Vin sat hunched over on his knees, one hand pressed to the ground to support and steady himself, and ran the fingers of his other hand through the dark-stained dirt, sending a silent prayer of gratitude to the Spirits for this gift. Blood. One of the outlaws was hurt, and bleeding enough for Tanner to suspect they’d have to stop soon and tend the wound. Else he’d be coming up on a body before too much longer. And he found himself hoping the bastard didn’t die just yet.

A body could just be left where it fell. But a wounded man slowed his party down, forced frequent stops, made it easier for anyone following to close the distance. And, if he was hurt badly enough or his companions weren’t too skilled in doctoring, he could leave a blood trail that any pursuer would welcome. Just like the one Tanner was following now.

Yep. He hoped this bastard hung in there a good, long while.

Satisfied he had his quarry’s trail fixed in his mind, he forced himself slowly, carefully to his feet and made his way with wobbly, weaving steps to where Peso grazed contentedly on sparse grass. Marshalling every bit of strength he possessed for the ordeal, he hauled himself once more into the saddle, reeling heavily and groaning thickly as pain and dizziness rocked him. But he clung with all his might to the horn and willed himself not to fall, not to give in to the threatening blackness, and all the while gave fervent thanks that, for once, Peso was behaving himself.

But the big horse, ever alert to his rider’s moods and manner, seemed to understand that, just now, Tanner was in no way capable of dealing with his characteristic fractiousness, and managed to restrain his more troublesome impulses. In their years together, a deep familiarity, an instinctive knowing, had arisen between them, so that one often seemed an extension of the other. Peso knew the feel of Vin’s wounded body in his saddle, could tell the difference between hands that guided him with strength and sureness, and hands that clung to him and sought from him the strength they lacked. And he responded accordingly.

Peso could fight Vin like the devil himself when the tracker was well and the horse was feeling uppity. But he generally only showed his ornery, rattlesnake-mean side when his rider was capable of fighting back, and treated the man almost decently when he was not. Vin knew this, and was deeply grateful.

"C’mon, ya hammer-headed mule," he rasped, kneeing the horse forward when he thought he could ride without falling. "Tracks say they’s headed toward Round Rock Springs. If they are, mebbe we’ll come up around ’em, git behind ’em ’n take ’em. ’N I’m past carin’ whether they come back in their saddles ’r across ’em."

It had been a long time since the former bounty hunter had been squeamish about the "dead" part of "dead or alive."

=======

"SHIT!" Chris yelled furiously, flinging a stool against the far wall of Peso’s empty stall. "Goddamn it, Tanner, when I get my hands on you..."

"But he can’t even walk!" Nathan protested, his anger almost as great as Larabee’s. "Damn fool was shot in th’ head, likely got hisself a helluva concussion... How’n the hell’d he get on a horse? That horse in particular? He ain’t in no shape ta be fightin’ Peso... Hell, he ain’t in no shape ta be doin’ nothin’ ’cept lettin’ me tend ta that hard head’a his!"

Chris turned on his three friends, his eyes glittering in his white face. "What’d Vin take with him when he left Inez’s?" he hissed.

Josiah shrugged. "Everything. Hat, coat, boots, guns–"

"‘Guns’?" Chris spat, laying heavy emphasis on the final "s."

"Mare’s leg and rifle," the preacher answered.

Chris whirled away from them and slammed his fists against the stall door as his fury at the absent tracker rose still another notch. "You said two of ’em got away?"

Buck ran a weary hand through his hair. "Yeah. Rode outta here like bats outta hell. Josiah figures he at least winged one, but we don’t know for sure. And we didn’t have enough healthy bodies among us ta send anybody out ta look for ’em." He sighed heavily, his exhaustion pressing like a leaden weight upon him. "I reckon one or two of us’ll have ta go out tomorrow, but I’m damned if I can figure out how we’ll work it, and still see to the town."

"One of us has already gone out after ’em," Chris seethed in a low voice, knowing it with everything that was in him. "That’s why you couldn’t find Vin." He turned back toward them, his face grim. "Goddamn fool’s gone huntin’."

Three men stared at him in stunned disbelief, their minds refusing to accept what he was saying.

"That jes’ ain’t possible, Chris," Nathan insisted softly, shaking his head slowly. "Not with what Inez said–"

"Look around, damn it!" Chris shouted, waving a hand at the empty stall. "Peso’s gone, Vin’s tack is gone... Goddamn it, Vin’s gone!" He stared at the healer through burning eyes, his lean frame so tight he almost shook. "You tell me where else he is then!" he hissed through clenched teeth. "If he ain’t in town and he ain’t out there, then where the hell is he? I know he can damn near disappear inta thin air, but what the hell did he do with his fuckin’ horse?"

Buck turned away and went with heavy steps to sit on a low stool nearby, dropping his head into his hands. "Jesus God Almighty," he murmured strickenly, finally admitting to himself that Chris was right. "He ain’t in no shape for that!" He scrubbed hard at his face with long, strong fingers, then slowly raised his head and stared at Chris, his blue eyes dulled by fatigue. "We gotta go after him," he said quietly. "There’s two of ’em, and it’s clear they don’t give a rat’s ass about killin’. Could be one of ’em’s hurt, but we don’t know that for sure. Could be they lit outta here an’ never stopped runnin’, might be halfway ta Texas or Mexico by now, but we don’t know that, either. And if they ain’t hurt, and if they do stop, and if they discover Vin’s after ’em..." He swallowed hard and forced himself to meet Chris’s flinty gaze. "At his best, Vin’s more’n a match for two men, we all know that. But he ain’t at his best right now. And if he meets up with two desperadoes who ain’t got nothin’ ta lose by killin’ him... We gotta go after him," he said again. "There ain’t no two ways about it."

"True," Josiah put in, convinced as well. "But we won’t do him any good by rushin’ outta here half-cocked. There’s a few things we need ta think about, first."

Chris exhaled harshly. "We ain’t got time for that!" he spat impatiently. "Vin’s out there–"

"I know that," the big man said gently, turning tired, sad eyes on Larabee. "Believe me, Chris, I’m worried about him, too. But we have ta think about this." He crossed his arms against his broad chest and leaned against the wall of Peso’s empty stall. "Right now, four out of the seven of us are healthy. Tired to the bone, but healthy." He glanced at the healer and nodded. "But Nathan’s gonna need ta stay with Ezra and JD, we all know that. Just as we all know you’re gonna go after Vin. Now, do me and Buck go with you and leave Nathan here alone, or do we stay with Nathan and let you go out alone?"

"Don’t nobody need ta be goin’ out there alone," Nathan said firmly, almost daring anyone to argue. He’d just about had it with these men and their foolishness. "’Specially since we don’ know how bad Vin’s hurt. If he’s as bad as Inez said, or, God he’p us, even worse, he might not be able ta ride by hisse’f. That means one man rides with him, another gits him on the horse. I don’ wanta take no chances with him fallin’ or bein’ dropped. ’Specially not with no head wound."

"I’ll go," Buck sighed. "Hell, it’s my fault he’s out there. If he wasn’t so convinced I’d hold what happened ta JD against him, he wouldn’ta gone."

"You’re not responsible, Buck," Chris assured him quietly.

"I still feel responsible–"

"But you’re not," Chris said firmly. "Besides," his eyes and voice softened; he knew how his old friend felt about the young sheriff, "your place is here, with JD. Out on the trail, you’d be worried sick about him–"

"And here I’ll be worried sick about Vin–"

"But at least here you’ll be able to help Nathan," Chris said. "And, with him tendin’ Ezra and JD, the town’s gonna need somebody ta look after it. Besides, there’s no tellin’ how long we’ll be gone. JD’s gonna need ya when he wakes up. And you’re gonna need ta be here for him." He sighed heavily and scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling that same need gnawing at his gut. "I’ll take Josiah with me." He looked at the preacher. "You know some about doctorin’. You can take care of him ’til we get him back here ta Nathan."

Josiah smiled slightly and bobbed his head in agreement. "I’ll be glad to." He studied Chris a moment, and knew the man was ready to leave right then. "But I got a couple’a more things to say." When Larabee stiffened and narrowed his eyes, his face setting hard, Josiah held up his big hands in a gesture of peace. "Just hear me out. We only got a little more’n an hour of daylight left. We’re all exhausted, and can barely think or see straight. Maybe we should wait ’til mornin’–"

"Vin may not have ’til mornin’!" Chris exploded, his fear for his friend like a living thing within him. "He needs us now!"

"We ain’t gonna catch up to him in an hour, and you know it," Josiah answered calmly, recognizing the fear behind Larabee’s anger. "Chris, think, please," he urged gently, catching and holding the man’s tortured gaze with his own. "The light’s gonna start failin’ soon. And neither one of us are trackers.

Stumblin’ around in the dark, we might destroy the very trail we need ta see ta find Vin. We need rest, so we can start out fresh in the mornin’. If we’re gonna be any good ta Vin, our minds need ta be sharp. And I don’t know about yours, but mine’s the furthest thing from sharp right now there is. I’m worried about him, too. But I also know that, right now, I’d do him more harm than good. And that’s not a chance I’m willin’ ta take. Not when it’s Vin’s life we’re talkin’ about."

Chris wanted to protest, wanted to scream in fury and frustration and spit curses at Sanchez, wanted to pull his gun and force the big man to come with him. But he did none of those. Not when a small, traitorous part of his mind whispered that Josiah was right. Instead, he merely turned abruptly away and bowed his head, closing his eyes tightly and clenching his hands into fists at his sides.

Buck rose from his seat on the stool and walked slowly toward his old friend. He could see the battle raging in Larabee, could see the furious clash between head and heart, and ached for him. He knew what Vin meant to Chris, knew how unique and vital a place the quiet Texan occupied in the gunfighter’s scarred soul, could well understand the pain and terror now clawing at the man’s heart. He’d known that same pain and terror when he’d seen JD fall.

But at least he’d known what happened to JD, knew where he was now and how he was doing, had only to walk a few steps to reassure himself that the boy was still alive. Chris had none of that, knew none of that, and the not knowing was eating him alive.

"Nathan," Buck said softly, never taking his eyes off Chris, "why don’t you go on up ta the clinic, pack whatever doctorin’ supplies you think they’re gonna need, maybe write out some instructions. Josiah, you go get some rest. If you’re like me, you’re about ta drop where ya stand, and I’m guessin’ your arm’s hurtin pretty good, too."

Josiah nodded and forced a slight smile, understanding what Buck was doing. "I won’t argue that point, brother." He switched his gaze to Larabee. "Chris–"

"Be here and ready to ride at dawn," Chris ordered in a low, steely voice. "One minute later, and I’m goin’ without ya."

"I’ll be here." He sighed and glanced again at Buck, then walked heavily out of the livery with Nathan.

"What’s wrong with his arm?" Chris asked harshly when the healer and preacher had left.

"Just a graze," Buck answered with a shrug. "Hell, I reckon we all got cut up a mite. It was some fight, pard. Just the kind you like."

Chris tensed at that. "With JD, Ezra and Vin hurt?" he rasped. "No, Buck, I wouldn’ta liked it at all."

Buck ran a hand over his mustache and mouth. "Helluva thing, ain’t it?" he asked quietly, compassion in his tired eyes and soft voice. "Feelin’ so helpless? Bein’ scared shitless because a man who’s taken care of himself all his life is out there alone, hurt an’ in danger, while you’re stuck here, forced ta do the smart thing an’ wait, when everything in you is cryin’ out ta ride after him right now." He thought suddenly of JD, remembered again the soul-freezing sight of the boy falling under an outlaw’s bullet, and laughed bitterly. "Havin’ friends is sheer hell on a man," he breathed. "I don’t recommend it for the weak."

"I just had ta go ta Purgatorio–"

"Don’t start that, Chris," Buck said firmly, wanting to quell the demon of guilt before it took control. "It coulda been any one of us who wasn’t here for any reason. Hell, it coulda been Vin. He coulda been out at Nettie’s, or up in them hills’a his. Ain’t none of us got a rope tyin’ us ta this town, and ain’t none of us ta blame for what happens when we’re gone. And there’s no guarantee it woulda worked out one bit different even if you had been here." He frowned and shook his head. "This is Vin we’re talkin’ about here, pard. If he feels he’s gotta do somethin’, he’s gonna do it, regardless of what anyone else says." He cast a sad gaze over Larabee’s pinched, worried face. "He just don’t always stop and think about what that does ta the ones he leaves behind."

"Why him, Buck?" Chris asked softly, sounding every bit as tired as he felt. He frowned and stared in confusion at the man who had known him longest, who he had once thought knew him best. Until a lanky, long-haired Texan had sauntered into his life, with blue eyes that could see straight through to his soul. "After Sarah and Adam died, I stood at their graves and swore I was never gonna let anybody in again. Couldn’t bear to go through that pain again. I even tried to push you away, and would’ve, if you hadn’t been so damn stubborn."

"Hell, you know me," Buck snorted, grinning. "I ain’t ever been easy ta push. And I sure as hell ain’t ever been good at takin’ a hint."

"I’ll say," Chris grunted, almost chuckling. Then he frowned slightly, thinking about the six men who had staked such a huge claim on his life. On his heart. "This wasn’t supposed to happen, Buck. I swore I wasn’t gonna let it happen. But one by one, you all wriggled your way in... except for Vin." He winced as a vision of Tanner rose in his mind, coyote-lean and wearing a cocky, go-ta-hell grin that could soothe Chris’s mind or make his head damn near explode. "Wasn’t no wrigglin’ there, no slippin’ in unannounced. Goddamn bounty hunter hit me head on, like a train at full speed. I never saw it comin’, couldn’t stop it or get outta the way. It was like..." He faltered and shook his head helplessly.

"Like findin’ a piece’a yourself," Buck supplied easily. "A piece you’d never known was missin’, ’til it was there. Hell, Chris, I coulda told you that."

"But why him?" Larabee asked again, desperate to understand. "I mean... Shit," he breathed, shaking his head in exhausted bewilderment. "I don’t know what the hell I mean!"

"You want me t’ explain why Chris Larabee, despite all his best efforts to the contrary, is still a human bein’," Buck mused softly, crossing his arms against his broad chest and hitching a shoulder against the door of Peso’s empty stall. "You want me t’ explain why Mr. Get-the-Hell-Away-From-Me can’t stop carin’ about folks who care about him. And you want me t’ explain why it’s eatin’ you alive that Vin Tanner, who needs nothin’ an’ nobody, who trusts nothin’ an’ nobody, and who’s lived damn near his whole life believin’ nothin’ an’ nobody wants, needs or trusts him, is in trouble and you can’t help him. That what you want me t’ explain, pard?"

Chris grinned weakly. "I guess that about sums it up."

Buck snorted and shook his head. "Y’know, Larabee, for such a smart hombre, you can be one of the dumbest sonsabitches I ever met." He leaned forward and caught and held his friend’s startled gaze with his own, then jabbed a finger firmly into Larabee’s chest. "There’s your answer right there, Chris," he said with a quiet intensity. "You know what that is? It’s called a heart, and somewhere along the line, Vin reached inta yours and started it beatin’ again. Started it feelin’ again. I don’t know when or how it happened, and I don’t really care. I just know it did, an’ I ain’t got the words to say how thankful I am.Why Vin? I’ll tell ya why Vin – because it was meant ta be, pard. Because it was s’posed ta happen. Because you needed it ta happen, an’ so did he. He pulled you outta the grave, and you pulled him outta the shadows, and, for the first time in too damn long, the two’a you stepped inta the sun and decided you liked how it felt ta be there. And that, Chris, is why Vin." He stepped back and raised two dark eyebrows. "Anything else you wanta know?"

"Yeah," Chris murmured, a slow smile spreading across his face. "When the hell did you get so smart?"

Buck shrugged and grinned broadly. "Always have been, pard," he said brightly. "It’s just that my brain gets overshadowed by my astonishin’ good looks and charm."

Chris gave a soft chuff of laughter and shook his head, then gazed at his friend and nodded. "Thanks."

Buck’s smile and teasing manner faded, replaced by an uncharacteristic seriousness. "Don’t question this, Chris," he urged, reaching out to lay a gentle hand on Larabee’s shoulder, "and don’t fight it. Friendship like that between you and Vin don’t come around too often. A man’d be a fool ta throw it away."

Chris stared at his friend, the man who’d been with him at his highest and lowest, and sometimes been treated shamefully for it. "No," he said finally, holding Buck’s gaze with his own. "I won’t. I did it once, and it’s the biggest damn mistake I ever made."

Buck stiffened as Chris’s words, and their meaning, hit him. Warmth filled him, giving fresh strength to his exhausted body, and a new light shone in his blue eyes. He squeezed Chris’s shoulder tightly, then gave the gunslinger his broad, bright smile.

"Well, pard," he said at last, "it’s lucky for you you’re seein’ th’ error of your ways. Now," he slapped Chris’s back, "let’s go see how Ezra an’ JD are doin’, then go get you somethin’ ta eat." He winked. "See if I can’t get Inez ta rustle us up somethin’ hot and spicy."

Chris had to laugh and shake his head, but went gladly with his old friend. "I don’t know why you’re so set on catchin’ her, Buck. She’ll kill ya long before you get t’ enjoy her."

"Oh, I don’t know, pard," the scoundrel answered with a grin, wagging his eyebrows suggestively, "I got a feelin’ she could make dyin’ real enjoyable!"

=======

Hiram Reed glanced over at his companion and swore under his breath. Hallett had taken a bullet in the back, just under his right shoulderblade, and was bleeding like a stuck pig. Sonuvabitch was slowing them down, but not even Reed had quite reached the point where he’d just leave a wounded partner to die.

But he sure as hell didn’t plan on sticking around long after Hallett did give up the ghost!

And, from what he could see, that was inevitable. The bullet was still in there, Hallett was fevered, and he was losing more blood than a man could afford to. And Reed was no one’s idea of a doctor. He’d rigged the best bandage he was able, but that wasn’t saying much. He’d briefly considered pouring whiskey in the wound to clean it, but didn’t see the sense in wasting good liquor on a man who was clearly doomed. Not for a moment, though, had he even thought about using the trail method of cauterizing the wound. He’d had that done once to him, and just didn’t have the stomach to see it done again, not even to help a friend.

Friend. His lips thinned into a mean, wolfish smile at that. Hell, a man like him didn’t have friends. It just didn’t pay. His face was on too many wanted posters, the price on his head too high. After a five-year stint of bank robberies, stage holdups and mine, ranch and Army payroll thefts that had left a trail of dead bodies across three states, he was worth eight hundred dollars dead or alive, and he had no desire to make some so-called "friend" rich off his carcass.

Besides, what the hell good were "friends," anyway? He’d considered Carlton enough of an amigo to throw in with the bastard on his fool notion to rob the bank in a town with seven – seven – lawmen, and where had it gotten him? On the run again, with no money and only this poor, dumb sonuvabitch slowly bleeding to death beside him.

Goddamn Carlton, anyway! What had the fool been thinking? Hell, everybody knew about that town, about its "regulators"! But Carlton had insisted that two gangs acting as one, with eighteen men between them, could get the job done. Eighteen against seven – or only six as it had turned out – easy odds, right?

Yeah, right. A harsh chuckle escaped Reed. Easy odds! So how come out of eighteen men, only two had ridden out? And where was all that goddamn money Carlton had promised?

But at least he’d had the satisfaction of seeing that kid sheriff go down...

His hackles rose at that thought, and he threw yet another worried glance over his shoulder. He didn’t see anyone, hadn’t seen any sign of pursuit, but could not push aside his growing unease. Whether he could see him or not, someone was out there, following. He knew it, because he knew about those seven regulators. They were as tough and as salty a bunch as had ever ridden the river, hard men who had no equal when it came fighting time. They were also a tightly knit bunch, and they’d seen their youngest go down. That wasn’t something they were likely to overlook or let go.

Nope, at least one of ’em was back there, following. Reed could feel it in the itch between his shoulderblades, in the hair on his neck that wouldn’t lay flat. And until Hallett finally did the convenient thing and died from that bullet he was carrying in him, there wasn’t a goddamn thing Reed could do about it.

Except to hope like hell the sonuvabitch following him wasn’t that goddamn tracker.

=======

Vin knelt in the dust and tried to study what was written in the ground. But the light was failing – at least, he hoped it was the light failing – and, between the gathering dusk and his faulty vision, he was having a hell of a time making out anything at all.

Lord, surely he hadn’t come this far only to lose the trail now!

He exhaled unsteadily and slowly lifted his aching head, frowning in strained concentration and trying to focus his eyes on the area about him, trying to read something in the terrain that would help him. He had to stop for the night, he knew that. He’d used up every ounce of strength, every bit of stubborn endurance he had in reserve, and simply had nothing left on which to draw. He’d have to hole up someplace, lick his wounds, and start the hunt again tomorrow. He hated it, but he had no choice.

Wasn’t no sense goin’ on when he couldn’t even make out the fingers on the hand right before him.

At least he had the consolation of knowing the men he was after – his prey – wouldn’t be pushing on through the night either. Not with that one losing blood like he was.

He’d already found signs the two were slowing down, and figured the wounded man was the cause of it. Less than an hour ago he’d come upon the place where they’d stopped for one to bandage the other’s wound, had found a sizeable patch of blood on the ground and some wadded bits of cloth grown stiff with the stuff. He had no doubt he’d eventually come upon a body, but hoped it wouldn’t be anytime soon.

Right now, he needed all the help he could get, and that blood trail was a God-send.

He glanced around again, finally recognizing where he was. Brushy Creek. Though, until the fall rains began in earnest, it was more like Brushy Trickle. But there was enough water, brackish as it was, for him and Peso, and the high, thick brush that gave the creek its name would provide more than suitable cover for the night. Especially since, without the others here, he wouldn’t have to indulge in such niceties as a fire and hot food.

The others...

He tried not to think about them as he dragged his saddle off Peso, falling to the ground with it, and made a feeble attempt at rubbing him down, as he fumbled clumsily with knots in an effort to forestall the big horse’s maddening habit of wandering away from camp. He’d let them down, had failed them, and, unable to bear thinking about what that failure might have cost him, he tried to close his mind against their increasingly intrusive images as he ate the dried biscuit that was all his traitorous stomach would allow, as he made a place for himself in the brush and rolled himself in his blankets.

Lord God, why couldn’t they leave him be?

But, stubborn as always, they were there, as real as if they wore flesh. He could see Buck, white teeth flashing against the darkness in that broad, easy smile, big hands gesturing expansively as he spun yet another of his outrageous tales. The man could talk the hind leg off a dog, apparently never tired of the sound of his own voice, but he brought warmth and laughter and deep good-fellowship to every camp he shared, and many a night Vin had lain awake just listening to him and taking comfort in the strength and solidness of the big man’s presence.

JD, too, was there, the shadow at Buck’s side, his wide, bright eyes fixed intently upon Wilmington as he hung on every word, drinking them all in like the dry desert did the rain until the big man took the story one exaggeration too far and the boy declared him "full of crap!" The young sheriff might no longer be the greenhorn he’d been when he’d flung himself off that stage looking for adventure, but, for all the hard things he’d seen and done since, he managed somehow to hold onto the eager spirit and earnest good faith that would mark him forever as "the kid" in their eyes. At times Vin felt a twinge of envy for the boy, and wondered how it felt to be that young. Because, though not so many years older than JD, young was not something Vin Tanner could ever really remember being.

Now he could hear Josiah and that deep, rich voice rumbling out of his cavernous chest like thunder rolling from the heart of a mountain as he wove the tales of magical places and mystical peoples that so fascinated the tracker. Most of all, though, he loved to hear Josiah reading or quoting from the Bible, from the Old Testament in particular, when that mighty voice would ring out with all the power and majesty of God Himself. He could let himself float upon that voice, let it carry him past this world of hurts and sorrows and into one where he was kept safe from such things and where all that existed was the beauty Josiah spoke into being.

He heard another voice then, a drawl as thick and sweet as molasses, and saw the gleam of a gold tooth. Ezra, trying to drum up a game of chance – as if there were ever a chance when the gambler played – even as he complained endlessly about his uncivilized surroundings. He had never seen a camp he liked, hated being outdoors with a passion, and was not the least bit shy about saying so. The gambler liked his comforts, liked fine clothes and fancy settings, and thought the most beautiful sight in the world was a green baize-covered poker table with a brand new deck of cards and a large pile of money upon it. He was slippery as an eel and crooked as a sidewinder, but he’d proved himself a surprisingly loyal, steady and handy man to have at your back. He’d be there when the chips were down, even if he did stop to gather those chips and pocket them on his way. Like Buck, he could talk for days, that honeyed voice spinning out high-falutin’, five-dollar words that made Vin’s head hurt just to ponder.

And where there was hurt, there was Nathan, doing all he could to take that hurt away. Another big man, like Buck and Josiah, but with the gift of healing in his strong hands. He hated suffering of any kind, would fight against it with everything that was in him, because he’d known so much of it himself.

The former slave carried scars on his back from the whippings he’d endured, carried scars in his soul from the oppression he’d borne, yet had emerged from the cruelties of his past as a man of dignity and endless compassion. His first instinct always was to help those in need, and Vin found himself wishing he could feel those gentle, healing hands upon him now, easing the merciless ache in his head and the pain in his heart.

But the most commanding presence of all was neither the biggest nor the loudest among them. Whipcord-lean and nearly silent, a black-clad figure of deadly menace whose piercing green gaze could freeze a man’s blood in his veins, Chris was nobody’s idea of lively, light-hearted fireside companionship. But he was everything Vin needed and never imagined he’d have in a friend. He didn’t need to speak for Vin to hear him, didn’t need to be near for Vin to feel him. Hell, he wasn’t even here and Vin could see him more clearly than he’d been able to see anything since getting shot. He tried to banish him, as he’d tried with all the others, but the stubborn gunslinger wouldn’t go, wouldn’t leave him alone, and stood before him now, those goddamn eyes staring into his soul and one strong hand reaching out to him in a gesture of friendship and concern. Despite himself, Vin wanted so much to feel that hand closing about his forearm in the firm clasp that was theirs alone, wanted to know Chris was with him, helping him, lending him strength now that his own was gone.

He knew he should resist needing someone so much, trusting someone so much, but he couldn’t. Not when that someone was Chris. From the first moment they had locked gazes across that street, he had understood and welcomed it, had felt its rightness, its familiarity, deep in his soul, and had never once questioned it. He’d found someone he didn’t have to explain or excuse himself to, because Chris

knew him as he knew himself, knew more from his silences than anyone else could know from his words. And he knew Chris with that same completeness, understood the difficult, complicated gunman as he’d never been able to understand even the simplest of people before. Whatever it was they shared – to call it "friendship" just didn’t seem enough – had been immediate and deeply intuitive, and to them both it was as natural as breathing.

Maybe that was why he was so certain now that Chris, who was supposed to be in Purgatorio and shouldn’t know what had happened, did know, understood what he was doing and why, and would be coming after him.

"Lord, Chris, I’m hurtin’," he rasped softly to the dark apparition before him, certain Larabee knew that, too. "I don’t know if I kin do this, but I gotta try." The black figure never moved, never spoke, but Vin knew he heard. "I’m sorry I let y’all down, cowboy," he breathed, unable any longer to fend off sleep. "But I’m gonna make it right."

=======

The hour was late, the town was quiet, and Chris was nowhere near being able to sleep. He stalked the dark streets like a restless, angry spirit, a grim black shadow lit only by the flickering flames of the street fires he passed. The few people he encountered, mostly cowboys and miners leaving saloons, took one look at him and gave him a wide berth, no one daring to tempt the infamous Larabee wrath.

The man looked ready to shoot the first poor bastard who tested him.

And Chris was. He didn’t like worrying over Vin, didn’t like the feeling of helplessness it raised in him, and so transformed his worry, his fear, into the far more familiar and comfortable feeling of anger. Anger at the tracker’s foolishness in going after two desperate men alone, anger at his mule-headed refusal to admit that he was hurt, anger at his apparent mistrust of his friends...

Anger at what the reckless sonuvabitch was doing to the heart and gut of his closest friend.

"Goddamn it, Vin, when are you gonna learn?" Chris whispered to the night, somehow knowing Tanner would be listening. "You can trust us! We ain’t gonna turn on ya, we ain’t gonna turn ya out... You ain’t alone no more! And you didn’t have ta do this alone! You shoulda waited. I was comin’, Vin! If you’da just waited..."

He found himself outside Inez’s saloon and stood near the batwing doors, sorely tempted to go in and drown his anger, his fear, in whiskey. But he knew he couldn’t. He and Josiah were leaving at dawn, and he’d need a clear head if they were to find Vin. He didn’t particularly care about finding the last two outlaws. If they did, fine; if not, fine. It was Tanner he was really after; finding the tracker was all he cared about.

"And when I do find you," he growled into the night, "I’m gonna take every bit of this aggravation outta your sorry Texas hide!"

He turned away from the saloon and resumed his restless prowling, consoling himself with thoughts of the way he’d spend the five hundred dollars he’d collect on Tanner after he shot him full of holes.

=======

Vin was awake before dawn, and allowed himself the luxury of a small, well-concealed fire to make coffee while he waited for enough light to continue the hunt. The coffee was considerably weaker than he liked, and he could eat no more than two of the hard, dry biscuits from last night. But at least it all stayed down down. He told himself he was better, told himself the night’s rest – or what rest there’d been between the hellish nightmare visions of Ezra and JD falling beneath the outlaws’ bullets – had done him good. As his success with the biscuits proved, the unrelenting sickness that had so tormented him yesterday had eased to a much more tolerable level of general queasiness, and the constant ringing in his ears had lessened, as well. His vision, too, had improved somewhat, but his head still ached unmercifully, and he had to move carefully lest the persistent dizziness drop him to the ground.

Even so, he knew he could do this. Had to do this. He’d done it before, tracked men in far worse shape than this. He wasn’t about to let a little head graze stop him now. After he’d brought these two down, he’d have all the time in the world to let Nathan fuss over him.

And let Chris beat the shit out of him.

He grinned slightly at that. He knew Chris would be pissed, could imagine all the names he was being called, could almost see that vein in the gunslinger’s forehead throbbing now. Larabee had once said he’d never known he had such a vein until he met Vin Tanner.

"Well, hell," Vin drawled softly. "’At’s whatcha git fer tom-cattin’ around in Purgatorio whilst the rest of us’re fightin’ off a goddamn regiment. It’d serve ya right if that goddamn vein bust wide open ’n left ya with a headache big as mine. Betcha wouldn’t feel so high ’n mighty then!"

With smug satisfaction at that thought, Vin extinguished the small fire and carefully buried all sign of it, then got his few belongings together and began the ever-challenging task of saddling Peso. The big horse was feeling fractious this morning, had apparently come to regret yesterday’s docility and was now determined to make up for it. He fought the bit as if he’d never seen such a contraption before, and twice slipped it from his mouth once Vin managed to get it on him. Blanket and saddle brought another battle, with the horse picking up on Vin’s unsteadiness and taking full advantage of it, sidling away just as Vin hefted the rig across his back. So quick was the move that Vin could neither

turn to follow it nor stop the momentum of the saddle, and both man and saddle went down to the ground in a heap.

He lay there – winded, dizzy, his head throbbing like hell – and tried desperately not to lose his breakfast. He could barely see through the haze of pain and rising sickness, but knew Peso was there, could hear him prancing around and snorting in haughty pleasure.

"Proud’a yerself, ain’tcha?" he rasped once he was fairly certain he wouldn’t be sick. "Goddamn hammer-headed, sonuvabitchin’ mule. Best be glad I cain’t see no better’n I can, else I’d put a bullet ’tween yer eyes." He managed to sit up, crossed his legs to steady himself, and glared up at the dark blur that was his horse. "Shoulda left ya in that border town where I found ya," he growled. "Fer all I know, you d’served what you was gittin’ from them fellers. Hell, y’ain’t worth the peso I paid for ya!"

Peso seemed singularly unmoved by the tracker’s tirade, completely unimpressed by the threats and curses spat at him. While Vin had a number of highly effective ways of imposing his will upon the cantankerous animal, not one of them involved cruelty, and Peso knew this. And was not above using it to his advantage.

But Vin was in no mood – and no condition – to fight with his horse. Mustering every bit of his strength, and shoring it up with all his considerable stubbornness, he climbed carefully to his feet, forced himself to stand without swaying or falling, and snaked out a hand to grab one black ear and twist, his other hand clamping hard on the animal’s sensitive upper lip. Maintaining his merciless hold, he glared into the gelding’s pained, startled eyes and scowled, baring his teeth in a wolfish grimace.

"Ain’t got time fer this," he snarled, standing firm before the horse, refusing to be moved even a step. "Yer costin’ me daylight, ’n I got work ta do. Gimme just one more bit’a trouble, ’n I’ll tie an’ hobble ya whilst I saddle ya. Ya got that?"

Whatever his other faults, and he had many, Peso was no fool. He clearly recognized the change in the tracker’s demeanor, sensed the shift in dominance, and understood that the man had been pushed as far as he would go. His free ear relaxed, his dark eyes softened, and he evened his weight upon all four legs, standing still and placid.

Vin felt the change, and knew he’d won this round. "Gonna saddle ya now," he said, "’n yer gonna stand there ’n take it, like a true horse ought." Finally satisfied that Peso would comply, he released him, gave the black nose a quick caress, and went to retrieve the saddle.

It was by no means easy to get the rig on, but Vin had only his own dizziness and pain to blame. Peso remained meek as a lamb, never so much as twitching. His only show of defiance came when he drew a huge breath and inflated his chest to interfere with the tightening of the belly strap, but Vin was by now so used to that he automatically kneed the horse to force him to release it.

"I ain’t in no mood nor shape ta be dumped in the middle’a the fuckin’ desert," he drawled as he drew the cinch taut. "Best you remember that."

He draped his saddlebags behind the cantle, secured his bedroll and checked his rifle, then gave the saddle one last tug to be sure. Never paid to get cocky with Peso, especially when the big horse was behaving. Finally, bracing himself for what was to come, he gripped the horn tightly, put a boot in the stirrup, and hauled himself into the saddle with nothing at all like his usual grace or ease. The effort sent hard jolts of pain stabbing through his skull and tore a hoarse cry from him, and dizziness assailed him with a hideous, sickening force. It was all he could do to hang on while he fought to stay conscious, fought not to throw up, fought not to let himself just fall to the ground and give in to his misery. Hot tears stung his eyes as pain lanced through his head and nausea churned in his gut, and for long moments a beckoning darkness was temptingly close. But if through nothing else save instinct and long habit he hung on, and refused to let himself sink into the oblivion his body craved.

And through it all, Peso – Lord love him – stayed as steady and calm as if he were a true and decent horse instead of the perverse, contrary mixture of rattlesnake and pissed-off cougar Vin knew him to be. The gelding had a nasty streak any Comanche warrior would envy, would fight just for the sake of fighting. But what he lacked in charm, he more than made up for in intelligence, endurance on the trail and sheer toughness. When other horses were ready to drop from exhaustion, Peso was just hitting his stride, and he thrived in wild, rough country that would kill a lesser animal.

He’d never in a million years be an agreeable, well-mannered, sweet-tempered horse. And that was just fine with Tanner.

"Let’s go, mule," Vin sighed, kneeing the gelding forward. "Still got some huntin’ ta do."

=======

Chris tore out of town the moment he decided he had light enough to see, with Josiah at his back. Though nowhere near the tracker Vin was, he still picked up Peso’s trail easily enough, a fact which both relieved him and added more fuel to his steadily burning anger.

"Goddamn it," he spat after a good three hours of seething, "what the hell’s he thinkin’? Damn fool ain’t even tryin’ ta hide his tracks!" His green eyes glittered like jewels in his face, and fury rolled off him in waves. "Hell, a blind man could follow him! Not ta mention every bounty hunter in the goddamn territory!"

Josiah sighed heavily and shook his head slowly. It was going to be a long, trying ride. Wasn’t bad enough Ezra and JD were hurt; wasn’t bad enough Vin was hurt and had run off on his own after two desperadoes. Now Chris was on the warpath, and wouldn’t be happy until he’d taken scalps.

He’d thought he was lucky to get off with only a graze to the arm. But he was beginning to think that being gut-shot would be better than riding with a thoroughly pissed-off Chris Larabee.

"Maybe," he answered at last, his deep voice calm and – he hoped – soothing, "he’s not coverin’ his tracks because he knew you’d be comin’ after him, and wanted to make it easy for ya. Vin’s not stupid–"

"No?" Chris shot back in a hard, tight voice. "Then how do ya explain what he’s doin’?"

Josiah regarded him with a practiced patience. If he’d learned only one thing in his time among these six men, it was how to be patient in the face of sheer cussedness. "If you’d been here when that gunfight broke out," he said quietly, "if you felt responsible for someone getting shot, what would you be doin’? Would you wait for Vin to come and talk you out of it? Or would you just go on with what you felt you had to do, knowin’ all the while he’d be right behind you?"

"Damn it, Josiah, he’s hurt!"

Sanchez shrugged his broad shoulders. "He’s able to walk, he’s able to ride. In his mind, that means he’s all right." He fixed knowing eyes on Chris. "Seen you ride hurt a few times, yourself. Seen you ready ta charge the gates of hell when it was all you could do ta stay in the saddle. You sayin’ Vin ain’t as entitled ta his stupidity as you are ta yours?"

Chris reined in his horse sharply at that and stared in disbelief at the older man. "Did you just call me‘stupid’?"

"Nope," Josiah said, returning the green stare evenly. "I said you have moments of stupidity. There’s a difference." He smiled slightly. "Sometimes it’s a fine one, but it’s a difference nonetheless." He shrugged again. "You’ve had your moments, now Vin’s havin’ one. But it’s our job ta find him before it gets him killed." He winked. "Sorta like he’s done for you a time or two."

Against his will, Chris felt his anger cooling before the big man’s words, and a slight, wry smile ghosted about his mouth. "I guess it’s a good thing we’re not both havin’ our moments at the same time."

Josiah chuckled and shook his head. "God help us if that ever happens! One’a you at a time is hard enough on a man’s nerves. Both of you together..." He shuddered dramatically. "It just don’t bear thinkin’ about."

Chris stared off into the distance, and his smile gave way to a worried frown. "I just wish he’d waited. He had ta know somebody would’ve gone after the bastards! It didn’t have ta be him–"

"In his mind, it did," Josiah contradicted quietly. "He considers what happened t’ Ezra and JD ta be his fault. And that makes it his responsibility ta make it right. You know him better than any of us, Chris, you know his honor, his loyalty, and his pride. And this struck at all three of them. Right now, that bullet graze is the least of Vin’s wounds."

"It wasn’t his fault!" Chris said loudly, harshly, his anger rekindling. "Goddamn it, Josiah, if I hear one more person sayin’ that–"

"I’m not sayin’ it was, Chris," Josiah said pointedly, his patience wearing thin. "I’m tellin’ you what Vin thinks!" He drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly, and tried to regain his calm. "Put yourself in his place," he urged quietly. "Try seein’ this as he does. Not as you want him to, but as he does. We are his. We are his friends, his family, his brothers. And I believe you know, probably better than anybody else, how fiercely he guards and protects anything that is his. The moment that boy let us behind that wall of his, we became his responsibility. And you know how seriously Vin takes his responsibilities." He frowned at Chris. "Surely you know that’s why he prowls those roofs like he does when there’s trouble, why he goes sailin’ from one to another, givin’ no thought t’ the bullets flyin’ around him? All that matters ta him is keepin’ us safe."

"But he can’t watch all of us!" Chris said with a quiet intensity. "Damn it, Josiah, there were eighteen of ’em! And nobody can expect Vin ta be everywhere at once, watchin’ everybody at once! It’s just not possible!"

Josiah shrugged. "Try tellin’ that ta him." He sighed heavily, and his blue eyes grew sad. "He didn’t get there in time ta keep Ezra from gettin’ shot. Got the bastard who did it, but not until after. And JD..." He winced and shook his graying head slowly. "JD called out to him just before he ran inta that street. Called for Vin ta cover him. But Vin couldn’t, because he was hurt himself. And JD went down. Then those last two outlaws got away. Normally, Vin could’ve stopped ’em without thinkin’ about it. Just fixed those hawk’s eyes of his on ’em, brought that rifle up and dropped ’em. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. And they got away." He leaned forward in his saddle and held Chris’s gaze with his own, determined ta make him understand. "In Vin’s mind, we were dependin’ on him, Ezra and JD were dependin’ on him, and he let us down. He failed us. And that sense of failure is what’s drivin’ him ta do this."

"But what is this?" Chris asked, waving a hand around the empty countryside. "Revenge?"

Josiah shook his head. "Not revenge," he intoned sadly. "Redemption."

=======

Reed swore harshly, foully, and kicked savagely at the rocks around him as his anger boiled over. Goddamn Carlton for getting him into this! Goddamn him for going along with it!

And goddamn Hallett for not dyin’ fast enough!

He looked around and snorted in disgust. They’d stopped again, because Hallett had fallen off his damn horse. And wouldn’t be getting back on. He was dying, but he wasn’t dead yet. Just kept hanging on, like he had something to live for.

And now Reed was stuck here with him, would be stuck until Hallett died, because he’d promised the bastard he wouldn’t run out on him. And as low as he’d sunk in his life, he hadn’t yet reached the point where he’d break a promise to a dying man.

He had enough enemies among the livin’. He didn’t need anybody comin’ after him from hell!

He looked up at the sky. Almost noon now, and he wasn’t anywhere near being as far from that shithole of a town as he wanted to be.

Seven lawmen. And not just any seven, but those seven. God Almighty, what had Carlton been thinking? And what had he been thinking when he’d joined him?

And now one of ’em was out there. He’d caught a glimpse, seen the barest flash of something on the horizon, and just knew it was one of those damned regulators. But that had been hours ago, and the bastard was too far away then for Reed to really see him, even to know where he was. Still, he had to be closer now.

Because Reed and Hallett had stopped.

Because Hallett was dying, though not fast enough.

And now Reed was stuck here, trapped between a dying man he couldn’t leave and a goddamned regulator he couldn’t see.

Goddamn it all to hell, what had he been thinkin’?

=======

Vin lay on his belly among the rocks and brush and stared through his spyglass, trying to bring the images in the glass into focus. He forced all awareness of his pain, his weariness, into the back of his mind and willed himself to concentrate instead on his quarry.

He was closing in on them. He knew it, could feel it. Even though he could not yet see them, had seen little more of them than flickering shadows on the horizon, his every hunter’s instinct told him he was getting closer.

Once again, he sent a silent thought of gratitude to whichever one of his friends had put that bullet into one of the bastards. The two would easily have outpaced him otherwise, and he knew he would never have found their trail at all had it not been written in blood. He was not normally a man to relish another’s suffering, but he was realist enough – and hunter enough – to seize upon the advantage that suffering gave him.

And he had a real hard time mustering any sympathy for the sonuvabitch carrying that bullet. He figured the bastard had earned it when he’d ridden in with that gang, tried to rob the bank, shot the hell out of the town and left Ezra and JD bleeding in the streets.

Yep, if the sonuvabitch was lucky, he’d be hurt too badly to put up any kind of fight and force Vin to loose two days of worry, frustration and rage on him.

He swept the glass again over the vista stretching out before him, and allowed himself a tight, feral smile. They’d gone to ground just where he thought they would, were holed up now at Round Rock Springs. Likely they thought the high area, protected by the huge boulders that gave the place its name, would give them cover from any potential threat. And ordinarily it might.

Unless what threatened them was Vin Tanner, who knew every inch of that ground, knew every way there was to approach it.

And who knew how to make himself damn near invisible.

=======

"Bu...uck?"

Wilmington snapped out of sleep and jerked upright in his chair at the weak but wonderfully sweet summons from the bed. Smiling hugely in deep relief, his blue eyes shining brilliantly, he leaned over and took one of JD’s hands between his two bigger ones, all but laughing aloud as two wide, fever-free hazel eyes stared up at him in confusion.

"’Bout time you woke up, son," he said with all the gentle affection this boy roused in him. "Been almighty quiet around here without your yammerin’. Hell, I was even startin’ ta miss them God-awful jokes’a yours!"

"You’re so... full... of crap," JD breathed, smiling fondly up at the big man.

"Yeah, but at least I ain’t the one runnin’ out in front’a no damn bullets," Buck scolded tenderly. "How many times have I gotta tell ya, son – if you c’n see the bad guys, they c’n see you. You ain’t invisible, y’know."

JD swallowed and squeezed Buck’s hand weakly. "Couldn’t... let ’em... get away," he murmured. "Had... had... to stop ’em." He searched Wilmington’s face intently. "Did we?"

Buck sighed. "Well, most of ’em. Two got away, but sixteen didn’t. So I guess we did pretty good."

The young sheriff frowned. "Two... Anybody... goin’ after ’em?"

"Yeah," Buck answered, now forcing his smile. He figured JD didn’t need to know the whole truth just yet. "Vin, Chris and Josiah. Chris came back last night," he added, seeing JD’s confusion. "They left this mornin’."

It wasn’t a complete lie...

JD swallowed and nodded slightly, then frowned again. "Why... why didn’t you... go with ’em? Might... might need ya."

Buck smiled softly, his blue eyes tired but full of light. "Had somebody here needed me more," he breathed, laying a big hand gently against the boy’s pale, cool cheek. "’Sides," he leaned closer and winked, "I needed some rest, and you know how much Chris and Vin talk. Figgered I’d never get any sleep at all with their endless jawin’."

JD laughed, then stiffened and gasped as pain lanced through his chest. Immediately, though, big hands closed tightly about his own, offering their strength since he had none of his own, and he clung to them with all he had, knowing now why Buck had stayed.

"Easy, son," Buck soothed, holding the boy’s hands and watching as he rode out the wave of pain. "You just take it easy, now. I’m here, and I ain’t goin’ nowhere. And neither are you. You’re gonna be all right, y’hear me?"

"Hurts, Buck," he whispered, closing his eyes against the hot tears that stung them.

"I know it does, son," Buck sighed, freeing a hand gentle fingers through the boy’s thick dark hair. "But you’re gonna be fine. Just need some rest, and some’a Nathan’s good care. Then you’ll be back ta botherin’ Casey and tellin’ them damn jokes in no time."

"Casey... likes... my jokes," JD protested weakly, at last relaxing as the pain subsided to a more bearable level.

"Well, now, I’m disappointed ta hear that," Buck said with mock sorrow, glad to see the tension fading from the boy’s body and sleep settling upon him. "Here I thought she was a smart young lady!" He shook his head and sighed heavily. "Gonna have ta talk ta Miz Nettie about that girl’s upbringin’, I see."

JD smiled drowsily. "So... full..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Buck whispered as JD drifted off. "I just wish I could tell ya how glad I am you’re still here ta tell me!"

=======

Chris squatted and pushed his hat back on his head, studying the dark ground before him. "Somebody’s bleedin’ awful bad," he said grimly, remembering all the patches they’d come across before this one. "Leavin’ a helluva trail." He pointed at a familiar bootheel print in the dirt. "Vin’s," he said tersely.

Josiah stared at the print and frowned. "You sure?"

Chris nodded, pointing to a flaw in the print. "Yep. See this? He stepped on a nail about a month ago, workin’ on Nettie’s roof. Put a hole in his heel, cracked it some. And the damn fool won’t get it fixed. ‘Ain’t botherin’ me none,’ he says." He smiled grimly. "Hell, I reckon it’ll do more than bother him someday when he goes ta fightin’ Peso and the damn horse tears that heel right off!"

Josiah chuckled and shook his head, his hands set on his hips. "Those two are a pair, aren’t they? Anybody but Vin would’a shot Peso by now, and Lord knows that foul-tempered horse would’ve killed anybody else long ago. Never seen a man and beast so well suited t’ each other."

"Yeah," Chris grunted, rising to his feet. "Two ornery, mule-headed sonsabitches who between ’em don’t have any sense at all." He turned and surveyed their surroundings, scowling deeply. "Well?" he demanded irritably. "Where d’you think they’re headed?"

Josiah squinted into the distance and thought. "One of ’em’s wounded, and bad by the look of things. They’re gonna need water, and soon." He rubbed a hand over his chin, going over what he knew of the area. "Digger’s Creek is close, but they’re goin’ in the wrong direction for that. The way they’re headed, their best chance is Round Rock Springs."

"Shit!" Chris swore softly, his gaze still searching the horizon as if he thought to see Vin there. "That’s more’n half a day’s ride from here!" He narrowed his eyes and scowled tightly in concentration. "Mud Creek’s closer–"

"Can’t count on findin’ water there this time’a year," Josiah said. "And even if there is water, it ain’t worth drinkin’. Not until the rains come." He shook his head stubbornly. "Nope, I’m thinkin’ they’d head for Round Rock Springs. It’s a sure thing. Ever’body around here knows that."

Chris turned and fixed cold eyes on the big man. "And if we’re wrong, we lose half a day’s ridin’," he ground out harshly.

Josiah returned the stare evenly. "And if we go to Mud Creek and we’re wrong," he said quietly, "then we add four or five hours to that half-day’s ride. Besides, they need cover as much as they need water," he pointed out. "They at least have ta suspect they’re bein’ followed. Ain’t nothin’ but flat, open ground around Mud Creek. That’s the last place two men on the run, one of ’em wounded, wanta be." His gaze softened as he stared at the seething gunfighter. "Wantin’ ’em ta be closer won’t make it so, Chris," he said quietly. "They’re goin’ ta Round Rock Springs. I’d stake my life on it."

"And Vin’s?" Larabee hissed, his green eyes glinting. "You willin’ ta stake his life on it, too?"

=======

Vin stared up at the endless blue sky, plotted the path the sun would follow, then lowered his gaze to the terrain and tracked that same path there, studying where and how shadows would fall on the uneven, rocky ground, and deciding how best to make his approach. It would be a much longer, more roundabout way than he desired, would likely take three or four hours, and some of that spent lying in place, waiting for still more shadows to unfold.

But it was only way he could do it and not be seen...

He scooted back below the crest of the rise where he’d lain and sat up, studying Peso. He’d have to leave the big horse here; he couldn’t risk riding any further and being seen. But there was sufficient grazing for an animal too trailwise to be picky, and a small spring, part of the underground stream that fed this whole area, provided water. And, in less than an hour, this part of the ground would be in shadow, giving relief from the heat.

He just had to make sure the damn horse was tied securely enough that he wouldn’t wander off.

"Yer a goddamn nuisance," he told Peso as he stood and went to him. "Any other horse’d be grateful fer what he’s got here an’ stay put. But I know you. You’d wander from a mountain meadow to a goddamn desert just outta sheer cussedness."

Peso twitched an ear, but otherwise ignored him.

Vin tested the horse’s lead, made sure it was so securely tied not even Peso could slip it or work it loose. "Ain’t ever seen such a horse fer untyin’ knots ’n wanderin’ off," he fussed. "Hell, if I had the time, I’d hobble ya, too. Not that it’d do any good." Peso was one of the few horses he’d seen who could run in hobbles, moving his forelegs in a hopping, rabbit-like motion. "Goddamn mule," he growled, reaching out to give the powerful black neck a rough caress. "One’a these days, I’m gonna take ya back ta Mexico, find the fellers I gotcha from ’n git my peso back. Then we’ll see how high ’n mighty y’are."

Peso brought his head down and around and shoved it into the tracker’s chest, though with nothing like the force he was capable of showing. And he held it there, obviously waiting.

With a scowl, Vin gave in and scratched behind one silky ear until the gelding nearly purred from pleasure. "Damn mule," he said softly, fondly. "Gonna make me shoot ya yet." He slid his hand under the horse’s powerful jaw and lifted the big head until he was looking into Peso’s eyes. "You best be here when I git back, y’ hear?" he growled. "If I have ta come lookin’ fer ya, y’ain’t gonna like it one little bit when I find ya!"

When Peso merely jerked his head free and returned to his grazing, Vin walked around and slid his rifle from its scabbard. He reached into a saddlebag, drew out a box of shells, and shoved it into the pocket of his coat. He didn’t particularly want to get into another shooting war, wasn’t really sure he could hit anything anyway, but he’d oblige the bastards if they forced him. He took a long drink from his canteen, then cast one last glance up at the sky and nodded.

It was time.

Again ignoring his relentless headache, forcing himself instead to see Ezra and JD falling, he let his anger, his fury rise, then turned it to cold purpose. He’d failed once, but he wouldn’t fail again. Here and now, he was going to make it right so he could go back and face his friends.

He closed his eyes, drew a deep, calming breath and let the familiar stillness spread through him.

Then let the hawk in him fly free to hunt.

=======

Chris rode like a man possessed, pushing his black for all it was worth, gripped by a deepening sense of foreboding. He had long since ceased following any trail, no longer even made a pretense of looking at the ground for tracks. He cared only about reaching Round Rock Springs as fast as his horse could get him there.

About getting to Vin and stopping the damn fool from getting himself killed.

Josiah had to push his sorrel harder than he liked to keep pace with Chris, and he whispered apology after apology to the game horse, promising he would somehow make it up to him. But he knew better than to protest this reckless pace, or to urge Chris to slow down, knew there was no point in either. He recognized the mixture of rage and terror seething in the green eyes, the hard set to the chiseled jaw, the coiled tightness of the lean, black-clad body. Some alarm had sounded in the gunfighter, some instinct for trouble had been aroused. And Josiah had only to look in that grim, fierce face to know what had triggered that alarm.

Vin.

He wasn’t surprised Chris knew Vin was in trouble, didn’t have to ask how he knew. The bond between Larabee and Tanner was like nothing the preacher had ever seen before. It wasn’t friendship, wasn’t even kinship, but something far deeper, far stronger, and far more vital. It joined the two at their souls, so that even when they were separated, they were never truly apart. Sanchez had spent time among visionaries, shamen, prophets and holy men in all parts of the world, yet never in all his studies and travels had he experienced anything more truly mystical than the spiritual communion between the brooding, hardened gunman and the unschooled, illiterate tracker.

And now that communion was driving Chris onward, warning him that the man who was so much more than a brother was in danger and needed his help.

Josiah murmured another apology to his horse and spurred him after Chris’s racing black, all the while offering silent, fervent prayers that they would not be too late.

=======

Ezra watched as Nathan checked JD’s wound and changed the boy’s bandages, and saw the healer’s dark brow furrow deeply with a worry the gambler knew had nothing to do with the young sheriff. JD was doing even better than Jackson had hoped, breathing easily and showing not the slightest sign of fever, his young and vigorous constitution rallying to his aid.

In fact, he was doing so well that Buck had been willing to leave his side, get a meal and a bath and take a stroll around the town just to make sure that all was well. So there had to be another cause for Nathan’s obvious anxiety, and Ezra knew only too well what it was.

"Chris and Josiah will find him," he drawled quietly.

Nathan was startled by the soft voice, and spun around to meet the gambler’s knowing green gaze. "You s’posed ta be sleepin’!" he scolded more sharply than he’d intended.

Ezra smiled slightly. "I fear the palliative effects of your medications have diminished most lamentably, and the discomfort in my shoulder has grown so intrusive as to make sleep quite impossible. Besides," he grimaced, "the sun is in my eyes, and it’s not a sensation I find pleasant."

Nathan smirked. "Hell, Ezra, I’m surprised you know what sunlight is. Ain’t somethin’ you see much of."

"Yes, well, if this is all there is to it, then I must tell you, Mr. Jackson, it is grossly over-rated." He cast a look of disgust at the healer. "I cannot fathom why so many seemingly discerning persons consider it so appealin’!"

Nathan had to chuckle at that. He knew the gambler loathed mornings, and would not get out of bed before noon unless forced at gunpoint. And once up, the man preferred the dark interior of a saloon to almost any other place on earth.

"You know folks is always sayin’ things look better in th’ light’a day," he said.

Ezra snorted derisively. "Nonsense! The light of day is too bright and unforgiving. Darkness, however, holds the allure of coverin’ all defects and flaws and softenin’ life’s much too harsh and unpleasant realities." He shrugged his good shoulder and regarded Nathan mildly. "In the light, a man is seen for what he is. In darkness, he may be seen for what he wants to be."

Nathan frowned slightly, wondering at the words. Was Standish admitting to such a difference in himself, between the man he was and the man he wanted to be? Was there something in him he felt uncomfortable having others see? Or was he just playing with words again?

The healer sighed and shook his head slightly. He and Ezra didn’t always agree – hell, didn’t often agree – in their views, had vastly different outlooks on life. But, where once he’d been deeply suspicious of the gambler’s every action and motive, he’d finally begun to realize that Standish hid an awful lot under that glib, slick surface, and that much of it was good. Ezra cared about people far more than he’d ever willingly let on, cared more about his six friends than he’d ever admit, and would do almost anything for them.

Nathan would probably never trust his wallet to Ezra, but he’d trust his life to the man without question.

"Still," Ezra went on, made suddenly uncomfortable by the healer’s searching gaze and wanting to change the subject, "I suppose in this one instance I must consider the benefits of daylight, as it will no doubt aid Chris and Josiah in their search for Vin. Our intrepid tracker finds it simple enough to disappear in the light of day. I shudder to think what it would require to find him at night."

Nathan’s worry returned in full force at that, and he turned away from Standish and made his way to the window, staring through it to the street below. "But he ain’t hisse’f," he said softly, anxiously. "Got a head wound that needs tendin’. Damn fool won’t take care of it, I know him. He’s got one thing on that stubborn mind of his, an’ it ain’t takin’ care’a hisself."

"They’ll find him," Ezra said again, wanting to ease Nathan’s worry. He knew how the man fretted over any suffering, and often wondered how the former slave could still muster such compassion for others when so little had been shown him. Yet that compassionate nature, that need to heal the hurts of the world, was one of the qualities Ezra most respected in the man with whom he was so often at odds. "If anyone can find him, it’s Chris. No one knows better how he thinks, or can more accurately anticipate his moves and actions. For all we know, they’ve found him already and are bringin’ him back now." He grinned until his gold tooth showed. "Or will, once Chris has extracted the appropriate pound of flesh from Vin’s hide."

A slight grin creased Nathan’s face, and a gleam kindled in his dark eyes. "Yeah, Chris wasn’t too happy with him, was he? Maybe we should be glad Vin’s hurt. Likely Chris won’t shoot’r beat the shit outta a wounded man."

Ezra arched one chestnut brow. "I wouldn’t wager any money on that, Mr. Jackson. Vin has a remarkable aptitude for incurrin’ Chris’s wrath, even when he’s incapacitated. In fact, as a talent, I would say it ranks with his trackin’ and sharpshootin’ abilities. As my dear, sainted mother would say, it is one of his ‘God-given gifts.’"

Nathan chuckled quietly, his worry chased away by rising good humor. Then, realizing what the man had done, he turned to the gambler and gave him a warm smile. "Thanks, Ezra. I appreciate that."

Standish only stared at him, eyes neutral, one eyebrow raised. "I cannot imagine what you are talkin’ about, Mr. Jackson. I have done nothin’ except engage in meaningless conversation. However," he let his mask slip, and an answering warmth shone in the green eyes, "if you are truly grateful, then perhaps you could close the curtains and block out that damned sun. I will never recover from the shock of such an egregious assault upon my sensibilities in my weakened condition!"

=======

Vin halted at the base of the rocks and sank to his haunches, shaking from weakness, breathing hard and bathed in sweat, nearly blinded by the worsening pain in his head. Though it had taken every ounce of strength he possessed, he had made it, and now had only – somehow – to haul himself up this wall of rock to be in place above the outlaws’ camp.

And he’d do it. He had no idea how he’d force his exhausted body to make the climb, but knew he had no choice. He wanted – needed – the high ground, had to be in a position to make sure the two wouldn’t escape him again. He wouldn’t get more than one shot at this, didn’t have more than this one, last try in him, and so had to make this work.

Because there was no way in hell he’d fail his friends again.

He allowed himself nearly an hour’s rest in the shadows, and even dozed, though he snapped awake after a short while and cursed himself for such foolishness. Then, grown impatient with his weakness, he hung his rifle over his shoulder with the sling he’d fashioned for it and forced himself to begin the climb. Scrabbling for handholds and footholds, he scaled the rough, uneven jumble of rocks, dirt and brush much more slowly than was his habit, careful to make as little sound as possible. Meanwhile, every instinct, every sense, was on sharp alert, as he listened, watched, even sniffed the still air, for any sign of the outlaws. He was all hunter now, and knew there was no prey more dangerous than a desperate man.

Near the top, he shook his hat off his head. While its wide, low brim offered welcome shade from the blazing late afternoon sun, he did not want to chance having it seen by the men below and giving his presence away. Ignoring the sweat pouring from him, soaking his hair and his clothes, he hauled himself up the last little bit, praying the bastards he was after couldn’t hear the heavy pounding of his heart.

And wishing he couldn’t feel it in his head.

Finally, hanging suspended by hands and feet from the rocks, he eased his head over the top and scanned the ground before him, searching for a likely spot. He found it then, a shallow, bowl-shaped indentation in the ground, large enough for one man, with rocks and brush enough around it for ample cover. Tossing a quick, silent prayer of thanks to whatever spirit watched over and guided him, he carefully pulled himself over the top and crawled on his belly to the little bowl, suddenly grateful the rains had not yet come.

Else he’d find himself lying in a pool.

Once in the bowl, still on his belly, he unslung his rifle and laid it within close reach. He drew his spyglass from his pocket and pulled it open, put it to his eye and swept it slowly over the terrain about him, only barely resisting the temptation to rub eyes that refused to focus. Still, he knew this place, and let his memory supply the details his vision refused to provide.

Round Rock Springs was a wildly beautiful place, marked by a tumble of huge boulders smoothed by wind and rain, mesquite, creosote and desert willow trees, low craggy ridges and the deep, clear springs that welled from some underground river. The springs dotted the area like beads on a string, and were the only reliable, unfailing source of water for miles around. They were below him, set along a shallow but broad ravine – probably once a riverbed – between the ridge on which he was perched and the one across the way. Vin knew this area intimately, came here often, but wished bitterly he could see it more clearly now.

Didn’t pay to get careless when hunting...

He saw a shape at the foot of an arthritically-twisted mesquite tree near one of the smaller springs, and studied it long enough to realize it was a man; likely the wounded outlaw. He watched for a long while, saw he was not moving, and felt a sharp twinge of uneasiness. There were no horses, and no sign of the second man. If this one were dead, then his partner would likely be gone, taking both horses with him.

"Shit," he hissed, only barely resisting the urge to snap the spyglass shut. But not seeing the second man didn’t mean he wasn’t there, so stealth remained important. "Hell, Tanner, you’ve come this far. What’re ya gonna do now?"

He licked his lips, took a quick drink from his canteen, and thought. The last tracks he’d found hadn’t been but hours old; the bastard below – if he were dead – couldn’t have been dead long. Which meant his partner might still be near. And in this ground, with the dirt kept moist and loose by the springs, his tracks would be easy to find.

Vin cast a glance up at the sky. He still had four, maybe five hours of daylight left, plenty of time to pick up the trail. And there’d only be a crescent moon tonight, not nearly enough light to make travel easy or safe. The sonuvabitch he was after would have to stop, make camp for the night. Maybe he could catch him then.

But only if he knew which way the bastard was headed.

"Ain’t no help fer it then, Tanner," he sighed. "Might’s well git on down there, see what you c’n find. Y’ain’t gittin’ nowheres layin’ up here."

He opened the spyglass again and put it to his eye, making one last sweep of the area. Seeing no more clearly than he had five minutes ago, he closed the glass, slipped it into his pocket and reached for his rifle, taking deep, calming breaths all the while. Then, bracing himself for whatever shots might come, he crawled across the ledge on his belly, desperately hoping he was not as exposed as he felt.

The boys was always teasin’ him for actin’ like he thought he was invisible. That’d damn sure be a right nice trick ta know just now!

No shots came. Hearing only a deep, heavy silence, he swallowed hard and tightened his hold on his rifle, then eased himself over the edge and sought purchase on the rocky slope below. But the ground beneath him was loose, and he slid down more than walked, sending rocks tumbling down and clouds of dust billowing up, and completely destroying any hope of a stealthy approach.

Still the man on the ground did not move, still no hidden partner appeared to shoot at him. And still Vin’s hackles rose ever higher.

"Shit shit shit shit..." he muttered on his slipping, sliding way down, hating this with everything that was in him. His skin crawled, an itch materialized between his shoulders, the hair on his neck refused to lay flat and his every nerve was on knife-sharp edge. His instincts were screaming frantic warnings at him, but he could see no sign at all that he was not the only living person here. "Goddamn you ’n yer bright ideas!" he cursed himself.

Once down in the ravine, he straightened slowly, hefted his rifle in two hands, and went slowly toward the man lying near the spring, his blue eyes never still. He searched the ground as he crossed it, lifted his gaze and swept it over the ridges about him, alert for any sight or sound that did not belong. His own tread was noiseless; even his breathing was subdued.

The damp, loose ground was deeply marked by tracks, horse and human, and he forced himself to try and untangle them, to read the tale they told. Normally he would have had it within moments. But he was so tired, and his head hurt so...

And, hell, normally he could see.

Shit.

Disgusted with himself, he went to the man under the tree, stared down at him, then knelt beside him. Dead, though not for long. And clearly laying where he had fallen.

"Guess ya won’t be helpin’ me no more by bleedin’ all over th’ ground fer me," he said resignedly, shaking his head slightly. "Damn, I’m gonna miss that. Sure made my work a helluva lot easier."

Sparing not another thought for the dead outlaw, he rose to his feet and went back to the spring, crouching and beginning a careful search of the area. He could do this. He just had to think. The Spirits might have taken away his blood trail, but they’d replaced it with damp ground that even Ezra would have been able to read.

"C’mon, Tanner," he scolded himself. "Ya got yerself inta this, it’s time ya got yerself out. Read the fuckin’ tracks."

So he did. He saw where the horses had wandered to graze, found where the second man had stretched himself out on the ground to get some rest. And gave a wolfish smile.

"Well, hell, if ya took time fer a nap, then y’ain’t so far ahead’a me after all!" he rasped with satisfaction. "Lazy bastard like you d’serves ta be caught. Ya give more hard-workin’ outlaws a bad name."

He got up, went back to the spring, picked up the track of one of the horses, and scratched his jaw in puzzlement. Working in wider circles around the spring, dropping often to his knees and using his hands to supplement vision that swam in and out of focus, he read the ground as others would a book and frowned, not liking the story it told.

Lots of horse tracks, some obscured by bootprints. He’d expected to find signs that the surviving outlaw had gotten away riding one horse and leading the other, but that wasn’t what he was seeing. Neither set of horse tracks were deep enough to indicate the additional weight of a rider. Instead, it simply appeared that both horses had just... wandered away.

"What the hell?" he muttered, scowling. "What’d the sonuvabitch do, walk outta here?" He leaned forward and studied the hoofprints, then gave a wry chuckle as the answer dawned on him. "Reckon one’a y’all’s a bunch-quitter, like Peso," he said aloud to the unseen animals. "One musta took off, ’n th’ other’n musta follered." He reached out idly and traced a finger around the imprint of a hoof.

"Ain’t neither of ya runnin’, that’s plain." He chuckled again. "Shit, I’ll bet y’all waited ’til that bastard fell asleep, then jist moseyed off on yer own. Damn fool musta fergot ta tie ya ’fore he took his nap." He spat contemptuously into the dirt. "Some folks is jist too goddamn stupid ta live!"

He stood up, looked around at the ground again, and nodded. If the horses had wandered off, it was likely the bastard would’ve gone after them. Which meant he’d be tracking a man on foot. The Spirits were still with him.

He heard it then, a sound that did not belong, the slight, soft jingle and creak of tack. Snapping his rifle up reflexively, he whirled about and levered a round into the chamber, then relaxed as a riderless horse, still fully tacked, meandered into view.

"Damn fool animal!" he snarled, lowering his rifle. "Nearly got yerself shot!"

The horse glanced at him, twitched an ear and nickered softly, but showed neither fear of nor interest in Tanner. It found a patch of grass, lowered its head and began munching complacently.

Vin exhaled unsteadily and ran a hand over his face, suddenly realizing just how raw his nerves were. Try as he might, though, he could not relax. He had one dead outlaw and one riderless horse, and clear sign that the second outlaw was gone, probably after the missing animals. And since only one horse had come back, it was likely the other had been caught, which meant the remaining man, freed by his partner’s death to make his escape, was probably riding hell-bent-for-leather away from here right now.

So why were his hackles still climbing?

He tightened his grip on his rifle and swept his gaze slowly over the ground that rose on either side of the springs, rolling his shoulders uncomfortably as the itch between them grew worse. He strained to hear something – anything – that told him he was not alone, but no sound came to him that did not belong. Everything seemed exactly as it should have been.

But his instincts assured him something was wrong, and he’d learned long ago never to question them.

He made one last desperate sweep with his eyes of the high ground about him, licking his lips nervously, then swallowed hard and went to one of the smaller springs. He’d collect the horse, go back for Peso, and take up the chase. But he needed water first.

With the wariness of a wild animal suspecting a trap, he went slowly to his knees in the moist, soft earth, eyes flicking restlessly all about, ears straining, nerves screaming, his right hand never releasing the rifle. His left hand he dipped into the water, and finally he bowed his head and brought the cupped hand toward his mouth. But, between his weariness, persistent dizziness and headache, he found himself suddenly off balance and had to drop his rifle, jamming his right hand into the dirt to keep himself from falling. He closed his eyes and pressed his left hand to his throbbing head...

And froze when he heard the distinctive sound of a pistol being cocked.

=======