"JD, you and Buck head to the north side of the house. See if you can get around to the back of the barn from that way. We'll go this way," Chris Larabee whispered fervently to the men beside him in the darkness. Hearing their affirmative replies, he followed the preacher's son in the opposite direction.
Pausing by a small stand of trees less than 100 yards from the side of the barn, Chris grabbed Josiah Sanchez's arm and pointed to the left. Pointing to himself, he then pointed right before beginning a slow advancement to the structure before him.
They needed to get to the men in the barn before the outlaws knew the peacekeepers were there. It was that simple. The fugitives they were after had already killed three in holdups. They had nothing to loose now. If they were caught, they were dead men.
Slipping to the ground in the shadows beside it, Chris gripped the gun in his hand a little tighter and steeled himself for whatever he was about to face when he kicked in the door beside him. He knew there were four men in the massive building. If he was real lucky, he just might be able to take out all of them. If not, then he just hoped he could find some cover and hold his own until the others could join him.
Drawing in a deep breath, Chris rose. Stepping in front of the door, he raised his foot to kick it open when suddenly it opened on it's own volition. Instead of facing a wooden door, Chris Larabee was face to face with one of the men he had been hunting. Instantly, he registered the fact that the man had a gun pointed at his mid-section.
As if in slow motion, Chris watched the surprise flash on the outlaw's face. Just as quickly, he saw it be replaced by murderous fury.
Time froze. In that instant, Chris saw his past, present and future blending together into one moment of time. This moment. The moment he would die.
The moment when he realized that he would never see Mary Travis again. The moment when he knew with absolute certainty that if he died today, part of her would die too. It was this thought that sent a jolt of energy through the lawman.
Leveling his hand, Chris heard the deafening report of the stranger's gun as his own finger pulled the trigger. Simultaneously, the black clad man threw himself sideways.
Falling, Chris felt the pull of the bullet as it tore it's path. In his periphial vision, he saw the big man in the doorway begin to crumble also. Landing on the hard pack earth, Chris rolled instinctively for the cover of the shadows. Stopping, he heard the echoes of the last gunshots fade into the night. Bracing himself for the agony that he knew would soon begin, he held his breath. It was only when the pain did not come that he allowed his mind to register the physical sensations being sent to his brain.
The trembling in his legs and arms caused by the adrenaline still coursing through his body. The smell of the damp grass and dirt beneath him. The feel of the light wind against his face and neck. The muted ache of the shoulder that had taken the brunt of the impact on the ground. The sounds of his compatriots calling his name.
But still no burning pain associated with a gunshot.
Forcing himself up to his knees, Chris threw his head back and blew out a loud breathe of relief. Somehow, the bullet had not entered his body.
Staggering upright, he took several unsteady steps back to the doorway and looked down at the dead man's face staring unseeingly up at him. Shuddering, Chris stepped over the body and tried to forget that it could of been him there instead.
Easing open Mary's door, Chris stared at the vision of beauty watching him from across the room. From the lines of fatigue on her face, he could tell that she had waited for him all night.
Smiling, he tried to assure Mary that he was okay. But she wasn't looking at his face. Her eyes were on his chest. Glancing down, it was then that Chris saw it again.
The bullet hole in his coat and the tell-tale spray of gunpowder on his shirt. A bullet hole that proclaimed the presence of a slug buried deep in his chest. A gray pattern of charcoal that spoke of how close he had come to dying. Taking several quick steps toward the ashen woman standing with her handcovering her mouth in shock, Chris shook his head adamantly. "No Mary, it missed me," he breathed softly, pulling her into his arms. "It hit the bird IĠd been carving for Billy," he whispered in her hair, wishing that he had shielded her from the knowledge of his close call.
Wishing that heĠd never see that look on her face again. Wishing that he could take away the fear he felt coursing through her body. Wishing that he could take her away from the danger associated with him.
Wishing for nothing more than to hold her until the past few hours were nothing but a distant memory.
For both of them.
Finis
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