TITLE: This Side of the Grave

AUTHOR: The Neon Gang

AUTHOR'S EMAIL: ponybrat13@yahoo.com

AU DESIGNATION: Old West

TYPE OF FANFIC: gen

MAIN CHARACTERS: Vin, Chris, Seven

OC'S: NA

RATING AND/OR WARNINGS: R, violence and language

SYNOPSIS: JD birthday party raises questions about Vin's birth day.

WEBSITE LINK IF ANY: Neon RainBow Press Fan Fic site coming soon!

 

 

 

 

This Side of the Grave

 

by The Neon Gang

 

 

 

Ten days after their return from guiding the wagon train…

 

            Buck walked into the saloon, his gaze sweeping over the patrons before settling on Vin, who leaned against the bar, talking softly to Inez, or rather, he realized, she was talking to the tracker, who looked more than a little unhappy.

The ladies' man glanced over at an equally unhappy lone figure seated at a corner table, his back to the wall.  Buck frowned.  It was a little early to be drinking, even for Chris Larabee.  He walked over to the table and sat down without an invitation.

            The sullen gunslinger didn't bother looking up from his shot glass, which was still full, Buck noted with some satisfaction.

            The two men shared a companionable silence for a while, Wilmington watching when Vin finally turned away to leave.  The tracker met Buck's eyes and touched his finger to the brim of his hat.

            The big ladies' man nodded, his head cocking slightly to the side as he watched Tanner push out past the batwing doors.  With a sigh he looked back to his long-time friend and asked, "Thought you and Vin made your peace on the way back ta town."

            "We did," Larabee replied dully, still not looking up from the whiskey.

            "Well, it sure as hell don't look like it, stud.  Ya both look like ya lost your best gals."

Chris glanced up for the first time and Buck could see the anger dancing in the gunman's green eyes.  He shook his head.  "Sorry, Chris, poor choice of words on my part," he apologized, but Larabee jumped in.

"He's leavin' again today.  You know about that?"

            "Nope," Buck said and sighed softly to himself.  Since their return to Four Corners, Vin had already taken two trips out of town, each of them lasting for three days.  He and the other regulators assumed the tracker was using the time and distance to work through the knot his feelings had gotten tied into while escorting the wagon train to its destination, but it was clear to the ladies' man that Chris had reached a different conclusion.

            "Ya think he's sneakin' off to go see her?" he asked Larabee.

            Chris cast him a sharp glance and scowled.  "I don't know where the fuck he's going.  Ain't none of my business – or yours."

            "No, it ain't, but that's what you're thinkin'."

            "She's a married woman, Buck," Chris growled softly, not wanting to draw any attention their direction.  "It ain't right."

            Buck nodded slowly, trying not to smile.  He had a long history of secret, and not-so-secret, trysts with married ladies, and Larabee was well aware of many of them.  He doubted the man was really pissed that Vin might still be sparking Charlotte Richmond, although what really had the gunslinger so riled eluded him.  "If it means anythin' at all, I don't think he's slippin' off to see her," he offered quietly.  "He's just working his way though the hurt, that's all.  She gave him the little end of the horn, Chris, even if she didn't mean to, and he knows it."

            Larabee snorted and shook his head.  "Tanner's no innocent, Buck," he argued.

            "No, I know he's not, but he still got the raw end of that deal, and you know he did."

            "What I know is: he ain't been here six days out of the last ten," was the annoyed reply.

            "You sayin' he ain't been pullin' his share?" Buck asked him, wondering if that might not be what was eating at his friend.

            "Do you think he is?"

            Buck sighed again, this time out loud.  There were times Larabee could out-stubborn a damned mule.  "What I think is: we've all needed the rest of us ta pick up some of the slack while we settled our hash . . . Ain't nothin' wrong with that . . . Ya ain't soured on him, have ya?"

            Chris looked up sharply, but considered the question.  "No," he finally replied, glancing away.  "You see how he looks?"

            Buck settled back in his chair, stretching out his long legs and crossing them at the ankles.  He nodded.  "Like he ain't gettin' much sleep?  Lost a little weight, too, I think.  Hard ta tell with that damned hide coat 'a his."

            "He could ask for help – wouldn't kill him," the blond grumbled, the muscles bunching at his jaw.

            Buck grinned.  "Hell, Chris, ain't a one of us finds that easy, an' you know it."

Chris took a deep breath and pushed the glass of whiskey toward Wilmington.  Standing, he looked down at Buck like he wanted to say more, but then he turned and headed for the doors.

            Buck watched him go, wondering what was really bothering his friend and wishing he knew a way to find out.  There were times he regretted no longer being able to read Larabee the way Vin could.  He could try talking to the tracker, but doubted he'd get anything out of the man; Tanner was as closed lipped as Larabee.

He shook his head and reached out, scooping up the shot glass.  He tipped it back and swallowed the whiskey in a single gulp, grimacing as it burned a path to his belly.  It would all come to a head, sooner or later, and when it did, the fur would probably fly.  He just hoped Larabee didn't chase the tracker away.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Three days later

 

            Chris sat in a chair on the boardwalk, just outside the saloon.  The chair was tipped back onto the two rear legs and his hat was pulled low to shield his eyes from the late afternoon sun, but he could still see the legs of the tracker's handsome black gelding as Tanner rode past him without a word.

Vin stopped outside Potter's store and dismounted, heading inside.  He returned to his horse a few minutes later and began stuffing the meager supplies he had purchased into his saddle bags.

            With a half-angry, half-frustrated sigh, Chris let the chair drop forward onto all four legs, then stood and crossed the street.  Vin's hand was on his saddle horn, ready to mount, when Larabee called, "Tanner."

            The tracker stopped, turning to face the blond.  His expression gave away nothing of what he was thinking or feeling, and that neutrality made Larabee's blood sing with frustration and mounting anger.  Tanner looked like hell, his cheeks hollow, his features pale, dark smudges ringing his eyes, which were bloodshot.

            "Got some news," Chris told him, trying not to sound short.  "James's boys are going to be finishin' up a drive in three or four days – brought some stock over from Texas – then they'll be gettin' paid and probably heading into town. . ."

            The tracker nodded.  "Reckon there'll be some trouble then."

            "Expect so," the gunslinger hissed, noticing how Vin seemed to be a little unsteady on his feet.  Had he been drinking?

            Vin seemed to think a moment, then gave a single nod.  "I'll be back 'fore then."

            "Why don't you stay in town," Chris suggested as reasonably as he could.  "They might get done a day or so early.  Maybe you ought to see Nathan – you look like shit."

            "'M fine.  An' I'll keep 'n eye out, come back if'n they do," Vin promised him without meeting his eyes.

            Chris felt his anger flare in the pit of his stomach, but there was nothing he could do about it.  He couldn't order the man to stay, and he'd asked as clearly and as nicely as he could.  "Fine, have it your way," he growled and turned away, stalking back across the street.

            Vin hesitated a moment, then shook his head sadly and swung into his saddle, heading north out of town, his shoulders slumped and his head down.

            Chris watched him leave, wishing he had demanded Tanner stay in Four Corners, but it was the damned tracker's choice.  If Vin wanted to cat around with that cunt, it was none of his damned business.  But if he kept it up, Chris was going to have to do something.  Vin wasn't getting paid to spark some married bitch until he made himself sick while the rest of them sat around, waiting for something to happen in town.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Two days later

 

            Sitting with Buck out in front of the jail, Chris continued to scan the street for any sign of Vin.  Up and down the dusty thoroughfare, business owners hurried to board up their windows, knowing there would, in all likelihood, be trouble when the cowboys rode into town after their long cattle drive.

            "Goddamn sonuvabitch," Larabee growled, staring down the still empty street.

            Buck glanced over at him.  "He said he'd be here; he'll be here."

            "Wouldn't count on it," Larabee replied, looking back down at the checkerboard.

            The big ladies' man shook his head, but held his tongue.  There was no use arguing with Chris when he was in this kind of mood.  He sighed silently.  Whatever trouble lay between Chris and Vin, it had forced Larabee back into his shell.  And, while Buck would have been one of the first to admit he didn't understand the bond that had sprung up between the two men the moment they'd caught sight of each other, he knew it had been good for Chris – until now.

            Hell, the last time he'd seen Larabee before the morning he'd fallen at the gunslinger's feet in Four Corners, the blond had been driving himself as hard and as fast as he could into an early grave.  Between the hard drinking and the gunplay, the ladies' man considered it nothing less than a miracle Larabee wasn't dead already.  But once Chris had hooked up with Vin, things changed, and for the better.  Chris drank less, took fewer reckless chances, and he'd started to turn more introspective.

            Buck wasn't sure that last was necessarily a good thing, but at least Larabee was thinking again, not just surviving on the pain that had been eating him alive from the inside out.

            What it was about the tracker that had prompted the changes was a complete mystery to Buck, but that it had happened was a certainty and, as a result, Wilmington felt like he owed Tanner; owed him for saving Chris's life, in spite of Larabee's best efforts to the contrary.  So now, with the tension between the two men rubbing them all raw, he wasn't sure how to proceed.

            "He'll get past this, Chris," Wilmington tried again.  "Things'll get back to usual in no time, you'll see."

            Larabee looked up.  "You finished?" he snapped.

            "Yep," Buck said with a silent sigh.  Damn, Larabee, sometimes you're nothing but a goddamned stubborn fool.  If it was me, I'd ride out after that damned tracker and make him tell me what's got him so worked up.  But not you.  Oh, hell no.  You're just gonna sit there and stew in your own damned juice 'til one of ya does or says something we're all gonna regret.  And when that happens, I'm just gonna have to beat some sense into both of ya . . . and, God forgive me, I'm goin' to enjoy doing it. . . . hell, we all are.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Late that same day

 

            It was well after dark when Vin rode into Four Corners and he was relieved to find the street empty, although he had more than half-expected to find Larabee sitting outside the jail, or the saloon, waiting for him, ready to demand a good reason why he'd been running away ever since they'd gotten back to town.  And one of the reasons Vin was glad Larabee wasn't waiting for him was that he didn't have a good enough answer for the man.

Oh, he had an answer, just not one he thought Larabee would accept.  And, he knew, Chris shouldn't.  It wasn't the answer.  That – damn it all to hell – had been dodging even him since they're returned.

But he damn well planned to find it for the gunslinger, and for himself, even if it took another three-day fast while he waited for the elusive visions that would explain his tangled, confused feelings.  But after three tries with no luck, he had to admit that he was close to giving up.  Maybe he wasn't supposed to understand it.  Maybe it didn't matter.  Maybe he should just forget about it and try to rebuild some of the fences that had gotten torn down since he'd met Charlotte before it was too late.

But something inside of him refused to give up.  He needed to know the truth.  He needed to understand what it was about that particular woman that had made him willing to toss aside the friendships that had come to mean more to him than his own life.  But nothing he'd tried had brought him the visions he'd sought.

And not eating for nine of the last twelve days while he forced himself to stay awake for three days and three nights running had left him lightheaded and more than a little unsteady on his feet.  He needed a few good meals and some time to sleep if he was going to be any help at all to the others when those trail rowdies rode into town.  Once that was over, he would try one last time to find the answers he was seeking for himself, and for Larabee.  Because without a good explanation, Vin knew his friend would never forgive him his betrayal, and he couldn't really blame the man.

The usual, fires that illuminated the street had burned down low, casting more shadows than light on his ride down the thoroughfare.  He headed straight for the livery, deciding not to wake Tiny.  He could take care of Peso himself, and then he'd grab a couple hours of sleep before facing Chris and the others.

He just hoped getting back a day early would smooth down some of Larabee's ruffled feathers.  He'd known the blond was pissed at him the day he'd left, but he'd needed the time and the solitude for his visions to work – if they had worked.  It was the only way he knew to find out and explain his feelings for Charlotte and, more importantly to him, understand why he'd hurt the men he counted among his friends.  And, especially, why he'd hurt Chris Larabee.

            His head bobbed and Vin jerked, cursing himself softly for almost falling asleep in the saddle.  But he was tired, bone tired.

Shifting and sorting through his thoughts and feelings, many of them ones he'd hoped he'd buried many years before, was damned hard work.  But he knew he owed Chris an explanation.  Hell, he owed all of them an explanation, and by God he was going to find it, no matter what it took.

Not that an explanation would ever excuse him for running out on the men he had come to think of as family, he knew, but at least they deserved to understand why it had happened.

            He wouldn't ask for their forgiveness; he didn't feel he deserved it, but he owed them the explanation.  Then, he figured, they could decide if they wanted him to stay or to go.  And whatever they decided, he'd abide by it.

            Reaching the livery, he swung down lethargically and took the reins, leading Peso to his usual stall, grateful the usually cantankerous gelding had behaved himself on the ride home.  He unsaddled the black and removed his bridle, then tossed hay and some grain into the feeding trough and groomed the big horse while Peso munched contentedly.

When the gelding's coat was dry and shining, and his hooves were cleaned and checked for cracks, Vin gathered his bedroll, saddlebags, and rifle and headed for his wagon.  He stumbled once along the way and silently cursed himself.  He should have stayed in town like Larabee had suggested the last time.  The lack of food and sleep had finally caught up to him, and he might not have time to get himself back into condition.  And if he couldn't, he wouldn't be much help to them when it came to the cowboys.  If someone got hurt because he was too slow, or his mind too muddled, he knew he'd never forgive himself.

Yer a damned stupid fool, Tanner, he berated himself.  Yer thinkin' more 'bout yer own problems 'n' not 'nough 'bout doin' what's gotta be done.

            Reaching his wagon, he flung the bedroll and saddlebags inside, angry and disgusted with himself for letting his own needs get in the way of protecting his friends.  "Stupid," he muttered to himself.  "'M a damned stupid, stupid fool."

He set his rifle into the corner of the wagon and reached for the handle he used to pull himself up, but the soft crunch of boot heels in the dirt stopped him from actually climbing up.

"Damn, Larabee, can't this wait 'til mornin'?" he sighed tiredly.

There was no immediate reply and Vin's reactions, made sluggish from the lack of food and sleep, meant he'd lost any edge he might otherwise have had.  Before he could let go, turn and draw his Mare's Leg, he heard the rush of air and felt an explosion of fiery pain erupt inside his skull.  He dropped to his knees with a soft grunt.

            Clasped fists pounded him hard between the shoulder blades, sending him sprawling face-first into the dusty street.  Booted feet savagely kicked him, forcing him to draw up into a tight ball in order to protect himself.  Finally, one boot tip caught him behind the ear and the world exploded into shards of white-hot agony and blinding yellow stars before everything went dark and still.

            Vin's last thoughts were of the men he'd come back to help protect, and their black-clad leader.  And he knew he'd just let them all down – again.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

The next day

 

            Chris stood on the boardwalk outside the saloon, the muscles in his jaw twitching.  With his hands on his hips, the man in black looked angry and dangerous, and the men and women who passed by him did so with their gazes averted and as quickly as they could possibly manage.  No one dared utter a single word to the man.  But Chris was oblivious to the nervous townsfolk; he was waiting for Tanner.

            Josiah, walking up from the church, saw Larabee's stony expression and sighed softly.  He paused when he reached the blond, asking as casually as he could manage, "Any sign?"

            "No," Chris replied, knowing Sanchez was asking about Vin and not the anticipated drovers.

            "He mentioned he was riding out to Apache Creek. . ."

            Chris flashed the former preacher an angry glare.  "You suggesting I ride out there and ask him to come back?"

            "Wouldn't think of it, brother," Josiah replied quickly, his hands coming up in a gesture of capitulation.  "Just think this is unlike Vin, don't you?"

            "Yeah?" Chris questioned, his voice laced with more than a little sarcasm.  "If you ask me, Vin hasn't been acting much like Vin for a while now."  Larabee turned on his boot heel and stalked off, disappearing into the saloon.

            Josiah shook his head.  He had seen the concern, hidden behind the anger in the man's eyes and despite what Chris said he knew their leader was worried about the tracker.  Hell, they all were.  Vin hadn't looked well the last time they had seen him and he'd definitely withdrawn from their company since that trip with the settlers.  He glanced up and down the street, wishing Tanner would make an appearance.  They were going to sorely miss the cover the sharpshooter always provided from the rooftops if he didn't make it back before the cowboys arrived.

Josiah smiled to himself and shook his head, remembering the times he'd seen Vin running fearlessly over the rooftops, firing his rifle or his Mare's Leg as he went.  It was an amazing sight to see, especially when Tanner leaped across the open spaces between the buildings like he thought he had wings.  An avenging angel couldn't look more deadly, or more welcome to the men who counted on him to watch their backs from on high.

"Man's part hawk, Lord," the preacher mumbled to himself, continuing on into the saloon to break his fast with the others.  They would need to plan some strategy for when the drovers arrived.  He just hoped that whatever was troubling Vin, he worked his way through it, and soon.  They needed him.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

The same morning

 

            Vin gasped and jerked violently when the bucketful of water struck him full in the face.  He choked and coughed and shook his head, blinking rapidly to try and clear his vision but, before he could, someone grabbed his hair and jerked his head back roughly, sending stabs of red-hot agony slicing though his skull and making his stomach churn dangerously.

He tried to fight the rough treatment, but his arms were tied – open wide and pulled up slightly over his head.  And, although he was resting on his knees instead of standing on his feet, a few quick jerks told him his ankles had been tied together and bound to a stake driven into the ground behind him.  He was also stripped of clothes and weapons, helpless before him tormentors.

Ah hell, he moaned silently, wondering what part of his past had finally caught up to him this time.

            He saw the flash of sunlight on a knife, then felt the cold blade pressing against his exposed neck.  "What th' hell d' y' want?" he rasped, blinking to clear the water still dripping into his eyes.  He heard two men chuckle.

The one holding the tracker's hair shoved Vin's head forward forcefully as he released him, sending another flash of pure agony slashing through the sharpshooter's skull.  Vin moaned softly in spite of his best efforts not to.  He glowered up at the big man.

            "Ya r'member us, bounty hunter?" the smaller of the pair asked, stepping up closer to the tracker, his face just inches from Vin's.

            Tanner squinted at the man for a moment, the smell of his foul breath nearly making the tracker gag, then he growled lowly, "Met a couple 'a mangy fice dawgs like y' over in Silver City couple 'a years back. . ."

            The older, larger man stepped forward and slapped Vin hard across the face.  "Y' can do better 'n that, ya little bastard."

The tracker spat out the blood that filled his mouth.  It landed on the big man's boots.

            "You're gonna pay for that, y' sonuvabitch," he snarled.  He kneed Vin hard in the stomach, making the tracker retch.  "I'll tell y' who we are, boy.  We're kin of Eli Joe's.  Cousins.  But he was more like a brother t' the two of us.  We heard what y' did t' him, you an' that damn pack a dawgs yer runnin' with now."

            "Earned it," Vin wheezed, lifting his chin defiantly.  "Killed an innocent man, framed me fer it jus' t' throw me off his scent."

            The smaller of the two men laughed, saying, "Hell, we know 'bout that, y' damned fool.  We was there when he done it.  But he's our kin, and we come t' take a life fer a life."

            "But y' ain't gonna go quick, y' bastard, not like Eli Joe," the big man growled menacingly.  "You're gonna die slow, Tanner . . . real slow."  He kneed Vin again, doubling the tracker over as far as the restraints would allow, and then punching him in the face, snapping Vin's head back and splattering blood across the ground.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

The following day

 

            The quiet of late morning was broken by the wild whoops of the drovers as they descended upon Four Corners at a full gallop, their horses kicking up clouds of dust and sending the few townsfolk still out on the street scurrying for the safety of their homes and businesses.

            Chris and the others remained where they were, their guns and rifles plainly visible to the rambunctious men, who pulled up their mounts outside the two saloons.

            "You come for a drink and some poker, you can get off your horses," Chris told them, standing between the Standish Tavern and Digger Dave's, his thumbs tucked under his gunbelt.  "You come for trouble, gonna get more than you bargained for."

            "Don't want no trouble, Larabee," one of the men snarled.  "Just some whiskey and a little fun – been a long drive."

            "Well, if it's whiskey and entertainment you're seeking, you've come to the right place, gentlemen," Ezra said, his gold tooth flashing as he gestured toward the Standish Tavern.  "Please, do come in."

            The cowboys dismounted, tied their horses to hitching posts and headed into the saloons, shooting the regulators sour looks as they passed.

            "Well, that went much easier than I expected," Josiah rumbled softly from where he leaned against the side of the hardware store.

            "Just you wait 'til them boys get liquored up," Nathan warned the former preacher.  "Then things'll change.  Believe me, I know.  Least they ain't got no wounded with 'em this time. . ."

            "Count on things changin'," Chris said, casting a glance up at the empty rooftops.  "Josiah, you and Nathan are out here, but stay close; keep an eye on these cowboys.  Buck, take JD and move their horses down to the livery corral."

            "And I believe I will help the lovely Inez serve these, uh . . . paying customers," Ezra said before Larabee could find something else for him to do.

            Chris nodded.  "Ezra," he called before the gambler could step inside.  "Watch your back," he cautioned.

            "Oh, I plan to, Mr. Larabee," he said, grinning.  "While making a killing at the poker table."

            "What're you goin' ta do?" Buck asked Chris.

            "Watch Ezra's back – for the moment."

            Wilmington nodded, wondering how long their luck would hold.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Later that day

 

            No one was exactly sure when the trouble started, or how, but it spread like a grass fire in front of a strong wind.  Fights broke out in both saloons, knives flashed, guns were fired, and more than a few pieces of furniture were reduced to kindling.

The six peacekeepers did their best to contain the damage to the two saloons, but the chaos spilled out onto the boardwalk and into the streets.

The townsfolk, lulled by the fact that the drovers were behaving themselves, and were contained inside the saloons, had ventured out from hiding, picking up with their lives.  Many found themselves caught up in the raucous fights that broke along the boardwalks and in the street.

            Nathan and Josiah managed to round up four drovers toting pieces of burning wood they had pulled from the street fires.  They were headed for Miss Maggie's, determined to see the girls – all of them – or burn them out.

            "You know what the wages of sin are, don't you, son?" Josiah asked, clouting one of the men on the back of his head as he escorted him to the jail.

Buck and JD broke up several fights, then disarmed three cowboys who had started shooting at the various business signs, although not before the Gem Hotel's placard had been utterly destroyed.

Ezra got the drop on the two trailhands responsible for most of the damage to the Standish Tavern, and Chris drew down on another three who had cornered Mary after she had come out of the Clarion office to stop the men from harassing the new dressmaker, a widow who didn't understand what was happening, or the danger she was in, getting caught out alone on her way from the dress shop to the boarding house.

            The regulators forced all of their prisoners to the jail and locked them up, which set off the rest of the hands, who were determined to free their friends.  The resulting gun-battle left two of the remaining cowboys wounded – "Just winged, you'll live," Nathan told them – and the rest crammed into cells along with the others.

            Buck grinned and shook his head when it was finally over, just past midnight, saying, "Hell, ain't seen it this crowded in here in a long spell!"

            "What're we gonna do with all of 'em?" JD asked, looking more than a little worried.  The cells were all packed full of grumbling, hungover men.

            "Pick one of 'em who ain't so drunk he can't still sit a horse and send 'im back to James.  Tell that old man if he wants his hands back, he's gonna have to pay for the trouble they've caused," Chris said, reloading his Colt.  He looked up.  "It's that or we just shoot the lot of 'em where they stand."

            The men in the cells instantly fell silent.

            Ezra smiled.  "I would be more than happy to calculate the damages incurred by the hard-working business owners of Four Corners, myself among them," he volunteered graciously.

            "Means he gonna hitch the price up, high as he can," Nathan mumbled, teasing the gambler.

            Ezra flashed the healer a smile, replying, "Why, Mr. Jackson, you wound me."

            "Not as much as you're gonna wound ol' Stewart James's pocketbook," Buck added, poking the gambler in the ribs with his elbow.

            "We're just lucky it didn't turn ugly," Larabee said, slipping his Colt back into his holster.

            "Amen to that, brother," Josiah concluded, walking over to the cells to find the messenger among the inebriated cowboys.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

The next day

 

            Seated around the largest undamaged table in the saloon, the six peacekeepers ate their breakfast in strained  Gazes were exchanged across the table, and from man to man, but no one dared raise the question haunting all of their thoughts: Where was Vin Tanner?

            Finally, Buck sighed, set his fork down and asked, "Chris, don't ya think we should go lookin' for Vin?  It's been four days since he left the last time.  He's been back after three ever' other time before.  Just not like him to miss a fight."

            Larabee looked up from his plate, meeting Wilmington's eyes.  "The man's made his choices, Buck."

            The big ladies' man frowned.  "We don't know that, Chris.  He might've got himself hurt, or–"  The look Larabee gave him stopped Wilmington cold.

            "Brother Buck's right," Josiah said softly, taking up the fight for their missing member without meeting Larabee's flashing green eyes.  "Just ain't like Vin to run out on us when he knew there was trouble comin'."

            "We could split up, check some of his usual spots," Nathan suggested without looking up from his plate.  "Wouldn't take too long."

            JD nodded enthusiastically.  He was sitting next to Larabee – Vin's empty chair on the other side of the gunslinger – and he didn't quite dare put voice his agreement, being in such close proximity to the explosive man in black.

            "He knew when those drovers were goin' to be here," Chris snapped at the group.  "Leave him be.  He needs his privacy that bad, we ought to give it to him."  And with that he pushed his chair back and, leaving the majority of his breakfast on his plate, stood and left the saloon.

            "Think we should do what he says?" Nathan asked the others when the batwings doors swung shut again.

            Ezra, who had wisely remained silent during the exchange, leaned forward, saying, "Perhaps we should leave Mr. Larabee to watch over this godforsaken excuse for a town and go searching for our wayward tracker on our own."

            Buck leaned back in his chair.  "Chris's got a point, boys.  Vin knew when them drovers were due in town."

            "Which is why we should go lookin' for him," JD argued.  "Vin's never let any of us down, not when he knew we needed him."

            Buck met the young man's gaze.  "Except out there on that wagon train when he let us all down, runnin' off with that woman and leaving us ta face Dickey O'Shea and his boys without him.  Ain't a man at this table can say they weren't a little hurt or mad 'bout that."

            JD looked away, unable to argue; it was true.

            Buck cursed softly and pushed back from the table.  He folded his arms over his chest and sighed loudly.  "Vin was wrong, runnin' off like that, and Chris took it hard," he said, his words meant for all of them.  "I figure Vin had his reasons, and maybe he'll get around to tellin' us what they were one of these days.  But I also figure Chris has got a reason to be mad."  He paused and shook his head.  "But this just don't feel right.  Tell ya what, if Vin ain't back by tomorrow, we'll go lookin' for him, with or without Chris."

            The others nodded their agreement.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

            Leaving the saloon, Chris crossed the street, heading for the jail.  His stomach churned and he gritted his teeth, trying to push the anger away.

            Reaching the jail, he sat down on the chair sitting outside and sighed heavily.  His gut and his head were telling him, loudly and clearly, that they needed to go find Vin – now – but his head refused to listen.  Worry and anger warred in his soul and, against his better judgment, he let the anger win.

            "Damn you, Tanner," he hissed softly, already regretting it.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

The same day

 

            Vin slumped forward, oblivious to the pain that scorched through his shoulders as they were forced to bear the majority of his weight.  Not for the first time since he'd been captured, the tracker was grateful he was on his knees.  He knew his legs wouldn't be able to support him any longer if he'd been standing.  The flogging had been excruciatingly painful, but at least it hadn't done much real damage to his sunburned back.  Sweat dripped into his eyes, making them burn, and he longed for some water, but he knew he couldn't expect any from the two men who tortured him.

            He distracted himself from the pain by worrying about the other peacekeepers.  The drovers should have arrived the day before, and there was no telling what kind of damage they might have inflicted on Four Corners, or on the six men left there to defend it – alone.

            But what worried him the most was Larabee.  Given the mood the man had been in the last time he'd seen him, Chris had probably assumed that Vin had run out on them, again.  And it felt like he had to Tanner as well.

            Stupid, he rebuked himself, damn stupid fool, lettin' myself get caught like some no account greenhorn.

            "Looks like he's comin' 'round, Lyman," the tracker heard the smaller man say.

            "'Bout damned time."

            Then Vin felt the tip of a smoldering stick being pressed against the bare skin of his lower back.  He howled and struggled, but there was no escape from the pain.  No escape except the oblivion of unconsciousness, and he prayed to every god and spirit he knew to take him to that place, but none seemed to be listening.

Served him right, he figured.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

The next morning

 

            Chris heard them coming before he saw them.  He had been expecting something like this and, if he was honest with himself, he was surprised it had taken them this long.  And, if he was being completely honest, he was getting more than a little worried himself.

They stopped in the street, in front of the jail, Buck swinging down out of his saddle and stepping up onto the boardwalk, no doubt to try and talk some sense into him.

            "You're not gonna find him," Larabee said from under the brim of his hat.  "Not if he don't want to be found."

            "Maybe.  But we've gotta look, Chris, and you know it well as I do.  This just ain't right," the ladies' man said, his tone somewhere between reasonable and pleading.

            The gunslinger sighed softly.  Buck was right, and he did know it.  They should have started looking yesterday.  His gut had said so, but he'd ignored it, somehow thinking he was punishing the tracker for the hurt he'd done him.  Now, however, the gunslinger wondered if he'd only been punishing himself for not confronting Tanner and clearing the air between them.

Larabee sighed again, heavier this time, and nodded.  "All right.  I'll get my horse."

            Buck grinned, casting an "I told you so" look over his shoulder at the rest of the regulators.  "Figured you'd see it that way, pard.  He's ready and waiting for ya at the livery."

            "Thanks," Chris said, sharing the ghost of a smile with his long-time friend.  Larabee could be a stubborn, pig-headed man, and he knew it.  He just hoped it wasn't going to cost him his friendship with Vin.  He'd had a bad feeling about the tracker for the past two days, but he'd been too angry to listen to it.  Now it flared in his gut, making it hard for him to breathe as he walked down to the livery.

            The others waited while Chris got his horse, then they headed out of town, breaking off in pairs to check Vin's most common camps close to town.  When each pair came up empty, they fired off a pair of shots into the air to let the others know.

By mid-day six shots had echoed over the desert landscape and they all knew finding the tracker wasn't going to be as easy as they had hoped it would be.  Vin wasn't at any of his usual places.

            Having agreed to meet back in town once they'd checked their spots, the six men all turned back to Four Corners, their worry climbing steadily as they rode for home.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

The same day

 

            "Damn, Lyman, I think y' killed 'im!"

            "Naw, he ain't dead – yet.  He's jus' playin' possum."

            Vin slumped against the restraints, holding himself as still as he could and hoping he could keep them away from him for just a little while longer.  He was actually surprised to find himself awake again after the last beating, sure that they'd finally killed him when he'd passed out.

They were inventive, he had to give them that much.  They'd showed him more ways to pain than he'd thought possible for a pair of white men who hadn't spent time living in the Comanche camps.  It looked like some of the more southern tribes had taught them almost as well as the People had taught him.  But he was far past caring what they would come up with next.  All he wanted to do was survive long enough to be found.  But a nagging voice kept whispering that no one was coming this time.  He was on his own, just like he'd always been.

His friends had abandoned him, just like he had abandoned them.  And it was his own damn fault.

He was alone, because, if they were coming, they would've found him by now.  He'd left enough signs that even JD should've been able to find him.

They weren't coming, and he was going to die – very slowly and very painfully.

            But it was nothing more than what he deserved.  He had let them down – his friends, his family – and now he was reaping his just reward.  Any or all of his friends could already be dead or dying because he'd allowed himself to get caught.  He'd run out on them once, and he hadn't been there to help them with the drovers.

He deserved whatever these two could dish out.

            But when the pain came again, as he knew it would, he still prayed that they came for him, found him – and the sooner the better.

But he no longer believed his prayers would be answered.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

The same day

 

            As Chris and Ezra passed Vin's wagon on the way back into town, the gambler commented, "At least Mr. Tanner's rolling abode is still here, and his mule is still in the livery.  He must still be planning to return at some future time."

            Chris nodded, but he didn't bother with a reply.  He was scared.  More scared than he had been since he'd seen the gray tendrils of smoke rising over his homestead years earlier.  Vin was in trouble and he had no way of finding the tracker.

            Ezra pulled up his gelding.  "You don't think Mr. Tanner might have left us some clue as to his whereabouts within his wagon, do you?"

            Chris glanced over at the man, a small smile lifting some of the worry from his expression.  "Ezra, every once in a while you have a damned fine idea."

            The gambler flashed his gold tooth, replying, "I do at that, Mr. Larabee, I do at that."  They turned their horses and approached the wagon.  Ezra frowned.  "Although, I find I must confess, I have no idea what we should look for."

            "I do," Chris said, swinging down from his gelding and pulling back the canvas flap to get a look inside the wagon Vin called "home."  And what he saw turned his guts icy with fear.  Damn, he cursed silent.  We were fools!  Why didn't we look here first?

Vin's holster and Mare's Leg lay on the bed of the wagon, along with his bedroll and saddlebags.  And his rifle was leaning in the corner.  "Peso wasn't in the livery, right?" Chris asked, sure he would have noticed if the big black had been there earlier.

            "No," Ezra replied.  "Mr. Wilmington checked, and that cantankerous excuse for a horse was gone, along with Mr. Tanner's tack."

            "Vin wouldn't go anywhere without his guns," Chris snarled.  "Not willingly, anyway.  He was here," he said aloud, his tone a self-chastising groan.  "And probably before those drovers showed up."

            "But–"

            "Come on," Chris snapped, "we have to find the others."

            They mounted and hurried the rest of the way into town, finding the others at the livery.

            "Nope, that don't make sense," Buck agreed when Chris told them what he and Ezra had found in Vin's wagon.  "Someone must've grabbed him when he got back."

            "Damn," Larabee hissed, shaking his head.

            The big ladies' man reached out and squeezed his friend's shoulder.  "It ain't your fault, Chris.  We all thought he was just–  Well, Vin ain't been himself since that wagon train trip."

            Larabee shot Wilmington a cold glare, but he didn't say anything.

            "What're we gonna do?" JD asked Chris.

            "It's gettin' dark," the blond replied.  "Tomorrow we see if we can pick up a trail.  If someone has Vin, he'll find a way to leave signs for us to follow."  It was the best they could do, and as much as he didn't want to wait, he knew they didn't have a choice now.

 

* ~ *~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

The next day, a Sunday morning

 

            "Damn it, Tom, ain't y' finished yet?" the big man asked his brother.

            "Hell, Lyman, why ya makin' me do all the work?  Ya could come down here and help me; get done faster that way."

"I didn't ask for yer lip, damn it, I asked if y' were done!"

"Well, it ain't deep, but it's deep enough t' bury his sorry carcass," was the reply as the man tossed his shovel aside and stepped out of the shallow grave.

            The two men walked over to where Vin lay on the ground, his naked, battered body still and unmoving.

            "Think he's dead?" Tom asked, nudging Tanner's shoulder with the tip of his boot.

            "Don't make no never mind t' me," Lyman replied, reaching down to grab the bloody tracker by an arm, dragging him over to the edge of the shallow grave.  He used his foot to roll Vin over into the hole, the tracker landing face down at the bottom with a soft moan.

The big man walked over and picked up the discarded shovel, then started tossing piles of dirt into the hole as Vin struggled to make it to his hands and knees.

"Help me, damn it!" Lymon snapped.

Tom looked at his older brother, his eyes wide and his face slightly pale.  "But he's alive."

"I said help me, damn you!" Lymon snapped harshly and his brother began pushing in more of the loose earth with his hands.

Vin dropped, unable to bear the weight of the dirt on his back, and lay still.

When they finished, the two brothers mounted their horses and, taking Peso, rode out of the bloody camp without looking back.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

            Vin regained consciousness slowly.  He hurt, everywhere, and it was hard to breathe.  The musky smell of dirt filled his nostrils and he opened his eyes to darkness.  A heavy weight on his back kept him from rising and he tried to turn his head, but couldn't even manage that.

            Then he realized where he was, and why he couldn't breathe.

Buried.  He was buried alive.

            A surge of mindless panic raced through his veins, taking control of his body and forcing him to push himself up like some raging animal.  He broke though the surface of the loose ground and gasped in a breath of live-giving air.  Then he saw them: Eli Joe's cousins, riding off.

He dropped back onto the dirt and waited until they were out of sight before he crawled free of his grave and lay on the hard ground, panting for breath.

            He shivered, more from fear than cold, as he forced himself onto his feet.  He swayed and staggered drunkenly as the landscape titled violently around him.  He closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them again, finding the world looking more or less like normal.

Naked, he took a moment to check the camp in case they had left his clothes behind, but they had taken even those with them.

Glancing around, trying to get his bearings, he wished for water and something to cover himself with, but there was none and nothing.  He turned to the only thing he had.  Kneeling in the circle of sweat- and blood-dampened dirt, he scooped up handfuls, smearing it over as much of his exposed skin as he could reach.  Then, determining where he was by landmarks along the horizons, he turned west and took his first steps toward Four Corners – toward home.

            As he stumbled along, his feet slowly bruising and then beginning to bleed as rocks and cactus thorns cut into his soles, he thought about Chris, hoping the man eventually found his body.  He wanted Larabee to know he hadn't run out on him a second time.  It was important to him Larabee knew that, more important than getting back to town alive, but he would try.  He owed Larabee that much.

            Tanner set his mind to the task of keeping his feet moving.  Nothing else mattered – not pain, not thirst, not the late winter sun, shining down on his naked body, weak, but still powerful enough to turn his exposed skin a brilliant red.

And he kept walking through daylight and dark, one painful step after another, each one carrying him a little bit closer to home.

The tracker finally stumbled to a stop at the top of a short rise, out of breath and shaking so hard he could barely stay on his feet.  He gazed out into the distance for the first time in many hours and, on the edge of the horizon, could just make out the tallest buildings in Four Corners in the glow of the sunrise.

The ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of his cracked and bleeding lips and he heaved a soft sigh.  It wasn't far now.

            It took him a moment, but he finally managed to convince his body to take another step forward.  But his trembling legs could no longer support his weight and he fell to the ground, tumbling down the slope and landing in a shallow wash with an anguished, defeated cry.

Three times he tried to pull himself up, and three times his body refused to obey.  His fist weakly pounded the dirt.  Ah, hell, I ain't gonna make it.  Damn . . . 'm sorry, Chris.  I tried . . . I really tried, 'm jus' too damned weak . . . 'm sorry, pard. . .

            And then he saw her, young and beautiful, just like he remembered.  She reached out to him, smiling, but her eyes were so sad, also just like he remembered.

            He knew then that he was dying.  There was no other explanation.  But he was close, so close to home, he couldn't die, not now.  Not before Larabee knew the truth.  He finally had his long-sought answer, but he didn't think he'd ever get the chance to tell Chris, and that, more than anything Eli Joe's kin had done to him, made him hurt, deep inside.

            He looked up into her sad black eyes.  "Please, Little Deer . . . don't take me . . . not yet," he begged her.  "Please . . . I got . . . t' set things right . . . with Chris . . . please."  Please.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Sunday morning

 

            Chris and the others started at Vin's wagon, Buck finding the scuff mark from the tracker's boot heel near one of the rear wheels.  There was another just like it in the livery, near the wall where Vin usually kept his tack.  Both marks ran east-west, the narrow end pointed toward the east.  They rode out of town, heading east.

            The morning passed, the six men finding an occasional sign left by the tracker.  But then mid-day came and went, and the signs stopped and they had nothing to tell them if they were still headed in the right direction.

            "Maybe whoever has him knocked him unconscious," Nathan ventured when they stopped to rest their horses.

            "Maybe," Chris said, knowing it could just as easily be that whoever had taken Vin had simply killed the tracker.  Or they could have missed a sign, telling them to take another direction, but he didn't think so.

            "We should split up," Buck said.  "We can cover more ground, and we don't know if we're headed in the right way anymore."

            "Hey, over here!"

            The men turned, finding JD kneeling, studying something on the ground.

            "What d'ya got, JD?" Buck asked the young man, hurrying over to join him.

            "Another of those scuff marks," he said, "and lots of hoofprints."

            The others went over.  "They must've made camp here," Chris said, looking down at the marks and wishing he had even half the tracker's skill at reading signs.  But at least one thing was clear to Larabee.  "They're still headed east . . . probably taking him back to Tascosa to collect on that five hundred dollar reward."  He glanced around at the others.  "If they're headed east, then the next good campsite would be around . . . Mule Creek?"

            Nathan, Buck, and Josiah all nodded.

            "We could make that by nightfall, if we push the horses," Buck said, seeing the fear Larabee was trying hard to hide.

            Chris nodded.  "We'll push 'em."  He didn't know how he knew it, but he was sure they had to hurry; Vin's life depended on it.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Later that day

 

            "Good Lord in Heaven, what in hell did they do to him?" Buck whispered as he peered around at the camp they had found just north of Mule Creek.  Blood was soaked into the ground between two trees, and two blood-stained leather thongs still hung around the narrow trunks.  A stake was set securely into the ground, which had been badly scraped up.

            "He put up one helluva fight," Nathan said softly.

            "Chris!" Josiah called, his deep voice breaking uncharacteristically.

            The others hurried over to where the former preacher stood next to what could only be a shallow grave.

            "Ohmygod," JD gasped, turning away abruptly before he got sick.  Buck stayed with the young sheriff, but the others joined Josiah.

            Larabee approached the pile of loose dirt like it was a rattlesnake, poised to strike.  It was clearly a grave, but the pile of dirt had been . . . disturbed.

            "Scavengers?" Ezra asked, swallowing hard as he imagined coyotes digging up the recently deceased body of their friend and dragging him off to feast on.

            Chris frowned.  "I don't think so," he said watching as Josiah knelt and dug into the loose earth, searching for a body.

Nathan started searching around the grave.  "Here," he called a few moment s later.  "Look's like he's walkin' . . . an' he's bleedin'."

            "What?  Who?" JD asked, turning an even lighter shade of gray as he approached, Buck at his side, a hand on his shoulder in a welcomed show of support.

            "I knew Vin could whip his weight in wildcats, but damn, this. . ."  The big ladies' man shook his head.

            "Would someone care to enlighten me as to what we're talking about?" Ezra asked, sounding more than a little frustrated by the incomprehensible conversation.

            "Looks like Vin dug his way out of his own grave," Chris said, his voice tight with worry and guilt, and more than a little admiration.

            JD gasped.  "What?  How?  I mean–"

            "The grave's empty," Josiah said.

            "They must've buried him alive," Nathan told the youngest member of their group.  "And from the looks of this blood trail, he's headed back to Four Corners."

            "We ride," Chris said, turning to get his horse.

            "Chris, it's damn near dark," Buck argued, grabbing the blond's arm to stop him from mounting.

            "He ain't goin' far," Chris said softly, his eyes pleading with Buck to back him up on this one.

            Nathan stood and shook his head.  "This blood's already hard, Chris; got to be several hours old."

            "We'll have a better chance of findin' him come daylight," Buck said softly, his worried gaze begging Chris to be reasonable.  "We go out there now, we could ride right past him and not even see him, pard."

            Larabee cursed softly, anger nearly closing his throat, but he nodded.  "All right, but tomorrow Nathan and I are goin' after Vin.  The rest of you find the men who did this.  And I want 'em brought back to Four Corners, alive.  I've got plans for 'em."

            Buck nodded his agreement, the others doing the same.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

The next day

 

            The six men were up before sunrise and ready to ride as soon as there was light enough for them to see the trails they needed to follow.  Buck led the others off to the east, Chris and Nathan heading west.

The blood trail the two men followed, which grew even easier to see once the tracker's feet began to bleed, allowed them to cover the ground at a fast lope.  And they followed the unwavering path as it proceeded unerringly back toward Four Corners over the course of the morning.

And, with each mile closer to home, Chris cursed himself again for not looking for the tracker sooner.  If Vin died, it would be his fault, as surely as if he'd put a gun to the man's head and pulled the trigger himself.

But what haunted him the most was why he hadn't gone looking for the tracker sooner: pride – simple, arrogant pride.

He'd been angry that Vin could cast aside their friendship so easily.  And for what, a married woman?

No, he corrected himself.  For love.  And love was never easy.  It was complicated and dear, something he knew better than many men.

Pulling himself from the increasingly depressing thoughts that were quickly turning toward his other losses, Chris knew they would soon see the small community of Four Corners appear on the horizon.  How in Heaven's name had Vin managed to get this far?

"Man's got more grit than ten others put t'gether," Nathan said softly, and Chris realized he must have asked the question out loud.  "Bone, muscle an' grit . . . held t'gether by pure mule-headed stubbornness."

Chris allowed himself a small smile.  It was true, too true, sometimes.  He just hoped this was one of them.

            Then, in front of them, a small rise appeared and they followed the blood trail to the top where it suddenly stopped.  Both men scanned the bottom of the elevation.

            "There!" Nathan cried, urging his gelding down the slope to the wash below where Vin lay sprawled on the ground.

            Chris tried to start his horse forward as well, but he was unable to urge the black into motion.  He stared at the unmoving man, his skin sunburned where it wasn't covered with bruises, dirt or blood, and knew the tracker had given all he had to get back home; to get back to him.

            Nathan jumped down from his horse and scrambled over to Vin.  With trembling fingers he reached out and felt along the man's neck, searching for a heartbeat.  "I don't know how, but he's alive!" the healer called up to Larabee, his voice breaking.

            The words lanced through Chris like knives, cutting the invisible bonds that had held him motionless and he gigged the gelding's flanks, the animal hurrying to the bottom of the rise.  The blond was off his horse before the gelding stopped moving.

            "I don't know how, but he's alive," Nathan repeated, shaking his head, his hands gently touching the tracker's back, arm, shoulder, head.

            Larabee reached out, gently touching the tracker's shoulder as well.  "Hell!  His skin feels like hot ice," he hissed, jerking his hand away from the unnatural sensation.

            "Cool night last night, got ta get him warmed up," Nathan agreed, nodding.  "Start me a fire, and grab both our bedrolls.  Do it quick."

            Chris nodded and hurried to carry out the healer's instructions.  While he worked, Nathan examined Vin, trying to determine the extent of his many injuries.  "Damn, feels like he's got a couple 'a busted ribs," the healer muttered aloud.  "Bruises all over . . . burned some, too . . . he took a helluva beatin'  . . . and a good hit t' the head, too . . . damn, some of these cuts are infected pretty bad. . ."

            "Bedrolls are ready," Chris interrupted the stomach-churning litany.

            "Help me lift him up and turn him over, but go easy.  He wakes up and starts ta fight us, them ribs might stab his lung."

            Chris nodded, his hands starting to shake before he even reached for the tracker.

            Together they carefully lifted Vin, turned him, and laid him on the bedrolls.  Chris shivered when there was no reaction from Tanner at all.  "Nathan?" he asked hoarsely, fear making his heart pound so hard he wasn't sure he could hear the healer's answer.

            "I'll do all I can," he promised him, checking injuries on the man's chest.

Larabee went back to work, building up the small fire he'd already started while Nathan moved to the tracker's feet.

            "Shit."

Larabee looked over sharply.  "What?"

"His feet are a real mess," the healer said, shaking his head.  "Got a helluva sunburn, too . . . wrists and ankles are all torn up. . ."

            "What next?" Chris asked him when the fire was burning well.

            Nathan looked up at the gunslinger and saw the fear in the man's eyes.  He knew he had to give Larabee something to do.  "Sit two of the canteens close to the fire and warm me up some water.  I want ta get him washed up so I can see these wounds better.  Some are gonna need ta be cleaned out and stitched befo' the infection gets worse."

            Larabee nodded and went back to work, setting the canteen close to the flames, then gathering up more fuel for the fire from the stunted trees scattered along the edge of the wash.

            Nathan hurried to his horse and untied his saddlebags, carrying them over to Vin and sitting down on the ground next to the injured man.  Digging into the pouches, he removed bandages, ointment, powders and other items.

            Once the water warmed, Chris and Nathan gently and thoroughly washed the dirt off Vin's skin, which they found was covered by welts, bruises, cuts, and several burn marks.  Nathan treated the worst of the cuts and burns, then bandaged them.  Next he bound the man's ribs, saving his feet for last.

            After carefully cleaning and debriding the tracker's soles, Nathan treated them with carbolic and wrapped them in bandages.  As the healer worked, Vin moaned softly, trying weakly to fight him, but that stopped as soon as Chris began talking to the unconscious man, his hand resting gently on Vin's shoulder as he spoke.

            "Can we get him into town?" Larabee asked the healer when Nathan finished and sat back on his heels.

            "Not 'til he warms and gets some color back."

            Larabee glanced up at the sky.  They had found Vin a couple hours after noon, but that had been several hours ago and it was already going on dark.  And, with the darkness, the temperatures would surely fall.

            "I know it ain't the best, but it's better 'n him turnin' cold and dyin' on us," Nathan said.  "I'll build up a couple mo' small fires 'round him so we can keep him warm though the night.  If that don't work, we'll use our bodies.  I'm hoping he'll wake up an' take some water and medicine once he's warmed up some."

            Chris nodded, staring out at the distant outline of Four Corners – so close, and yet so impossibly far away.  Then, glancing back at the healer, he swallowed hard and asked, "Will he live?"

            "Don't know," Nathan answered softly.  "He took a helluva beating–"

            "This was more than a beating," Chris interrupted, his voice cold with fury.

            Nathan nodded.  "Yeah . . . yeah, it was . . . and he's been out in the sun and the cold fo' a few days; probably ain't had much ta eat or drink . . . I'd be lyin' if I didn't tell ya he's in a bad way, Chris, I can't say no different, but he ain't got a bad fever yet, and his lungs still sound clear; that's in his favor.  If he wakes up and takes some water an' herbs, that'll help, too.  We got to get some water into him quick."

            Chris nodded, willing to grasp whatever thread of hope the healer could give him.

            "I'll tell ya this, too," Nathan added.  "We're gonna have ta build us a travois, rig it up so we can carry it 'tween the horses t' keep him from gettin' bumped along on the ground."

            "He can ride with me," Chris offered.

            "Thought 'bout that, and it might come to it, but it'll be best if we can keep him lyin' down flat; keep the blood from poolin' in his feet and hurtin' him like hellfire the way they's all torn up."

            "We'll build the litter then," Larabee stated determinedly.  "What do you want me to do?"

            "Ain't nothing ta do now 'cept wait.  I'm gonna mix up some herbs, then we'll see if we can't get him to drink some down."

            Larabee found as comfortable a position as he could next to the injured man and began his vigil.  You have to live, he silently told the tracker.  I want the chance to set things right between us.  You die on me now– . . . Just don't do it, Vin.  Please.  You're stronger than any man I've ever met, you can beat this . . . you have to.

            He reached out and brushed his knuckles over the tracker's stubble-covered cheek.  The skin below his touch was still oddly hot and cold at the same time, but the cold wasn't as icy as it had been earlier, and there was a slight flush of color on the man's cheeks now that wasn't due to the sunburn.

            "You just rest, pard," Chris told Vin softly.  "We'll get you home.  I promise you that."

            Vin stirred restlessly under the blankets, but he didn't open his eyes.

            "Let's see if he'll take a little water from ya," Nathan said, handing Chris a cup.  "Just a few sips will help him."

            Larabee set the cup down, then cradled the back of Vin's head and gently lifted him up.  With Nathan's help they positioned Vin so he was leaning against Chris's chest.  That done, Larabee reached for the cup and pressed it to the man's lips, saying, "Come on, Vin, take a little water."

            The tracker jerked slightly and moaned, trying to turn his head away.

            Chris tipped the cup up, letting a little of the liquid dribble into Vin's mouth.  Most of it ran right back over his lips, but he swallowed some of it as well.  That seemed to bring the tracker around a little and, while he didn't open his eyes, he moaned softly, sucking the drops off the lip of the tin cup.

            Chris kept tilting tiny amounts of water into the injured man's mouth until Vin had finished off the entire cup of water, then, with Nathan's help, he lowered him back down again and tucked the blankets up around his shoulders.

            Taking up his vigil again, Chris bowed his head and silently prayed for the first time in nearly four years.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

NEXT
 

Author's Note: This story first appeared in the Mag 7 zine, Let's Ride #3, published by Neon RainBow Press, Cinda Gillilan and Jody Norman, editors.  When we all decided to post the stories that h