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.
The town was called Blue Springs, which Ezra thought was highly optimistic. He didn't see any springs, and if he had, he would have bet his last dollar that they would not be blue, but the same miserable clay color as the dirt streets. Compared to Blue Springs, Four Corners was a thriving metropolis. But there was a saloon, and with a quick glance of agreement, he and Buck headed over to it, knowing that it was the most likely source of information about the town and who had been passing through.
As they entered, Ezra's sharp eyes swept the room, taking stock of the number of tables, and the number of poker games in progress. Eight tables, three games. A tinny piano sounded from the corner. Ezra thought if he heard Oh, Dem Golden Slippers, one more time, he'd puke. A most tiresome ditty.
Buck nudged him in the ribs. "Shall we belly up to the bar?"
"We have to start somewhere," Ezra agreed. "I've always found that a libation liberates the tongues of most men."
Buck laughed silently. "Ezra, there are times when I sure wish you spoke plain, like other folks."
"My mother would be appalled at such a waste of my education." His eyes continued to scan the poker tables. He heard Buck order two whiskies and reached for his glass. Two of the games in progress seemed to be penny-ante between cowboys; genial and familiar with each other. The third had all the marks of higher stakes and less friendly opponents. Two of the men wore black broadcloth suits, the third was a Mexican with silver rings on his hands, the fourth, a grizzled man who was playing out of his depth. A miner, perhaps, with a small claim. Ezra edged closer to the game, only half listening to Buck flirt with one of the saloon girls.
The game wasn't going well for the miner — Ezra recognized the slightly dazed look on his face as the other player made their bets. The pot grew, and the miner reached into his jacket and laid something down on the table. Ezra's view was partially blocked, but he had caught a flash of brass that made his breath catch in his throat. He moved to the end of the bar, half-hoping that he had been wrong. He wasn't. One of the suited men raised the telescope to his eye, and Ezra set his glass down hard enough to make Buck look up in surprise. Ezra inclined his head and Buck gasped. "Jesus!"
He started to move towards the table, but Ezra clamped his fingers hard around his arm. "My friend, chargin' in all hot and bothered, is not the answer. Let me handle this. Trust me." He held Buck's gaze until he nodded in agreement. "You might want to keep your gun handy, Mr. Wilmington."
Ezra sauntered over to the table. "If you will pardon me, gentlemen. I couldn't help noticin' that spyglass that you are examinin'. I have an interest in fine instruments such as that, and I was wonderin' if I might have a closer look?"
"Be my guest." The man extended it to Ezra. "But it is part of our wager in this game."
"Of course." Ezra looked at the telescope. He'd seen it in Vin's hands a hundred times, it might still be warm from his touch ... "Where did you come across such a piece out here?"
"Ask Mr. Dobbs —" he gestured to the miner. "It's his stake."
The grizzled miner nodded. "That's right. It is mine."
"Really? And how did you come to posses it?" Ezra hoped his voice wasn't as hard as it sounded to his own ears.
The miner gave him a suspicious look. "Don't see that's none of your business."
Buck's big hand came down over the man's shoulder. "What the gentleman is tryin' to say, is that spyglass belongs to a friend of ours, and we'd be mighty interested in knowin' why you're claimin' it to be yours."
"I brought it fair and square from a feller this morning," the miner said indignantly. "I never stole it from nobody."
"Now, I never said I thought you stole it, did I?" Buck said with soft menace. "But I have a particular need t'find the man you brought it from."
"I dunno who he was. He was tryin' t'peddle it, along with some other stuff at the General Store. I jist happened on it. I swear it."
"What did the man look like?" Ezra asked.
"Tall, dark-haired. Mean-faced. Dark clothes, too. Rode a buckskin-colored gelding. I swear that's all I kin recall."
Buck straightened slowly. "You reckon that man is still in town?"
"How the hell should I know? Hey!" he objected as Ezra closed the spyglass and stowed it in his pocket. "I paid five bucks fer that!"
Erza pulled out a gold piece and set it on the table. "I trust that will cover your investment, suh. And if I were you, I'd retire from this game." He tipped his hat. "Good evening, gentlemen. Senor. It's been a pleasure doin' business with you."
He and Buck strolled out of the saloon. When they were outside and beyond sight and hearing of the saloon, they paused. Buck drew a deep breath. "Care to mosey on down to the livery?"
"I think that might prove enlightening. But if the horse in question is there, what do we do, then?"
"Ride back and git Larabee."
"God have mercy," Ezra sighed. "Mr. Larabee surely won't."
"The bastard who done that t'Vin don't deserve no mercy from either one." Buck replied. "C'mon, Ezra. Time's runnin' short."
The livery stable was quiet, the attendant scarcely nodded at them when they entered. Buck walked down one row of stalls, Ezra the other. Buck halted at the end of the row. "Ezra," he whispered, his voice rough. "Git over here."
"Oh, my Lord." The gambler and the gunman stood at the last stall. A rangy buckskin gelding was munching on the hay, and the saddle hung over the wall was Vin's. Buck reached over the saddle, and untied the bundle lashed on the back of it. He shook it out, and a fringed jacket tumbled to his feet.
"God damn! We got the bastard." He unbuckled the saddlebags and rifled through the contents. "We got him dead t'rights!" He opened his hand. Vin's harmonica reflected the lantern light. He picked up the gelding's off-fore, the one JD said was notched, and gave a muted but triumphant whoop. His eyes burned into Ezra's. "We gotta get to Chris."
"One of us should stay here to insure that our quarry doesn't suddenly take flight. I'd hate to lose him before Mr. Larabee can greet him properly." The gambler's soft voice sounded as deadly as Chris's. He leaned against a stack of hay bales. "If you would persuade that young man to bring in my horse, and give him this ..." He flipped a coin over to Buck. "To allow me to take my rest here?"
Buck snatched the coin from the air. "Do me a favor, Ezra?"
"I might." The light glinted in his eyes.
"If the bastard shows up, make sure you take him alive."
"It will be an unholy pleasure, Mr. Wilmington." He watched Buck out the door, then settled himself comfortably. It would be a long night, but for once, Ezra knew he would not be tempted to sleep.
Josiah dozed in the chair set by Vin's bed. It was too small for his large body, but he was weary enough to sleep on a bed of nails. He'd sent Nathan off to escort Nettie home an hour ago. Even though she wanted to be close to Vin, she didn't want Casey spending the night alone, and Josiah had insisted she go to her niece. It was enough that she'd helped Nathan change the bandages on Vin's back. That alone would take the starch out of a body, even one as tough as Nettie's. Lord, it had shaken him, and left Vin exhausted and immobile for the last several hours. Josiah shifted uncomfortably and opened his eyes to find Tanner awake and watching him.
"Can I get you something, brother?" When Vin didn't answer, Josiah figured there were things the reticent tracker wouldn't ask, and he took care of those needs for him, silently and efficiently. When he had finished, he heated up a mug of broth and carried it over to the bed.
"Feel like havin' some of this?" he asked.
"I reckon."
Josiah cushioned Vin with the blankets and pillows that Nettie had brought with her, propping him upright and slightly on his side to put as little pressure as possible on his back and ribs. He was gratified to feel the lessening of the fever in Vin's body, and the tracker's eyes were clearer than they had been in a long time. When the broth was gone, Josiah took the mug from him. "You want to lay back down?"
Vin shook his head. "I done enough sleepin,' Josiah. I'll jist ..." he sighed. "... sit here fer a while, if y'don't mind?"
Josiah smiled at Tanner's ingrained courtesy. The boy's mamma might have died when he was five, but she had set that much in him. He returned to his chair and picked up the Bible he had put aside earlier. "I'd be grateful for the company."
For a while, the only sounds in the room came from the fire and the night noises drifting in on a light breeze through the open windows. There had been questions gnawing at Vin's mind, even through the pain and fever; questions that wanted answering, and that he was afraid to ask. But he'd never been a coward, and he reckoned that was one thing he could take comfort from.
"Josiah, did Chris and the others go after who done this?" Reluctance slowed his voice.
Josiah gave him a considering look. "Did you expect them not to?"
"No, I jist wish they hadn't, that's all."
"Why, brother? Surely you want that monster brought to justice?" Josiah frowned at him from beneath his heavy brows. Vin's eyes came up to meet his, very blue and shadowed with pain.
"Been thinkin' about it all, n' I ain't so sure I wanta know."
Josiah leaned forward in his chair, his big hands closed over the Bible. "Why?"
"I've kilt a lot of men, Josiah. Some of 'em without much mercy ... maybe it was somethin' I done that the Lord figgers I need t'pay for —" Vin's voice cracked with tears and doubts, achingly vulnerable in his search for some justification of his suffering.
"You stop right there, Vin!" Josiah was at his side, his fingers closing hard over the tracker's wrist. The bones were light, the sinews binding flesh to soul, so fragile that it stabbed to the preacher's heart like a lance. "That ain't the Lord I know. He don't use the evil in men as a sword in His hand."
"Then why'd this happen? I'd rather b'lieve I done somethin' wrong than t'be hurt like this fer no reason, Josiah!" The anguished whisper came from his throat on the edge of a sob, and Josiah caught him as he slumped forward; too weak to fight the tears, the pain, and the mortal weariness that lay on him.
Josiah held him lightly, aware of the wounds beneath the linen and the deeper hurt to the soul. He closed his eyes and prayed for swift wisdom, as Nathan must have prayed for steady hands. "The Lord has his own reasons, Vin. He gives man a wide open road to follow, and we don't always understand the paths he lays before us. Don't know why Chris had t'lose his family, or why my sister is tortured with her demons, or why that man chose t'beat you half t'death. I guess if I knew that, then I'd be the smartest man alive. But I do know the Lord don't give us burdens more than we c'n bear. And I know that when those burdens are like t'crush you — he gives you friends t'help with the carrying of them. You done that for me, Vin. I ain't gonna forget that, and neither are the others." He felt some of the tension leave Vin's shoulders, and helped him lie down. Tanner's eyes were shuttered, his mouth drawn with pain. Josiah rested a hand on his head, a gentle benediction. "Ain't no use in frettin' over what you ca! n't see, brother. And there ain't no sin on your soul worth what happened to you."
Vin looked at Josiah, the need to believe that absolution painfully obvious. Josiah swore if there were ever a man with an innocent heart, it was Vin Tanner. Not without sin, not without knowledge of evil, but decent and good, clear down to the roots. Josiah nodded, confirming the truth of his words and smiled down at Vin as he pulled the sheet closer to his chest. "You rest easy now, because if Nathan comes back and sees you've been sent into a risin' fever, he'll kill the both of us."
Vin breathed a ghost of laughter. "Damn right about that, J'siah." The lantern light burnished the stubble on his face and tipped his eyelashes with gold. He sighed, and was gone to sleep as quickly as a babe; accepting for now, the preacher's assurance.
Josiah looked at Vin's fine hands, open and defenseless. Those hands had killed, and most likely they would kill again, but not with reckless cruelty. It was one thing to dispatch life without mercy, it was another not to recognize the cost to your soul. He sat down and began reading from his Bible, letting his voice grow softer until it was no more than a whispered prayer.
The night wore on, slowly. Ezra paced the stable periodically, both to stay awake and keep warm. He was tempted to ask the stable boy to get him some coffee, but that would hardly have been consistent with his story of desiring someplace to spend the night. When he had warmed up sufficiently, he sat in front of a hay bale and reached into his pocket for his cards, his constant companions, and instead, found his fingers closing around Vin's spyglass. He pulled it out and held it in his hands. Not for the first time, he wondered how Tanner had come to own a Naval spyglass, and an old one, at that. It was a fine instrument; well-kept, despite the tracker's vagabond existence.
Vin and Ezra might be as far apart on the spectrum of humanity as light and dark, but when Ezra held the spyglass, he felt a stab of poignant envy. Maude had raised him to value one thing alone: liquidity. Even as a child, he had been warned against developing a sentimental attachment to possessions. Ezra had managed to conceal from Maude his affection for a few things; mostly childhood toys, books, a penknife that he had won in a oratorical competition at school during one of his more stable periods of existence, but nothing that brought him joy, nothing of beauty and utility that satisfied the soul as well as the eye. The bastard who had nearly taken Vin's life, had tried to strip him of those things he held in his heart, and that was a sin Ezra was not willing to forgive. And he was fiercely glad that they would be able to restore Vin's cherished belongings to him. It was a small enough payment for what he had endured.
Chris and JD had followed the trail until dusk; then the gunslinger had scouted out a decent spot to camp. There was no reason for concealment and they had built a bright fire that lit a circle in the darkness. Despite the cheerful sounds of the fire and the warmth that reached out to him, JD was miserable. Larabee had retreated into one of his deep silences, and sat with his lean body coiled tight, his hat shadowing his face. Occasionally, the tip of his cheroot would harden as he drew in smoke, and then dim again to a point in the darkness.
"Sure wish Buck and Ezra would get back," JD commented, hoping to lure Chris into replying. It didn't seem natural for two men not to speak to each other when they were both thinking on the same things.
"They need time," Chris said.
"Think they'll find the guy?"
"Maybe."
"What are you gonna do, Chris?"
Silence.
"Are you gonna kill him?" JD asked, his voice sounding very small to his ears. Chris raised his head, and JD wished he had held his tongue. The killer was back. "I guess so, huh?" He could have crawled back into the night, just then.
Chris'ss heart burned in his breast. Why'd JD have to ask him that? The boy was looking at him like he was some sort of monster. Well, maybe he was. Sarah, sure as hell wouldn't recognize him. God, Sarah. He closed his eyes and saw her sweet face. Don't leave me, he thought. But her image faded, as it always did, and he was left staring into the flames. "What would you do, JD?" he asked, his voice gone soft and shivery.
JD's bangs fell over his eyes as he ducked his head. "Don't know," he whispered.
Chris sighed. "Me neither."
JD looked up, not believing he had heard the gunslinger admit to doubt. Larabee was staring into the fire, his green eyes lit with gold, and holding regrets that JD couldn't begin to fathom. The expression was gone in a heartbeat. Chris jetted the butt of his cheroot into the fire. He stretched out full length and settled his head on his folded poncho. "No sense in tying yourself up in knots, son."
The silence bled into the darkness. JD lay down. He tried to close his eyes, but they kept popping open, so he stared up at the stars. "Chris?" he whispered, testing the waters.
"Hmm?"
"What would Vin want us to do?"
Chris raised himself on his elbow. He'd been wondering the same thing. "I reckon Vin'd want to see the bastard that done it. Show him that he's still standin'." He shot JD an amused, tolerant glance. "Get some rest, JD. No tellin' when Buck and Ezra will be back."
"Chris?"
Another muffled, "Hmm?"
"Reckon you're right about Vin."
Silence. But not the same. JD tipped his bowler over his eyes. He could pretend he was sleeping, at least.
Buck didn't even try to approach the campsite quietly. He cantered in whistling "Dixie," and hoping that Larabee was in a charitable mood. He didn't fancy Chris's gun in his face. "Hey!" he called out. "Got some news fer ya."
Chris was on his feet with the lithe grace of a cat. "You find him?"
A satisfied and not entirely pleasant smile spread across Buck's face. "We did. Left Ezra at the livery makin' sure he don't light out during the night."
JD sat up, having fallen asleep despite himself. He hadn't developed the reflexes to come awake all of a piece like Larabee. He blinked into the firelight. "Buck?"
"C'mon, JD. We gotta ride."
"You sure you got the right man?" Chris asked. Buck didn't think he was exactly concerned with the man's constitutional rights.
"We're sure." He looked at JD, and gave him a proud nod. "Just like you pointed out, JD. Horse had a big ol' notch in his shoe. Found Vin's jacket and harmonica, too. Got his spyglass from a miner who was wagering it in a poker game, and a real good description of the fella he brought it from. We got him, Chris."
If he had expected jubilation from Larabee, he would have been disappointed. The gunslinger looked as grim as if he had been told the man had fled to Mexico. They gathered their possessions, drank the dregs of the pot of coffee Chris had brewed, and set off towards Blue Springs as the sun stained the eastern sky a pallid pink.
As the dawn strengthened, Ezra's nerves started sparking like it was the hour before a high stakes game. He checked both his guns; his Remington and the sleeve pistol, making sure the mechanism was smooth and the gun easy in his palm. The night spent pondering on the sort of man who would flay Tanner and leave him to die, had not lessened Ezra's animosity. If necessary, he would shoot the bastard dead through the heart, but his true preference would be to hand him over to Chris Larabee for justice of an infinitely more painful nature.
The stable boy came in, yawning. "Mister, you up? Said you wanted to be called at first light."
Ezra ducked down behind the hay and made his voice muffled and weary. "Thank you, young man. I appreciate your promptitude."
"Huh?" The boy shrugged and started to go back out.
Ezra stood up, brushing bits of hay from his jacket. "You wouldn't happen to know what time the gentleman who owns that buckskin geldin' would be leavin'?"
"No, sir. Said it would early though. You lookin' fer him?" The boy screwed his face up earnestly. "I'd stay outta his way, mister. He's mean. He's got a bullwhip."
Ezra's stomach turned. "No, no. Just a matter of curiosity. Thank you, for allowin' me to bed down here."
"Shoot, mister. You paid fer it." He shrugged and started to leave.
"There will be an extra two bits in it, if you alert me to when that gentleman appears."
The boy's eyes lit with interest. "You got somethin' agin him?"
"I don't like surprises, son. That's all." He offered the coins to the boy, who probably had to work two days to make that much. "You let me know, y'hear?"
"Sure thing. You gonna shoot him?"
"I sincerely hope not." The boy gave him an odd look, but left. Ezra picked up Vin's jacket and took up a vantage point in the low loft. There was window overlooking the front street of Blue Springs, and Ezra took out the spyglass. He focused on the trail out of town. He thought it would be a most peculiar irony if Vin's spyglass were to herald the downfall of his tormentor. Buck had surely located Larabee and JD by now, and with luck, they would arrive post haste. Lord don't let me have to face this demon alone, Ezra prayed, and settled in for what he hoped would be a short wait for the arrival of his compatriots.
Vin watched the same pale dawn rising as Ezra. Nathan had waked him earlier to get him to drink one of the vile teas that had been brewed up for his benefit, and he had not been able to fall back to sleep. The outlines of the windows grew lighter, the interior of Chris's shack became more distinct. Josiah was bunked down on blankets by the fire and Nathan was snoring not five feet from Vin's bed. That they were with him in his need, brought an ache to his chest. He hadn't had much caring in his life, and didn't always take it in the spirit it was given, but he was grateful for it now.
He drew in a cautious breath. Still couldn't breathe worth the damn without feeling like there was a knife twisting in his side, and movement was pretty much the same case everywhere else, but the world seemed much clearer now that his thoughts were not so bent in on himself and the necessity of healing. He'd been fighting against dying, and now he'd have to pull himself t'gether and live. He gave the doorway a sidelong look. The time would come when he'd have to face up to what was out there ... even if Chris and the others found the man who'd done this, there were probably more in line waiting fer their turn to take on Vin Tanner. Right now that thought was a bit more than he could bear — made his heart beat faster and his throat dry up like dust. Might've been better off dead, than t'be a coward.
He shifted painfully, feeling every stitch Nathan had put in his back tighten in protest. It was too late to bite back the involuntary sound he made, and Jackson was upright in a blink.
"You alright there, Vin?"
"Aside from feelin' like the prize piece in a ladies sewin' circle, I'm jist fine, Nathan."
The healer chuckled. "Yeah, reckon you are — you're gettin' feisty."
"I'll let ya know when it's more'n talk."
Jackson came to the bedside and laid his hand on Vin's forehead. A smile of satisfaction transformed his dark face. "Fever's nearly gone. Told you that tea would work."
"Still tastes like horse piss, Doc."
"If it'll make you feel better, Miss Nettie dropped by some custard yesterday. Been kept nice'n cool in the spring." He made it sound like he was offering a rare steak and fried potatoes.
"Rather have some of that ham n'biscuits she was cookin' up," Vin suggested hopefully, but when Nathan returned with the custard, he was glad for the sweetness and the ease of eating it. Chewin' on a slice of ham would have worn him out fer the rest of the day, and he was mighty tired of feeling like a limp rag. He sat back gingerly against the pillows Nathan had nested around him. "Doc, I got some questions fer ya."
Nathan sat down in his chair. "Go on, Vin. If I c'n answer'em, I will"
"I don't rightly remember much about what happened t'me. I recall gettin' up on Peso, but that's about it, until Larabee showed up — and not much after that." He gave Nathan a vaguely apologetic look. "Ever'thin' got mighty hazy — but I want t'thank ya fer taking care of me."
"I only done what I could t'help a friend."
Vin nodded. "Still, you saved my life, and I reckon I owe ya fer that much." A blush came to his cheekbones, the first color other than fever there in days. "But anyways, I's wonderin' if Chris 'n them found my things?" His lashes shielded his eyes, "I-I know they wasn't much, but ..." he shrugged and instantly regretted the action.
"Jesus, Vin. I don't know. They ain't been back, maybe they found 'em. You shouldn't be frettin' on that."
"I ain't bein' selfish, Nathan. They was jist my things ..." His voice trailed off, and Nathan leaned closer, his dark eyes comprehending and sad.
"There ain't nuthin' selfish in wantin' somethin' of your own, Vin. Slaves wasn't allowed to own things, not even the clothes on our backs and the food in our gardens. My mamma made a quilt fer me with her own hands, but when I was sold, the quilt stayed b'cause it belonged to the master. I was seven years old, and I couldn't keep somethin' my mamma made." He shook his head. "You know what the first thing I owned was?" Vin looked at him curiously. Nathan put his hand in his pocket and pulled out an ivory-handled knife. "One of them Yankee doctors gave it t'me. Said it proved I wasn't a slave no more. Someday, I hope I'll be givin' it to a son of mine, t'remember where his daddy come from. So, I reckon men like you n' me know that the value of things don't always lie in the price."
Vin cleared his throat which was suddenly thick. "Hell, I figger I should be grateful. Least I still got Peso." He met Nathan's eyes and the both of them went off into laughter that Vin could ill-afford. Pain made him gasp and released the tears he had been fighting until they streamed down his cheeks, but that was all right. He lay back, his hand pressed against his side, aching and weak, but Lord, alive.
"Mister! Mister! He's comin'!" The young voice drifted up to Ezra in the loft.
Shit. The inelegant expression was entirely appropriate. Ezra cast one last look out the window at the still empty horizon. Well, if Larabee wanted this man alive, he'd better show up quickly, because Ezra had no intention of tangling with the man on his own just to bring him alive to justice. Dead was dead, whether it came from a bullet or from Chris Larabee's slow hand.
Ezra crept to the edge of the loft and looked down. He was nearly above the buckskin's stall; the drop to the hay was no more than eight feet at the point where the roof sloped down to the wall. He crouched low, sheltering behind several hay bales and waited for his quarry to appear. Lord, but his heart was thundering. He heard a low, gravelly voice speaking, and what sounded like an open-handed slap being dealt; no doubt the poor stable boy was the focus of the gentleman's wrath. Made Ezra dislike him even more. He should have given the boy a dollar.
Boots scuffed through the straw on the floor, and Ezra saw him. He seemed to be about Buck's size, but heavier. Straight black hair hung over his ears and collar and fell forward along his jaw, obscuring Ezra's view of his face. He wore a brace of pistols — wonderful, thought Ezra. And a black leather bullwhip was coiled on his hip. Ezra's nerves left him in a sudden rush of outrage as he thought of Vin's back and the brief glimpse of blood and bone that had sent him reeling. His fingers were itching to give the villain a few licks with that whip.
The man started saddling up the buckskin. When he reached for the saddle, he paused, missing what had been there earlier. "Goddamn stealin' little bastard ..." he growled, and reached for the bullwhip. That was Ezra's cue for action.
"I beg your pardon, suh. But I believe you are lookin' for this?" Erza dangled Vin's jacket from his fingertips.
"What the fuck!" In two strides, he was immediately beneath Ezra. With unerring aim, Ezra released the heavy hide jacket to fall over his adversary's head, and dropped the small distance to the ground. As soon as he landed, he knew his luck had run out. His foot skidded on the straw, and he fell awkwardly, his right arm collapsing beneath him. He gathered himself, tried to spring the mechanism on his sleeve gun, and discovered to his dismay that it had been damaged. He turned, hoping to catch his opponent equally off guard and realized too late, that he had underestimated the man's reflexes and strength.
A copper- toed boot kicked out, landing solidly in the gambler's midsection. Ezra's breath was driven out of his lungs, and black specks covered his vision. Before he could suck in a lungful of air, the man struck again, this time going for the ribs. Ezra curled into a tight ball, thinking all the while that this was what had happened to Vin. Lord God, how had he survived the beating long enough for the man to whip him? He felt the boot crunch solidly against his hip and he cried out; the pain was excruciating, debilitating. If he could get his legs under him ... but he couldn't even feel his legs, just a numbing, burning sensation sparking along his nerves.
Then the beating stopped, and Ezra was so grateful for the respite that he never gave a thought to why it had ended until he heard a whistle and a pop over his head. A warning. At least I'm not tied like Vin was. Oh God ... The first thudding lash snapped him out of his protective curl, the second made him scream. The third ...
BANG!
At first, Ezra did not recognize salvation. He thought for a second that he had been shot, then a guttural cry from his tormentor brought him around despite his pain. The whip lay not three feet from him. The man was on his knees, cradling his bleeding hand, and Chris Larabee stood in the doorway, looking like the wrath of God and holding a smoking pistol. Ezra closed his eyes and went away.
The three peacekeepers galloped into Blue Springs as the first rays of the sun gilded the dusty main street, lending it an illusory beauty; gold wood, blue sky, a fresh day. JD was the only one who noticed it, and that was a fleeting impression before Chris and Buck reined in at the Livery. As they dismounted, a skinny boy ran towards them. He grabbed Chris's saddle and tugged at his arm urgently.
"Hey! Hey! Ya gotta help me! They're fightin' in there, and someone's gonna get kilt! Hurry!" A cry from inside the stables made the boy startle in fear.
Ezra! "Shit!" Chris was off his horse, his gun drawn before Buck and JD could swing down from their saddles. They were still a few paces behind him when he burst through the stable door. "Ezra!" The gambler was down, writhing in pain. The tall, broad-shouldered man standing over him, raised his arm and brought a bullwhip across his back with a snap that was almost as loud as the report of Larabee's pistol. The blow landed, but the whip spun out of the man's hand. He yelped and dropped to his knees, holding his bleeding fingers.
Red. A haze of rage so intense that it blinded him to everything else, and hot as any fire burned through Larabee. Part of his mind knew that it was Ezra lying curled in the straw, but his eyes were seeing Vin — stripped and spread-eagled — his back a mass of welts and bone-deep cuts. His gazed passed over Ezra and went to the whip which had fallen at his feet. He bent and picked it up. The leather was cool to the touch, the handle balanced and cushioned to be comfortable in the grip. He ran the length of it through his hand until he reached the tip. It was weighted to snap like a shot, weighted to cut through flesh. Chris turned to the man kneeling in the straw.
"You fucking sonofabitch!" he whispered hoarsely. He flicked his wrist, and the leather shook out smoothly. He lifted his arm and with a motion like the strike of a coiled viper, brought the lash down across the man's back and shoulder. When the man screamed, Chris's mouth twisted. So easy, like snappin' silk. Again. A line of blood soaked through the man's shirt, and he fell forward into the straw. Again, crossing the first. Again, like a lick of fire. Again, for Vin. Again, for Ezra. Chris's eyes blurred. God, why couldn't he see? Again ...
A large hand clamped over his wrist. When Larabee tried to pull away, the pressure increased until the nerves in his hand went dead and the whip dropped to the ground. Blazing with fury, he rounded on Buck. "Let me go!" he hissed. "I ain't nearly done with the bastard!"
"Godammit, Larabee! You are done! Jesus Christ, yer scarin' JD half t'death and we got other matters t'attend to than beatin' that piece of shit to a pulp!" Buck held him relentlessly, knowing that he could out-muscle Larabee if he had to; hoped he wouldn't, 'cause Chris was a dirty fighter and he didn't relish a tussle with a wildcat. "Leave it go, Chris. Ya gotta leave it go."
Chris's rage bled away under Buck's unflinching challenge. He blinked, felt tears spilling down his face, and when his vision cleared, he saw JD kneeling by Ezra, his face gone white clear to the bone, his hazel eyes enormous. Chris's resistance crumbled and the fight left him. Other matters, including Vin. He nodded at Buck. "Yeah, I know." He exhaled a shuddering breath. "Get that filth outta here."
He watched as Wilmington dragged the dazed man outside. Then, he went to Ezra and knelt down. The gambler's eyes opened briefly, then closed again. "C'mon, Ezra. Wake up." He chafed Ezra's wrists. His hands were icy. "JD, get some water."
The stable boy must have heard the request. Before JD could comply, he came over with a canteen. "Is he alright, Mister?"
"I think so." Chris raised Ezra's head and tipped a few drops on his lips. "Ez?"
Standish spluttered and came to full consciousness, blinking up at Chris. "Mr. Larabee?"
"Yeah."
"That was quite an entrance, though I would have appreciated it a few minutes earlier." Even in pain, he could work that tongue around words better'n anyone Chris knew.
"Sorry, Ezra. Bad timin' on my part. You okay?"
"Give me a moment to recover myself." He took a physical inventory to ascertain that his various body parts were working in concert again. He could move his legs. That was a good thing. His abdomen felt like a horse had stood on it. That was not. His back hurt like hell. Which was more of a worry than he cared to admit. "Mr. Larabee, if you would be so kind as to tell me if I am gonna carry scars for the rest of my life, I'd be grateful."
"Hold tight, Ezra." Chris moved him on his side to take a look. He considered the damage gravely. The gambler's fancy coat and vest had taken the brunt of the whipcord. There was some blood on his shirt, and the skin on his back was broken and still bleeding, but most of the damage appeared to be bruises and welts. Chris wouldn't make light of Ezra's injuries, but considering what might have happened, he was one lucky sonofabitch. "You'll live, and the ladies won't even know anything happened to you."
"Thank you, Mr. Larabee, for that enlightenin' and sympathetic evaluation." He looked at JD's worried face. "Mr. Dunne, if you will lend me a hand, I believe I might be able to stand up, now." Together, they raised Standish to his feet and supported him with their shoulders. "My goodness, but the ground does seem t'be a long ways away ..." he marveled.
Chris looked at the stable boy. "Is there a doctor in this town?" he asked.
"Nope. Heard there's a healer in Four Corners," the boy said helpfully. "You okay, Mister?"
Ezra looked at the boy and recalled what he had promised himself. "Mr. Larabee, I have two bits in my coat pocket. If you will give them to the young man. He was a great help to me." Chris handed the money to the boy. His eyes were as big around as the coins.
"Thanks, mister! Come back again, and I'll treat yer horse real special."
Ezra started laughing. "Young man, do not take offense at this, but I hope to never again grace your fair city with my presence."
"Huh?"
Chris shook his head. "He means thanks, but he don't reckon he'll be passin' through."
"Well, uh." The boy scuffed at the straw. "What're ya gonna do with that feller?"
"Bring him t' justice." That voice and those eyes sent cold shivers up and down the stable boy's spine, and he was mighty glad when that slim, dark, shadow walked out into daylight.
"Gag him." Chris ordered Buck. "I don't want to hear one word from him until we get back to my place." He started taking the saddle off his horse, his usually smooth actions, jerky and tense When Buck gave him a puzzled look, he said, "I ain't gonna let that bastard ride on Vin's saddle. He's took enough already." When the stable boy led the buckskin out of the stable, Chris put Vin's saddle on his own mount, and tied the tracker's jacket on the back of it.
He crossed to where the man sat against the water trough. He glared at Chris over the gag Buck had tied around his mouth. His hand was roughly bandaged, but as far as Chris was concerned, he didn't care if the bastard got blood poisoning and died a hard, slow, death. He was only sorry that he hadn't been able to get a few more licks in with the whip before Buck had stopped him. His anger wasn't abated, merely banked. Chris crouched down to eye level. "I'm aimin' t'get you back to Four Corners alive, but you blink at me funny, and I'll take you down one piece of flesh at a time. You understand?"
The man stared at him with hot eyes, but he understood. "Get him into the saddle, Buck. Tie him on if you have to."
He turned to Ezra, drooping against his horse's side. "You sure you're up t'this? You could stay in town fer a few days, 'til you feel up t'riding."
Ezra shook his head. "You could not pay me enough, Mr. Larabee."
"I'll be ridin' hard, Ezra."
"Then tie me on my saddle." His green eyes hardened with determination to match Chris's own. "I want to be there when you deliver this man up to Mr. Tanner."
Chris nodded shortly. "All right. Let's ride. JD, you ready?"
"Sure, Chris." He was subdued, his eyes slipping away from the gunslinger's, and Larabee realized the damage his unleashed rage had done. He was sorry, but a man couldn't change his feelings, couldn't change the past. And he did not regret a lash that had landed on that man's back.
They rode out and not one of them looked back at Blue Springs.
Chris hadn't lied, he intended to ride hard, and for several hours they did just that. He was focused on the road ahead, afraid to think on what lay at the end of it, what he would find. Vin had looked to be on the mend, and Nathan was as good a man as any, but Chris had seen too many men in the war who had seemed on the edge of recovering, only to worsen and decline into death. He could see only that darkness, and he rode towards it.
Buck reined in next to him, and Chris slowed his pace slightly. "Chris, I know yer lookin' ahead, but we gotta stop ridin'. Ezra's in a bad way."
"Shit." Chris turned around. The gambler was hanging on to his saddle, but his body was weaving precariously, and a sheen of sweat glistened on his cheekbones. "Why didn't he say somethin'? He ain't normally short of words."
"Reckon he wants t'get back as bad as the rest of us. He does a powerful lot of jawin', but his heart's in the right place. He knows what we owe t'Vin."
"We'll make camp where Vin did."
"You sure you wanta do that? Seems like it ain't the most restful place in the world right now."
Chris's mouth tightened. "It's close, with fodder and water. And if it makes that bastard twitch, it'll be worth every minute."
"Makes me twitch, Larabee." But he knew there was no arguing with Chris when he got that look in his eyes. "I'll make sure Ezra stays in the saddle," he sighed. He dropped back to ride next to Ezra, who was looking worse by the minute. Buck had never thought the gambler had much grit beneath that fancy exterior, but he was wrong. Made him consider Standish in a new light — least 'til the next time he lost at poker. "You hangin' in there, Ezra?" he asked. "We're makin' camp soon."
Ezra nodded. "Give Mr. Larabee my regrets. I underestimated the extent of my incapacity." He reeled in the saddle, and Buck's long arm snaked around him.
"You'll make it, Ezra. Jist lean against me, and I'll see that y'do."
They made a silent, tense, camp. Ezra, normally talkative, was too weary and in too much pain; Buck had to help him from the saddle, and half-carry him over to where JD was laying the fire. As he tended to the gambler, he kept a weather-eye out for Larabee, who had dragged their prisoner over to a scrub pine and tied him there, bound hand and foot, and still gagged. Buck didn't much like the look in Larabee's eye, but couldn't blame him for his feelings. The small dell seemed haunted by spirits, and they were all on edge.
He hunkered down next to Standish. "You mind tellin' me where it hurts most?" he asked.
"I don't suppose you would be referin' to my pride?"
"I don't think so, Ezra. Now seein' as Nathan ain't on hand, you got a choice b'tween me and Larabee ta doctor ya. So unless you want Chris takin' a look at yer achin' carcass, you'll be straight with me.Ya gonna let me help ya?"
Ezra pointed silently to his hip, and closed his eyes in resignation. "Do your best, Mr. Wilmington."
Buck removed the gambler's gunbelt and unbuttoned his fancy vest and shirt. "Shoot, Ez. You got a bruise the size of a plate on yer belly, and another risin' over yer waistband. Undo them trousers, while I git some water heated."
"I fail to see what the application of hot water will do, Mr. Wilmington."
"It'll loosen up some a' them muscles so's you kin stretch out instead of lyin' all kinked up." When Ezra didn't argue the logic of his treatment, Buck returned with hot water and Ezra's spare shirt from his saddle bag. He made a pad of the shirt, and slid the gambler's trousers below his hips. He pressed the warm compress over the bruise, heard Ezra's indrawn hiss of pain, and joked to take Standish's mind off his doctoring, "Don't worry, Ez, yer virtue's safe with ol' Buck."
"As much as I appreciate your reassurance, I think I can do the self-medicatin.' But I thank you."
"Sure thing, Ezra. You keep that on 'til it cools down, then do it again. I'll bring ya some coffee."
One soul down, two t'go. Buck went over to JD, huddled in front of the fire, his hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. "Hey, kid."
"Buck."
"Yer mighty quiet there, boy. You mind tellin' me what's wrong?"
JD shook his head, his bangs falling over his eyes. "Nuthin'.
Buck sighed. To give himself time to think, he poured himself some coffee and sat cross-legged next to JD. He knew what the problem was, getting the boy to admit it was hard. JD had some pretty high ideals; made it mighty difficult t'live up to them. He'd let the kid down himself once or twice. In the past two days JD had seen Vin's painful vulnerability, and now Chris's demonic temper — and neither was the stuff idols were made of. "JD, remember what I said 'bout Vin, and not havin' no halo around his head?"
"Yeah."
"Well, ya gotta remember that 'bout Larabee, and then some. The man's carryin' a load a pain that's fit to break most others. An' he n' Vin ... they're like two sides a' the same coin — one gits hurt n' th'other bleeds right along with him. Y'understand?"
JD nodded. "I ain't never seen anything like Chris in that barn, Buck. It was like he ... like hurtin' that man felt good to him. I seen Chris kill before. But not like that."
Buck's blue eyes were sad and dark. "I have, JD. Man's got demons inside. He fights 'em everyday. But they break out, son. You ain't lived long enough, or hard enough t'understand Chris Larabee." He stretched out his legs. "Git some rest, kid."
JD shook his head and stood up. "I ain't tired, Buck. Think I'll see t' the horses."
"Stay close."
"I will." JD left Buck's side and walked over to where the horses were tethered. There were times when he felt closer to the animals than he did to his fellow humans. Horses weren't complicated — unless you counted Peso. He ran his hand down his horse's long, warm neck and laid his head there, seeking comfort in the simplicity of that life. When he raised his head, Chris Larabee was standing before him.
JD looked away quickly. "I'll get outta your way, Chris."
"JD, I'm sorry 'bout what you saw back there."
"You sorry you did it?"
"No. I'd be lyin' if I said I was." He looked into JD's hurt hazel eyes. "I can't change my nature, JD. I can't forgive what that man did to Vin. And if Buck hadn't stopped me, I would've gladly whipped him 'til there was no blood left in him. I'm just sorry you had to see it." The gunslinger's hat shaded his face; he turned and walked away. JD watched him for a moment. Buck was right, he didn't understand Chris Larabee, and he wasn't sure he ever wanted to understand him. But he'd just seen the human side of him win over his demons, and that would have to be enough for now.
Vin listened to Nathan and Josiah sleeping. They were too near, the walls were too close, and he thought that if he didn't get outside, he'd lose his mind. Cautiously, biting his lip to catch any sounds that might take him unawares, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. It was the first time he had been upright in four days, and the effort left him dizzy. When things stopped spinning, he tested his weight. His thighs cramped from the deeply bruised muscles, but he waited until they loosened, then rose slowly, all a-tremble. The first steps he took were as shaky as a new-born colt's, but gradually as the blood started moving through his legs, they strengthened. He went over to the trunk where Chris kept his clothes, raised the lid, and found a pair of pants and an old shirt. Carefully, feeling every injury tighten and ache, he drew on the trousers and slipped the shirt over his shoulders. He couldn't stretch his arms out enough to put them through the sleeves, but at least he was covered.! The pants rode low on his hips, and his belly was hollow beneath the arc of his ribs. Lord, he was as skinny as Nettie told him he was!
He shuffled as silently as he could over to the door and went outside. There was a chair set there, and he sank into it gratefully, wincing at the pressure on his back. One more step would have been beyond his strength. But he could breathe! He let the dawn wind stir his hair and watched the sun rise. He'd been thinking about what Nathan had told him, about possessions and things. It hurt that the bastard who'd near killed him had taken those small tokens he'd come to treasure, but it hurt more that he'd taken things from Vin's heart: trust, courage, faith. Be mighty hard t'get those back. Just thinkin' on it made his head ache. He closed his eyes and tipped his head against the back of the chair. When he heard a footstep behind him, his nerves jerked unpleasantly and he braced for the onslaught.
"God damn it, Tanner! What the hell d'ya think you're doin'? Git back inside here!"
"I ain't goin' back in, Nathan. I got out here, and I'm stayin'. I'se tired of bein' cooped up an' fussed over, so leave me alone fer a few minutes b'fore you start jawin' at me."
"You ain't got th'sense you was born with," Nathan grumbled and came outside. "Here," he draped a blanket over Vin's lap. "Least keep yo'self warm." He disappeared inside, and came out a while later, fully dressed and with a mug of coffee. "I reckon this ain't gonna hurt you."
Vin grinned happily. "I'm right obliged t'ya, Nathan." The coffee was hot and tasted like heaven. "Suppose I could have a pilla fer my back?" he asked, with a sly glance at the healer.
"I kin tell, yo' gonna be more trouble gettin' well than you was bein' laid out flat, Tanner."
"I reckon." Nathan gave him a sour look and went to get the requested pillow.
The porch faced east, and as the sun rose higher and warmer, Vin closed his eyes and dozed again. Nathan watched him anxiously, but the tracker seemed to be resting better than he had been inside, and Nathan believed that what a man felt in his heart would help his body heal. He marveled at Tanner's powers of recuperation. The man looked about as substantial as a will o' wisp, but there was pure steel inside that slight frame.
It had been a wonder he had survived that first night; Nathan hadn't told anyone how close a call that had been, or how great his fears for Vin's recovery had been. Any number of things might have killed him: blood loss, fever, infection, internal hemorrhage, shock — things that Nathan didn't have the power or the knowledge to heal. God had been watching him that night, as surely as he had ever watched over any man.
He heard Josiah come out on the porch, heard the creak of the big man's bones as he stretched out the kinks from the night spent on the floor, and his exhalation as he welcomed the day. He looked up at the preacher and smiled at the expression on Josiah's face when he saw Vin.
"He get out here on his own?"
"I sure didn't carry him, Josiah."
"Stubborn cuss, ain't he? You wouldn't think it t' look at him."
"Th' ruckus y'all 're makin, ain't lettin' me git my rest," Vin yawned and opened a sleepy eye. "Mornin', Josiah."
"You're lookin' like a man who's decided to live, Brother Tanner."
"Figger I ain't got much of a choice ... B'tween Nathan's doctorin', yer prayin', an' Miss Nettie's spoonin' broth down me, I's never so looked after in m' life. Seemed like the least I could do t'thank —" He broke off, his eyes narrowed into the sun. "Riders comin'," he said, his hand going instinctively towards the gun that wasn't there. He sat up, suddenly straight. "Looks like Chris n'th' others."
The group of horsemen rode slowly up to the house. They were all dusty and worn, hollow-eyed from little sleep and less food. Vin's eyes met Chris's first, and saw the welcoming light in them, a warmth in the cool depths that spoke more than words. Larabee dismounted stiffly and walked up to the porch. "Hey, partner."
"Cowboy." The grin touching Vin's mouth lifted the world off Chris's shoulders.
"Don't call me cowboy."
The others dismounted behind him. Buck first, going to Ezra's mount and helping the gambler down. Nathan was off the porch in a single leap. "What's wrong with you all? I no sooner git one a'you healed up, than another one is droppin' at my feet. What happened to ya, Ezra?"
"A humiliation too painful to contemplate, Mr. Jackson. I failed to reckon the odds against me properly."
"Git inside an' let me take a look."
Ezra raised his hand. "Patience, doctor. I will in a moment, I swear."
"Where's JD?" Vin asked sharply, fear slicing into him. He looked at Larabee's impassive face. "Chris?"
"He's bringin' up the rear. As sheriff, he's got custody of our prisoner. We got him, Vin. We got him."
Vin closed his eyes and sank back in the chair, his heart taking off in a gallop that stole his breath away. He wasn't ready for this ... wasn't ready to put a face to the shadow that had been haunting him. He needed time ... to forget, to find his courage, to heal.
Josiah laid a hand on Vin's shoulder. "Chris, this don't seem like the best idea. Vin ain't well enough yet —"
"No. I'm alright, J'siah." Vin forced strength into his voice and looked at Chris. "Who is it?"
"I don't know, Vin." Chris was abashed at the admission. "Hell, I was so riled over what happened, that I gagged the man up, so's I wouldn't have to listen t'him whine about how mean I was." The sound of approaching horses spared him further explanations.
JD and the prisoner rode in, slowly. JD had insisted that the man be treated like any other prisoner — risking Chris's wrath to make sure he was given water and cleaned up half-decent. JD didn't like doing it, but he stubbornly claimed that if they didn't do it his way, any case they had against the accused could be appealed to Judge Travis on the grounds of cruel and unusual punishment. So it was a recognizable figure who was dragged forward and made to face the man he had left for dead.
Vin stared long and hard into the man's face before he spoke. "Clyde Darwell. His name is Clyde Darwell." The hate he saw blazing in Darwell's face made him feel a bit sick inside, but this time he was not alone and vulnerable. He reached for Nathan's arm and let the healer pull him to his feet. The blanket slid away from his body, the bruises on his belly and chest revealing the abuse he had suffered at Darwell's hands. It looked worse than it felt, he reckoned, judging from JD's gasp. He released Nathan's arm, and without taking his eyes from Darwell, he came down from the porch and faced him; slight and unbowed despite the bruises and the pain it must have cost him to stand upright before his tormentor. His blue gaze bored into Darwell's. "I ain't dead," he said quietly. "JD, take that gag out, so I c'n ask him a question." JD complied without a word. Vin waited patiently, still staring at Darwell with burning intensity. "Why?" he asked. That was all he wanted to know.
"You killed my brother," Darwell rasped. "You brung us in, and Caleb died in prison."
Vin spoke softly, directing his words to the six men he felt standing at his side. "It's true. Clyde Darwell n' his brother went on a rampage back in Texas. Robbed three stage stations. I's huntin' em, when they hit a fourth. Happened t'be owned by a friend a' mine. Tom O'Brian. He n' his wife Maria, had a daughter. Risin' twelve, and as pretty a little thing as I ever seen. I tracked the Darwells to their station, hopin' I could catch 'em. I's too late. Tom n' Maria were dead, and their little girl ..." his voice nearly closed down on him. He had to look aside and blink away his tears. "She'd been raped by Caleb. That little girl died in my arms, bled her life away. So I went after the Darwells. Took me three weeks, but I found 'em and brung 'em in. I warn't too kind about it, y'see. S'pose Clyde's right when he says I kilt his brother. But I'd do it agin, ev'n if it meant bein' beaten an' whipped half-dead, I'd do it agin."
All those words took up what was left of Vin's strength. His legs went weak beneath him, and he crumpled into Chris's arms, his weight bearing the gunslinger to his knees. Larabee looked up at Darwell. "If I'd known this story, you'd be layin' in pieces across the desert."
"Fuckin' bounty hunter. I was only lookin' after my own," he sneered.
"So am I." Chris gathered Vin up in his arms and rose to his feet. "JD, take him to jail. Wire Judge Travis." He looked at Darwell one last time. "See you in court." Then he turned and went inside.
Between Vin needing time to recover his strength, and the others' need for food, healing, and sleep, it was dusk before they were all conscious at the same time. Buck fried up Nettie's ham, they shared out the basket of food she had left, and when they were replete, they finished up the last bottle of Chris's whiskey. Larabee sipped his small portion and decided that it tasted better when you didn't drink alone. He took a mug of watered-down liquor to Vin, who had been banished to the cot for the rest of the day by Nathan after his collapse.
Chris sat down on the edge of the bed. "How're ya doin', partner?"
"Alright, I reckon. Gettin' there, anyways." His eyes came up briefly before they were veiled again. "I never thanked ya proper, Chris."
"For what?"
"Savin' my life."
"Hell, Vin. T'morrow you'll be returnin' the favor." He clinked his glass against Vin's cup. "To tomorrow?" he suggested.
"Better'n today." He sipped at the watered down whiskey and grimaced. "Shit, I ain't gut shot, Larabee."
Chris laughed silently. "Doc's orders." He looked up as Ezra limped over. Nathan had given him a clean bill of health, but there was no way the gambler was going to move with anything near his customary grace for a long while. Buck trailed behind him, a bundle of some sorts in his arms.
"Mr. Tanner," Ezra began. "Despite our misadventures in Blue Springs — a truly dreadful town I'd avoid in further travels — we came across some items that you might like to have."
Vin's eyes flew to Ezra's face. "Y'all —" His traitorous voice cracked as it always did in high emotion, and his cheeks burned with embarrassment. Buck came forward and set the bundle across Vin's legs.
"Reckon these b'long t'ya, Vin."
He had no strength to control the trembling of his hands. He fumbled at the ties, aware that everyone was watching him. When the bindings finally released, he shook out the canvas wrapping. He could not quite contain his gasp. A fall of buckskin fringe; his jacket. A hard shape that when uncovered revealed the smooth brass cylinder of his spyglass. Awed and amazed, Vin ran a slender forefinger down its length reverently. He'd thought to never see it again. He moved aside another fold of buckskin, and there was his harmonica. His hand closed over it, and he knew tears were tracking down his cheeks, but he could not stop them, or the emotions welling in his breast. He ached fit to bust his heart open and when he looked up, blinking against the dazzle of lantern light, he discovered that his friends had tactfully drifted away, knowing that he was not a man comfortable beneath scrutiny, no matter how well intentioned.
Scarcely visible in the shadows, Chris watched in silence. He knew what it was like to lose everything. Knew the hole it left in a man's soul. Folks who said it was just things had no heart. God, how he wished he had things — a piece of jewelry that Sarah had worn next to her skin, a toy that Adam had cherished — anything that would retain an impression of their presence on this earth. He had nothing but the bitter taste of ashes and fading memories. He'd give his life to spare his friend that hell. Be worth it too, judging from the way the tracker handled his possessions, like he was relearning a part of himself. Not wanting to disturb that moment of quiet privacy, Chris drifted outside.
Stories came naturally to these men. Whiskey and the knowledge that they had done good, made the words flow freely. Vin caught an occasional snatch of conversation, the comforting rumble of their voices, impressions of their faces; Nathan's wide smile, the gleam of Ezra's gold incisor, JD's eyes growing rounder at each tale, Buck's sprawling frame sliding ever lower in his chair as he laughed, the deep timbre of Josiah's chuckle. No sign of Larabee.
Vin closed his eyes, concentrating on what was not seen. A scent of tobacco wafted in through the cracked window. He rose, and with the silence that was second nature to him, slipped from the room. The porch was empty, but he sensed Chris nearby, so he sat in the chair and reached for the blanket that had been left there earlier. He was still holding the harmonica, and he fingered it, feeling the familiar scars and dents, the areas he had worn with his touch. Wasn't much to most folks, but when you lived a life stripped to the essentials, you knew what was important to your heart.
"Hey, pard. Nathan know you're out here?" Chris asked. He stepped out of the shadows, darkness drifting into the light spilling from the windows.
Vin snorted. "Clyde didn't kick me in the head, Larabee."
Chris grinned around his cheroot and sank down on the top step, his back up straight against a post, his long legs bent at a sharp angle. "JD said Darwell told him your rifle is back at th'hotel in Blue Springs. Buck will ride out tomorrow t' get it for you. 'Fraid your hat is gone."
"Don't think I want it back if'n Clyde took t'wearin' it. Hat's easy. Rifle's hard. Tell Buck I 'preciate him fetchin' it fer me."
Chris gave Vin a narrow study. "Question?"
Vin raised a brow. "Cain't promise an answer, but you c'n ask."
"How'd Darwell git the drop on you, Vin?"
Vin was silent for a moment as he framed his answer. "Ya seen that black hair on him?"
"Indian?"
Vin nodded. "Half. Him n'Caleb was raised Kiowa. S'why it took me so long t'track 'em. Was like trackin' myself. Took me a while t'catch on t'their signs." His head dropped against the back of the chair. "Ain't a day goes by, Chris ..."
Light and shadow edged Vin's profile; gilding one high cheekbone. He was all angles and planes, his features sharpened and defined by the pain that had not released him. His fingers were closed over his harmonica, the harmonica Chris had never heard play a recognizable tune. It made no difference to him if he never heard a sound from it. What mattered was that it was back in Vin's hands.
The tip of Chris's cheroot brightened as he drew in a mouth of smoke and released it with a soft sigh. "I was thinkin' when this is over, I might take some time t'go up country. Hunt, fish, ponder on my flaws and failings ..." His green eyes glinted with humor. "Care t'come with me?"
Vin tilted his head towards his friend. "Reckon I could use some ponderin'."
His wide blue gaze met Chris's. Peaceful despite the lingering shadows of pain, acknowledging with gratitude the offer Chris was making. He'd feel better where he could breathe; but the wounds on his body were no deeper than the wounds to his soul. The thought of being alone made him feel shivery and fragile. Darwell had done that to him. He'd have to find his way back to his courage, and that was a hard and lonesome path. He closed his eyes, drifting again, but knowing that when he woke, Chris would still be there. Always there. And when his body was healed, and his heart was strong enough, Chris Larabee would walk that blood trail with him.
The End
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