less than an hour away from here, so you see the sooner you dash off, the more your chances will be for survival. Of course, I will be joining up with that posse and I do have to tell you I am an avid sportsman. I've traveled far and wide for the opportunity of a good hunt. I spare little expense when it comes to my hunting pleasures; expeditions by train across the great prairies, killing thousands of buffalo. My trophy room attests to my passion, a score of mounted game from far and wide. I am a top marksman and may even rival Mr. Tanner with my abilities. Regrettably, that will remain untried, as escaping from a hangman's noose seems to be Mr. Tanner's highest priority." Prescott walked closer to Chris, though had no gun, showing little fear or concern.

"I do go on. Taylor release Mr. Tanner and please, Mr. Larabee, I request you remain calm while that process is being completed. The good sport that I am, I've left your colt hanging from a cottonwood bough a mile or so down the trail. Though, I have left only two bullets, one for your use and one for Mr. Tanner's, if the hanging tree seems imminent. I believe Mr. Tanner has no moral or religious objections to suicide, having attempted it in the past."

A muffled groan released from Vin at that moment and Chris was not sure if it came from those words spoken or the pulling of the manacles on Vin's raw, bloodied wrists. "Shut the hell up, Prescott 'n you best go easy on him, Taylor. You touch a hair on his head 'n you're a dead man."

"Calm yerself down, Larabee. I cain't figure out what the fuss is all about over this feller. Scrawnier than a starvin' cur dog 'n as wild lookin' as them Comanch. I don't understand it 'n I don't want t' understand it. Jest take him 'n get the hell out of here 'fore I start thinkin' this oddly behavior is downright contagious." Taylor released Tanner's wrists then, and backed off from the men slowly, gun sighted on both.

John Prescott threw a canteen toward Larabee and walked over to Tanner who was still crouched down, rubbing at his wrists, not aware that he was free. Chris cursing softly saw that Vin seemed to be out of it again. The marksman's fever-haunted eyes drifted then settled on Prescott, dully. "Mr. Tanner, I will miss you and I am truly sorry that things have had to come to this. As my dear departed uncle would say: 'Harsh lessons learned'."

A pale hand, ethereal and bone-thin, rested on Vin's fevered cheek, Vin turning into the touch, stared distantly into Prescott's face, allowing the touch as the man's hands brushed back the strands of hair. "Show me a good hunt, Mr. Tanner. Show me a good hunt."

Chris unnerved by the man hovering too closely and intimately touching Vin, rushed forward heedless of the gun aimed on him and pushed Prescott aside nearly unseating the dandy as he grabbed hold of Tanner's arm, raising him into a standing position. Vin wobbly, but then gathered a frightened awareness as he looked into Chris' face intently. "Chris... Prescott's here! Uhka nii posarenapi? a vunin! I saw the crazy man, Chris! I saw him!"

"I know, Vin. I saw him, too." Chris gripped Vin's arm protectively, trying to offer reassurance to the confused, agitated man. "We're getting away from Prescott, right now. I promised you we'd be getting outta here 'n we are. I need ya t' help me now, ya here me? That posse's goin' t' be ridin' hard on our trail 'n Prescott's more than likely not giving us any mounts." Chris looked at Prescott, eyes sparking with a bitter, menacing anger that would have frightened the dandy, any other time, but was confident that Larabee's silently implied threat would never be realized.

"You are correct, Mr. Larabee, no mounts. So, I suggest you do not dawdle."

"I'm going t' send you to hell, Prescott." Still holding fast to Vin's arm, Chris steered the disoriented man toward the door, not looking back.

"I'm looking forward to that Mr. Larabee." Prescott stood in the doorway silent as death, his executioner-eyes burned sulfurously bright, immensely pleased that Larabee needed to help guide Tanner. Watching as the marksman occasionally lost his footing and stumbled unsteadily beside Larabee as they made their way toward the promised gun. A deathsman's smile coming to Prescott as he shouted after the men, " TO A GOOD HUNT, GENTLEMEN!! TO A GOOD HUNT!!"

~ ~ ~ ~

Blue eyes riveted on the scuffed toes of his brown leather boots, watching as they kicked up cloudy puffs of dirt with each staggering step, studying the rounded tips with a fierce concentration, seeing nothing else, assured with each forward movement that he was still walking. Becoming a great effort for Vin just to make it down trail and not fall face-first into the dust, him seeming to be here one minute and lost the next. A man shot before, wounded near mortal more than once, spending days bleeding and having no choice, but to be his own healer, moving on, surviving. Now angered as he stumbled stupidly like some newborn foal on legs that splayed out of control, struggling fiercely just to walk a straight-line. They would soon be in a fight for their lives and God help him; he would fight to the death for the sake of the man beside him. Vin would not allow harm to come to Chris Larabee, not now_not ever.

"There it is, Vin." Larabee released his grip on Tanner as he reached up to the limb, unbuckling the gun-belt and then checking the chamber of the colt. Two bullets...two damn bullets. Well, it would have to due and his shots would have to be dead-on. Fastening the gun-belt around his narrow hips, low and lethal, carefully tying the leather lashings around the bottom length of his lean thigh, turned toward Vin who appeared almost to be gossamer-light on the blowing breezes, swaying from side-to-side, but feet determinedly set in the ground. "We've got t' move now, Vin. Can ya make it?"

Head lifted, brown hair spilling away from his face as Vin slanted a thin blue-eyed glance to the gunman, still slightly rocking, but giving a lively grin. "Hell, I c'n make it. B'n near dead 'n still managed t' walk close t' near thirty miles 'fore I stopped t' rest. Then got up 'n kept on going 'nother twenty. Hell, I c'n make it."

"Hey, Tanner...welcome back." Chris gave a wide grin at the marksman's ornery grit and for his senses returned, but all too soon could change, lucidity as elusive as moonlight through drifting clouds. "Well, I'm glad t hear you're so damn good at walking 'cause more than likely we'll be doing just that 'n for a good long time."

"Well, might as well git, then." Swaying as firm hands steadied him, looking at each other for a moment and then giving a firm nod, locked arms tightly. "Chris, I gotta tell ya...I seem to be comin' and goin' a lot of the time. Jes' so ya know..."

"Don't matter none, Vin. We'll be fine. Let's get going." Chris continued to hold firm to Vin's arm as they made their way along the trail.

"Cain't stay out in the open too long, Chris. Need t' make our trail a hell of a lot harder t' track."

"Let's stay on the trail for as long as we can 'n then head for the rocks and brush after a bit. Don't need t' tire ourselves 'fore we need to."

"Old man like you'll tire out right-quick." A side-glance given without turning his head, wearing a wide good-humored smile, could not help, but fool with the man.

Chris, holding down a laugh, shot a quick glance over to Vin. "Shoot, Tanner. I'll be runnin' yer scrawny hide ragged 'fore I ever tire out."

A near stumble then as Chris reached out to keep Vin from falling forward. Vin, recovering his footing, quietly ashamed at his clumsiness, tried to settle down his frustration as he turned to the gunman. "Hell, old 'n losin' yer senses. Good thing I'm along t' look after ya."

Chris, giving a smile at that, gently patting the bony-lift of shoulder as he reset his grip on Vin's right elbow, uncertain the man was able to walk without help, decided to just hang on tightly. "Ain't going t' argue with you there, Tanner." Larabee quiet for a moment and then a wistful whisper, his words like the hum and flutter of wings, so softly spoken only he could hear, " ... hell of a good thing."

~ ~ ~ ~