RATING: PG13 with cautions for language and violence.
FEEDBACK: Yes, please
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction based on the characters of the CBS series, The Magnificent Seven. I don't own 'em, I can't claim 'em, and I'm sure not making money off of 'em.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: My thanks to my beta-readers, Sarah B., Sara (Dutch), and Sue B. Sue N., this one's for you.
Chris Larabee sat before his small fire and listened to the wind whistling outside his shack. Whistled plenty inside, too, with all the gaps in the walls that still needed filling and the poorly framed windows that he had never gotten around to repairing. The wind picked its way through the chinks with mournful sighs like a melancholy ghost haunting the small room. There was little enough joy here, and on this night, little enough peace. The bottle of whiskey in front of him was half-gone, and he felt as cold-stone sober as he had when he'd begun drinking, with only a raging headache to remind him of his indiscretions. He had come out here alone, and not even Buck had argued with his need for solitude. Buck knew what this day was, and he respected Chris's rage, grief, and hurt. There had been a time not long ago when he would have scourged everyone around him with his misery, but that much at least, had changed. He had ridden out of town with two bottles his saddlebag, and had come here to mourn his deda.
He stared at the whiskey, his green eyes dulled and shadowed. Lord, this wasn't what Sarah would have wanted for him, but he did not know how to move on without her, did not know how to give or accept kindness, or recognize love anymore. His humanity was gone to ashes, and the scars of that burning would never fade. He reached out and grasped the bottle, drank two more deep swallows, and then flung it into the fire. The residual alcohol flared with a sharp, intense light, stabbing at his eyes. He laid down his head and cried, and when he was done and felt as used up and dry as the desert at noon, he staggered to the bed in the corner and collapsed.
The same lonely wind that haunted Chris Larabee whispered to Vin Tanner. Like Chris, his solitude was a matter of choice, but unlike Larabee, there was no melancholy in it; just the need for a simple man to enjoy a peaceful night beneath the stars. Vin sat with his chin propped on his drawn-up knees, watching the flames dance. He could hear Peso moving restlessly and figured that some small desert creature was making the gelding skittish. Peso was ornery and cussedly stubborn, but at least he didn't give a man any lip. Vin smiled slightly, thinking of the other peacekeepers back in Four Corners.
They'd all been mighty edgy of late; a combination of the coming winter, too much work, and too close company between them. Even Buck, the most even-tempered of men had taken to sniping at the others — something Vin suspected was caused by his worry over Larabee. Buck had finally admitted that this was near the anniversary of Sarah and Adam's deaths — and he didn't see how the man could live through that without his grief scorching everyone standing within a mile of him. So by tacit agreement, they had split: Chris retreating to his shack where he could only cause damage to himself, Vin to the desert and peace; Nathan to his clinic, Josiah to the ruined chapel outside town. Ezra to his cards, and JD to Nettie and Casey's. Buck, alone, had stayed on the job, claiming that with everyone else gone to ground, he'd finally have some space to stretch out.
Peso seemed to have settled, and Vin was warm, fed, and relaxed. He sat back against his saddle, and looked at the stars overhead. The People had a hundred legends about each one it seemed, and they were all mighty pretty. Then Mary had read a few stories to him one day as he was practicing his letters, and he had discovered new legends that were as startling and lovely as any he had heard. Funny how stories and legends got made, he thought drowsily ... might even make a few of his own someday. Maybe Mary would like a poem about the stars ...
He slept. And woke to the cold touch of a gun at his throat.
His eyes flew open wide, but he could not see beyond a dark shadow looming against the starry sky. He lifted his hands slowly, wondering that they weren't shaking from the force of his heartbeat alone. "Listen, mister," he whispered, feeling the gun pressing against his Adam's apple, "All I got is this saddle and a mighty ornery horse, so if yer of a mind t'take him, I won't stand in yer way ..."
The shadow didn't move, didn't speak, just pressed that gun barrel harder against Vin's throat until he gagged with the force of it, and the darkness overhead and the darkness gathering at the edges of his eyes blurred into fathomless night.
He came up from that darkness, feeling consciousness returning one sense at a time: first sound — the crunch of stones beneath a boot heel, the hiss and crackle of a fire, a faint metallic clang of iron striking iron. Then smell — a musty, unpleasant scent near his face, a drift of acrid tobacco, horse. Touch. The bite of gravel against his back, a trickle of sweat down his neck, the rasp of fabric rubbing against the stubble on his cheeks. He opened his eyes and saw nothing. He tried to move and discovered he had been bound at wrists and ankles, and that a hood covered his face. Shit ... hog-tied and helpless. Seemed like the sins of his past had finally come home to roost. Never thought to go out like this. Whoever it was had done a fine job of stalking him ... Indian quiet and fox-clever ... and malicious.
"Hey —" Tried to get his captor's attention, and then wished he hadn't. A hard kick to the base of his spine sent a shock of pain fizzing along his backbone, numbing his arms and hands and jolting into his neck. Things went downhill from there.
Vin had lived with the Comanche, had survived the savage Civil War waged on the frontier, had seen men tortured, and carried on his own body the scars of punishments that brought him to screaming awareness in the middle of the night. But he had always known his tormentors, been able to look into their eyes and believe that as inhuman as their actions were, they had human motivations — greed, rage, hurt, revenge. That this nameless, faceless, demon in the night could inflict pain for no other reason than to cause pain, made it much worse. He had nothing to focus on, no way to see if they were ready to leave him alone when they realized he wasn't going to break; or that he did not know the answers to their questions, or just got plain sick and tired of being mean.
The blindness was disorienting. He could not protect himself, and his adversary was fiendish clever at taking him by surprise. He could stand a beating, he figured, and he did, though by the time it was over, he doubted there was an inch of skin on his body that wasn't bruised. And Lord, he hurt! After much too long a time there was a respite, and Vin breathed a small laugh of relief. He musta worn the fella out, and he was feeling pretty good about that until he was seized by rough hands.
There wasn't much that scared Vin. Being held down was his own private terror, raising demons that he didn't know existed. He drew in a breath and bowed his body, fighting with all the strength left in his wiry frame. His sudden motion caught his captor off-guard and for a brief, hopeful moment, Vin thought he might be able to fight, even tied as he was. That hope lasted for about five seconds before a hard clap on the side of his head brought the darkness back.
This time it was the touch of cold air on his skin that drew him to awareness. His aching body was stretched out face down against the dirt. His shirt had been cut from his torso. He thought if he could just be still perhaps they would leave him alone; get tired of waiting, and consider him carrion. They were too clever for that. He heard them approach, heard the sound of their breathing and smelled the sweat on their body. They stood over him, and he felt sick and light-headed with the anticipation of fresh agony.
They stepped away — no, they paced away — a slow, measured retreat. He heard the sound before he felt the pain. A whistle and a pop, then the fiery lash like lightning against his skin. He screamed — he thought he screamed — but he couldn't draw enough breath to make a sound. A shred of his conscious mind began counting slowly ... One, two, three ... four, five ... he passed out at ten.
Lord, what a dream. Musta been somethin' I ate, he thought and then he tried to move. A thousand different kinds of agony assailed him. He opened one eye. A line of ants marched past. Pebbles looked the size of boulders. He tried to moisten his lips, but there was no spit in his mouth. His hand lay alongside his face. Dark, dried, blood streaked across it, and his wrist was braceleted with raw and bleeding ligature marks. But he was not tied. His hair drifted across his face and he tried to lift his head. Red and black lights flashed across his field of vision. His stomach clenched and he retched weakly. Bile and blood stained the ground by his mouth. He remembered then, what had happened in the night.
When he clawed his way to consciousness again, the sun was strong in the sky and Peso was snuffling softly at his hair. I have t'move, he thought. If I cain't, I'm dead. One muscle at a time, he gathered himself with infinite slowness, feeling each motion tearing open the fragile scabs on his back, ripping the torn muscle fibers, and bringing tears streaming down his face. He managed to grab Peso's dangling halter, and sobbed with relief that he could hang onto it.
"Mule, if yer worth more'n I paid fer ya, you'll stand still. Please .." he whispered. "Stand still." Attaining an upright posture brought on a fresh wave of nausea, and Vin's stomach cramped. He heaved weakly, staggering against Peso's side. When the spasm passed, he wound his fingers through Peso's mane, determined to haul himself up saddle or no. He couldn't think of anything but getting on that horse's back. Mounted, he had a chance to survive. There was a boulder nearby and Vin managed to lead Peso to it, managed to crawl up on it himself, and hold on to Peso's neck. "I swear, you get me outta this, I won't never say another bad word about ya. Don't matter what ya do. So jist stand still 'til I kin git on yer back ..."
Superhuman effort, lips bit bloody, his entire body trembling, Vin dragged himself up and slid his leg over Peso's back. He lay there alongside the gelding's neck, breathing hard, dizzy with pain. His inner compass was skewed, but Vin closed his eyes and waited until he could orient himself. West. Chris's shack was west. Five miles. He turned Peso and urged him forward. "I sure hope yer as smart as I figger, mule," he spoke into Peso's ear. "Otherwise, I was robbed."
The next day came with a vengeance. Chris threw an arm over his eyes to block out the intruding light. His mouth was foul, his head felt as swelled up as a melon, his stomach was roiling with acid and hunger, and his bladder was about to burst. It was the latter that forced him upright and out the door. When the urgency of that relief was past, he sank down on his stoop and buried his head in his hands. Misery and guilt sat on his shoulders like the weight of the world, and he was quietly grateful that he had found the good sense to leave Four Corners and come to this place where he could lick his wounds and tend to his grief in solitude, like an injured wolf.
When he could no longer stand feeling like shit, he went to the well and drew up a bucket of water. Stripping off his shirt, he plunged his hands into the chilly depths and splashed the water over his face and hair, feeling it slide down the lean rake of his back and ribs. Shivering in the light breeze, he went back inside and poured his first drink. If he could get through the day without killing himself, he would be fine for another long year.
He could not stay inside the shack. The walls were stifling him. After he made coffee and forced himself to eat some bread to settle his stomach, he took his bottle out on the stoop. He added a dollop of whiskey to his coffee, and drank it slowly, feeling the heat burn some of the fog of last night's bender away. His eyes were still aching and the sun reflecting off the pale earth dazzled him. A hint of distant motion caught his attention and he shaded his eyes from the glare. The dark blob resolved itself into a black horse with a white blaze. Peso. Goddamn, he'd have thought that of all the others, Tanner would have had the sense to leave him alone.
Chris sighed and stood up. He squinted at Peso's approach. Something was wrong; he couldn't see Tanner's distinctive silhouette. Chris headed down the path, dread quickening his pulse. He ran the last few yards, then drew up fast, afraid that his motion would spook the gelding. He held out his arms, waited for Peso to come nearer. His apprehension grew. Peso wasn't saddled, wore only a rope halter, and when Chris grabbed that halter, it was sticky with a dark substance that smelled like old iron. Blood. Cursing, Larabee ran his hand down Peso's flank. More blood. Jesus. Where was Tanner?
Chris tethered Peso near the water trough and saddled up his own mount. He resisted the impulse to set off at a heedless gallop, and instead, took a page from the tracker's book. He bent low over his horse's neck, and followed the fresh prints, praying that the trail would not end in death.
He found Vin several miles to the west, and nearly rode past what he took for a tussock of grass until the light caught a flash of something glistening and red. Chris reined in and dismounted. When he stood over the tracker's body, the earth seemed to rock beneath his feet, and he dropped to his knees. Tanner was laying face down in the dirt, his back so bloody that it looked like a slab of raw meat, and wherever he wasn't bleeding, his skin was dusky with bruises. Chris had been expecting bullet wounds, not this savagery beyond imagining.
"Vin? Vin!" he spoke urgently, but his hand was shaking as he stretched it out. How did you touch a man who had been flayed? Was he even alive? Chris laid a long finger alongside the vein in Tanner's neck and felt the flutter of a heartbeat. Alive, but what next? Chris rose and untied the blanket he had lashed to his saddle. It wasn't sanitary, but it was better than the dirt. As gently as he could, Chris laid the blanket over Vin's back and turned him face up. He breathed a prayer of relief. Aside from a dark bruise on his temple, Vin's face was untouched. It was the only mercy he had been granted. Chris brushed the dirt from Tanner's cheek and combed his fingers through his matted hair. "Jesus ... who did this to you?" He opened his canteen with his free hand and poured a few drops of water on Vin's lips. "C'mon, partner. I hate for you to wake up, but I have to get some water down you. You gotta drink." Another small splash of water, and Vin stirred in his arms. His eyes fluttered open, wide and blu! e, dazed with pain.
"Chris?"
"Yeah, it's me. Don't try to talk. Just drink this, and then we'll ride back home, real slow."
"Don't think I c'n do that ..."
"Well, damn it. You're gonna have to. Because I ain't spending the night out here without a bottle of whiskey." It was either joke or start crying. When Vin's pale lips curved in a smile, Chris felt his eyes burn.
"Peso?"
"Eatin' his head off in my stable. Now, be quiet and drink."
Vin managed three good swallows of water before he pushed the canteen away. "Sorry. It'll jist come back up ..."
Chris wasn't looking forward to the next few minutes. "Listen, pard. I'm sorry, but there's no other way to do this. You ready to move?"
The thought was nauseating, but Vin nodded. "S'alright, Chris. Ain't got the strength t'fight ya, or the breath t'holler. So I reckon I'll jist go along fer the ride."
Chris slipped his shoulder under Vin's arm and levered him upright. It was easier than he had expected; he hadn't thought the tracker would be so light. Even half-conscious, he didn't have much weight to support. Somehow, he got Vin on the horse's back and mounted behind him, cradling his body carefully. He had to go slowly; each jolt sent shivers of pain through the injured man. Chris was afraid that the moisture he felt on his shirt wasn't just perspiration, but Vin bleeding though the blanket.
By the time they reached the shack, the shadows were long, and Chris ached in every muscle of his body. Vin had fainted some time ago, and how he was going to get the tracker out of the saddle without him landing in a heap, was a problem that Chris hadn't managed to solve. As he crested the slight rise marking the boundaries of his land, he halted. There was smoke coming from his chimney, and a rangy gray horse tethered near Peso at the water trough. Buck. Damn him, and bless him. Sometimes Chris thought there might be a God after all.
All the while he had been riding out to Chris's shack, Buck had been castigating himself for meddling in what was none of his business. Chris was the most almighty stubborn bastard he'd ever met, but no man should've had to lose what he had lost, and Buck wasn't the type to let a friend suffer in solitude. He'd given Larabee twenty-four hours and if he hadn't killed himself yet, he might be lookin' for someone to share his misery. Buck figured he owed Larabee that much.
They'd been friends since the war, saved each other's hides more times than Buck could count, though he was pretty sure he was on the heavy end of the scale and should shovel some of that weight over to Chris. Larabee was the luckiest sonofabitch Buck had ever come across. Made it through the entire war without being killed or maimed, and had mustered out with a chip on his shoulder and a cocky attitude that he was pretty damn near immortal. Had lived like it too, until he met Sarah. Then suddenly all the sharp edges had been smoothed, Larabee's brittle heart softened, and peace had come into his breast. They had glowed with it, those two. When Adam was born, Lord, you would have thought He'd never created another child so perfect.
And then it had all become ashes and hate. Buck had hung around for a few months until the day Chris had damn near beat him to death in a drunken rage. Buck felt sorry for Larabee, and he had loved Sarah and Adam as if they were his own family, but he wasn't willing to sacrifice himself on the altar of Larabee's torment — he had a life to live, too. Hadn't seen much of Chris for a couple of years after that, though he had heard things that made him shudder. People spoke his name in whispers and fear, and it hurt Buck as much as if Chris had died. He had lived in expectation of that event until the day he had rolled off a roof and landed half-dressed at Larabee's feet. Damn, if he hadn't been glad to see the man, and now look where they were. Dealing justice together, and at times, Larabee seemed almost human again. Almost. Until the black dog started haunting his heels and despair settled in on his heart. Buck couldn't have explained why he was riding out to Larabee's shack to save him from himself but! for that glimmer of friendship that he saw in Chris's eyes.
When Buck saw Peso tethered at the water trough, he nearly turned back towards town. If Vin was there, Chris would be all right. Those two had a way of tending to themselves; as if the same river of sorrow was running through their souls. Buck had seen that from the first, and it had caused him a pang akin to jealousy until he came to terms with it. There was too much shared pain between him and Chris — hell, every time Chris looked at him, he must be reminded of Sarah and Adam. At least with Tanner, Chris didn't have to see those ghosts.
It was late and getting dark, which decided the issue. He'd stay. He tethered his horse next to Peso, making sure that the reins were short enough to keep a distance between them in case that devil horse of Vin's decided to get rambunctious, and went up on the porch. His eyes lit on the bottle of whiskey. Half-empty. Might be a good sign, might not. "Hey, Chris! Vin!" He knocked and pushed the door open slowly, anticipating to be greeted by the sound of guns being cocked. Nothing.
He supposed they might be off mending fences, so he stirred the fire back to life, retrieved the whiskey from the porch, and settled in to wait. He was falling into a comfortable doze, when he heard the slow approach of a shod horse. He grinned and went to the open door. "Hey, Larabee, it's about time ..." His voice trailed off as realized what he was seeing. He was down the steps in a single long stride.
"Take him, Buck. Careful of his back, " Chris rasped, and let Vin slip bonelessly into Buck's arms. It was such a relief to lay down that burden, that for a minute he couldn't move from the saddle, but sat until the burn in his muscles subsided to an bearable ache.
"Lord, what happened to him?"
"Don't know. Found him after Peso showed up riderless." Chris dismounted stiffly. "Get him inside." He followed Buck up the steps. "Put him on the cot so we can get a good look at him." The wind struck chill through his shirt, and he touched his fingers to the damp fabric; as he feared, his fingers came away bloody.
Buck handled the tracker like he was light as a feather and made of glass. He set him face down on the cot and carefully worked the blanket aside. He sighed. "Damn! Chris, get some water heated. I don't want to peel this back and open everything up again — least until we kin get Nathan out here."
When the water was heated, Buck began working the fabric away from the wounds on Vin's back, soaking the fibers so they would release the dried blood without tearing the scabs that had formed. Chris hovered nearby, hearing the soft stream of profanity that Buck muttered under his breath, feeling the knots in his clenched jaw and fists, praying for Vin to stay unconscious until Buck had the damn blanket off.
He nearly made it. The first sign that he was coming to was the faint hiss of an indrawn breath and the movement of his hands as they closed tight around the pillow beneath his head. "Aw hell, Tanner. Ya couldn't stay out fer a few more minutes?" Buck sighed. "Hold him, Chris."
Where? There wasn't an inch of whole skin on him that Chris could see. He laid his warm hands over Vin's icy fingers. "Hang in there, partner. It's nearly over." There was a faint glint of blue beneath lowered lashes and Vin's fingers curled around Chris's, holding on with as much strength as he had, yet still terrifyingly weak. As Buck peeled the last corner of blanket away, he made a small sound of pain, and passed out again. It was for the best, Buck thought as he looked down at the injuries laid open to the light.
"Shit, Chris. I don't even know where t'start takin'care of this," he said in an odd, strained voice. "We gotta get Nathan out here right away." "Bring the others, too. I want them to see this, and then I want the bastard who did this, dead." Chris's voice sent a shudder through Buck. He had heard that tone once before. It wasn't a sound one was likely to ever forget. Whoever had done this had waked the gunslinger's implacable hate. This time he was not going to let the trail get cold before taking up the pursuit. And this time, he was not going to be alone.
"I will." Buck laid his hand on Chris's shoulder. "You take care of him, Chris."
Then he was out the door, and Chris heard him ride away like the hounds of hell were after him. He looked from Vin to the bottle of whiskey on the table. Lord, he wanted one drink, just one so he could distance himself from what was before his eyes. And then another, to give him the strength to do what needed to be done. And one more to dull the rage he felt burning inside of him. He drew a deep shuddering breath and nearly took that step over to the bottle, before he realized that what he wanted would likely kill Vin through neglect. He turned back to the cot. He might not be able to bind up Vin's wounds, but there were things he could do to make his agony more bearable.
He tugged off Vin's boots and removed the rest his clothing as gently as he could. Stripped, the extent of the beating was even more evident. Bruises and welts marred the tracker's entire body, hinting at injuries that Chris didn't even want to contemplate. The huge discoloration at the base of his spine bespoke a deliberate brutality that made Chris want to vomit. He heated more water and began washing the blood away, not touching the raw skin on Vin's back, but cleaning the rest of him as tenderly as he had once washed his son. When he had finished, he covered Vin from the waist down with a blanket and found an old, soft shirt to lay over his back. The tracker was beginning to shiver, which could not be a good sign.
Chris sank down in the chair he pulled up beside the cot. Lord, what was taking Buck so long? The whiskey was still calling to him. Chris pressed his palms hard against his aching temples. Coffee. At least the activity would take his mind off the siren song of the bottle. He brewed it up strong and dumped two spoons of sugar in it. The sweetness was cloying to a man who took his coffee black and bitter, but he knew he needed the strength. He stowed the bottle of whiskey in a cupboard, away from temptation. Then he returned to his vigil.
The light faded from late afternoon to the blue shadows of early evening. Chris thought the coming of darkness would somehow veil the damage to Vin's body, make it easier to look at, if not easier to bear. It did neither. A sluggish flow of blood continued from the deeper cuts, soaking through the thin fabric, but Chris was afraid to remove the shirt. Vin was shuddering visibly, despite the fuel Chris had added to the fire, and when he touched Vin's cheek, he could feel the fever rising like a tide in his blood. He put another blanket over Vin's lower body, and went out on the porch. He lit a cheroot and drew the smoke in deep, welcoming the harsh tang at the back of his throat. He was paying the price for the last few days; weak-kneed with too much booze and not enough sleep. He was exhausted from suppressing the fiery knot of rage that was burning in his belly and the fear that sent his pulse into a panicked gallop whenever he looked at Vin.
He'd seen men die in a thousand horrible ways, blasted by shot and shredded by shell, gunned down and mercilessly executed. He'd killed more than a few with so little compunction that it hadn't cost him a night's sleep. It was the way of the gunfighter. Those were quick ways of dyin', though — not that he reckoned it would earn him any mercy from the Almighty at the end of his days. He didn't expect mercy for himself, not from the sort of God who let innocents burn, and allowed the spawn of Satan to beat Vin Tanner to half to death and slice his back to the bone with a whip. Better no God at all than that uncaring monster. Angry at the world, angry at himself, Chris crushed the butt of his cheroot beneath his heel and went back inside.
He looked down at Vin and cursed silently. The tracker was awake. "Hey, partner," he spoke softly, as if he were afraid the force of his voice would cause Tanner pain.
Vin's lashes flickered in recognition. "Chris, I ain't feelin' too good," he whispered.
"I ain't surprised. You look like hell." Chris moved cautiously to sit on the cot. "How about some water ... think you could handle that?"
"Rather have whiskey." Vin's laughter wouldn't have stirred a feather.
"Nathan's on his way. Don't want to give you anything like that 'til he gets here."
"Yer jist afraid I'll drink it all by m'self."
"Well, shoot, after ridin' out after you, I figure I've earned it," Chris joked, trying to speak around the tightness in his throat. "I'm gonna have to move you just a little, Vin. You need to get some water down you. You ready?"
Too weak to nod, and dreading what was coming, Vin closed his eyes and tried not to cry out when Chris turned him slightly on his side. He slipped his hand beneath Vin's head and held a cup of water to his lips. It was awkward, painful to the edge of endurance, but he managed a few swallows before his throat closed up with nauseating pain. "Cain't drink no more, Chris. Sorry"
"Damn it, Tanner! What the hell are you apologizing for?" Chris asked, his weary voice rough with anger. "Who did this to you?"
"Don't know. Shit, they snuck up on me like I was some greenhorn, Chris. Hurts worse than what they done t'me."
"Yeah, must be yer pride that's bleedin' all over my bed."
Vin shivered with laughter. "Shit, Chris. Don't make me laugh. Hurts too damn much."
"As long as you're laughin', you're livin, pard."
Vin stilled beneath Larabee's hand. His eyes opened wide. "Am I gonna die?"
"Not from this, you're not," Chris reassured him. He looked up, alert to the sound of hoofbeats on the path to the house. "Seems like Nathan and Buck are back. You're gonna be fine, Vin. Nathan'll see to that." Lord, let Nathan see to that, he prayed to the God he didn't trust as he went to the door.
Buck stopped first at Nettie's since it was the closest and JD was there. He'd send the kid after Josiah while he went back to town for Nathan and Ezra. He didn't want to tell Nettie how badly Vin was hurt, but he couldn't see any way around it; Nettie was too sharp, with an uncanny instinct when it came to the tracker — almost like he was blood kin. He'd have to quell her natural instinct to take off after him.
It was nearly dark when he arrived at the Wells' homestead, but the half-moon overhead shed enough light to see by. He knocked on the door and opened it just as Nettie took the knob in her hand. "Buck!" She was startled by his sudden appearance, and the look on his face sent her hand to her throat in alarm. "My Lord, what's wrong?"
Buck worried his hat in his hands. "Nettie, I need to see JD right away."
"JD!" Nettie called over her shoulder then turned her attention to Buck. "Now you tell me what's got you so riled."
Buck's blue eyes were sober as he regarded the small but indomitable woman. "It's Vin. He's hurt bad. I gotta get Nathan out to Chris's real fast."
"I'll come with you —"
"No. Nettie, he's hurt bad, but he ain't near dyin' and he don't need to be worryin' over you ridin' out there in the middle of the night. I swear I'll get word t'you in the mornin'."
Nettie nodded, comprehending the wisdom of Buck's words, but wanting to mount up just the same. She'd lost a son to the war, and there was something about Vin that reminded her of him. She had caught Vin to her heart, and she was frightened that he would be taken from her as cruelly as her own child had been. "I'll hold you to that, Buck Wilmington."
"Hey, Buck —" JD appeared in the hall behind Nettie, with Casey following closely. He held an apple in his hand, and looked so young and carefree that Buck wished he could just walk away and let the boy be a boy. But they owed Vin, all of them.
"JD, we gotta ride. I need you to go get Josiah from the chapel and head on over to Chris's place."
"Why?"
Buck glanced at Casey standing at JD's shoulder. "JD, Vin's in a bad way. I gotta find Nathan and Ezra. Just do as I tell you, son."
"Vin? What happened to him?"
Buck shook his head. "I ain't got time to explain. Sorry, Nettie. Miss Casey —" Buck settled his hat on his head and was out the door. JD handed the apple to Casey and went to get his guns.
"Is it Larabee?" he asked.
"No. Vin. He's out at Chris's. Nathan, we gotta get there fast." Buck took a deep breath. "I'm gonna find Ezra. Meet you at the livery."
"Buck — why d' you need all of us?"
"When you see Vin, you'll understand." He turned on his boot heel before Nathan could question that enigmatic response.
Ezra was holding court at his usual table at the Standish Tavern. Buck made a quick inventory of the gambler's chosen victims and decided between the three of them, they didn't have enough cash to stay in the game for long. He strode in, positioned himself behind Ezra and looked at his hand. Hardly worth a pot to piss in. He laid a big hand on Ezra's shoulder and bent close. "Ez, put down the cards and come with me. It's important."
Ezra shrugged his shoulder irritably. "Mr. Wilmington, poker is an honorable game, and I do not take it lightly —"
"How lightly do you take Vin's life?" Buck hissed.
Ezra looked at Buck's grim face, and knew that this was not a matter that could be finessed. The gambler set his cards down abruptly. "Gentlemen, sorry to end this promisin' hand, but alas, as one of the town's peacekeepers, it is my duty to heed the call of my fellow lawmen." He rose gracefully and bowed. "Feel free to play on without me."
Buck's grip was urgent on Ezra's elbow. "Got your guns?"
"At my fingertips, Mr. Wilmington. Might I ask where we are going?"
"To Chris's. We ain't got time fer chattin', Ez. Nathan's waiting at the livery."
"Are Mr. Jackson's services as a physician required?" Ezra asked soberly.
"Yeah, they are." The gravity in his voice was painful and Ezra's stomach curled unpleasantly. He did not consider himself a man of great physical courage, despite his mental toughness, but he knew if Buck was this deadly serious, then the tracker was in a world of trouble.
Nathan knew as soon as he saw Vin's back, what he was dealing with. He'd seen men whipped before, a few worse than Tanner who had lived, and more than a few who had died from it. The sight raised sick memories in the former slave, but at least he knew how to treat those injuries. The whipping was bad, but it was the beating and the tracker's rising fever that were more of a worry to Nathan.
"Has he been able to drink anything?" he asked Chris.
"A few swallows of water, nothing else."
Nathan folded his arms and considered his patient. Vin's respiration was light and fast, and though his eyes were closed, he suspected that the tracker was conscious and in severe pain. He bent close. "Vin, c'n ya hear me?"
"If y'all would quit whisperin' I'd hear ya better," Vin managed to breathe.
"I'm gonna give you some laudanum — ain't no use arguin' with me, Vin. I cain't do what needs t'be done if you're twitchin' around." That the tracker didn't argue was another worry. Nathan mixed up a draught of laudanum and water and patiently spooned it down Vin's throat, pausing when his stomach fought against the bitter drug, until the entire dose was down and likely to stay down. He waited until Tanner's breathing deepened and slowed, and his eyes closed. It wasn't a deep sleep, but it was enough to allow Nathan to start his examination.
He cast a sidelong glance at Larabee. The man was about as played out as the healer had ever seen him. His sharp features were as hard-edged as a knife; his eyes deeply shadowed, his skin drawn over his fine bones. "You don't have to watch this, Chris," Nathan suggested.
"I ain't leavin' him."
Buck moved in on the argument. "Partner, it ain't doin' you or him any good."
Chris's eyes turned hard as flint. "I said I'd stay."
Buck retreated to the table where Ezra sat nervously shuffling a deck of cards. The gambler had been silent since the first glimpse he'd had of Vin's body. He looked up at Wilmington. "Would you care to play a hand?"
"How can you think of poker at a time like this?"
"It's at a time like this that I find it most soothin'. It keeps me from dwellin' on the incomprehensible savagery man is capable of inflictin' on a fellow human being." The cards flew through his hands with a snap and a ruffle, betraying the taut rage that the gambler was fighting to contain.
Vin made a sound that twisted like a knife in Buck's gut. "Deal." he said.
Nathan had the healer's gift of detachment. Vin was a friend, and Nathan felt the same anger as Chris and Buck at the sight of his ravaged flesh, but once he touched him, every thought but how to treat those wounds was driven from his mind. He focused on his patient and went to work.
He gently probed Vin's narrow ribcage. Didn't like what he felt; at least two ribs broken and others likely cracked. He pressed on his abdomen, seeking swelling that might indicate internal injuries, and was relieved that there were no ruptures beneath the bruises, . He knew that he did not have the skill to be certain that Vin wasn't bleeding inside, but judging from the tracker's color and temperature, he was not hemorrhaging. He examined the sheets under Vin's body to see if he had passed blood; there was not more than he had expected to find given the extent of the bruises around his kidneys. The bruise and swelling along Vin's spine had Nathan worried about the possibilities of a fracture at the site, but since the tracker was able to move his limbs, Nathan put that concern at the back of his mind. He'd make sure that Vin didn't thrash around too much for a few days. He straightened and breathed a deep sigh.
"What's wrong?" Chris asked.
"Plenty. Man's been worked over with every intention of killing him — and they came damn close. But the good news is that there ain't anything wrong that could kill him outright — not that I kin tell by what I know, anyways."
"Not kill him outright?" Chris raised a brow. "But kill him, nonetheless."
"Hell, Chris. Look at the man's back! I kin clean and stitch and bind, but there ain't no way I kin get all the dirt outta those cuts. He's runnin' a fever already. I don't know what kind of poisons he's got in his blood." When Chris turned away in a vain attempt to hide his expression, Nathan reached out to him. "I'll do my best, Chris. He saved my life, an' I swear I won't give up on him without a fight."
"What can I do to help?" Chris asked.
"I got carbolic in my bag, but I'm gonna need boilin' water and bandages. And I sure could use a cup of coffee."
"Whiskey?" Chris asked with faint amusement.
Nathan shook his head. "Not now, but Lord, when I'm done ..."
When he was ready, Nathan asked for all the lanterns Chris could gather to be lit, and set to work on Vin's back. It was painstaking, tedious labor, and more than once, he had to pause to wipe the sweat that streamed down his face. He cleaned and swabbed the gashes with carbolic, sewing the deeper ones with tiny, meticulous stitches, then applied bandages smeared with comfrey ointment. Chris watched, sickened but fascinated. Ezra and Buck drifted over, appalled at the damage, but awed by Nathan's careful skill. Finally, when he was satisfied with his efforts, he wound long strips of cloth around Vin's torso, securing both the bandages and binding his cracked and broken ribs to prevent them from shifting and puncturing his lungs.
He looked up at Chris. "I done all I kin do for now." He looked at the bloody rags at his feet. "Sorry about the mess ..." He stood up, his hands feeling heavy and swollen, and swayed with weariness. Buck instantly shored him up with a broad shoulder.
"C'mon, Nate. I think you've earned that whiskey."
When Josiah and JD arrived, Nathan was seated at the table eating a plate of beans and bacon that Buck had cooked up. Across the table from him, Ezra was playing solitaire, and Chris had returned to his vigil at Vin's bedside.
JD, whose considerable imagination had envisioned all sorts of dire scenarios, was taken aback by the homey scene, and felt mighty pissed at Buck for having stirred up all his panic and worry. He was full of the impetuous optimism of youth and about to make a sassy comment, when he felt Josiah's hand fall heavy on his shoulder.
"Don't say it, son," he said softly. "Look at their faces."
JD did. His heart plummeted to his boots. He stepped inside. "Are we too late? Is Vin ...?" He could not say the word.
Buck came up to him. "No. He's alright, kid. Fer now."
"Sorry it took us so long," Josiah spoke from the doorway. "But it was my fault for going off on my own, and away from the chapel. JD did a fine job of trackin' me down."
"Vin's been teachin' me," JD whispered. He tried to see around Buck's broad shoulders to the bed where Vin lay.
Buck nodded. "Glad you're here, Josiah. Maybe you kin get Larabee t'see the sense in gettin' some rest."
"What happened to Vin?"
Buck sighed. "We ain't exactly sure. Vin hasn't been able to tell us much. But Chris found him beaten near t'death. The bastard took a whip to him, flayed him clear to the bone."
"God damn," Josiah breathed, and pushed Buck out of his way. JD had gone white, but he shrugged off Buck's restraining arm to follow Josiah to Vin's bedside. He was the first to admit that he had a case of hero-worship for the tracker. When he had first come to Four Corners, Vin and Chris had embodied everything that JD imagined the West to be — free, brave, exotic, adventurous, deadly. He'd been brought to earth with a hard jolt by Chris Larabee, but Vin had never been anything but patient with him, teaching him to track, how to survive in the wilderness, how to be a man in this country that had broken so many.
Seeing Vin lying there, stripped and vulnerable, shook JD. Because Vin seemed larger than life to him, JD had never realized how slight the tracker was; spare and lean, bone and muscle close to the skin. The whip wouldn't have had to cut through much flesh to reach bone. He turned away quickly, ashamed of the tears that sprang to his eyes. He looked at Buck and took off out the door.
The night air was cold on his wet cheeks, and JD leaned his forearm against a post and struggled against his tears. He couldn't let the others see him like this. It was shameful. He heard footsteps behind him and quickly wiped his eyes on his sleeve.
"It's okay, kid," Buck soothed. "I reckon we all feel like that — jist too proud to let it out."
JD sniffed and gave his eyes another swipe. "Who'd do something like that, Buck? Hurt a man like that and leave him t'die?"
"There's a lot of evil men in this world, JD — and Vin's had a part in gettin' a lot of 'em behind bars. Was only a matter of time b'fore one of 'em decided to take somethin' back."
"But Vin caught 'em fair —"
Buck heaved a sigh. "Vin Tanner's an upright man, JD. But he ain't got a halo around that long-haired head of his — and you well know that, by now." He hoped the kid understood. JD was too young to comprehend what even decent men were capable of when pushed beyond endurance. Anyone who had lived through the war had stories that would curdle the blood, and Vin, though not much older than JD in years, had a soul that knew that hell intimately.
"C'mon inside, JD. Git some food in yer belly and catch some sleep."
"Chris is gonna go after them, isn't he?"
"We're riding out at dawn."
"I'm going with you — ain't no use trying to argue me out of it, Buck."
"I wasn't going to, JD." He laid a warm, comforting arm around his shoulders, and they joined the others. There was a solemn resolve in their gathering; they ate in silence, then one by one, took turns watching over Vin.
It was Josiah's watch in the dark middle of that night. He had taken it gladly, grateful for the silence that allowed him to think. The others were sleeping; even Larabee had finally acknowledged that he was worn to the bone and had stretched out on the floor near Vin's bed. Buck and JD were bunked down in Chris's stable, and Ezra was curled up near the hearth. Nathan snored gently a few feet away — his had been the last watch, and before he had lain down, he had checked Vin over and seemed more or less satisfied by the tracker's condition. He had cautioned Josiah to keep an eye out for signs of delirium or intense pain; in either case, he should be awakened immediately.
Josiah studied Tanner's face for signs of distress or returning consciousness. He thought he had noticed a shift in his respiration, as if he were rousing from the laudanum induced slumber to a lighter, more natural sleep. He reached over and touched the tracker's forehead. Too warm and dry. Josiah shook his head. Lord, if you have any mercy, you will let this cup pass from this man, he prayed. Brother Tanner has done a powerful lot of sufferin' in his life, and he don't deserve this. And because he thought if Vin knew any prayers, it was likely to be the one Christ had spoken to his father, he began murmuring the Lord's Prayer, in a deep, comforting, rumble.
Through the interweaving threads of pain, fever, thirst, and drugs, Vin's mind latched on to that voice; held to it tight like it was a lifeline. He followed it, tenuous but true, and suddenly, like breaking the surface of a dark lake to emerge into the light, he gasped and opened his eyes. Pain enveloped him; no longer sharp and stabbing as it had been, but an ache that burdened his entire body. His back was stiff and tight, and he felt the tug of sutures, the sting of newly formed scabs, and the deep, cramping ache of swollen muscles. It hurt to breathe. All reason screamed to him to be still, so he lay quietly as if his life depended on it. The voice continued; Vin listened to it until the words ran out before he spoke.
"J'siah?"
The preacher's long-jawed face swam into focus over him. "Brother Tanner, welcome back to the land of the living."
Vin gave a soft huff of laughter. "Sure don't feel like it."
"How do you feel?"
"Like I been trampled by a herd a' buffalo."
Josiah smiled. "Ain't too far from the truth, Vin. Lie still there, and I'll get Nathan —"
"I jist want some water, Josiah. N'then I'll be alright. Never wanted t'be so much bother."
Josiah poured a cup of water and with the gentle touch so many big men seemed to have, raised Vin against his shoulder, careful not to disturb Nathan's bandaging or put pressure on the tracker's wounds. Even so, Vin could not suppress the hitch of a sob that rose in his throat, and it was several minutes before he could manage to sip some of the water. It went down easily, cool and sweet-tasting. Vin drained the cup and relaxed against the curve of Josiah's body. Pain made a man feel mighty small and lonesome, and that warmth of flesh and bone, breath and heartbeat was like a safe harbor. With a sigh, he sank down into those calm, healing waters.
Josiah felt the tension leaving Vin's body and looked over the hunch of the tracker's shoulder to see his face. Pale beneath the flush of fever and the growth of beard, shadowed and sharp in the flickering firelight, but peaceful. Josiah reckoned any discomfort he felt was off-set by the serenity of that rest. He shifted his weight to cushion Vin more comfortably, and settled down to his own sleep.
It wasn't the light of dawn that woke Chris, but an ingrained awareness of the passage of time. He had learned during the war to sleep for an hour or two and wake exactly when he would be needed. He was surprised however, that he had slept at all, for he had agreed to rest begrudgingly and had not expected to be pulled down so deeply and completely as he had been. He levered himself upright with unnecessary caution, and pushed back the straight blond hair that fell over his forehead. All around him, he heard the heavy breathing of his sleeping companions. The windows weren't even showing grey, yet. Another half-hour, he thought. He'd let them rest for that long.
Vin.
He turned to the cot where Josiah was laying half-reclined against the wall, with Tanner cradled against his broad chest. The big man looked highly uncomfortable wedged in there, but he opened one eye and gave Chris a slow smile. Neither man spoke, but the understanding that Vin was all right gave the gunslinger a moment of joy before the slow rage he had been fighting to hold at bay surged once more. He'd leave the healing to Nathan and Josiah; he wanted to hunt — to find the man who had done harm to Vin and make him pay with pain and blood.
Josiah saw the shift in Larabee's eyes. All that made him a Christian man recognized the sin of revenge, but he could not chastise Chris Larabee for being set on taking it. He looked up at the gunslinger and nodded once.
Chris's smile would have made the devil shiver. "I don't need absolution, Josiah," he said. "One more sin ain't gonna make a difference on my soul."
"It wasn't absolution, brother. It was my blessing." He looked down at Vin and his face grew tight with anger. "You find him, Chris."
"I will."
One by one, the others woke. They ate and drank, talking quietly to each other, careful of disturbing Vin's sleep. Nathan and Josiah would stay behind at the shack to care for the tracker; the others were grim-faced and stern as they prepared for the manhunt. Chris knew every stone within five miles of his land and would start tracking from the point where he had found Vin. He had a pretty good notion of where Tanner had made camp — it was the only spot nearby with decent grass and a small spring — necessities for both a man and his horse. Chris pulled out a plat map he had drawn up, and together he and Buck marked out territories. When he had finished, he looked up at JD.
"I want you with Buck, JD. Me 'n Ezra will start out at Vin's camp and go east, you and Buck will go west and south. I'd be willing to bet that whoever did this wouldn't go towards Four Corners — he'd know if he did, he'd be runnin' into one or the other of us."
"It's been twenty-four hours," JD said. "He could be miles gone by now."
"He could be, but would you rather do nothing?" Chris asked. "Or do you want to take a chance and find that bastard?"
No one needed to voice an answer. Chris turned to Nathan. "How is he?"
"Still got a fever, but he's restin' easier than I expected. Swellin's gone down quite a bit." Nathan shook his head wonderingly. "He ain't much more 'n grit and gristle, but he's holdin' his own."
Chris smiled at that description. "Take care of him, Nathan." He looked to Josiah, who had managed to slip out of the cot without waking Vin. "You too, Josiah." He buckled on his gunbelt, feeling it settle on his hips like it was a part of him. "Let's ride."
They found Vin's campsite where Chris had said it would be — they would have found it easily enough from the place where he had discovered Vin — by following Peso's tracks and the dark splotches of blood that had fallen on the stones. It was an appalling amount of blood for one man to lose, and each drop that Chris Larabee found, he added like a bead onto his rosary of anger. When they reached the campsite, Chris dismounted; the others following him, treading carefully so as not to disturb any tells that would point to Vin's attacker.
JD watched the gunslinger with wide eyes. Chris was looking down at four stakes that had been driven into the ground. Rawhide strips had been tied around them, and those strips were stiff with dried blood. JD thought of the raw bracelets of flesh encircling Vin's wrists and made a sound in his throat that sent Buck to his side in an instant.
"You okay there, kid?"
JD swallowed hard. "Yeah. Sure. I seen worse things." But his voice sounded woefully young and uncertain to Wilmington.
Bravado, Buck thought. Sure, he'd seen worse things himself, but the vision of Vin staked out and whipped bloody had to be in the boy's mind, as it was in his own. Larabee bent and tugged one of the strips free, holding it in his hand and staring at it. Buck gave JD's shoulder an encouraging squeeze. "Why don't you take a walk around the perimeter?" he suggested. When JD nodded gratefully, Buck went to Chris's side.
"Chris?" he queried, wondering if Larabee was listening to anything but the beating of his own heart. Chris's fist clenched hard around the rawhide and with a foul epithet, he flung it to the ground and stalked away. Buck followed. "Are you gonna talk to me, or just let everything all fester inside of you?"
Chris rounded on him, eyes ablaze, every fiber of his body taut with anger. "What the fucking good is that gonna do, Buck? Is it gonna take away one second of Vin's suffering? Is it gonna make this go away?" He gestured to the stakes. "When I close my eyes will it stop me from seeing what went on here?"
"No." Buck met his gaze steadily. "But it might help you see what you need to see, and not what you're lookin' at in yer mind right now, Chris. You think I don't see the same things that you're seein'? That JD is seein'? But that ain't gonna help find the sonofabitch who did this to Vin."
Chris drew a deep, shuddering breath as he realized the truth and the sense in Buck's words. The heat of his anger died to a cold, abiding hate that he used to focus on the details of the scene as dispassionately as if he had never known Vin Tanner. He paced the area. There was no indication that more than one man had been involved. Peso's saddle and bridle were gone, but Vin's bedroll was where he had left it. Chris gathered it together and lashed it to his saddle.
Ezra returned from his own perusal of the site, and approached Chris hesitantly. He was holding what looked like a bundle of rags in his arms. "Mr. Tanner's shirt, and bandanna. Apparently, they were not to the taste of his captor."
Chris took the dusty calico from Ezra. The shirt was in tatters and Chris let it fall to the ground. He studied the crumpled bandanna in his hand. "Thanks, Ezra."
"It seems, Mr. Larabee, that he retained a number of possessions, includin' Mr. Tanner's spyglass, which might have some value — and that gawd-awful harmonica that he seems to treasure. His rifle is missin' as well. If we cannot apprehend the culprit out here, there is a possibility that he might try to profit by selling those items in the nearest town."
Chris had his reservations about the gambler, but there was no doubting the acuity of his mind. The man's thought processes were as nimble as his fingers at the cards. "That's mighty sharp of you, Ezra."
Ezra grinned crookedly, flashing his gold incisor. "It takes a scoundrel to know a scoundrel, Mr. Larabee." Chris grinned back, thinking that if he weren't careful, he'd end up liking the gambler, which would make life considerably less interesting.
Buck had wandered over in time to hear Ezra's report, and figured that Standish was right. "How about Vin's jacket and hat? You find those?"
"No." Ezra said flatly. Too flatly, Chris thought. Standish's handsome face was suddenly still and hard as Chris's own.
"What are you thinking, Ezra?" he asked.
Green eyes met, and Ezra did not blink. "He's takin' trophies, Mr. Larabee. Things that are associated closely with Mr. Tanner — that carry a physical presence. Like a scalp."
"Shit." Chris's stomach roiled. He turned and walked rapidly away from the others, feeling a sheen of sweat break out on his forehead. Ezra's statement had raised the motive behind Vin's attack from cruelty to utter malevolence. They had to find the bastard now.
JD came running into that grim camp, breathless and fit to burst with his news. "I've found it! The way he went ... left tracks as clear as day!"
"You sure about that?" Buck asked quietly, because there was so much at stake.
JD nodded impatiently. "I ain't blind, Buck. I've been learnin' from Vin. But it don't take someone with eyes like his t'follow a horse with a notch in his shoe."
JD's scorn made Buck smile, and even Chris's mouth twitched at the kid's youthful certainty. He tilted his head at Buck. "Well, it's as good a lead as any I c'n figure. Good work, son."
JD blushed at the praise, and recalled with shame the time he had lashed out at Chris for calling him son. Now he heard it with pride. He was one of the Seven, he was Vin's friend, and if nothing else, he had contributed to the cause they shared. "Then let's go!"
"I reckon we're all followin' you, JD," Buck said with a touch to his hat.
Chris realized he was still holding Vin's bandanna. He started to tuck it into the bedroll, then hesitated for a moment before he looped it around his own throat. This is for you, partner, he promised.
Nathan Jackson was an instinctive healer, relying on his senses for clues to his patients' welfare, much as Vin Tanner relied on his senses to find and follow a trail. Those instincts told Jackson that Tanner was healing; but he knew how tenuous that progress was, how easily a fever could spike, or a wound turn septic. Vin had roused about an hour ago, long enough to drink another cup of water before he slept again. Nathan was grateful that he had managed that much; Vin needed to compensate for his blood loss and the fluids his fever was burning away. Nathan would have liked to have gotten some nourishment down him, too. He hadn't been far off when he had told Chris that the tracker was down to grit and gristle.
He sighed and went over to the cot. It was near time to change Vin's dressings, and Nathan dreaded that task. The former slave had scars on his own back, and the getting and the healing of them was not something he cared to think on. Every time he touched Vin, his own scars throbbed with sympathetic pain. Before he faced that unpleasant duty, he'd let Tanner rest for a while yet.
It was warm in the shack with the sun coming full through the windows, and Nathan turned the blankets back from Tanner's body. Wasn't no one there to see him and the air would dry the shallow wounds that had not been bandaged.
He wondered when Josiah would return from Nettie's. Buck had made Josiah promise to tell her and Casey how Vin was faring, and knowing the old woman, she would be questioning the preacher minutely. Nathan had warned Josiah to be circumspect but honest. He didn't want Nettie charging over here ...
The rattle and clatter of a wagon interrupted Nathan's thoughts, and he wondered who had come out here to Larabee's place in such an all fired hurry. Most folks knew better than to show up unexpected; being likely to end up chased off the property by a piece of hot lead. He went to the window and cursed. Miz Wells. Damn Josiah, anyway. He jerked the door open as Nettie descended nimbly from the buckboard. Josiah rode in behind her, hard pressed to keep up. He gave Nathan an apologetic shrug — Lord knows, he had tried to hold her back. Might as well try harnessing a whirlwind.
"You cain't come in here, Miz Wells," Nathan said. "Vin ain't decent."
Nettie looked up at the healer and gave a crow of laughter. "Nathan Jackson, I'd be willin' ta bet I've seen more men buck nekkid than you in my years." When Nathan tried to stammer out an objection, Nettie put her hands on her hips. "Then cover him, 'cause I didn't come all this way not to see how he's doin' with my own eyes."
She was up the steps and inside as Nathan twitched the blanket over Vin's buttocks. He left his back uncovered. No use hiding what had happened from Nettie; she was unflinching in her determination and had seen enough in her years to stand up to reality.
"Oh, my Lord ..." Nettie whispered. Josiah had warned her what to expect, but she hadn't figured in the effect it would have on her heart. She touched Vin's forehead, trailed her fingers gently down his hollow cheeks and across the angle of his jaw. "He's got a fever, Nathan ... but I reckon you know that," she sighed. A motherly hand lifted the hair at the nape of his neck, feeling the moist warmth of his skin. She forced her gaze to travel down the length of his back, and Nathan saw her shoulders stiffen as she realized the extent of the brutality done to him. There were tears glistening on her seamed cheeks when she turned back to the healer. "Chris n'the others have gone after the ... the creature who done this?"
"Yeah."
"Good." For a moment her face wore a look as cold and as hard as Nathan had ever seen. Her chin came up. "I brought some broth over, and some milk custard. Knowin' Larabee, he ain't got the sort of food this boy is gonna need when he's up to eatin'."
"Thank you, Nettie. I's hopin' you'd do that."
"And some fresh bread and a butt of ham over fer you an' Josiah. And nice clean linens fer the bed." She gave him an amused, measuring, look. "You c'n pull back that blanket and cover him with a sheet — don't reckon he needs t'be warmer than he already is." She strode out of the shack, leaving Nathan shaking his head. Women. Lord, but he was glad in his heart to see her.
Vin woke to the scent of frying ham and the rich aroma of baking biscuits. For a moment, he forgot about how much he was hurting and puzzled, wondered where he was. He didn't think he'd been so far gone that he'd forgotten he was at Chris's ranch. Sure wouldn't be like Larabee to be cooking up ham and biscuits. He felt a smile curl at the corner of his mouth, and he opened his eyes. Nettie Wells was sitting in the chair by his bed, her hands busy with mending one of Chris's shirts.
"Hey," he said weakly.
Nettie set her mending down. "Vin Tanner, you sure know how to land yerself in a heap o' trouble." Her tender expression took all the tartness out of her words. "How are you feelin' son?"
"I ain't gonna lie, Nettie. I been better. Ever'thin' hurts."
The breathless tone of his voice betrayed him, and Nettie's heart shivered in her breast. "I'll git Nathan fer you."
"Hell, he'll jist want ta hurt me worse." His eyes glinted with humor that eased some of her fears. He was going to be all right, Nettie told herself.
"I won't let him, son." She passed a light hand over his hair. "N'if he does, I'll take back them biscuits I just baked."
"You got some honey t'go with them biscuits?" he asked.
She tried to frown; tried and failed to hide her emotions. "Got some broth fer you, Vin Tanner. We'll talk about the biscuits later." She bent quickly and kissed his forehead. Too warm, she thought. But perhaps a bit less than he had been earlier.
The day wore on, the sun traveled to its zenith and beyond. The four weary and dusty men followed the trail relentlessly, stopping only when it was necessary to rest the horses and fill their canteens. Chris had hoped they would find their prey quickly and make an end one way or another to the pursuit. He tried to stay focused on the trail, thinking of those notched markers that JD was reading, but found his mind going back to his shack, to Vin. Judging from the somber looks on the faces of his companions, their thoughts were similarly occupied.
Ezra reined in beside Chris and shaded his eyes from the lowering rays of the sun. "Have you considered the advantages of splittin' up, Mr. Larabee?"
"We've got the trail in our sights, Ezra."
"Well, I'd be willin' to ride on ahead. If I'm right in my figurin', we are not far from the nearest town. If I were the man in question, I'd be thinkin' of gettin' rid of Mr. Tanner's personal effects and out of the general area of Four Corners while my hide was still intact."
Chris winced at Ezra's choice of words, but the logic of the suggestion was unarguable. "Buck, JD, hold up!" he called out to them. When he and Ezra caught up, Chris explained Ezra's suggestion.
Buck leaned forward, arms crossed over the horn of his saddle. "Might be a wild goose chase, Ezra."
"It also might cut down our time spent eatin' dust," Chris said quietly. "I want this over with so we can go back and give Vin some peace."
JD's hazel eyes widened. "You don't think — I mean — Vin ain't gonna ... Nathan'll take care of him, won't he, Buck?"
"Sure, he will," Buck reassured him, and gave Chris a hard-eyed look. "But the longer we're away, the rougher it is on all of us. You want some company there, Ezra?"
"I think that might be a prudent idea, Mr. Wilmington. If Mr. Larabee agrees, that is?"
Chris rubbed his aching eyes. "JD and I 'll keep following the trail until dark. Figure we'll make camp about a mile west of town. Buck, you find anything, I want t' know about it. You understand?"
"You want your piece of flesh, Chris?" Buck asked.
"Damn right."
JD felt a shudder run clear up and down his spine. There were times when Larabee was just about the scariest thing he'd ever seen; and the months of their acquaintance had not blunted that impression. Yet he had seen him laughing with Mary Travis, exchanging an occasional ribald jest with Buck, sitting at ease with Vin; then something would turn in his eyes, and JD knew the killer was back. It was the killer looking out of Chris's eyes now, and JD wasn't sure he wanted to be alone with Larabee and his demons.
"I-I could go," he suggested diffidently.
Buck shook his head. "I don't think so, JD. Ezra n' me ... well, being Southern boys and all, we kin jist mosey in and out real easy. You go ridin' in there eager as a pup, and that place'll close down mighty fast."
"I ain't a kid, Buck."
"Never said you was, JD. But you sure as heck look too innocent fer the sort of work me'n Ezra are gonna have ta do." He said it so gently that any reply JD could make would sound like a spoiled child being denied his way.
"I need you with me, JD." Chris spoke to him, and JD met his eyes. The killer was gone, and only the troubled friend looked out at him.
"Sure, Chris. We'll keep goin' until we can't see no more."
Ezra and Buck put their spurs to their mounts and headed west. Chris allowed himself and JD fifteen minutes of rest, before they too, mounted up and continued on their way.
Feedback to Author