DISCLAIMER: The characters used are the property of MGM and Trilogy. No financial or creative rights are claimed to the characters from the Magnificent Seven television series.
RATING: PG-13 Language.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I would like to thank Sarah Bartholomew and Sue Necessary, my intrepid beta-readers for their unerring advice. Some of the events in this story are based on my Great-Grandmother's experiences as a pioneer in Kansas. "Eldorado" is by Edgar Allan Poe.
The closer Chris Larabee rode towards to the Wells' homestead, the angrier he got. Angry at Nettie for being so stubborn, angry at Tanner for caring too damn much to make the woman see sense, and angry at himself, for being afraid. It had been a long time since anything had scared Chris, but the thought of what that fire could cost him made his stomach knot up and the gorge rise in his throat until he thought he would choke.
Seemed like since he was eighteen, he'd been chasin' after his humanity. It was always out there beyond his grasp, tantalizing him with a promise that he would feel something , find something worth keeping. From a hand-to-mouth existence as a youth, to the cruel battles of the War Between the States, to that brief peace he'd found with Sarah and Adam and the soul-destroying anguish of their loss; he'd been reaching for it, only to have it slip away. He had thought it was gone for good, until Vin Tanner, with his own hard-won humanity held firmly in his heart, had stepped onto a dusty street and challenged Chris to reach out once more. And damn him, he had. And he would be damned if he let this fire burn that away to ashes, too.
He was riding into the lair of the devil, for sure, Chris thought as he looked at the angry sky above him. The clouds were like living things, bloodied by dancing flames that he could not see, but sensed like the throbbing of the pulse in his veins. The air was thick with smoke and it clung to his nostrils and the inside of his mouth. He pulled his bandanna over his lower face to filter out the worst of it, and fought to control his horse. Whether it was the animal's instinctive fear, or his own tension that was communicating itself through his touch, Chris wasn't certain. He just prayed that the gelding had enough sense to make it to Nettie's. He didn't relish running a foot race with the wildfire.
As he crested the rise overlooking the Wells' homestead, Chris' heart gave a great thump in his chest. There was a brighter, perilous light over the horizon; something bigger than grassland was burning, and with a more concentrated fury. Oh God, he knew that sight! It just about tore him up inside, the memory of it was so painful. Chris spurred his horse onward with a wordless cry of mingled rage and despair.
The barn was ablaze, but when he saw the house still standing, Chris' innards settled back into their proper places long enough for him to think about taking a deep breath — he would have, too, if common sense hadn't told him that there was no use in sucking up a lungful of smoke and cinders. A shift in the wind cleared the air enough to allow him a glimpse of the two solitary figures fighting the battle: Nettie on the ground beating at sparks with a horse blanket, and Vin on the porch roof, soaking shingles with water.
Chris cantered down, and dismounted, tethering his mount firmly, and stood looking up at Tanner. "You folks sure look like you could use a hand."
Vin's white teeth and blue eyes gleamed through the grime covering his face. He dragged a sleeve across his forehead. "Hell, where'd you git a notion like that?" He dropped the bucket to the ground at Chris' feet and climbed down from the roof.
Nettie came forward with her hands out to his. "Lordy, Chris Larabee, what are y'doin' here?" Her expression grew worried. "It's not Casey, is it? She's all right, ain't she? The town's all right?"
"Casey's fine, Nettie. And when I left, Four Corners was still standin'. I reckon it'll still be there when we get back."
"I ain't leavin', Chris," she warned. "Not as long as there's breath in this old body."
Chris raised his hands. "Take it easy, Nettie. I didn't come to drag you away ... Yet." He turned to Vin who was pumping a trickle of water into the bucket he had dropped down. Chris' heart sank. The drought had taken its toll. "Vin —"
"Yeah?" He straightened wearily. "I ain't got time t'chat, pard. Talk fast if you've got somethin' t'say."
Now that Vin was standing in front of him, he could see the exhaustion etching his features; lines he hadn't noticed before exaggerated by the ingrained soot. He had to be hurting too, judging from the weary slump of his spine. But that jaw was sticking out, and those eyes were determined. Chris rolled up his sleeves. "Give me that bucket. We'll suck this damned well dry if we have to."
Vin sighed, relieved that he wouldn't have to argue with Chris; hell, he didn't have the strength. He was fadin' fast and more than grateful for another body to shoulder some of the labor. He nodded, his throat too sore and swollen from smoke for him to speak. He dragged himself up the ladder one more time, wishing that he would wake up back in the desert where he had fallen asleep last night.
As Chris worked the pump, his eyes went to the steadily advancing line of the fire. There was a dry creek bed between the house and the fire, but there was also a stand of pinon and cottonwood trees to fuel the flames, and that damned wind was picking up again. He could feel it touch his cheek, hot and whispering, and against the darkening sky, the sparks were glittering like flakes of gold in a blue stream.
It was the big cottonwood tree that caught fire first, the crown dry and vulnerable to a spark that found shelter in a withered leaf, and from that cusp, grew to a flame the size of a lucifer strike, then a torch, and then spread until the entire tree was haloed with fire. The branches were brittle as old bones, and the fire ate them quickly. They began to detach and fall; some igniting other leaves and branches, others catching in the wind to be cast farther from the tree, a few dying where they fell, a few remaining lethal.
It was Nettie who noticed first, as a bit of burning bark fell on her wrist. She uttered a soft Oh! of pain, bringing the hurt reflexively to her mouth, and looking up at the sky. Her second cry was louder, and Chris straightened from his labors at the pump. He saw Nettie standing stock still, one hand pressed to her mouth and staring at the tall cottonwood, now fully ablaze and raining embers on the homestead.
Shit, Chris thought. Oh, shit.
Vin had never been bothered by heights, but walked easily where other men might have given second thoughts to taking a step. It was how he moved over boulders, and ranged over the rooftops of Four Corners with sure-footed ease like a panther. He'd always liked being closer to the sky than to the land; felt like he could breathe better. Wished he could breathe now ... just take in great gulps of that cool air, down to the bottom of his lungs.
He danced over the shingles, beating at sparks with an old blanket Nettie had tossed up to him. He'd had to give up on the bucket. The well must've run dry by now since Chris had stopped pumping. Didn't matter. With the single-minded clarity he brought to the hunt, he stalked those embers where they landed, crushed them beneath his boot heels, and smothered them with the folds of cloth he had wrapped about his arm like the cloak of one of them fancy Spanish matadors he had seen in Mexico. He'd caught his second wind now, forgetting the aching drudgery of hauling water and dousing the shingles. He could do this all night, he thought. If only he could breathe, really breathe, he would be all right.
Chris watched that lightly stepped fandango with his heart in his throat. Nettie clung to his arm, biting her lip to hold her tears at bay. When she could stand it no longer, she hid her face in Chris' arm. "Git him to come down, Chris. That old house ain't worth his life!"
"It ain't the house he's savin', Nettie." He eyed the angle of the roof. He nodded. "Don't you do anything foolish. You stay right here, no matter what. You hear me?"
When she read the intent in those green eyes, Nettie gasped, "Chris Larabee, you ain't goin' up there with him!" Her skinny fingers dug into his biceps. "Yer madder'n he is, if you do!"
Larabee laughed then, a sound that made Nettie release her hold and step back. "Hell, when'd you ever think I was sane?" He took the blanket from her hands and climbed up on the roof, cursing the wind, the fire, himself, and Vin. He'd spoken true to Nettie, knowing what Vin was fighting to hold on to, and his own demons that he had to face. Those shades were aways with him, whispering to him, so that even in the deepest silence, he knew they were there. Helping Vin save the Wells' house might not exorcise those ghosts, but it might quiet them for a time.
Buck Wilmington was not a man to take his obligations lightly. When JD came to the saloon, half-frantic to tell him that Chris was riding out of town to help Vin and Nettie, Buck had figured there was more eatin' at Chris than anger at his stubborn partner. JD knew of Chris' past, but the kid hadn't been there, hadn't known the Chris Larabee that Buck did. Hadn't known the husband and the father, only the gunslinger with darkness in his soul. Buck, with a rare perception people seldom gave him credit for, knew that Chris was being driven by his memories, and not likely to listen to any arguments reason had to offer.
Buck saddled up his big gray and set off after Chris, intending to catch him before he could do anything he would come to regret. Life had a funny way of interfering with plans, however; and a shift in the wind, a wayward spark, and a wall of fire derailed Buck's best intentions. He made it to the first firebreak that had been dug, and could go no further. He spent the better part of the next hour on that line, fighting alongside the townsmen he had sworn to protect, to save the town he had come to call home. Yet even as he labored on that line, half his mind was with Chris and Vin. He looked out over the fire, and wondered how much of his life it had consumed. It wasn't until the wind shifted once more, and the fire retreated from its assault on the outskirts of Four Corners, that Buck was able to throw down his shovel and pick, and take up the reins again.
He took a wide loop around the worst of the fire, approaching the Wells' homestead from the east, where the fire hadn't ravaged the plains. As he rode over the hard ground, he could see the fury beneath the western skies. It raised bad memories in Buck, of the war and destruction and death. He'd seen towns burned to the ground and the senseless loss of life. He'd tried to move beyond it, and had pretty much managed, too; until a sight, a sound, a face, would somehow bring it all back, and he would have to close his eyes for a minute and remind himself that hell was past, and he was still alive. Times like that, he would reach for a long-necked bottle, or a soft woman to drown his pain in pleasure.
There would be no refuge in that tonight. Buck spurred the grey into a gallop, heading towards the teeth of the fire.
They said you'd burn in Hell for an eternity. It that were true, then Vin reckoned he was gettin' a good taste of damnation tonight. The quick burst of energy that had carried him for the last hour was gone, and if not for Chris' presence near him, he would have surrendered the fight. But whenever he was tempted to drop to his knees, he would catch a glimpse of that lean, dark shadow working tirelessly, and Vin would reach down further into his reserves and pull up enough strength to stay by Chris' side. Even so, things were gettin' a mite hazy around the edges from time to time, and the shingles beneath his feet seemed an awful ways away. He scarcely felt the small sparks and embers that fell on his exposed skin, nearly didn't notice when one struck his shirt and set his sleeve on fire, until Chris suddenly beat it out with his hands.
"You okay, pard?" Chris asked, peering into Vin's eyes. "You look all in."
"I'm all right, jist tired. Ain't you tired, Chris?" The corner of his mouth tugged in a smile, all the expression he could manage.
Chris laid a hand on Vin's shoulder. "Yeah, I'm tired." He was more worried than tired. For Vin to admit to being tired meant he was exhausted. "Why don't you take a breather? See if you can squeeze some water out of that well and drink it down."
Vin shook his head. "Ain't nuthin' there but mud." He shrugged off Chris' hand. "We still got work ta do." He blinked hard, clearing the smoke and haze from his vision. "So let's git to it." Once more he seemed to find some hidden resources. His blue eyes snapped back into focus, and his half-smile turned to a grin with a hint of mischief.
Chris' gaze narrowed threateningly. "I'm watchin' you, pard," he growled. And turned back to beating at the sparks.
Neither man could see the danger. There was a corner of the porch, sheltered from the wind and tucked under the roofline. The water Vin had poured on the roof had run off the shingles, and had not penetrated that crevice, but a burning leaf from the cottonwood had lodged there. The tiny flame had found dry wood to nurture it, and it spread. The smoke from that fire could not be distinguished from that blowing in the wind, and the sparks it sent up mingled with the those dancing in the air. The tiny licks of flame ran along the rafters, wreaking damage, but unseen. They had been eating away at the dry wood sheathing beneath the shingles for some time when Vin's heel hit a weak spot. The shingle buckled, the wood sheathing crumbled into ash, and flames, hungry for oxygen leaped up.
Chris head the crack of the wood before he heard Vin cry out in alarm. His lethal gunslinger's reflexes spun him around in time to see Vin's body teetering on the brink of the gap, surrounded by fire. Then he was falling through the shattered roof, and vanished from sight.
"Jesus, Vin! Oh, Jesus!" Chris could not force more than a harsh whisper from his throat, but the words screamed in his mind as he leaped over the shingles. The fire drove him back from the edge, and heedless of the drop to the ground below, he swung himself down, and released his hold. He landed awkwardly, wrenching his ankle. He gasped with the pain, but would not allow himself to feel it — he'd learned during the war to fight through pain lest heeding it result in his death. Through the sheet of flame, he saw Vin laying in a motionless huddle on the floor of the porch. His body was surrounded by bits of burning shingle and the boards beneath him were beginning to smoulder.
Chris was dimly away of Nettie standing as if frozen in place, her eyes wide with fear and her narrow shoulders shaking. He took a step and nearly passed out from the pressure on his injured ankle. He shook his head to clear the dark spots swimming at the edges of his vision. He'd get to Vin if he had to crawl ... Another step, another wave of nauseating pain. The fire was creeping closer to the tracker's body. Chris dropped to his knees, choking on the smoke and heat. His eyes were streaming with tears. Vin was no more than six feet away, but the fire was between him and Chris' reach. Sobbing, Chris inched forward, stretching out his arm, bracing for the onslaught of fiery pain, and then found he could not move forward. He was being held, being dragged back from the brink. "NO!" he screamed. He twisted his body, his hands clawed and reaching to attack. Instead, he found himself gathered up, carried away from the fire, and dropped unceremoniously on the ground. He lay there gasping, his lungs starving for air, utterly defeated. A low moan escaped his lips. "Oh God, Vin ..."
Nettie knelt at his side. "Never you mind, Chris ... it'll be all right. Just stay still, it'll be all right ... Buck's here. D'ye understand? Buck's here!"
Something of what she was saying penetrated Chris' consciousness. He sat up, Nettie supporting his shoulders, in time to see Buck coming from the fiery ruins of the porch, with Vin carried high on his chest, as if the tracker weighed no more than a boy.
Buck strode towards them, then gently laid Vin at Chris' side. He grinned down at him, white teeth glinting, and blue eyes snapping. "Aw, shoot, Chris. I cain't let you two outta my sight fer more'n five minutes, without you gitten into the worst kinda trouble."
"Reckon we're just keepin' you sharp, Buck ..." The words left his lips on a sigh, and Buck's soot-stained, smiling face was the last thing he saw for a long time.
The pain in Chris' ankle finally drove him to wake. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes. Familiar surroundings. Nathan's clinic. Still standing, then. He turned his head on the pillow. Vin. Layin' on his back, still as he ever was, his skin marked by angry burns and smeared with some of Nathan's concoctions. His hands were heavily bandaged, his breathing hoarse. "Vin?" Chris was shocked at the sound of his own voice, coarse and croaking as a raven's coming from his raw throat.
"'Bout time you woke up, Larabee." Nathan Jackson stood over him, smiling slightly. "Don't you try to talk. It ain't gonna do you no good."
"Vin?" Chris persisted, despite the disapproval on the healer's face.
"He's sleepin.' Woke an hour ago, asked if you was all right, and went off agin."
Something in Chris' chest eased up, and he lay uncharacteristically still as Nathan prodded his ankle, bound it back up, and handed him a mug of herbal tea. He raised Chris up against his bedstead, and stood frowning down at him as he drank the bitter mixture of willow bark, boneset, and honey. Chris knew better than to argue with Nathan in his element. He gestured to his ankle. "Broken?"
Nathan snorted derisively. "You should be so lucky! A nice, clean break would'a been easy. No, you done tore up a bunch o' muscles and ligaments. You ain't gonna be walkin' without a stick fer a good month."
"Bet?"
Nathan's eyes narrowed. "You wanna make bets, you talk to Ezra."
Chris drained his mug and held it out. "Whiskey."
Nathan shook his head. "I don't think so. You're gonna lay back down and get some rest."
Chris glared green fire for an instant, then slid down his pillows. "Don't suppose you'd tell me what happened last night?"
"Next time you wake up." He stood over the supine gunslinger, expecting an argument at the very least. Instead, Larabee closed his eyes. Nathan shook his head. Asleep, he looked almost harmless. Just proved how deceptive appearances could be.
He turned from Larabee, to Tanner. He'd lied to Chris, God help him. The tracker hadn't waked, hadn't hardly moved since Buck had carried him in and laid him on the cot. Nathan had bound up those cruelly blistered hands and spread soothing salve on the angry burns. He'd forced water one spoonful at a time down Tanner's swollen throat, and had listened to the harsh rattle of his breath in his smoke-filled lungs. He'd held the tracker as he coughed up black phlegm, but Tanner remained lost, somewhere beyond Nathan's healing.
He wasn't looking forward to Larabee waking up and finding out the truth.
Somehow, when Chris woke up again, he knew. He watched silently as Jackson tended to Vin's injuries, and when the healer straightened with a sigh from Tanner's too still body, he spoke. "You lied to me, Nathan." He watched the shift of those broad shoulders as Jackson prepared to face him. "Why?"
Nathan gave him a resigned look. "So's you'd get some rest. Makin' yourself sick on his account ain't gonna help him get better."
"What's wrong with him?"
Nathan looked troubled. "Don't rightly know. He took in a powerful lot of smoke, and there's a knot the size of a plum on the back of his head. But he's movin' some, and he's got a good, strong heartbeat. Reckon he'll wake up when th'Lord thinks he's ready."
"That ain't good enough. I ain't Josiah."
"And I ain't no fancy doctor." Nathan's mouth drew hard. "I done told you what I know. Can't tell you no more."
Chris shoved himself upright, grimacing with the pain in his ankle. "You tell Buck, I want to see him."
"You shouldn't be seein' no one. You needs your rest."
"I need t'see Buck. And if you won't get him ...Shit, I'll do it myself." He sat there, feeling sick with pain, and angry with determination. Hell, he'd been shot up worse than this, rode half across a state and lived. He swung his legs over to side of the bed, pretending to ignore the black specks blurring the edges of his vison. Nathan just stood there, his arms crossed across his chest, watching as Chris stood, took one faltering step and pitched forward into his waiting arms. He cursed, fighting off the big healer, but Nathan cussed right back. He trapped the gunslinger's long body against his and set him back on the bed as if he were fragile as glass. "You oughtta listen t'what I tell you, Chris Larabee."
"Get Buck, and I will." Nathan drew the covers over him, and Chris heard him leave the room. before he surrendered to the dizzying whirl of black specks. When he opened his eyes again, the room was considerably darker and Buck was sitting in a chair at his bedside. There was a bottle of whiskey on the floor at his feet, and he was leaning forward, elbows on knees, watching Vin's quiet face. Chris listened to the tracker's breathing. It seemed less labored than it had earlier. Maybe Nathan was right, and sleep was the best healer for Vin.
"Hey there, Buck," Chris' voice was still weak, but the words came more easily from his throat, no longer sounding as if he had swallowed a peck of grit.
Buck turned his head, and a slow smile spread across his face. "Hey there, pard. Good t'see you." His normally exuberant tones were muted, but his eyes showed his relief. "You'n Vin had us a mite worried there."
"Seems like you kept the town from burnin' down around you."
"Yeah. It's still here." He reached for the bottle. "Wanna celebrate?" He poured some whiskey into Chris' mug and added a splash of water. When Chris made a derisive sound, Buck shot him a hard look. "Thought I'd better tame this rotgut afore Nathan confiscates it all t'gether." Without seeming to fuss, he helped Chris sit up, and set the mug in easy reach.
"To Four Corners?" Buck suggested, and Chris nodded. Even diluted, the whiskey burned like liquid fire. But once it was past his much abused throat, the warmth curled into his stomach and carried the pain away from his ankle. "Four Corners," Chris rasped, when he was able, and after a few more swallows, didn't much care if it hurt or not to talk. He ended up mostly listening, though, as Buck related the events of the evening, from the time Chris had ridden out to the Wells' to their return to town. Once the danger to the town had passed, JD and Josiah had come out to the Wells' with a wagon and extra hands. Chris had no memory of that journey; he supposed he ought to be grateful that he didn't, judging from the way he felt now.
"Didn't know if they'd be bringin' you back live or dead," Buck sighed.
"Nettie's house?"
"Well, she ain't got no porch, and the front rooms'll need some work, but all in all, she's a lucky lady, thanks to you'n Vin."
"Anyone die?" Chris had been dreading asking, not realizing how much until Buck shook his head.
"No. Few folks lost just about ever'thing but their lives, but no one's sayin' they ain't thankful fer that." He downed the last inch of whiskey in the bottle. Chris had fallen silent, his eyes closed. Buck shook his head. "Larabee, yer enough t'drive a man insane, but I'm sure glad you're still alive, pard."
Chris slitted open one green eye. "Thanks, Buck."
"Shoot, Chris. T'weren't nuthin'." His grin flashed out as he settled his hat on his head and tipped a salute before he left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
When Chris was certain Buck had gone, he cautiously slipped out of bed. The whiskey had reduced his pain to a bearable throb, and he found he could support a hesitant weight on his ankle. He wrapped a blanket around his middle and limped over to the chair Buck had vacated by Vin's bed. He reached out and touched the tips of Vin's curving fingers — the only part of his hand that wasn't swathed in bandages. He had hoped for some response, but Tanner lay still, seeming very slight under the covers, as vulnerable as Chris had ever seen him. At least there was no distress in those finely angled features; he could have been dreaming under the stars. Chris sighed and slid his backbone into a comfortable slouch. For a while he remained watchful, waiting for a sign of returning consciousness, but his exhaustion won out over determination, and he drifted into a doze.
Sarah had always said he slept more like a cat than a man, even in those days when he had no reason to draw his nerves and muscles up tight; the war had done that to him, and there was no undoing those habits. When Mary Travis opened the door, even that soft snick of a lock set him upright, his hands reaching for the weapons that Nathan had the good sense to stow safely.
"Mary," he said, his voice shaking. He gathered up the folds of the blanket that had parted; no sense in being ashamed of his nakedness. Mary had seen as much, and more of a man. She stood there with a hint of high color on her cheeks, and a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth.
"Chris," her smile widened. "I'd get back into bed before Nathan finds you out."
He ignored that advice, sitting back down in the chair. "What are you doin' here? I'd have thought you'd be out writing that big story as fast as you can."
"How do you know I'm not?" she asked. "Maybe you and Vin are the story."
Chris shook his head. "I know you better'n that, Mary. You wouldn't do that to him."
Mary's expression grew troubled as her eyes went to Vin. "How is he?"
Chris sighed. "He ain't come to, yet. Doesn't seem right seeing him so still." He watched Mary as she went to Vin's side. She reached out a tentative hand and brushed the light brown hair from his forehead. A curl of jealousy twisted in Chris' chest even though he had no right to it. What was it with the tracker and women? Seemed there wasn't a one who didn't want to feed him up, offer him some sort of comfort. Nettie, Casey, Inez, Mary. Hell, if Sarah was livin' she'd be the first in line.
Oddly, that thought, rather than causing him pain, comforted him, and he settled back as Mary fussed a bit with Vin's blankets, like she would have if Billy were laying there instead of the wary, half-wild tracker. When she had finished, she set a leather-bound book on the table at Vin's side.
"He don't need a Bible, Mary."
She turned with a quick smile. "It's not a Bible. Just something I thought he'd like at hand." Her gaze softened. "And you should get back into bed."
"Yes, ma'am." Unusually docile, for Chris. Mary came to his side.
"Need a shoulder?"
"You offerin'?"
She nodded, that color coming into her face again. Chris, with a firm hand on his blankets, took her up on the offer. When he was laying down, with his senses comfortably buzzing with her scent, her softness, he looked up at her with those jade green eyes, and for an instant, she saw everything that he could be, not the gunslinger or the grief-hardened man she had come to know. Impulsively, she touched him, as she had Vin, brushing her fingers lightly over his winter-wheat hair. "You get your rest, Chris Larabee," she said, and left the room.
Vin was walking in dark dreams, haunted by flames. He dreamed his hands were on fire, and his lungs. He could hear his heart struggling to beat, sounding like drums across the prairie. The blaze was at his back, all around him, and he could not take a step to move from its path. He had to move ... move or die. With an effort like to tear his heart from its roots, he jerked awake, gasping at the pain in his chest and throat, and realizing that much was not a dream. Firm hands took hold of his shoulders and Vin arched his back, protesting against the restraint.
"Easy, boy! Easy. It's Nathan here, no one for you t'be fighting agin."
He opened his eyes, and all the starch went out of him. He went boneless in Nathan's hands, and let the healer set him back gently against the pillows. "Nathan?" He closed his eyes again.
"Yeah. You gonna stay with us for a while?"
A faint smile curved Tanner's lips. "Don't seem t'have much choice in th' matter," he murmured. His brow furrowed. "Tryin' t'remember. Nettie's place was afire, an' Chris was there with me." His eyes opened wide, "Chris!" He tried to sit up, but everything hurt. He started coughing, great wracking gasps that shook his wiry frame and made him want to cry for the pain it caused him. Nathan just took him in his strong arms and held him until the spasm wore down to shudders. "Don't you worry 'bout Larabee," Nathan soothed. "He ain't the one fell through a burnin' roof." He could still see the worry in Vin's blue eyes. "You don't think that stubborn sonovabitch would stay in here longer'n he had to?"
"Nettie?" Vin's voice was more movement of his lips than sound.
"Ornery as ever. You done good, Vin. Real good." He mixed up a mug of what the tracker derogatorily referred to as swamp water. "This'll take some of that fire outta your throat."
With the worst of his fears relieved, Vin drank down the bitter brew without complaint, and lay quiet as Nathan tended to his injuries. The small pain inflicted by the healer's touch didn't bother him. He was worried about his hands, though. And he could tell from the serious look on Nathan's face as he unwrapped the bandages, that he had his concerns as well. Vin raised his head high enough to get a glimpse of raw and bloody flesh. Seeing it hurt almost as much as Nathan's doctoring. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe through the pain, wondering how much damage he had done, and what the result would be.
Nathan sighed and looked down at Tanner. "I'm gonna hurt you a lot more'n I like, Vin. But the worst thing would be for these wounds t'go septic."
"S'all right, I reckon I been hurt worse."
"You might not think so by the time I'm done," Nathan muttered. He bent his head close to Vin's ravaged hands. It was hard to tell what damage had been caused by fire and what was due to the friction of hauling buckets of water to Nettie's roof. Looked like the worst injuries were from plain physical abuse, which Nathan considered a mercy, 'cause burns could be real bad, easily infected and crippling in the healing if not treated just right. He'd taken advantage of Tanner's unconscious state last night, to debride and disinfect the wounds. As pleased as he was that Tanner was conscious, he wished he could have remained insensible for a few hours more.
Vin had to be hurtin' somethin' fierce judging from the set of his lips and the white look around his eyes. But he just lay there with the still tension of an injured wild creature; like he'd bolt as soon as he was released from those bonds healing demanded. Nathan worked quickly, as sure and gentle as he knew how to be, but both patient and healer were sweating and exhausted by the time he had finished his bandaging. Nathan looked at those fine-boned, sensitive hands and hoped he had done a proper job of tending to them.
"You finished, now?" Vin whispered.
"Yeah."
"Good. 'Cause I'se about to kill you if you wasn't." There was just the barest edge of laughter in Vin's husky whisper.
Nathan chuckled. "You gonna strangle me?"
"Mebbe later ..." Long lashes fluttered down, and the hard-set line of Tanner's mouth softened. Nathan just shook his head, bemused as always by the tracker, who could kill a man faster than the twitch of a reflex, but somehow had an innocence in his soul that took the breath away.
When Vin woke again, the shadows were long, and Chris Larabee was sitting in the chair next to the bed. His left leg was elevated and instead of his usual black boot, he wore a moccasin. He had lit a cheroot, and was watching the slow upwards drift of the smoke, as if it were the most fascinating sight imaginable. Vin could have sworn he hadn't moved more than a flicker of an eyelash, yet Chris' gaze snapped to him as if he had spoken his name.
"You been sittin' there long?" Vin asked.
"Long enough. Figured you'd wake up when you got hungry, pard."
Vin moved uncomfortably. "Ain't all." His eyes flicked from his bandaged hands, to Chris' face, and his expression, half ashamed, half defiant, struck to Chris' heart. He nodded, comprehending the need. He helped Vin with an easy, impersonal touch that somehow never breached the tracker's dignity, then settled him back in bed. "How about some food?"
Vin shrugged. "Hell, Chris, it's bad enough that you had t'help me piss. Spoon feedin' me ..." he shook his head. "Shit." Vin's cheeks burned. "Cain't ask you t'do that."
"Done worse." Chris said laconically. "Inez sent some food over for you. Smells real good. Ya gotta eat, pard, unless you want Nathan breathin' fire at you."
Vin's tipped his head back against his pillows, and laughed silently. "I done breathed in enough fire t'last my life." He submitted with good grace, finding it easier to accept Chris' help than he had thought possible, and humbled by Larabee's care. He had trusted the gunslinger's loyalty in danger, and had never thought to expect his friendship in weakness.
When he had finished eating, and the tray had been taken away, he sipped at a mug of contraband whiskey that Chris had poured, determined to hold it between his own two hands if it killed him. He found that his fingers had just enough strength to curl around the mug, thus sparing him further indignity. Chris had re-lit his cheroot, and they sat in silence, easy with each other. Vin spoke after a while, when everything had settled, and the whiskey had mellowed his pain.
"I reckon I should thank you fer savin' me, again."
Chris had forgotten that Vin had no way of knowing what had happened that night. He shook his head. "Wasn't me. It was Buck. Saved us both."
Vin considered that fact for a moment. "Tell him I'm grateful."
"He knows."
Vin's lashes came down over his eyes, veiling the faint wonderment that in this wide world, he had some sort of value to so many people. "Still, you tell him fer me. Don't know when Nathan'll see fit t'set me free."
Chris crushed out the butt of his cheroot and rose. "It'll be sooner if I let you get some rest. Anything you need before I go?"
"No. But thanks, Chris, fer what you done."
"Be back in the morning, partner."
Vin closed his eyes and shifted his back deeper into the pillows. The evening breeze coming through the window was just cool enough to feel good on his skin. He could hear folks walking past and bits of their conversation floating up to the room where he lay. It wouldn't hurt to be quiet here for a while and let the world go by. He sighed, feeling the fullness in his lungs. It was better than it had been. Healin' took time. Took a heap of patience, too. He'd work on it. Tomorrow.
The next day brought Nettie and Casey to visit Vin with thanks and biscuits, Inez with food and more of the cider that he had liked so much, Mrs. Potter with a sack of sweets, in case he had a hankerin,' and JD, bouncing in with Buck, relating his hand in matters, all of them staying and chatting, entertaining the invalid with the best of intentions until Nathan burst in like the wrath of God, and put an end to the parade of well-wishers.
He glared down at his patient, who was looking peaked. He laid a hand on Vin's forehead and the frown deepened. "You done worked up a fever."
Vin moved his head away from Nathan's touch. "I'm all right, Nathan. Jist too much excitement. I ain't used t'so many folks fussin' around, I reckon."
"You got a headache? You look a mite bleary around the eyeballs."
"Jist tired." Vin closed his eyes against the late afternoon light streaming through the window. Nathan poured a mug of cool water and made him drink it, then stood staring thoughtfully down at him.
"You rest. I'll make sure no one else comes botherin' you."
Vin opened an eye. "How're you gonna do that?"
"I'll git Larabee t'sit outside the door with his gun across his lap. Give him sumthin' t'do besides grouse 'bout his ankle. Keep him off his feet fer a few hours. Man's about as able t'stay still as a bee-stung horse."
"Reckon that'll make me feel real safe," Vin laughed. But it did. Safe, and relieved that he could stop putting up a front that he didn't feel. Folks meant to be kind, and he could appreciate their concern, but they didn't leave much room fer a man to breathe. His heart had been fluttering in his chest like the wings of a bird when they had all been there, made him feel strung up tight. No wonder he'd started up a fever.
After a while he heard Chris' halting step, his voice arguing with Nathan as loudly as he dared, and then the scrape of a chair being drawn up, as Nathan emerged apparently victorious from the verbal tussle with the gunslinger.
He drifted for a while, neither awake nor asleep. Half-dreams came to him and left, changing with the sounds he heard; laughter, the clop of hooves, creaking wagons. He fell into a deeper sleep, where there were no dreams at all, only velvety darkness.
Just because a man's body needed sleep, didn't mean his mind was willing to go along for the ride. Vin woke some time between midnight and dawn. His hands were hurting enough to keep him awake, but not badly enough for him to summon Nathan. He lay quietly, wondering if the tides of his body would allow him to rest; but the throb of his heart was insistent, and he finally gave up on the hope that sleep would come again. He wondered if Chris was still outside, and somehow knew that he was; not as a shadowy menace, but as a friend watching over a friend.
The lantern at his beside was turned low, shedding a faint light. For the first time, Vin noticed the book laid on the table. He knew that cover, even though he had only held it once. His book. He reached for it carefully. It was a struggle for him to pick it up, but he managed despite bandages and pain. He set the book on his lap. The pages fell open to the passage marked with the satin ribbon. Eldorado. Reading was enough of a challenge without dealing with the dim light, but he didn't have anything else to do, or anywhere else to go, so he persevered, sounding out the words as Mary had taught him. He knew his poor skills hardly did the poetry justice. But even his stumbling attempts could not dull the magic of the words; he had never thought of the cadences of speech as music, but he could feel the echo of a heartbeat in what he read:
Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.
But he grew old-
This knight so bold-
And o'er his heart a shadow
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.
And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow-
"Shadow," said he.
"Where can it be-
This land of Eldorado.
"Over the Mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,"
The shade replied-
"If you seek for Eldorado." 1
He wasn't sure about all the words, but he knew about quests. He reckoned they all did: Chris, Mary, JD, Josiah, Nathan, Ezra — hell, even Buck; they were all searching for something. Maybe they'd find it. Maybe like the knight, they would die trying. Maybe it was the travails that made the quest, not the city of gold at the end. The only way to find out was to boldly ride. It sounded bleak, but he knew that unlike the knight, he would not be searching alone. Vin closed the book, and let sleep come to him.
The End
1 Eldorado by Edgar Allan Poe
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