Before the Wind

By Kimberly KBJ

PART SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Tascosa was quiet this morning, most of the town out with one posse or another as Deputy L.C. Pierce cleaned his rifle, waiting for their return and waiting for news on Kid Dobbs. Rocking Chair Emma, Frog Lip Sadie and some other girls were taking care of Dobbs, now that the healer Nathan Jackson was off tracking down Tanner and Larabee. Sheriff East left him in charge while he and Deputy Tobe Robinson were chasing down more trouble than they could handle, trying to keep it all from getting too bloody. With the likes of Catfish Kid heading the posse there for sure would be gunplay and maybe two innocent men swinging from a hanging tree.

Resting himself low into the chair, tipping his hat over his eyes, L.C. had little to do now, but wait. Close to nodding off, but then heard the sound of boots, light and clipped like those of a woman in a stirred-up rush and more than likely with a bee in her bonnet, stepping through the door.

Frenchy McCormick was in a hurry, but in good spirits as she raced into the stone jailhouse with her leather satchel in hand. Temple Houston and I.P. Ryland were now at the courthouse taking care of the necessary documents needed to overturn a murder warrant on Vin Tanner. With the help of Attorney I.P. Ryland and Houston, the District Attorney, they were able to locate most of the witnesses who were at first terrified. Fiercely hesitant to help, but then physically relieved at the news of Eli Joe's death, recanted their statements with such emotion that grown men spoke to them with tears spilling down their weary, life-worn faces. These were good people, threatened and frightened, living with the burden of a lie and knowing that lie hurt a young, innocent man.

Temple thought it prudent to have two copies of those statements, one that Frenchy now carried with her, and would forever guard with her life for the sake of Vin Tanner's. The only task now needing to be done would be to speak with McMasters, Briggs and Howard about that day Vin Tanner came to town. Again, all good men and would surely see the truth of things. Lighthearted beyond all words, Frenchy found it hard to contain herself as she looked into the startled eyes of the young deputy.

"Why so quiet L.C.? Where's Sheriff East?" Anticipation and excitement rushed her words and did not wait for the deputy to respond. "If you would be so kind, I would appreciate it, if you could scare up Judge Travis for me. I have some wonderful news that he would be most interested in hearing."

Though Judge Travis was a Circuit Court Judge, overseeing a vast territory in the tenth circuit, Texas was not under his jurisdiction. That would be District Judge Frank Willis, as all of this was explained to Frenchy in painful detail by Temple Houston. Why the District Attorney would want to help out a wanted murderer? Well, Frenchy could only attribute it to their faith and trust in each other, a strong friendship and the man's fine moral standing.

Frenchy McCormick brushed back stray pieces of eggplant-hued hair that wisped around her porcelain-white face as her blues eyes overflowed with euphoric delight, but suddenly became subdued at the solemn, concerned face of L.C. Pierce. "What's wrong, Deputy?"

"Miz McCormick...a lots b'n goin' on since you b'n out of town. That Tanner feller was jailed 'n then escaped, Kid Dobbs got gutted good durin' the whole thing..."

Frenchy shocked, interrupted, fists balled tightly at her sides, incredulous at that. "Vin Tanner would never have done that...NEVER!"

"Now, don't be getting all worked up, Miz McCormick. Everyone knows it weren't that Tanner feller that done it. People were puttin' the blame t' that Larabee feller fer knifin' the Kid 'n breakin' out Tanner, but it weren't him neither. Kid Dobbs said it weren't."

The Deputy's eyes wandered away from Frenchy's gaze, thinking of Dobbs. " I reckon he's goin' t' pull through. Sally Emory 'n Rocking Chair Emma are fightin' over whose goin' t' take care of 'im, but I reckon Miz Dobbs ain't goin' t' let neither of them win."

Pierce chuckled slowly, drolly at the thought of those working girls laying claim to Dobbs and was not aware of the small woman in front of him building herself up into a fierce, impatient burn. A quick intake of breath when his eyes met those blazing blue ones staring him down, making him sit up straight and start to talk quick enough, he hoped to please her.

"Well, Miz McCormick, the only problem being that Catfish Kid rounded up a posse b'fore Sheriff East, Robinson 'n me got back from ridin' patrol 'n bringin' Judge Travis back t' town. So now they done got 'nother posse chasin' down the first posse that's chasin' down Tanner 'n Larabee. The Judge went off with them 'n it looks like Tanner ain't a low-down murderer like that placard said."

"What??" Frenchy was confused and was not sure she understood the Deputy's words.

Pierce unlocked the top drawer of the desk and rustled around until he came up with a brown folder, placing it on the desk top, flipped it open and read quietly for a while, until he was stopped short by a small, pale hand swooping up the paper. His mouth opened in silent protest, but thought better of saying anything as he watched the frighteningly imposing determination of the petite woman.

Reading it in haste, the words jumbling in her mind, thoughts confused, but then gaining understanding and lighthearted elation. Trujillo, the pastore at the well ... he was a witness to the murder. Could this be possible? The man spoke of bad blood in his family, his late sister's son, half-Anglo and half-loco. Eli Joe? Could it possibly be? Frenchy so distressed at the time, not wholly listening to the man, but he, praise God listened to her.

Almost going on without stopping for water so caught up in trying to find all those witnesses. Worried that taking time out would be the difference between freedom and death for Vin Tanner. God directed her there. Divine intervention; Frenchy would never doubt that and her heart thumped so strong in her chest as she read the words and touched trembling fingers to the mark on the bottom of that deposition alongside Josiah Sanchez, Sheriff Jim East and Judge Orrin Travis' signatures. "He's free, then. My God, he's free!"

"Well, ya c'n rightly say that, Miz McCormick, but I reckon that won't matter one lick if'n that man Tanner's dead." Taking back the deposition, carefully placing it back in the brown accordion file, even he acutely aware of the value of this paper locked it back in the top drawer with a deep protective consideration.

"Dead..." Frenchy stunned at the deputy's words, not wanting to face that possibility, swayed a moment and then grabbed the corner edge of the desk as Pierce jumped up placing her gently into a wooden chair. Pouring a glass of water from a nearby pitcher brought it to the distraught woman, straining to hear her whispered murmuring, though catching only bits of it.

"Dear Lord...Vin...Oh, Dear God in Heaven..." Leaning in a little closer to hear and then startled, his heart jumping and nearly meeting his throat as she blurted out unexpectedly, "NOT NOW!! NOT VIN!! I WON"T HAVE IT!! I WON'T HAVE IT..."

Her shoulders dejectedly slumped forward as she collapsed into a bundle of satin and lace in the chair, her hair black as nightshade pulled back from her face and worn long shone glossily in the jail's light as wavy dark rivulets coursed down the length of her and settled full and blunt at her girlish waist. Frenchy could not hide her sorrow, as the lush fabric of her dress spilled and puddled around her, gently catching the grieving teardrops, splotching the pale blue fabric suddenly dark.

~ ~ ~ ~

"Tell me 'bout Frenchy?"

Chris' voice slapped Vin back to awareness; his bones hurt, his eyes hurt, his head as weighty as a steel anvil; hammering...Lord...how he wished somebody would stop the hammering.

Walking over an hour off-trail in the rocks and brush, weaving, backtracking, traversing ground rougher than the hollows and crags of an old woman's face, Chris forced Vin to stop. The man was running close to empty, but his instincts keen and sharp, still intact, even with fever and the lingering confusion from the opiate, continued to guide them along paths impossible to track and hiding those that were not.

Vin sometimes so still, almost indistinguishable in those clusters of brush, coyote-eyes prophetically piercing, a medicine wolf catching scent on the passing winds, as close to primal as Chris ever came to seeing. Warily grateful for Vin's abilities, but somehow those skills caused a peculiar, unexplainable distance between them. Tanner seeming to be no longer man, but something so wildly primitive, so crudely ancient losing all thought to humankind or principled dictums. Though, maybe not so lost, Vin seeming to be a part of something that Chris could not quite understand and truth be told, feared a little. Yes, maybe not lost, just more honest and far closer to the truth of living, closer to the soul of all men, closer to God.

Again, Chris spoke as he rested against a good-sized rock, cool on his back and blocking the sun from behind him. Vin close by, his head drooped forward, the lengths of dark brown hair separating untidily around his now dust-smudged face, still frighteningly pale, except for the odd fever-patches that sparked red along his cheekbones. "Tell me 'bout Frenchy, Vin?"

Vin's head jackknifed up as he fought hard to focus his drifting eyes. "What?"

"Tell me why a woman as fine as Frenchy McCormick would set her sights on a scrawny, gamy buffalo hunter?" Chris grinned wolfishly as he rested his head back against the rock, reaching for the canteen. Still waiting for Vin to chaw on those words spoken, pulled out the cork stopper with his teeth and drank. Smiling and waiting as he passed the canteen over to Vin, knowing he riled the man. It was a long time coming for Tanner's response, but Chris knew it was coming, shaking his head with a dust-dry laugh at the sound of a low, cursing growl.

"Weren't hunting no buff when I met Elizabeth 'n I weren't never gamy. Hell, it was jes' me 'n a friend huntin'. Sometimes meetin' up with a few hunters, Garrett was one of 'em, but I ain't never took t' them buffalo runners. Bad bunch all of 'em. Killed all the buffalo in Kansas 'n then crossed over int' the Panhandle. Those men near killed up t' three hundred buffs a day. Wettin' down their rifles with water when the barrel got too hot 'n when they run out of water, well ... let's jes' say they weren't folks I cared t' be friendly with."

Vin's head angled toward Chris disgustedly. " Now they was the gamiest fellers you'd ever want t' meet, smelled of blood 'n death 'n never washed. Had more lice on 'em than ya could count. I left the hunt long b'fore that slaughter 'n long b'fore those damn hide hunters came along. I weren't no gamy buffalo hunter. Got a hell of a lot of nerve callin' me that, Larabee." Blue eyes sparked violently bright, Vin not so much angry toward Larabee, but toward those bad times and the ruin of something close to his heart.

"Now, Tanner, I only know what I seen 'n I seen some of those hunters lookin' more animal than man. Rancid as rotting carcasses left in the sun too long. "Chris continued to puckishly push at the man, but was cautious about taking it too far, not wanting to hurt him. Giving Vin a good-natured whack on his outstretched leg, but then dismayed the man barely moved at the provocation, except for a slight shift of his tousled head, squinting painfully at the gunman.

"Weren't me that was one of 'em. Those cusses stunk from all that killin' 'n skinnin'. Never washed their clothing, never took a dang bath. Carried the scent of dead buffalo on 'em like it was somethin' t' be proud of. I ain't a kin t' that kind of killin'. Weren't no sense t' it. I lived with the People 'n was treated good. I'd never be a party t' killin' off their only means t' survivin'." Vin put those bad days to rest a long time ago. It was over with and there was not a thing he could have done to change it. He was only one man alone, even the wisest elders and fiercest warriors of the People knew that they could not stop the white man. The Kwahadi fought powerfully to near death, only surrendering to Mackenzie at Fort Sill a short time ago.

"I know that, Vin." Chris watched the man rest his head back against the rock, purely exhausted and ill.

"Well, if'n ya know that, then why the hell would ya say it?" Vin angrily lifted a slightly trembling hand to his eyes, pressing the heel of it into one and then another, trying to eliminate the aching of them.

"Just t' rile ya." Chris nudged Vin with the canteen, lifting his chin silently telling him to drink.

"Well, ya done a good job of that." Just too tired now. Too tired to be angry, too tired to be or do much of anything, too tired to even drink, but more than that was just plumb too tired to have to listen to Larabee go on about him needing to do just that.

"Good. That's what I wanted t' do." Chris lifted up the canteen's bottom, taking most of the weight of it into his own hand. Concerned that the heaviness of the canteen was almost too much for Vin to hold.

"What the hell do ya mean good?" Pushing it away now, and wiping his face with the back of his shirt's sleeve, turned toward Larabee.

"I mean good. *Good* because you ain't passed out, yet."

"Weren't close t' passin' out 'n the only reason I woulda passed out was so I wouldn't hafta listen t' any more of yer crazy talk." Too much said, taking in a deep breath to gain strength, Vin needing to rest his head back again.

"Tell me 'bout Frenchy, Vin?"

"Why the hell should I? I 'spect ya'll be downright insultin' if'n I did tell ya anythin'. So I ain't."

"All right, Vin. Suit yourself."

Vin's eyes widened like loopholes at that. The man relentlessly poked and prodded him and now, nothing...Vin was near fit to be tide, but tried hard not to show it. Reaching a shaky hand out, Vin grabbed the canteen from Chris' hands, again powerfully thirsty. "Give me that damn water."

"I guess you ain't interested in what Frenchy's b'n up t'."

"What's that suppose t' mean? What she's b'n up t'? Why ya sayin' it like that? Like Elizabeth's doin' something that a woman of virtue wouldn't be doin'. Well, I'll tell ya this, Larabee. This world ain't seen a finer woman than Lizzie McGraw 'n no man is good 'nough fer her. Not a one."

"You were." Chris patted the man's leg, meaning it.

"Aw, hell, Chris. Yer makin' my head hurt." Vin looked away from Larabee, emotions too close.

"Just tryin' t' keep you awake."

"So what's Elizabeth b'n up t'?" Vin stole a glance to Chris, curious, but not wanting to show it.

"Oh, so you do want t' know?" A wide teasing grin lit up the gunman's face.

"Ya'll keep ridin' me like this Larabee, yer goin' t' end up eatin' lead."

"Only got two bullets, Vin. Best save them for the bad guys."

"Cain't ya jes' shut the hell up? Ya'll ain't hardly ever said more 'n three words in a day 'n now when my heads 'bout ready t' split wide open ya gotta git all kinds of mouthy. Tell me or don't. I don't rightly care right 'bout now." Vin rolled over onto his left side, bowing into himself, placing a hand under his head and the other sandwiched between his knees.

"I never known ya t' be so disagreeable." Larabee reached over and placed a hand on Tanner's forehead, feeling the heat. Warm, not *hot*. That gave Chris some relief.

"I ain't talkin' no more. If it's all right with ya, I'd like t' jes' rest my eyes and my ears. Would that be all right? Do ya mind if I jes' rest fer a spell?" Vin pushed away Larabee's hand from his brow agitatedly and curled deeper into himself like an overtired, ill-tempered child, wanting to be left alone.

"I don't mind, but I aim t' tell ya what Frenchy's b'n up t' while your restin'. So keep those ears awake."

"Fine, jes' be quick 'bout it."

Chris smiled, placing a hand on the man's slumped shoulder while he talked. "She's lookin' for those witnesses, Vin. Mickey claims she's got good news. He thinks she on t' something. I'm thinking we might have some celebratin' t' do when we get back."

"Ya mean if we get back." Vin not meaning to be so surly, but just was not in the best of moods and was feeling a mite peaked.

"No, Tanner. I mean when we get back. The boys are coming and all we got to do is keep from getting caught before they get here."

"That's all we got t' do, eh, Larabee? Like it's so damn easy t' do."

"Didn't ya hear what I said, Vin?" Not understanding why Vin showed little emotion at the news of possibly clearing his name, gave the man a small nudge.

"I heard ya."

"Well, I expected ya t' be a mite happier 'bout it than what I'm seeing."

"Not one t' git all fired up 'fore things play out, is all." Vin curled even tighter into himself, if that was possible.

"I can understand that." A comforting clap given to Vin's shoulder, letting the man know it was all right not to get his spirits raised, just yet.

"I reckon ya c'n."

"Gotta get movin', Vin. Ya done restin'?" Chris hated to bother the exhausted man, but they ate into too much precious time all ready. Chris knowing there was little choice, but to stop, Vin needed these rests or would never make it.

"Not by a long shot, but let's git goin' anyway."

Vin rolled his long-boned frame over to lie on his back, looking up into Chris' face, giving a reckless grin. The gunman on his knees now, reached out his hand and pulled up the marksman in a quick snap of his arm. The man, bone-light and ghost-faced, frightened Chris for a defeatist's instant, but quickly shrugged it off as he looked for a hand-up from Tanner, returning the grin.

Placing the canteen over his left shoulder, adjusting his gun-belt and then gripping a guiding hand to Tanner's left arm, helped the man at first, a weary shuffle forward, until Vin slowly got his bearing. "All right?"

A glance met, as their grins grew suddenly into rare, loud laughter, their faces wildly lit, dirt-coated, dust-covered, but determined, by all appearances having a hell of a time -- grateful and happy in the doing of it together.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Only the wind moved on that knoll, only the jackstraw grasses in that wind, and only the wisps of auburn hair that fell uncharacteristically loose and disheveled across Ezra Standish's shirred brow. Shimmering softly like fine threads of firelit-gold in the high sun of noon, rising and waving in those winds, while Ezra watched fox-sharp and curious as a band of men took the rise on the far side of the old rock house.

Not sitting right with the gambler, the ease at which the posse came down that grassy slope, as though not expecting trouble, almost welcomed. Welcomed they were as Standish saw Prescott and a taller man in a black duster ride up to greet the posse, gesturing and pointing towards the trail. Shaking hands, nodding, showing ruthless, hungry grins worn by men up to nothing good, faces edged sharply with malevolent intentions born of greed. Were they all in Prescott's employ? Were they all in his proverbial pocket?

Most assuredly so, Ezra felt little doubt in that; men so easily bought, not so very different from him, really. John Prescott manipulated him very carefully, quietly, distracting him with shiny baubles like that of proprietorships and exceptional wealth, and the man losing nothing in the bargain, while Ezra Standish lost dearly. The tavern was inconsequential compared to the loss of his soul and more so the loss of two honorable men.

Ezra was only one man with little skill in tracking, yet surprisingly discovered he was far more adept than he realized. He would need to follow the posse and hope that Judge Travis effected the other's emancipation and would arrive with expediency to save the day.

Ezra continued to watch the unsavory group; his mount waiting patiently, grazing on the verdant grasses behind him. Standish recognized the leader as Catfish Kid, hearing his shouted order to move out, Ezra crouch-walked backwards, keeping an eye still to those men and then rose up full height, hurrying, as the posse headed down the trail in a blinding whorl of dust.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"I loved her..."

"What?" Chris stopped, turning abruptly to look at the man beside him, gripping the now too hot arm with his slim, gunfighter fingers.

"Lizzie..." Vin looked at the man with a vague smile on his lips somewhere else, maybe Mobeetie, maybe in her bed as Chris watched the fever rise like fire on those sculpted bones, a stark relief against flesh. Again, they walked, now in oppressive heat; Vin with no hat wrapped a dampened bandanna around his head, offering little protection from the powerfully relentless sun.

"Vin, let's stop."

No response. "Vin let's stop, all right pard? I sure as hell could use a sit and a drink."

Blue eyes gazed distantly in Chris direction. Stopping on the gunman and then floated away, momentarily lost and then back again. "All right."

Frightened now, Vin no longer able to direct their trail, no longer able to concentrate, see clearly or even stand upright without Chris' support.

Vin's trail circled them towards the Canadian River, traveling northwest away from Tascosa. A grove of green willows soothingly beckoning as the men crested the rise, and then Chris espying a cropping of cottonwoods close to the river's edge, gingerly guiding Vin down to the comfort of them. Lowering the man as gently as he could to the ground, resting his back carefully against an arthritically bent tree trunk.

"Drink." Chris ordered Vin as he brought the canteen to the man's lips, cracked and coated with dust. The water washing it away as it dribbled down Vin's chin, choking him then as it spilled out too quickly. "Easy, Vin."

Chris stood up and stretched his back, cracking vertebra, snapping like dry twigs. Dry inside and out, greedily drank down the last of the water. "Vin, I'll be right back. Goin' t' refill the canteen. You rest, now. Then we can talk...then you can tell me all 'bout everything...whatever you want."

Vin smiled, raising up his hand as Chris grabbed it tightly, a gentle pat with his free hand and a reassuring nod before he dropped Tanner's hand down to his side. "Rest. I won't be far."

Hurrying now, not wanting to leave Vin alone for too long, returned to find him sleeping soundly. The breezes picking up offered some respite from the heat of the day. Taking the bandanna from Tanner's head soaked it in the cool water from the canteen, wiping the dirt from the man's face, hoping to cool him down. Again, running it under water, worked the buttons loose around Vin's shirt collar, wrapping the cool cloth around his neck. That done, Chris settled down next to the marksman suppressing the pangs of hunger, almost tempted to use the gun for jackrabbit or sage grouse. A wiry grin coming to him, his mother did not raise a fool, aware that hunger could be survived, but dead was dead. Those two bullets would soon be put to good use; dead was dead and soon Prescott would be, too.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The posse sculled across the grasses, a coxswain's call, becoming a gliding sleek-shelled line cutting through the witchgrasses, smelling, tasting the last remnant of chimney smoke, hours old, lick across their faces. Too late...too damn late as they viewed the old rock house, windows empty-eyed, vacant and their hearts sank.

J.D.'s voice dinned loudly, shrilly through the gathering doomsday-thoughts. "HERE'S THEIR HORSES!!" Then racing toward the men, grasping at this fact, this hope that they had been here, alive. Maybe not now, but they had been at one time. Saying without speaking, his eyes bright and black with eager hope. "Alive, believe that all of you!! They're alive!!"

Josiah dismounted while Buck led a group of men to the trail to study the tangle of tracks. Nathan quietly entered the rock outbuilding behind him, nearly bumping into Josiah as the preacher stopped up short. Working hard to adjust his deep brown eyes to the dim-light, his heart jumping at the deeply sharp intake of breath from Josiah. The big man lumbered forward, dropping to his knees and then angered, his great paws gripping chains deeply distraught.

"Just one set." Nathan shuddered at the manacles; ghosts far too real stood shackled around him. Funneled, muffled winds like low sorrowful moans filled his head, frantically wiping at his russet-eyes, as if trapped in a haunted house, clawing away at strands of clinging webs of ghastly memories. "Vin?"

The big man dropped the chains to the dirt floor with a rattling clap and Nathan jumped back as if slapped, though Josiah too deep in angered, vengeful thoughts did not notice, met eyes with the healer. "Vin."

"Nathan!! Josiah!! Let's ride!" Buck shouted into the outbuilding, impatience and worry palpable.

Mounting simultaneously as Buck, J.D. and Travis circled around them. Travis gazing toward the trail, his gray eyes like hardened steel turned them back to the men with thoughtfulness. "East thinks they're about an hour ahead of us. They followed that trail." Travis jerked up his chin, a jutting boss, obdurate as stone. "If we travel quickly, there's a fair chance we can catch them before..."

"Not the trail." Josiah directed his gaze back toward a distant hill. "He shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water..."

"What the hell are you talking 'bout, Josiah?" Buck pulled agitatedly on his thick mustache. "We don't have times for your puzzles, preacher."

"The ungodly are not so, but are like the chaff which the wind drives away..." Josiah's eyes fastened on that hill, knowing that was the way they should go to find Vin and Chris.

"Josiah, it don't make no sense ta go that way?" Nathan tried to reason with Josiah, but the preacher stood firm in his faith, all-knowing as though given some insight. Insight that Nathan suddenly now believed without hesitation, himself.

"For the Lord knows the way of the right." Josiah smiled widely. "The river."

Orrin Travis looked to each man and then fixed his gaze on Josiah Sanchez. A strange man in many ways, but sharp, intelligent, though at times revealed an unpredictable edginess, filled with shadows bordering on madness. "You know very well you will be damning both Vin Tanner and Chris Larabee, if you're wrong." A slight pause, Orrin's eyes intent. "And yourself."

Josiah quiet, looked to each man, then swung those penetrating blue eyes back to Travis. "If I'm wrong we're all damned."

Orrin cleared his throat and rubbed at his eyes, now gritty and dry. "Are you all in agreement? Go the river?"

Buck shifted in the saddle, face sad and weary, dark blue eyes pleading as he watched Josiah, wanting to believe, wanting desperately for Josiah to be right. "Josiah...Jo..." Almost could not speak, but took a deep breath to calm himself. "Are you sure, Josiah? Tell me you're sure."

"I'm sure."

Buck nodded then and looked to Travis. "All right. The river."

~ ~ ~ ~

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

John Prescott lagged far behind the posse, an exceptional horseman, but not used to the rough terrain, as he was acquainted with more pleasantly landscaped surroundings and calm meandering trails that he rode on his Sunday afternoon outings back east. The dust and heat caused his annoyance to ruffle up, not one to endure discomfort quietly, but then recalling his purpose with a sinisterly eerie smile. As with each hunt, the nuisances of the journey were all soon forgotten with the kill.

"How ya holdin' up, Prescott?" Taylor studied the frail-looking man, now coated in a layer of prairie dust, albinistic blonde hair hanging loose across his forehead, making him appear innocently boyish. Taylor grinned hideously, aware that this "boy" was the closest thing to the devil, itself. Not obvious, this one, the package was as civilized and law-abiding as you could get, only that gaping, savage scar, a glimmer of the evil festering within the man.

"Are we getting closer?" Prescott rubbed a fine, slender hand across his damp forehead; brushing his hair aside increasingly irritated not being able to find relief from the heat.

"Rainwater says we are. Said he ain't tracked no one this savvy b'fore. Lost the trail coupla times. Figures they backtracked t' the river." Taylor eyed the man warily, though he sat loose-boned and easy in the saddle, arms resting across the saddle horn, a swaggering smile creasing his thin lips.

"Has Mr. Rainwater speculated this or is his opinion based on fact?" Prescott searched his pockets for his handkerchief, dabbing at his forehead, waiting impatiently for Taylor's response.

"Don't know, Prescott, but I've seen Rainwater track a'fore 'n I'm figurin' he's got 'em dead 't rights."

"All right. Tell Mr. Catfish that we shall head to the Canadian. Tell him I have been toying more and more with the idea of seeing Tanner and Larabee hang. Gallows bird, the both...the sovereign state of Texas deemed hanging the appropriate punishment for Mr. Tanner and far be it that we should deny Mr. Vin Tanner his destiny with the gallows."

Taylor nodded, tipping his hat to Prescott. "The boys'll sure be happy t' hear that, Prescott. Ain't had ourselves a good hangin' in some time."

"I live to please." Prescott stared evenly at Taylor with those blue lunatic eyes, disconcerting the gunman, quickly wheeling his horse toward the posse ahead, forcing himself not to look back.

~ ~ ~ ~

Vin's chin floated down to his chest and then bobbed up as he struggled to remain conscious. Staggering drunkenly, his only saving grace was Larabee by his side, holding him up, seeming to have held him up for hours now.

"Chris? Got t' git movin'. Leave me holed up somewhere. Go find the boys. Leave me. Ya gotta leave me..." A whispery thin voice as fragile as ancient parchment tore from his throat.

"Not likely, Vin. So quit wasting your breath 'n walk." Chris gripped Vin's arm tighter, giving an annoyed shake, not wanting to hear anymore talk about leaving him behind.

"They'll be on us in no time." A stumble almost taking both of them down, but Chris recovered his footing quickly. One eye steady on Tanner and the other to the precarious riverbank made for agonizingly slow travel.

"Thought you fooled 'em with your backtracking." Teasingly spoken, but knowing they were being tracked, hunted no matter how good Vin was at laying false trails. If there were a tracker with that posse...well, there would not be any way to stop them.

"Mebbe...mebbe not. More 'n likely not."

"That ain't exactly what I was hoping t' hear, Vin."

"It's the truth."

"Never was one t' deny the truth of things. We'll keep an eye to our backside 'n if need be, hunker down somewhere until the boys get here."

"Dammit Larabee, they ain't goin' t' find us in time. They got t' be at least a coupla hours b'hind Prescott's posse. I ain't wantin' t' see ya hang 'cause of me." Vin stopped suddenly; firmly planting his feet into the soft, damp earth. Chris was pulled up short by the abruptness of the movement, looking at Tanner, concerned.

Blue eyes, dulled to a grayish cast from the fever suffering through him, searched Chris' face as he struggled to find words. Chris quietly waited, watching the turmoil flinch painfully across the wearied, drawn features. Angles and planes darkening with emotion as sorrowful eyes fixed on Chris, unwavering. The gunman's heart nearly torn apart hearing Vin's tormented pleas, his soul plucked out painfully.

"Please, Chris...please go... I ain't a man that begged fer anythin' in my life, but I'm beggin' now, Chris. Go... please go!!"

Chris gripped the man's wolfishly sturdy shoulders hard, emotions filling him, rushing through him. Through his arms, through his hands, through his fingertips, out of his control, splintered frighteningly from him. "NOOO!!"

All at once slackening up on his clasp, afraid for Vin, though his grip still a painful vice, still seizing those narrow shoulders tightly, almost irrationally, grimacing at the hurt and alarm on Vin Tanner's face. Trying greatly to calm, Chris looked deeply into those shocked blue eyes, needing Vin to understand. A winter-chilled whisper then, "Can't *not* be there again... not again."

Chris loosened his grip unexpectedly, lost somewhere in long ago sorrows, as Tanner sagged boneless to the ground, landing on his knees hard. Throwing up his arms, Vin frantically reached for the troubled gunman, desperate to offer reassurance. Curling his long willowy fingers around Larabee's gun-belt, Vin tried to stand, his limbs feeble and useless, released a frustrated, fiery growl as he let go of the gun-belt exhaustedly, collapsing into a distraught, miserable heap at the gunman's feet.

Gradually, returning from those deeper shadows, Chris, still unnerved, lowered himself down to the trembling lump. "Vin?" - softly, and then again - "Vin?"

"Didn't think on that, Chris. Jes' don't want ya t' swing. Don't want ya t' git yerself kilt fer the likes of me." Vin lifted his head to look at Larabee. Chris, giving a nod, quickly turned away from the pain he saw in those eyes -- those damn, heart-on-sleeve eyes. Chris still not able to speak, frightened his voice would come out in rasping hitches, ran a trembling hand through his straw-blonde hair wild across his forehead. His face flamed with emotion, deeply ashamed, reached quaking hands toward the marksman, turning him gently to his back.

"Drink." Placing the canteen to Vin's lips, letting him take in what he needed and then brought it up to his own dusty mouth, sucked down the water, so thirsty, so bone-tired from it all. "Don't ask me t' leave ya again. Just don't..."

A nod given and Chris smiled tenderly at that as he placed his hand on Vin's forehead, his brow cording at the heat blistering from Tanner. "We need t' get goin', Vin. I'm not planning on dying with a rope around my neck 'n I'll be damned if I'll let it happen t' you. I'm needin' you t' trust me t' get us out of this fix."

"Always have...ain't 'bout t' stop now." Those words simply spoken, Vin that sure as he lifted up a shaky hand to Chris, having placed his trust in Larabee a long time ago.

~ ~ ~ ~

Tascosa's stone courthouse held trials twice a year, lasting about two weeks; grand social times filled with horse races, storytelling bees and other community events. Temple Houston, the district attorney, C.B. Vivian, the district clerk and Judge Frank Willis, the district judge presided at these trials and enjoyed great games of poker, hard drinking and parties after the court sessions.

I.P. Ryland and Temple Houston were pleasantly surprised to find that Judge Willis arrived in Tascosa just yesterday from Clarendon, though court was not to be held for another three months. Quickly presenting pertinent facts to the Judge, along with Judge Travis' notes, garnered an agreement from Willis to hold an impromptu trial at 3:00 p.m. sharp with Ryland representing Vin Tanner and Temple Houston as the prosecuting attorney.

Ryland looked at his watch distractedly, only one hour to prepare and speak to the merchants and townsfolk that were a witness to Vin Tanner bringing the body of Jess Kincaid into town. Also, needing to locate Frenchy McCormick again, now seeming to be in an awful confusion of euphoria and dread. Her worry for Vin Tanner so pervasive that she could not speak, could not voice hope until he was safely back, unharmed, even with the fine fortune of a reliable witness to the murder. It would not take long to dismiss the charge against Tanner, I.P. Ryland was confident of that and he was more so assured knowing the District Attorney was in strong agreement of overturning the charge.

Clean and simple, no need for a long lengthy trial and Ryland only wanting to bring a smile back to Frenchy McCormick's lovely face. Heads would roll, if two innocent men died by vigilante rule and Ryland would be the last attorney to defend those perpetrators. Already aware that Temple was seething with these turn of events, not allowing the judiciary process to be sullied, not wanting Tascosa to be viewed as a lawless, violent town, and would not rest until those men were brought to task.

I.P. Ryland shook his head at the absurdity and ineffectuality of the circumstances. One hour closer to vindicating Vin Tanner, though more than not one hour closer to the man's death.

~ ~ ~ ~

"Did I ever tell ya 'bout the time Buck almost got himself married?"

A smile came to Vin at that said, thin, weak, and distant. Like blowing dust he was floating away, floating away. His bones frail, brittle as the ancient dead, a thousand years buried turned to dust, blowing dust. Then all at once a voice wrapped around him, holding him here. Powerful hands, trusting hands, concerned hands touching him. Knowing he lived too long alone, that forever changed now, trembling a soft smile gently across his lips. It was a good thing not to be alone. It was a good thing.

"Stay with me, Vin. Just a little while longer 'n then we'll rest. Ya hear me? Answer me *now*!" A hard jostle given to the man's limply hanging arm and once again when Tanner did not turn toward him. "Let me see your eyes. Come on. Answer me. You know I ain't one for talking and I'm getting a mite put out you're not trying to be better company."

Chin steadily lifting away from his breastbone, his head rising slowly as if being pulled gently up by an invisible thread, precariously dangling, bobbing, lolling, but desperate to give Chris what he asked for, struggling now to answer. "Hear...ya...I...hear...ya."

"Well, now that's better. I'm needing t' rest these bones of mine. How 'bout it? Ya ready to set a spell?" Cajolingly spoken, Chris prepared for a fight, but despairingly aware there was little fight left in the man reeling unsteadily beside him. Larabee almost seeing the starved hollow of Vin's stomach, the ribbons of sinew tugged tautly across a bony stack of ribs, the flesh like rippled stone, the whole of Vin Tanner trembling with hunger and fatigue. Chris, himself, dulled and wearied from little sleep and food, refused to allow those miseries to touch him.

Now the river was skirted with cottonwoods, a fine place to rest, its edges also fringed with gooseberry and grape bushes, fat with ready fruit. Beyond that, grasses lay open and still. Beyond that, betraying knolls swelled up like golden waves. Chris stood with his back to the river and his eyes to those rolling hills as a ghost-breath wind stirred up gooseflesh and fine, light hairs on his arms and neck.

"We'll rest here." Chris, gentling the man against a broad, protective tree trunk, placed a supportive hand behind Vin's neck, carefully sliding his fingers up through the tangled hair as he cupped the limp head into the deep concave of his palm, solicitously resting Vin against the smooth bark of the tree. "We've got plenty of water 'n those bushes are loaded with berries. What do ya say, Vin? Ya think you could go for some of those sweet grapes?"

A soft murmur was heard, though Vin's eyes remained closed, his narrow frame slouching in a cadaveric slump, his head tilted back against the tree, Adam's apple protruding sharply as the cartilage bobbed with each dry-throat swallow. Chris lowered himself down beside the man knowing his words droned unheard, Vin in some dark, dreaming place. Attempting to get the man to drink, Chris cupped his hand again behind the thickly matted brown hair, damp with fevered-sweat, Vin trustingly separated his lips, the taste of metal strong from the canteen's rim, though still drank, greedy for those waters; a suckling at his mother's breast.

With that done, Chris rose with a light tap to Vin's shoulder. "Be right back. You rest easy." Chris removed his hat as he walked to the bushes, and then there hastily picked and placed berries into his hat, twice as many that quick finding his mouth.

Chris made his way back to Vin who moved little while he was off picking the grapes and gooseberries that hung plumb and bursting off those bushes. Sweetness offering strength and strength he needed now. Grateful to be alert once more, regaining his wits. A clarity coming back to him, as his eyes like green-hued sickles cut sharply, a deadeye, across the lands.

They would come, and again Chris saw it all in terrible wide-eyed wakefulness. A vision as frighteningly real as all those horrors that touched his life, a premonition of unholy terror, he knew would soon be realized. Again he heard those shouts echoing stridently, "We've got him. We've got him." Yes, they would come.

A worried hand reflexively curved itself around Vin's slack arm, holding it for a moment, the pit of him filled with despair and dread. Giving a "mental" shaking to himself, a swift kick to those fears as he reached for the hat sitting level beside him, brimming with nourishment for the weakened man. Settling down on his haunches, Chris rested his hand on Vin's brow, only half-aware of running the ball of his thumb gently along the man's temple. Feeling a painful pulse throbbing under that touch, knowing Vin's head was close to bursting from the fevered-ache. A low, grateful moan released as Vin settled more comfortably against the embracing tree trunk and seemed to relax with that rhythmic, soothing touch.

"Here you go, Vin. I got somethin' here for ya." Bringing up a handful of grapes and berries, Chris slipped the fruit into Tanner's mouth, digging a fingernail into the skin of the grapes to release the juices, letting it run between the cracked lips. Tasting the sweet liquid, Vin's tongue skated across his lips, licking greedily, as the corners of his mouth slowly turned up in a feeble attempt at a smile. This brought a grin to the gunman, again offering the man more fruit as he watched Vin become more aware of things. "That's it, Vin. Mighty fine ain't it."

Vin slowly chewed the satisfying, sweet pieces of fruit and then swallowed at Chris' prompting. Not quite focused, recalling again a calming voice, telling him to drink, to swallow, to enjoy...panic heightened in him, as Vin dug his boot heels into the earth, fighting to get away. Knowing he could not move because of what? Why...could not recall why...chains. Damn chains.

Something was wrong; Chris tried to hold Vin down as the marksman yanked away from him. The grapes and berries rolled down the front of Tanner's shirt, crushed, grounded into the dust with the weight of frantic boot heels as the men struggled with each other.

"Git away from me, Prescott. Git the hell away from me." So that was it, Chris grabbed at Vin's face, hoping to reason with him.

"Vin, it's Chris. Listen t' me, Tanner. I ain't Prescott. Do you hear me? It's Larabee. It's Chris."

Vin was getting weaker, his hands groping blindly for his mare's leg and recoiling, Chris seeing naked terror when the marksman's hand came back empty.

Empty...Vin's eyes shot wide open, blue fire of fury and fear, feeling a hard slap to his face and then again. Chris cursing at having to hit the man, a lance to his heart as Vin's eyes focused on him, a little boy hurt flitting through and then gone. "Ch...riss...don't..."

"Vin, I'm sorry. Didn't have a choice." Chris settled the man back against the tree and reached for the canteen. "Drink some for me."

Vin opened his eyes. "Thought Prescott was here. I reckon I gave ya a scare."

"That ya did." Chris propped himself against the tree, bringing his long legs up into his lean chest, resting his head for a moment, calming himself. Things needed to be asked and Chris was unsure of how to ask those questions. He needed to know, if there were worse things weighing on Vin Tanner than death. "What happened with Prescott, Vin?"

Tanner turned his head toward the gunman at that question, a question that seemed to ask more than what was voiced. A question beset with sadness, fear, and worry. Worried about what? Again, Vin felt confusion. What the hell did Larabee want to know? Vin stared at Chris unseeingly.

"Did Prescott hurt ya, Vin? Did Prescott touch ya...in a way that ain't meant t' be?" Chris steeled his gaze on the man beside him, watching the confusion, the struggle as Vin worked through muddy memories and dreams.

Giving Tanner time to think things through, Chris waited for a moment before he spoke again, trying to offer reassurance. "Don't matter, Vin. Don't matter if things happened. Wouldn't be no fault of your own."

"Hell if it don't matter, Larabee. Hell if it don't." Vin rubbed a grimy hand across his eyes, shaky and dazed. Unrest roiled within him, a need to recall now more than ever. "He was close...too damn close..." Vin brought a hand up to his mouth and Chris was afraid the man was going to be sick.

"It's all right, Vin." Firm fingers clapped onto the man's shoulder, but were shoved off with an angry almost repulsed hand. Chris knowing Vin needed space; room to think things through, room to breathe.

"He was close...touching me...but...Dammit, Larabee..." A moan escaped Vin as he grabbed at his stomach, wrapping his arms around himself as his knees drew up protectively against his chest.

"I ain't sayin' anythin' happened, Vin. Maybe, nothing...happened."

Vin looked intently at Chris. "I'll kill the bastard."

"You'll be standin' behind me." Placing his hat back on his lap, Larabee reached in and scooped up a fistful of grapes and berries. "Eat. Ya need your strength. We're goin' t' have a hell of a fight on our hands."

"My fight, Chris."

"Uh, uh. Ain't just yours, Vin. We stand together."

A long silence as Vin studied the ground, his eyes transfixed all at once on berries splayed in the dirt, sweet juices seeping into the earth and then raised his eyes to wisps of cirrus clouds like thinly stretched cotton jutting out against the bluest of skies, a sky recalled from years passed. "I don't think he...It'd be somethin' I'd remember...Ain't like no man hadn't tried b'fore...it'd be somethin' I'd r'member. "

"I figure you're right about that. Ain't nothing t' worry on, Vin. I'm thinking you'd remember it, too." A pat given to the tightly gripped knee as the gunman brought up a handful of fruit. "Now, eat."

Chris brought the handful to Vin's mouth. The man slowly chewing, then swallowing and then more put into his mouth until Vin raised up his hand, grabbing at the fruit, all at once wolfing it down, ravenously. "Easy, Vin. Don't want cha getting sick now."

Vin looked toward the black hat beside him, snatching up heaping handfuls of grapes and berries, shoving the clumps of fruit to his mouth. Chris laughed quietly, watching the man eat. "It appears you're a mite hunger."

Vin nodded, not stopping his eating. "I reckon it's b'n awhile since I had anythin' t' eat. Cain't recall...cain't ..."

"It's all right, Vin. It'll come back t' ya. I'm just grateful you're doin' better. Ya think ya might be able t' walk some more?"

"I reckon." Vin all at once stopped his chewing, his eyes focused on a distant hill. "Saw somethin' in the brush up yonder."

Chris swiveled his head around, first to the hill and then to the riverbank. It dropped down and then leveled off flat, the bank rising up above the full height of a man, able to hide below that hill's sightline. "Vin, we're goin' t' make a run for it. Once we get into that ravine, we c'n make it down river a ways out of sight."

"Fer how long?"

"What?"

"How long ya think we're goin' t' be able t' stay ahead of them?"

"As long as it takes, Tanner. As long it takes t' keep us alive."

Eyes fixed on each other, breathing rapid with anticipation and adrenaline and then a firm nod given, Chris locking his arm to Vin's, hauling the lean man up in one easy tug. "All right. Let's get."

~ ~ ~ ~

A no-nonsense rap of gavel resounded through the nearly empty courtroom as Judge Frank Willis leveled a firm gaze at the two men sitting at the tables before him. Adjusting his glasses, he eyed the attractive, dark-haired woman sitting beside Ryland with a detached curiosity as his strong, authoritative voice filled up the room.

"The Territorial Circuit Court is now in session in the matter of the People versus Vin Tanner. How does the defendant plead?"

I.P. Ryland rose immediately, palms placed flat down firmly on the desktop, his slight frame pressed forward keen with conviction. "Not guilty your Honor."

A grim, expressionless nod given as Willis directed his attention to the District Attorney. "Mr. Houston, you may make your opening statement."

"Your Honor, the People will not contest the above plea." Temple Houston still remained standing and looked Judge Willis intently in the eye. "Therefore, Your Honor, the People rest."

"Very well. As District Judge of the State of Texas I will accept the People's decision, but as a bearer of the law of this fine State, I will need supporting testimony to substantiate that decision before making my final judgment. I need to hear from you, Mr. Ryland. Begin your defense."

"Thank you, Your Honor." I.P. Ryland gathered up his papers, walking confidently to the Judge's bench, stopping midway turned to Frenchy and gave a reassuring wink.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The Anglo saw him, Rainwater was sure of that. His arms prickling as those wolf-eyes, frighteningly keen, searched the rise, watching the brush and grasses where the black-eyed tracker lay hidden. Seemingly seeing things that no man should see, knowing that those grasses moved because of Rainwater and not the whispering breath of winds. The tracker nodded slowly, approvingly, his ebon eyes gleaming with a direct and deep respect for this wary medicine wolf. This man was as cunning and practiced in the ways of the earth as Rainwater, himself, Apache-reared since ten years of age.

Shunned by his 'family' and sent to a Catholic Mission shortly after his birth, he was nothing more than a perro, a dog. Although of the noble-born, from a cultured and wealthy Castilian bloodline, Casmiro Rainwater was refused, unworthy because of a savage blood that flowed within him. Blood that fouled the purest of crimson threads having ancient ties to Spain. Apache blood ran fierce and powerful through his veins, a reminder to his 'family' of his mother's capture, rape and her resulting death. Taken from them too young, she was a Castilian Rose, a heartbreaking beauty. Taken from him, and unforgivably because of him, died giving him life. Lingering a week, he was told, but before she walked the Hanging Road, gave him the name Casmiro.

Only the old priest at the Mission would speak of these things, telling Rainwater of his "proud" heritage as both Apache and Castilian, though this only caused an angry, bitter fire to burn in him, a fire and pride of an Apache warrior and of a Castilian denied his birthright. Casmiro Rainwater's only regret that he was not yet, able to kill them all.

His thoughts returned to the men below, the men he hunted, a wariness growing in him of the man with coyote cunning. Was this a sign to change paths? He was not prepared to die for this gringo called Prescott, this man with skin as white as bleached bones and weak as a woman, no matter the money offered. He would be heedful, now. Yes, the man who sat silent and unblinking as a hawk, saw him, smelled him, and understood him. Rainwater did not doubt for a moment that this man knew he was there.

Grabbing hold of his paint's mane, mounted lithely, the Indian-way. Peculiar to the men in the posse, Rainwater did not concern himself with that, not a man worthy of his words or glances. He spoke only when necessary, only when questioned, knowing he rode with men bearing coward's hearts. Rainwater killed many white men as a warrior and he would kill many more, maybe these men at his side, maybe the gringo who ruled men with his fortunes rather than his deeds. The Anglos being hunted were unlike these men, Rainwater recognizing the fearlessness of heart. He would go against the wind, change paths, knowing this to be the wise thing to do.

~ ~ ~ ~

They ran along the river's edge now, as its banks rose steeply, becoming a deep arroyo that coursed circuitously through the river valley. Chris held tightly to Vin as they stumbled along, temporarily protected by the gully and Chris hoping that the course would remain passable. Horses would find it difficult to traverse the thin, muddy trace, keeping the posse away for the moment, as they would need to travel the higher hills away from the river. Vin remained coherent with just that small amount of food, helping him regain some strength; Chris grateful beyond words for this, still having a distance to travel.

Skating his gaze to Vin, Chris watched to see if the man was steadier. Confident Vin was walking better; Chris loosened his grip, wiggling his fingers to take away the ache of holding on too tightly to Vin's arm. "That house at Red River Springs shouldn't be too far away from here. We'll rest there 'n with any luck get our horses. The Judge should have gotten back from the LS long before now. I'm thinkin' the boys won't be too far behind."

Vin brought up a hand, tapping lightly on the gunman's fingers that were squirming around his arm like bony worms. A reassuring nod given, letting Chris know it would be all right to let go. "Yer sure as hell an optimistic feller, ain't ya?"

Chris let out a croaky laugh as he balled his fingers into a fist and then extended them several times, trying to work out the cramping. "I've b'n called a lot of things, but optimistic wasn't one of 'em."

"I c'n understand that." A slow, easy grin warmed Vin's face, keeping his fever-glazed eyes on the gunman.

"What's that suppose t' mean? And where'd you come up with that five-dollar word?" Chris wrapped his long fingers back around the Vin's arm, catching him in the middle of a slight stumble.

"I ain't stupid, Larabee 'n you ain't rightly a ray of sunshine." Vin's voice stung with irritation, not from Chris' words, but because of his feebleness, his body's limits.

"I *can* be." Chris was thankful to see the smile return to Tanner's flushed face.

"Aw hell, Chris, how many times in a day do ya smile? 'Bout as often as ya talk...hell, less."

The fever not dulling the marksman's wickedly sharp-witted tongue, Chris smiled widely. "You got a problem with that, cowboy?"

"I ain't no cowboy. Hell, I ain't even got me a horse."

"We'll be getting them back soon 'nough."

"There ya go bein' optimistic, again." Blue eyes brightly flashed with fever and sass.

"Vin?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

Chris grinned at the low, hoarse laugh that rasped from the stumbling, breathless man beside him.

~ ~ ~ ~

"Call your first witness, Mr. Ryland." Judge Willis pursed his lips as he looked impatiently over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses at the slightly built attorney.

"Well, Judge Willis, due to the unexpected and rushed nature of this trial, I was unable to gather all the witnesses. Though, I do have written testimony to substantiate the innocence of Mr. Vin Tanner. It is quite evident that all these purported witnesses to the murder of Jess Kincaid have given false testimony. Many of them given remuneration and all stating they were threatened with the loss of their lives or the loss of their loved ones' lives. All threatened by Mr. Eli Joe. These depositions state those facts, each giving a retraction to their previous account of the murder, admitting to never having been a witness to Vin Tanner killing Jess Kincaid."

Ryland glanced at Temple Houston who sat rigid in his straight-back chair, pensively nodding in agreement with Ryland's remarks.

"Give them here, Mr. Ryland." The Judge reached out his hand with an efficient snap of his arm, the sleeve of his black robe billowed like a sail, flapping with the movement.

"Yes, Your Honor." The attorney gathered up the loose pile of papers, holding them upright, lightly tapping the bottom of the depositions against the desktop to line the papers up neatly. Sensing the judge's impatience, Ryland nearly ran to the stand with the statements.

After a few moments, Judge Willis raised his head up from the signed depositions, looking to Ryland with sharply squinted eyes. "The written testimony does indeed state that Mr. Eli Joe coerced all into bearing false witness against Vin Tanner, but it does not prove that Mr. Tanner did *not* murder Mr. Jess Kincaid. Mr. Tanner was seen by several leading citizens of Tascosa with the body of Mr. Kincaid. Do you have any supporting evidence or witnesses, proving without a doubt that Mr. Tanner did not murder Mr. Jess Kincaid?"

"Yes, Your Honor. I have a statement given by Mr. Miguel Trujillo that was recorded and witnessed by Judge Orrin Travis, Circuit Court Judge of the 10th district. Mr. Trujillo disclosed witnessing the murder of Jess Kincaid by the hand of Mr. Eli Joe." I.P. Ryland shuffled his feet, excited at the gift this witness was to his case, but worried because Trujillo was not available for questioning. He could only hope the statement would be enough evidence to acquit Vin Tanner.

"I need to hear from your witness, Mr. Ryland before I can offer judgment. Are you able to call your witness for questioning at this time?"

A deep disappointment surged through Ryland in a great current of regret. "No, Your Honor."

"I will be leaving Tascosa later this evening. Are you prepared to have all your witnesses available to testify before that time?" Not wanting to postpone the trial, as Judge Willis was keenly aware that the evidence strongly favored Vin Tanner's acquittal. But, it was in young Ryland's hands now, needing to give the court the appropriate evidence, the burden of proof weighing heavily on the defense attorney's shoulders.

"I will try to have everything arranged by that time, Judge, but I fear that it may not be possible as Mr. Trujillo lives a great distance away. Though I will make every effort to..." Ryland's words were interrupted.

"It is not necessario, Magistrado. I am here to speak the truth, verdad."

"Mr. Trujillo, is it?"

"Si, Magistrado." The older Mexican held his worn sombrero in his hands, nervously working the loose and shredded weaving.

"Very well. Mr. Ryland, please call your witness to the stand."

"Yes, Your Honor." Ryland let out a sigh, smiling openly as the pastore took the stand. "Mr. Trujillo. Will you please state your name for the court?"

~ ~ ~ ~

Rainwater was suddenly in back of him, though Prescott was not aware straight off, just a mounting eeriness; a shivery, ghostly exhalation as if death breathed down his neck. Feigning control as he held back a fearful gasp, Prescott reined in his mount as he arced a pale, almost invisible eyebrow questioningly. "Have you found them, Mr. Rainwater?"

Eyes like black stones recessed in bony hollows gleamed with loathing at Prescott. "I am leaving."

"What? What do you mean you are leaving? The money is not enough? Are you looking for more?" Prescott tightened his white-fingered grip on the reins, his voice rising in an indignant squeak.

"It is not the money, Prescott." Those eyes like black shot remained steady, eyeing Prescott emotionlessly.

"Well, what then? If not the money, what could it possibly be?" The squeak was less prominent, his voice only rising at the end, 'be' coming out high-pitched, childish. A quick-rising embarrassment painted his face in shades of scarlet; the only time color ever touched his palely features.

"You are hunting your death." Rainwater was through with this man who trembled and blushed as a virgin in her wedding bed.

"Oh, I see...have you had a *vision*? I've heard tales of these things. The simple mind of savages ruled by outside forces. Oh, yes. A lightning strike, the howl of a coyote, eagles, crows...should I go on? Is that the extent of it, Mr. Rainwater? Have you had a sign, a premonition of sorts?" Disparagingly uttered, angered at the obvious disapproval of this savage toward him, Prescott waited for an answer.

The ebon-eyed tracker, unsmiling, nodded slowly, now uncaring of this man's destiny. "Yes."

"Very well, if you must go, then go. If you are that afraid of two men, then go. I do not want cowards in my employ. Just answer this before you dash off. Are they close? Are they following the river?" Prescott leaned forward eagerly as if licking at his chops, a dog hungry for a bone.

Rainwater answered Prescott only because he received payment for his skills. "Yes." It was finished for him now.

"Excellent." Prescott stared at those blank, black eyes like dull charcoals, but then a shiver trembled through him when those flinty eyes sparked bright and dangerous. "What are you looking at, Mr. Rainwater?"

A noncommittal shrug of his shoulders then, as if his warnings would mean little to this man. "Death calling."

Lapis eyes opened widely. Prescott stunned, sat gaped-mouth, slowly regaining composure, smiled a large, lunatic smile. "Go now, Rainwater. I have little time and very little patience for your macabre presentiments."

Rainwater nodded and wheeled his paint around, glad to be away from the man who walked with ghosts.

~ ~ ~ ~

"They're coming." It was all Vin said as they ran and stumbled and struggled across the flats, the grasses dangerously wide-open.

Chris' head moved tightly on his neck like a stuck lid on a jar, but then all at once let loose, swiveling toward the ridge dotted with fast approaching riders. "Dammit."

"There, Chris. The willow-grove. Mebbe they ain't spotted us." Vin wrenched away from Chris' grasp, shoving the man ahead of him. "Run, Larabee. I'll be right b'hind ya."

"You're pissin' me off, Tanner. I ain't leavin' ya." Again, a vice-grip clamped on Vin's arm as they ran all-out toward cover.

Vin's breath came in rasping hitches after only a short distance, his hair hung in sweaty clumps across his forehead and pasted stickily to his neck. Chris worried Vin was pushing himself beyond his strength, catching the man as his legs buckled and then recovered. Almost predictable as to when Tanner's legs would give, fashioning a weird syncopation as they ran. Steady, steady, steady, stumble, steady, steady, steady, stumble...

Chris' arm and hand ached from the weight of Vin, wondering if he would ever be able to straighten his fingers again, forever to be in a death-grip. He knew his nails, though trimmed short, gouged straight through the flannel of Vin's shirt, sure there would be bruising on Vin's arm, so mortally tight was his grip.

Almost a quarter mile running flat out, mercifully reaching the willow-grove without a fall. Chris' chest heaved in and out wildly like spastic bellows, unable to think about anything else, but breathing. Unaware as Vin dropped to the ground like a sack of stones, not moving and to Chris' horrible realization, not breathing.

~ ~ ~ ~

CHAPTER THIRTY

To Chris Larabee it was incomprehensible; Vin Tanner was not breathing. A heavy, paralyzing fear rooted him in place, horrified, until a voice came to him, shouted at him: "Just stand there, he dies." Chris' legs took on life then, propelling him forward without thought, dropping down hard beside the silent, unmoving man, his insides shuddering and screaming in panicky waves of terror. Resting his ear against the motionless chest, hearing the tattoo of a heartbeat, fast and erratic and Chris was all at once hopeful and urgently desperate. 'Alive'! The words nearly screamed from him as he rolled Vin loosely to his back.

The gunman's eyes stung from the sweat streaming down his forehead, his brows no longer able to hold back the running rivulets. Chris rubbed at his irritated eyes with trembling fingers, feeling a thin burn from the salt of sweat as he quickly blotted at his forehead and temples with his shirtsleeve. The voice was back again, shouting urgently: "Quit it. Get moving."

All at once straddling Tanner's narrow hips, Chris planted his black, dusty boots on each side, looking down at Vin with a mingling of shock and disbelief; the man seeming to be sleeping rather than near death. The gunman's normally controlled, competent hands fumbled ridiculously as he grappled for Vin's gun-belt, hooking his long, graceful fingers around the leather strap gaining purchase. Chris mechanically, emotionlessly raised the unresponsive man's hips up off the ground in a slow, steady movement and then lowered him back down to the grasses. The gunman continued to do this in a repetitive, efficient manner, as air seemed to mercifully draw into Vin's lungs and then expel with each lifting and lowering of the lean, muscular frame.

A deep, sucking draw of breath and then rough coughing tore through Vin like a jagged bone. Chris falling heavily, landed on his knees beside Tanner, bowing his head in relief and offering up a rare prayer. Tears of strain and elation pooled quietly in his eyes as he brought a hand to Vin's whiskered cheek, curving his thumb intensely around the square, sculpted bones of the man's chin. A smile touched Chris' lips at the wide-eyed wondering that filled up those blue eyes as Tanner searched his face; Chris seeing a thousand questions there.

"It's all right, Vin. The run took a lot out of ya is all."

"What?" Confusion clearly showed on Vin's face. "Chest hurts. Feels like I got kicked by a mule."

"You stopped breathing, Vin. Scared the hell out of me. We coulda stopped. You shoulda told me you were havin' a hard time breathin'. Thought you were dead." Chris wishing only for Nathan to be here to offer him reassurance, to explain why Vin stopped breathing, and even more so to tell him that it would not happen again.

"Don't recall much of anythin'. Felt like a bubble was in my chest and then nothin'." There was a long moment of quiet with only the rusty sounds of harsh, raspy breathing. "Sorry, Chris. Ain't wantin' t' be so much trouble."

"Just keep breathin', Tanner. Not askin' for much more than that." Chris smiled, though it was tight and grim.

"I reckon I c'n handle that."

Chris gave an emotional clap to Vin's shoulder and then slid his hand down to the center of the marksman's back, bracing Vin as he struggled to sit. Chris then gently rested the weary man against him, offering needed support. "Rest a minute. Then we'll get moving."

Vin was glad to remain still for the time as he felt dizzy and disoriented. Taking a few more deep breaths, he nodded to Chris. "I'm all right. Let's git movin'."

"You up t' it, Vin?" The gunman saw the exhaustion plainly mantling the marksman's face. Sleep eluded Vin for weeks now; the man was pensive, preoccupied as he struggled with distant haunts. Circles of darkness under Tanner's eyes were like black painted streaks, appearing so severe against the white skin like deep dark bruises, frightening Chris to see it.

"Ain't got no choice in the matter. Ya'll don't seem t' be leavin' without me like I've b'n askin' ya t' 'n I ain't itchin' t' watch ya hang." And then softly spoken more to himself than Chris, "That'd jes' 'bout kill me."

Vin rubbed his fingers in his eyes like a sleepy child as Chris gave a soft huff of laughter at the sight, recalling the day he really looked at Vin Tanner. The day he really saw the man's face clearly, usually hidden under his worn Confederate hat. Stunned to see how young the man appeared in those unguarded times. A good ten years younger, Chris surmised, but somehow older.

A hell-raiser, though, enjoyed a good fight with fists or gun or a wild wagon chase. Enjoyed his women and them him, but Vin always quiet about that, a true gentlemen with an old-fashioned chivalry. A poet, a wordsmith, though never was schooled, unable to read. Bringing a smile to Larabee thinking of the two women that took Tanner under their wings: Mary, his teacher and Nettie, his mother. The town was good for Vin, for all the men and truth be told, even good for him.

Vin was like the wind, gentle and fierce, wildly free, but able to remain _ still and quiet and here with them. Chris was grateful Vin stayed, knowing it would be hard on him if Tanner left, but not knowing why, not wanting to acknowledge the caring. Just knowing his life would be worse if Vin was gone.

~ ~ ~ ~

"You are going in the wrong direction."

Ezra Standish startled at the voice behind him, wheeling his mount around gracefully. Always gracefully, for Ezra Standish was always charming and unruffled in peril or otherwise. Always. Even now, Ezra showed no emotion, just a thin trace of a disinterested smile pulling at the corners of his fine-shaped mouth. Without hesitation, the gambler released his derringer and aimed it steadily at a rather large, intimidating man dressed clearly in the fashion of Indians; the animal skins offset incongruously with an ornate jacket, seeming to be of a fine quality.

Ezra was amazed at the deep black of the man's eyes as the Indian continued to stare as though Standish wore two heads, and both of them no doubt empty. People looked at Ezra in many different ways and thought him to be many different things, but unintelligent was not one. That effrontery all at once got up Standish's back, not heeding the dangers.

"I see. And to what do I owe for this unsolicited shred of misinformation?"

"You are going in the wrong direction."

"Which way do you suggest I go?"

"Go to the river." A lithe, strong hand with a natural grace pointed the way.

"May I inquire as to why you feel so compelled to show me the error of my ways and might I ask with whom I am speaking?"

"You speak with a great Apache warrior and Castilian of noble blood and I speak again with a foolish gringo that does not have the wisdom to do as I say."

Standish, uncharacteristically speechless, watched Rainwater as he reined his horse around and left without another word spoken. Transfixed for several moments, Ezra continued watching until the Indian was no longer in view. Suddenly breaking free from his mesmerism put steel to his horse and sped toward the river.

~ ~ ~ ~

Chris set an undemanding pace that was easy enough for Vin to walk; nagging concerns pestering the gunman about Tanner's well being. The whole incident frightened Chris badly, not wanting to go through it again. The gunman was well aware that their only hope was the boys finding them and those odds were slim to none.

Not dwelling on that now, Chris lead the way slowly through a thin brake of willows, easy enough for a man to get through, but no horse would be able to penetrate it. Safe enough for now, but it would not be very long before the posse quickly cut across those hills. A lot quicker than men on foot making their way through layers of trees; slow going as they pushed through the slim willow stems, trying to follow a straight path. It took close to thirty minutes to cut through the maze of willows, though the covering of leaves above kept them fairly cool. The ground was becoming steadily muddier as mosquitoes pestered around them. The willow brake again meeting up with the Canadian as the river sharply elbowed into the grassy flats.

Vin and Chris made their way out of the willows with the river to their left side and several knolls rising to the right of them. Chris was sure they were getting closer to the rock house and gave a reassuring nod to Vin. The man wearily looked up at Chris as he rested his hands on his bent knees and returned the nod with a grin.

"We're close, Vin. Lookin' forward t' ridin' 'cause this walkin' is hell."

"I reckon cowboys ain't used t' walkin'."

"Only a fool would walk when he can ride."

"Well, ya ain't no fool." Vin became serious, his features darkening. "We goin' t' climb that ridge or follow the river?"

"How much time do you figure we have before the posse catches up with us?"

"I rightly figure 'bout twenty minutes at the most."

"Let's stay the river, then."

"All right."

Green eyes agitatedly searched the ridge; Chris was angered at this game and ready to finish it. "I don't know 'bout you Tanner, but all this runnin' is startin' to rile me. The sooner we get t' that rock house, the better off we'll be 'n then maybe we can show those sons of bitches what for."

"Hell, I'm in."

Vin straightened up, lolling back and forth slightly, but not so much that Chris felt he needed to lend a hand. "You okay?"

With a tilt of his head toward the gunman, a mischievous devil-smile suddenly lit up the young marksman's face and to Chris' relief looked a hell of a lot better.

"I'm jes' fine." A pause then, Vin's smile getting bigger, blue eyes flashing bright, but no longer just from fever as he looked at Chris. "So, let's *ride*." Those words were followed by soft, raspy chuffing; Tanner's so called laugh. Chris grinned broadly as the man stood drunkenly, reeling, almost losing his footing. The almost soundless laughing not helping at all.

"Vin?" Chris gripped the man's well-defined shoulders.

"Yeah, Chris?" Face-to-face now as both men grinned rowdily.

"Shut up."

A fit of laughter burst from them. Vin so overcome leaned his head into Chris' shoulder trying to steady himself against the gunman. Cuffing his slim hand around Vin's neck, Chris gave an affectionate squeeze, lifting the man's head up at the same time. "Ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be." Still grinning, their eyes held steady, giving like-minded nods. "Let's...git."

~ ~ ~ ~

The posse came down the ridge straight as a stretched string with Prescott straggling behind them. A twittering, high-pitched laugh escaped from the dandy, as he was nearly giddy at finally finding the two men, almost giving up hope at the impenetrable willow brake. His eyes, wild and bloody-minded, watched as Larabee and Tanner scuttled toward a grouping of cottonwoods. Tanner still moved brokenly, bringing a wicked pleasure to Prescott at the sight.

The riders picking up momentum tasted blood themselves, as they spurred their mounts savagely, kicking up dust and grassy tufts. Hurtling down-slope, the horses neighed their distress as hind legs lost footing, sliding every few feet before reaching the flatland. Galloping full out, the riders pressed forward over their mount's necks, gaining ground.

"Dammit, we ain't goin' t' make it, Larabee. Git goin' without me. Head up over that ridge 'n save yer damn hide." Vin frantically wrestled his arm away from Chris' grasp.

"We already talked 'bout this 'n I ain't leavin' ya." Chris pulled his colt from the holster with his right hand, still holding securely to Vin's arm with the left. The gunman all at once stopped, releasing his grip on Vin's arm just as quickly and spun around to face the riders bearing down on them. Chris pivoted his upper body toward the marksman, looking at Vin intently, though his feet were planted directly at the oncoming posse. Vin *knew* before Chris spoke. Their eyes held steady on each other, momentarily wistful as a deep sorrow etched their weary faces, then acceptance as smiles played wildly on their lips. Chris grabbed hold of Vin's forearm in a warm, emotive clasp. "See ya in hell, Tanner."

With a wink, Vin let out a rebel yell, seeming to Chris to be a cross between a Comanche holler and a turkey call, standing up the hair on Chris' neck and arms; always did that to him when he heard that yell. Fragile remembrances of the war coming to him; those damn crazy Rebs with nothing left to lose, some with nothing to go home to, every last one of them full of nothing but grit and determination. Tanner one of them and Chris was more than proud to fight and die by this man's side.

Slim, deadly gunfighter hands held his colt straight-out and level, no longer a foreign piece of metal, but an extension of his arm. The blood flowed through his fingers and pulsed into that steel giving it life as it offered up death, cold and unflinching. Chris' face was shuttered as he aimed and shot off the first of the two bullets, finding its target squarely and Chris welcomed a sneering grin to occupy his face briefly, only to shutter it up tightly again. The man in the black duster, Taylor, lie dying and Chris allowed himself to feel a remote gladness.

Closer the posse approached, voices shouted warnings to each other not to shoot as Vin crouched low, coiled like a loaded spring, waiting. Chris quickly glanced at the man, but was gripped with the finding of Prescott. The last bullet was for that bastard and Chris would not let anything stop him. Green eyes widened like full moons as Larabee spotted the white-blond hair, glowing falsely like a sainted halo in the full sunlight and Chris the avenger, the bearer of retribution brought up the gun and clenched his slender, competent finger on the trigger and ... flatly missed, the bullet catching only the fleshy part of the man's upper arm.

The posse was on them now as Vin bolted forward, grabbing hold of a rider's leg, pulling the man from the saddle, as Vin landed a blow to the man's jaw. The rider fell like a sack of grain, thumping heavily to the ground as Vin took the man's gun from the holster and started firing at the approaching riders. Pulling the carbine from the saddle's scabbard, Vin yelled to Chris and tossed him the six-shooter none too soon as three men charged towards the gunman. Vin took out one and Chris took out two. Four down, dead, and a hell of a lot more to go as Larabee continued to fire off rounds, pleased to hear Vin's rifle's report and the resulting curses and screams.

All at once, their good fortune changed as Chris was surrounded and knocked forcibly to the ground. He rolled to avoid the horses' hooves that circled and stepped fitfully around him. Vin fared no better as a leg kicked out at him causing the marksman to loose his footing. Tanner grabbed for the Winchester, but was stopped cold as the barrel of a gun pressed against his temple. Pulled up roughly, Vin half-walked and was half-dragged to Larabee's side. Chris was being roughly tied as his arms were pulled behind him, binding his wrists tightly, though Larabee kicked and fought them every step of the way.

"Son of a bitch. Cut it out, now. Damn murderin' sack of... OW!! Dammit!"

Vin lay on his back with a booted foot pressed into his chest, not able to control his laughter at the defiance of the gunman, getting a fierce kick for it. "Your turn next ya no-good murderin' jackal."

Prescott dismounted and walked towards Vin who struggled to catch his breath, the wind knocked out of him from the brutal kick. Kneeling beside Tanner, the dandy ran a ghostly soft hand down the side of Vin's face. Tanner recoiled at the touch, but was held in place by seemingly a thousand hands, forcing him down and holding his head firmly. Vin visibly shuddered at the intrusion, his breath coming in agitated gasps. Again, the hand traced along Vin's face. "I win, Mr. Tanner and you lose."

"Dammit Prescott, leave him alone. I'm goin' t' kill every last one of you sons of bitches." Chris worked fiercely against his bindings as he watched Tanner's face grow frantic with a terror that Chris could not bear to see. Rallying against the three men holding him, Chris kicked out his legs like striking snakes; rowels like fangs tore into flesh drawing blood as the men momentarily lost their hold. Quickly recovering, they pummeled the gunman with kicks, jabs and punches; violent, angry fists that found pleasure hurting a man in all his vulnerabilities. Back and ribs were dealt blows that ripped the breath from Chris. Kicked mercilessly on his thighs and between his spraddled legs, causing Chris to roll himself into a protective ball as pain lanced through him. A final fierce blow to Chris' lower spine left him numb from the waist down, hearing a distant moaning and shockingly surprised to find it was coming from him.

Sprawled, nearly broken, in a dusty, bloody heap, Chris slowly, agonizingly twisted his head toward Vin, pained as he realized the marksman's face glistened wet with what could only be tears. Chris grimaced, sorrowfully aware that Vin grieved for him, and he unable to free Vin from his degradation. Prescott, all the more, taunted Vin as Chris balled his hands into enraged, unforgiving fists, listening to the inarticulate growls that faded suddenly to wrenching groans and then silence. Chris knowing Vin was no longer there, no longer aware of being touched or held trapped by those hands as he turned into himself. Vin's only means of survival, similar to those dark days of captivity in that Tennessee prison.

Prescott sensed something different in Tanner, as the man was no longer fighting them; the eerie animalistic growls now silenced and those striking blue eyes now vacant. Not at all like the drug-induced blue-eyed stare, but strangely empty, vacant. Prescott was furious.

"Oh no, Mr. Tanner. You *will* be aware of every ounce of pain and suffering. You *will* arouse from your catatonia. Are you listening?" Prescott brought his lips to Vin's ear, cold fingers curling the loose hair behind the marksman's ear, satisfied at the slight tremor that shivered through Tanner. "You *are* still in there, aren't you? Well, just to keep you abreast of the fascinating happenings...hmm, well how shall I put this? To be blunt, Larabee swings first. Care to join us, Mr. Tanner?"

Chris reached out a hand to Vin, but was stopped midway by the crushing weight of a foot on his forearm, the boot heel grinding maliciously into his flesh. Larabee gritted his teeth, holding back the scream that would only cause Tanner more distress.

"Enough. Let's get this done." Prescott turned to Catfish Kid. "Get them up now and let us get these hangings underway. Are you with me, Gentlemen?"

Murmurs of agreement as several of the men lifted up Larabee and Tanner, dragging them to the grouping of cottonwood trees. Two horses were stripped of their tack as ropes were tossed over a sturdy limb, dangling menacingly. Prescott directed the men with a cold, clipped competence.

"Set Tanner down there. Very good." As Vin was placed against a cottonwood, Prescott knelt down beside him. "Front row seat, Mr. Tanner. I would think you would want to bid your dear companion a fond farewell. Come now, Mr. Tanner, do not be rude." Prescott raised a hand, giving a sudden slap to Vin's face, but eliciting little response. "Damn you! You *will* not ruin this for me!"

Prescott now greatly disturbed stood. "Hang him."

Chris was lifted onto the horse like a bag of loose bones, the gunman drifting in and out of consciousness. His brow corded pensively, vaguely aware that something was terribly wrong, but unable to stop it. Chris gagged as he felt a tightening around his throat, gasping for air as his eyes opened wide, awakening from a nightmare, but only to find that the nightmare was real.

~ ~ ~ ~

Ezra Standish gave little thought to his own welfare as he saw Chris Larabee straddling a horse with a noose around his neck and Vin Tanner seeming to be unconscious, slumped against a tree. If Chris' horse startled, the gunman would hang. Standish knew he would somehow need to stop this, quite certain that the others would soon be here. If ever his talents and power of persuasion were needed, it was now.

Making his way down the slope casually, betting it all on the fact that Prescott still believed Standish was an ally, a business partner. This would be Ezra's ace in the hole, allowing him into this circle of miscreants. Catfish Kid tapped Prescott on the shoulder and lifted his chin toward the hill.

"Standish. What's he doing here?" Catfish Kid drew his gun, but Prescott shook his head 'no' as he walked toward the gambler.

"You should not be here, Mr. Standish?" Prescott eyed the man guardedly, not sure of Ezra Standish's allegiance, though quite confident the gambler's loyalties could be easily bought. "I am sure this is the last place you would want to be, Mr. Standish. Though you are now in my employ, I feel it would be quite trying for you to watch your former associates die by hanging. Surely you are not here to protest for we are well within our rights of the law as they are both wanted men."

"Actually, I've come to warn you, John." Standish dismounted and walked slowly toward the gunman's horse, eyes still intent on Prescott. "All your men should be forewarned that a posse led by Sheriff Jim East is on your trail. Judge Travis is with them and I've heard talk that anyone that is involved in the hanging of these two men will find themselves facing the same fate. I felt it would be in my best interest to let you know this, as much would be lost to me, namely the Standish Tavern, if said owner was, shall we say, indisposed." Standish patted Larabee's mount with a cool detachment. Holding on to the horse's bridle, Ezra hoped his mask would not fail him as his heart thrummed loudly and rapidly in his ears, almost deafening.

"Now Gentlemen, we are in our legal rights here, no matter what Judge Travis and Sheriff East profess. I thank you, Mr. Standish, for your concern in this matter, but we will not discontinue our pursuit of justice. So, if you would step aside, now. We shall get on with it."

Before Ezra was able to decide his next move, gunshots were heard on the ridge above them as Buck Wilmington, J.D. Dunne, Nathan Jackson and Josiah Sanchez roared down the slope with vengeance sparking wildly on their determined faces.

~ ~ ~ ~

Buck Wilmington came close to dying when he crested that final ridge and looked toward a grove of cottonwoods. His heart stopped, did not beat for what seemed like forever to Buck. Nearly getting sick bad at the sight of Chris Larabee slumped over an unsaddled horse with a hangman's noose wrapped tightly around his neck. Wild with terror and rage, Buck yanked his revolver from the holster and tore down the slope, shooting; just shooting and thinking of nothing else, but killing every damn one of those men.

Josiah said a prayer of thanks to the Lord for his guiding hand at the finding of Chris and Vin, but knew the saving of them lie flatly in their hands, now. A million doggerels milled in his mind as he sped after Buck with his rifle drawn and ready. Nonsensical thoughts played in his head: A necktie party's not much fun, if you're the one dead when the party's done. Well, Josiah rightly figured it was about time to bust up that party.

J.D. and Nathan with guns drawn rode to each side of Josiah, both turning to look at the big man as he spoke, "I guess we didn't get an invite."

J.D. cocked his head quizzically at the large man beside him. "What are you talkin' about, Josiah?"

Only Nathan did the answering. "What Josiah means is those men decided t' go 'n have a hangin' party without invitin' us 'n we're goin' t' let them know we ain't t' happy 'bout that."

J.D. shook his head at both men. "This is serious. Chris 'n Vin could die. Why are you actin' like it's a big joke?"

Josiah held John Dunne's gaze for a long moment and then turned away, studying on things before speaking. "Oh, this ain't a joke, J.D. The killing of men, ain't never a joke."

Each man quiet, considering those words spoken, but knowing sometimes the killing of men was as necessary to surviving as it was taking your next breath. J.D. would kill a hundred men, a thousand men to save Vin and Chris and to hell with his final judgment. Nothing or no one, not even God, could make him believe the killing he was about to do was wrong. If it was, well, he would live with that because he would rather be damned for eternity than let Vin and Chris die.

J.D. nodded to the men and then spurred his mount, shooting his revolver with deadly intent.

~ ~ ~ ~

Ezra held on tightly to the bridle's cheekpiece as the horse sidestepped nervously at the sound of gunplay and all hell breaking loose around them. Shifting his glance toward the tree where Vin slumped boneless caused Ezra's heart to violently jump in his chest; Tanner was no longer there.

Standish reached his shaking hands up to the noose that gripped tightly around Chris' neck unimpeded, as no one seemed to be particularly interested in what the gambler was doing. The rogue posse was distracted battling with the men who were riding and shooting their way down-slope. Again, no one seeming to be interested as Ezra released the strangling slipknot and pulled the unconscious man to the ground; the gambler now breathing heavily from panic and exertion. Ezra glanced around, searching for Vin once more, as he slung Chris' arm across his shoulders and wrapped his arm around the lean man's waist, dragging him to safety.

"Damn it, Vin. Where are you?" Not aware that he spoke out loudly, but then stopped cold when a voice responded behind him.

"I see my trust in you was misguided and for that Mr. Standish you will die along with Mr. Tanner and Mr. Larabee." Prescott aimed his revolver at Ezra, the hammer thumbed back, snicking loudly, and then the trigger squeezed. Ezra was unable to move quickly enough, but having the wherewithal to drop the gunman to the ground and out of harm's way. Startled as he felt himself knocked off his feet, plunging to the ground, though oddly not feeling the tearing, burning pain of a gunshot. All at once realizing he was pushed out of the bullet's path. But, who pushed him? Another loud report of a gun rumbled near him as Ezra watched Prescott stagger and weave drunkenly before dropping slowly to his knees, gripping his midsection tightly. Blood gouted from the man's mouth, his lapis eyes filled with disbelief and then nothing as Prescott fell dead, head first into the dirt.

Buck dismounted and stood silently over the body, watching as Josiah lowered himself down beside Prescott, turning him over. The preacher's broad hand slid over the man's eyes still opened in death, a wide-eyed empty stare. Josiah lowered his head in prayer, but before rising fixed his gaze on the man's neck. Ivory beads poked from the collar of the man's shirt, something seemingly familiar to the preacher. Grabbing hold of the beads, pulling them from beneath the man's shirt, Josiah sucked in a breath as a slow dawning came to him of what encircled the man's neck. Dear Lord, Vin was right. Vin was right. Josiah carefully removed the ivory rosary beads from Prescott's neck, holding them high in the air; shouting loudly; shouting to the heavens; shouting to grant Bridget her peace, "Vin Tanner was right. Do you see this in my hand? In the name of all that is Holy, Vin Tanner was right."

Chris stirred at the shouting as Ezra held him, still unsure of what propelled him to the ground. Stiffening at the sound of a low groan coming from behind him, Standish swiveled his head to look and was shocked to see Vin Tanner laying motionless with a gaping rent running along the front of his trousers and Ezra all at once desperate to find some hope in the fact that he saw very little blood. Momentarily stunned, but then finding voice, Ezra shouted Nathan's name out in frantic bursts and only stopped when the healer placed a calming hand on his shoulder.

"It's all right, Ezra. It's all right now. Josiah, Buck, I need help here." Ezra watched the activity around him in a blurry daze, fighting Buck when he tried to release Ezra's hold on Chris, half-hearing Josiah's words of reassurance. Hearing the word shock and knowing they talked about him, but not able to break free from his stupor. Just give me a moment, he screamed to himself, just give me a moment. Dropping his head down, resting his forehead on Chris Larabee's shoulder slowly coming to an understanding of all that occurred.

Ezra lifted up his head, his voice weak, too soft, as he looked to the men gathered around Vin Tanner. "How is he?" No one heard him, and Standish tried again this time louder. "How is he?"

Josiah rushed to Ezra's side, the big man's expressive blue eyes saddened. "Looks bad, Ezra. Looks bad."

"Good Lord." Holding tightly to Chris, Ezra dropped his head again. "Good Lord."

~ ~ ~ ~

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Vin lie quiet, deeply bewildered, one hand held a revolver tightly in an awful death-grip and the other was pressed flat and firm against his right hip. Having passed out at some point, the marksman was just now becoming aware of his surroundings, though still greatly dazed. It took a long chilling moment for Vin to finally realize that the war was a long time over and to leave off cursing his bad luck and stupidity for not wearing his cartridge box across his belly. Strongly fearful of being gut shot as all soldiers were, many of them took to wearing their cartridge boxes in front to protect against stomach wounds.

His panic settled and then resurged as Vin saw the rent across the front of him, quickly undoing his gun belt and pants, his fingers trembling like those of an old woman weak and near death, as he struggled to see what damage Prescott's bullet rendered. A long ugly wound cut across the front of him and Vin raised himself up on his left elbow trying to see if any discharge flowed from his intestines. He could see there was none and very little bleeding, allowing himself to hope that he might not be wounded mortally. Though, another bleak thought crossed his mind that he must be bleeding mightily inside of himself.

There was very little pain as his right side was wholly numb, making it easy to push backward toward some bushes using his elbows and good leg. Vin budged back slowly, unaware of his low moaning with each tug on his right hip, all at once dropped to the ground with a sudden wash of weakness. He lie still again, too tired to move, his mind quickly turning away from his own burning concerns to thoughts of Chris and Ezra. Were they alive? Was his aim true? Vin closed his eyes, telling himself it would only be for a moment. He would just rest for a moment, though not too long because Chris needed him and he_ needed_ Chris.

~ ~ ~ ~

It seemed so long ago that anyone called her Elizabeth and only one ever called her Lizzie. Only one -- a memory Frenchy McCormick held close to her like a treasure. Vin. The sound of his voice brought her to tears, his smile broke her heart, his embrace, and his body against hers released her soul, touched the core of her. Their love, so reckless, so powerful, almost came close to destroying him.

Vin's suffering was plain as he struggled to stay with her, but Frenchy suffered also, as she watched his determined efforts. She suffered knowing each day brought her that much closer to losing him. Frenchy would give the world for him or so she believed, persecuting herself tremendously for her own egocentrism, not able to give up the things she loved, not even for the only man she loved. Frenchy wanted her world and she wanted Vin. In her heart she knew she could never make him happy, but she was too weak, too selfish to let him go. Frenchy waited for him to choose, as she knew he was the stronger one. Again, she caused him more pain, more suffering.

Frenchy McCormick listened as I.P. Ryland questioned Miguel Trujillo. Listened as the old Mexican spoke of Eli Joe threatening his life and that of his wife's. Not surprised to hear that Eli Joe was Trujillo's nephew, but still feared for his life and never spoke of the murder to anyone. Frenchy listened as Mc Masters, Howard and Briggs, respected merchants and Tascosa's finer citizens, spoke of Jess Kincaid's clothing, thinking it was an odd dress for a farmer. A serape that Kincaid was never known to wear with pants too big and boots too small, nothing quite fitting the man, but not so unusual to believe Vin Tanner's claims of innocence. Now, it all made sense to them. Now, they believed that Tanner spoke the truth.

Frenchy bowed her head over the table, relieved and angered and sorrowed for all that Vin went through because of Eli Joe, because of these men who believed the worst of the man she cherished. They did not know Vin Tanner for if they knew him, they would never, could never believe him to be a murderer. Frenchy McCormick sat in the courtroom, listening to all this, listening to these men and trying to find forgiveness in her heart, as she knew Vin Tanner would. She sat in this courtroom, in this hideously rigid straight-back chair that offered little comfort as tears quietly ran down her face.

Sensing something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong.

~ ~ ~ ~

The leaves scuffled against a vigorous wind, blind-sided by a phantom-force and just that quick, a quiet respite only to be once more attacked, plucked and pulled, the weaklings losing their grasp. Vin watched the ongoing struggle, transfixed as he continued to hold his hand to his wound. Occasionally working his fingers over his right hip, as it was beginning to gain a bit of feeling and Vin knew the bullet must have lodged in his hipbone.

The percussion of gunshots and harried yelling seemed to have slowed, quieted as Vin waited for Chris to find him. Almost certain he heard Ezra screaming for Nathan; the gambler's voice twisted with a manic hysteria, and Vin again worried that harm befell the men. He tried to turn his head toward the shouting, but was only able to release a stunted groan for his efforts, again too tired to move, too weak to look beyond his boots or shoulders.

Panic, all at once, gorged his throat making it difficult to swallow or breathe which made his panic all the more palpable. He was a man with a good head, sensible and able to think clearly even in seemingly hopeless situations and Vin stubbornly reminded himself of that now. His inability to swallow was caused by his need for water, as blood loss made for a sharp, intense thirst. It was as simple as that and as frightening as that. Again a soldier's fear filled him of famishing from lack of water. Almost too real, as he lie there as though on some great battlefield, surely now he could only assume dying, and dying horrifically slow without a Godforsaken single runlet of water.

Vin balled his hand into a fist and pummeled the ground in frustration, angered for letting fear distract him from his need for survival. Focusing on that and nothing else, he then worked on slowing his breathing, knowing his panic caused his breath to come in short, strangled gasps, making him woozy and lightheaded. Or was it the blood loss? Could it really be called blood loss, if the blood did not flow out, but pooled somewhere deep inside of him? Uncontrolled laughter started to bubble up in Vin, no longer levelheaded, nothing much seeming to matter anymore. Well, maybe getting a mouthful of water, maybe just that.

Drifting for a moment as soft, sweet voices floated around him, cascading down on him like rain. Calling him, scolding him, tormenting him and loving him as he reached a shaky hand up to touch their faces. Miss Nettie, his Ma, Elizabeth and Lord help him_ Bridget. Their faces so clear, but then all at once fading, suddenly changed into a tender, caring dark face that watched him with quiet, concerned brown eyes. His weak, sluggish hand reached toward that face, but dropped down suddenly like a leaded weight; Nathan catching and gathering up the slim fingers between his own before Vin's hand would have thumped to the ground. A distant, almost ethereal smile softly shadowed the injured man's lips as Nathan leaned his ear to Vin's mouth, hearing a hushed, but desperate plea: "Water...please, Nathan...thirsty."

It took all of Nathan's resolve not to show the fear on his face that was now systematically creeping through him, gripping his heart, and clutching his throat. Unable to speak to Vin at first, only able to hold tightly to the bloodied hand that trembled and shuddered in his own. Only able to put his shaky fingers up to Vin's sweat-soaked forehead for a moment's touch and tenderly wipe at the strewed, dank hair that coiled around Vin's neck and clung to his fever-flushed face. Only that, until Josiah knelt beside him, handing him a canteen and like a flood-torrent released from its weir, Nathan all at once remembered his purpose, all coming back to him in a flash of knowing.

Vin's eyes glowed gratefully, spotting the canteen, his hands uncontrollably shook as they groped for it. Josiah gently raised Vin's head, resting the mass of tangles into the huge hollow of his palm, carefully running immense fingers of his free hand through the snarls like a she-cat fussily grooming her kitten. Vin was unaware of the gentle care the preacher imparted, his thoughts only on the clear, cool water as he greedily gulped it down, choking in his haste. Nathan quickly snatched the canteen away from Vin's mouth, waiting for the pain to tear through the marksman from the sharp, rattling coughs, but Vin only obstinately groped again for the water, showing little sign of discomfort.

Nathan shifted his gaze to Josiah, pointing his chin to the canteen. The preacher nodded and took hold of it firmly without interrupting Vin's drinking, leaving off on his fretful tidying of the young man's hair. Nathan hesitantly glanced down at the opened pants and loosened drawers, frowning worriedly at the long ugly wound that cut diagonally across Vin's pelvis.

The healer's skilled fingers jumped to action, as if almost without thought, working aggressively, searching for tears in the intestines and other unseen damage while Vin watched Josiah with a drifty, dream-like stare, the canteen still lifted to his lips, but Vin no longer drinking. He did not feel the prodding of his ruined flesh as a calm, contented smile dimpled the edges of his mouth, prompting a huge grin from Josiah who once again tended to Tanner's wild mane, talking soothingly to the injured man all the while. Vin sighed, slowly closing his eyes.

"Josiah?" Vin's voice was as fragile and light as bone china, nearly translucent. So much so, that the preacher needed to lean his large frame closer to the porcelain-pale face (the bony edges rimmed scarlet) to hear Tanner's words.

"Yeah, Vin?"

"Chris...Ezra...?"

"They're fine, Vin. They're jes' fine. Prescott's dead. Ya got 'im, Vin. Ain't goin' t' hurt nobody again. Thanks t' ya."

Vin's sand-colored eyebrows crimped together suddenly, as though pestered by something and his hand rose up ready to strike it away.

"Tryin' t' find that damn bullet." Nathan's hands were bloodied as he gently worked his fingers around the muscles, vessels, nerves and viscera of the lumbar and inguinal regions. Also, pressing forcefully on the outside of Vin's lower abdomen, pushing against the taut muscles. A moan just then escaped from Vin surprising all of them, even Vin himself having been numb for so long; the whole of him, mind as well as body, steadily becoming more alert.

"Bullet's right here touchin' my hipbone." Trailing his bloody finger slowly across his middle, he pointed to a location near his hip. "Git it out, Nathan. Be right as rain once ya git it out."

"I don't know, Vin..."

"Cut it out of me, Nathan. Ya got t' git it out of me now ...please...jes' do it."

"Don't want t' cut int' ya out here. Need t' git ya back t' town, Vin." Nathan looked away, fearful of his inability to perform this type of surgery. Mumbling now, as he talked things through of all that could go wrong. "If I nick the intestines. The ascending colon is..." Turning back to the injured man, Nathan spoke with honesty and fear, "I c'n kill ya, Vin."

"If ya don't cut it out, I'll die anyway."

Nathan lowered his head and then raised it, staring hard at Vin. "I know."

"Alrighty then." Vin clutched Nathan's hand, the blood making their clasp sticky and warm. "I don't want ya t' be goin' on the worry, Doc. Ya'll do jes' fine."

Nathan held Vin's gaze for a long moment, seeing such trust there his heart ached. Turning Vin's hand over gently, Nathan took a bandanna from his coat's pocket and solicitously wiped away as much blood from the marksman's hand as he could. Some of it all ready drying and starting to flake from Vin's fingers and palm leaving a reddish outline, particularly dark around the nail beds. "Let's clean ya up 'n then ya rest some while I go git my bag. I need t' check on Chris 'n Ezra, too."

Vin tried to rise, resting his upper body weight on his elbows, shuddering as if a thousand pounds rested on them. "They all right?"

Josiah clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth several times exaggeratedly chagrined as he looked down at Vin. "Since when did ya stop believin' in what I tell ya, Brother Vin?"

"It ain't that Josiah...jes' thought mebbe the Doc didn't tell ya everythin' is all." Vin turned his attention back to Nathan. "They all right?"

"Chris 'n Ezra are jes' fine, Vin. You take it easy now 'n rest yuhself. Be right back. Josiah's goin' t' be right here with ya."

"Go, Nathan. I'll b' fine." And then Vin spoke again, sounding to Nathan and Josiah like a very young and very vulnerable boy. "Would ya'll tell Chris...tell him...jes' that I'd like t' see him. Jes' t' make sure he's in one piece 'n all."

"I'll tell him, Vin." Nathan cupped his hand on Vin's shoulder, giving a squeeze. Needing to look away fast, he shifted his gaze toward Josiah as tears formed and stood in his dark eyes, though unashamed. Josiah nodded, knowing it was hell of a lot more than Vin making sure Chris was all right and knowing Nathan knew this, too.

Vin...Josiah smiled softly with just a trace of sadness...Vin was the most self-possessed man he ever met. Learning the need for this at a tender age, which always caused Josiah pause, but then Vin was contradictorily open, kindhearted, caring. Josiah shook his head deeply moved and more than a little astonished at his unexpected insight, as a sudden wealth of understanding filled him. So very clear, so evident, but still so surprising -- somewhere along the way, Vin Tanner without hesitation gave his heart to them. Against everything he was taught, against all his survival instincts, Vin trusted all of them fully, and in particular one man. One man who was more than capable of hurting him quicker than a single beat of Tanner's laid-bare heart. At that moment Josiah promised himself one thing, promised Vin; he would give his life before he ever let that happen.

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