The rain came to Four Corners at dusk in a hard, brief fall accompanied by thunder and lightning, then faded to a sullen drizzle, with the threat of more thunder heavy in the air. Ezra hunched his shoulders inside the oiled-cloth duster Mary Travis had insisted he wear, even though he was fairly sheltered beneath the overhang of the porch. The watch-fires lit on the streets hissed and sizzled as the raindrops hit the coals, and the wavering reflection of the flames shivered in the puddles left by the rain. He cast a longing look at the brightly lit interior of the Standish Tavern, imagining his place at the gaming table and the riches he was passing up to watch over Mary and Orrin.

Riches. Right. Ezra made a derisive sound at his own imaginings. It was far better to be impoverished and alive, than to be rich and dead at the expense of Chris Larabee’s wrath. Grinning to himself at that thought, Ezra lit a cheroot and settled back in the chair Mary had thoughtfully provided before she retired. It was promising to be a long night, with no sign of the three regulators who had gone in pursuit of Red Harper and Titus Roche.

A tall shadow approached down the boardwalk, and Ezra set the legs of his chair down with a thump, his wrist ready to cock and spring the derringer from his sleeve. The light from the watch-fires fell on the man’s face, and Ezra relaxed once more. "Mr. Wilmington." He touched the brim of his hat in greeting.

"All quiet, Ezra?" Buck asked. He leaned up against one of the porch supports, and looked out at the rain-wet town.

"So far. And I have every hope that it will remain so." He cast a sharp green glance at Wilmington. "How fares Mr. Dunne this evening?"

"The kid’s doin’ real well. Nathan says he’ll be up and around tomorrow if he don’t run a fever overnight." Buck’s evident relief caused Ezra a moment of jealousy; he doubted Maude would hover as solicitously over him, if he were incapacitated, as Buck did over that boy. He sighed, and nodded.

"Youth is amazingly resilient, or so Maude says," Ezra commented.

"He nearly died ‘cause of that bastard Titus Roche," Buck’s voice held a chill that made Ezra’s brows climb. "I’m prayin’ that Vin puts a bullet right through his fuckin’ heart."

"Amen to that."

Buck nodded. "I’m gonna catch some sleep. You get tired, Ezra, you send for me, an’ I’ll relieve you."

"I am quite accustomed to these hours. Not these conditions," he said with a wry smile, "but certainly these hours. Goodnight, Mr. Wilmington."

Buck sauntered off toward the boarding house, and Ezra returned to his watch. As he sat there, his hands busy with his ever-present deck of cards, his mind was more on his absent comrades than on the disposition of Lady Luck.

That realization made him smile. Maude had raised him to be selfish, self-protective, and he was just discovering the world beyond that narrow scope. Part of that he owed to Chris Larabee. He could not say that he liked the gunslinger; but he had an immense respect for the man, and not just for his skills with the gun. Larabee’s quick mind, his dedication to a duty he had pledged to honor, his dry wit that flashed out at the oddest times, his ferocity in defense of causes he believed right; those were traits Ezra admired and wished he possessed in a greater degree than he did. He could do without that flashpot temper, though. Made him wonder how the taciturn Vin Tanner stood the heat of that scorching anger.

Ezra smiled as he ran the cards through his fingers. Funny how Larabee and Tanner had become linked in his mind. At times Tanner’s reserve was so extreme you could forget he was in the room, even when he was sitting next you. Not that the tracker didn’t have a temper of his own; he was as dangerous as Larabee, but never out of control, never wild. Ezra had seen him angry. It was when the anger faded and the cold logic of a man used to killing shone in his eyes, that he gave Ezra the shivers.

Maude called him uncouth, and Lord, the man’s penchant for wearing the hides of dead animals was unfathomable to Ezra. But uneducated as he was, Tanner had a sense of humor that could shoot down an inflated self-opinion as unerringly as his Winchester could take down a villain. Ezra winced at his own thoughts; he’d been the intended victim of that piercing wit more than he cared to admit. Yet despite that, Ezra liked Vin. He had a natural dignity that no amount of studied polish could give a man. His presence could be as restful as a tranquil stream, and Ezra found him reassuring in a way that Larabee never was.

Those two men of disparate natures, sharing only solitude, were the calm center of the seven regulators, and Ezra hated to think about a world without their presence. I am becoming maudlin from lack of sleep, he thought, and turned his attention to his cards.

The rain began again, the drops falling from the eaves in a hypnotic rhythm, and the feel of the cards sliding though his fingers was soothing. His nerves subsided into a slightly less jangling state of anxiety. The sight of a drunk weaving down the boardwalk didn’t raise any warning bells, but he set the legs of his chair down so the man could pass without tripping or puking over Ezra’s expensive boots. The drunk staggered nearer, dark clothes and wide-brimmed hat turning him into a walking shadow. He was humming to himself in a tuneless ramble, and occasionally, he paused to hang on to a post or rail for balance. Ezra shook his head. Utter inebriation was so undignified.

A wave of alcoholic fumes eddied towards Ezra as the man came nearer. He rose from the chair, intending to direct the man away from Mary’s doorstep. "My dear sir --"

The man leaped for Ezra, his hands seizing his throat, driving him backwards with such force that his head hit a roof support with a sick crunch of bone against wood. His eyes rolled up in his head, and he sank bonelessly to the boardwalk, insensible, his cards sliding from his hands to scatter like fallen leaves around his body.

Titus Roche stripped off Ezra’s tie and started to bind his wrists, finding the sleeve gun in the process. He took the derringer from the mechanism and stuck it in his belt. He threw Ezra’s Remington into the shadows. Then he bound the gambler and dragged him into the alley at the side of the house. A sudden light at the doorway made him shrink back against the siding. The door opened, and Mary Travis came out on the porch.

"Ezra? I thought I heard something." She looked around, stepped on the fallen cards, and gasped. "Ezra?"

Roche grabbed her from behind, his hand covering her mouth. He held Ezra’s derringer hard against her jaw. "Don’t struggle, don’t scream. If you fight, I’ll kill you, and then go after Judge Travis, you understand?"

Mary nodded. Roche released his grip on her mouth, shifting his hold to her waist, but keeping the gun aimed to blow her brains out. She had no doubt that he would do what he said. As frightened as she was, she knew that panic was her worst enemy. She had to buy time, give one of the regulators a chance to discover that she was in trouble. No one else stood a chance with Roche.

"What do you want me to do?" she asked. She was surprised at how cool her voice sounded, when her heart was about to leap out of her breast.

"We’re going to go to your newspaper office, and when the bank opens, we’ll take a walk there, so I can *withdraw* some funds. You’re my insurance that the transaction will proceed smoothly."

Mary looked at him scornfully. "You’ll never get away with this! Chris Larabee and Vin Tanner --"

"Are soaking the desert with their blood." Roche bared his teeth in a smile, and felt Mary’s breath draw in sharply. "Don’t look for salvation from those quarters, Mrs. Travis. It won’t happen."

"You’re lying."

"Whether or not I am, doesn’t matter. It’s dark, it’s raining, and you know both of them were wounded. They won’t be here to save you. But you can save yourself and the Judge by agreeing to help resolve my problems."

Mary drew a breath. Roche wasn’t leaving her many options, and she had to grab what he was offering before he became desperate and snatched it away. "You have my word," she promised. She clutched the collar of her night robe close to her throat. "May I get dressed?"

Roche nodded. "Of course, however, I’ll just stand outside Judge Travis’ door -- in case you have a change of heart."

He released her, and with her head held high, she went upstairs. Roche followed her to her room, and when she started to close the door, he stopped it with his foot. "I don’t think so, Mrs. Travis. I will be a gentleman, but I won’t take any chances with a woman of your resourceful nature."

Defeated, Mary went inside. There was no way Roche could observe her, but she felt as if he could. She dressed quickly, tied her hair back, and went out to the hallway where he was waiting. "All right, Mr. Roche. We’ll go to the Clarion."

**********************

Vin knew there had been times in his life when he had been colder, wetter, and in more pain; it was just harder to recall them when the wind was cutting through his clothes, the rain was dripping down the back of his neck, and his whole body ached fit to make him want to burrow deep somewhere warm and gentle where nothing hurt. Instead, he gritted his teeth and hung on to Peso’s reins like they were all that was anchoring him to earth. They were nearly home. The only thing standing between him and the rest of his life was Titus Roche.

Before the rain had started in earnest, Vin had found his tracks heading north -- news that made Chris go taut as a drawn bow, ready to ride hell bent for leather back to Four Corners and whatever danger he felt threatening those people he wanted to protect. Vin knew it wasn’t just Mary Travis, but the wounded JD, and Buck; Nathan, and all the other folks who had put their trust and faith in him. Vin understood that. He wanted it every bit as badly as Chris and Josiah. However, if they followed that instinct, they would die on the way. Hell, knew he would die on the way out of sheer exhaustion. So they rode as quickly as they could until the weather forced them to slow down. Vin reckoned they were about three miles outside town, though the rain and the darkness made finding landmarks impossible. They were going by instinct, driven by fear, and sheer cussedness. Wouldn’t be long, he thought. Not long ...

He jerked himself upright in the saddle with a furtive glance at Larabee, hoping he hadn’t seen that brief weakness. Chris was so far lost in his thoughts that if a gun had exploded in his ears, he might not have heard it. He was nearly invisible in the darkness; the pale triangle of his face was a blur, even to Vin’s sharp eyes. Josiah was riding behind them, like a guardian angel hovering over their shoulders.

The rain had made the trail heavy going for most of the ride, and the occasional sullen flicker of lightning on the horizon was a warning that more was on the way. But Vin sensed that the ground underfoot was firming up. They’d be able to move faster. He was getting a tight feeling under his skin that nearly drove the fatigue from him. He jogged Chris’ elbow. "Ground’s gittin’ harder, Chris."

Larabee turned to him. "You want ta risk picking up the pace, partner?"

"Don’t want ta risk what might happen if we don’t." Vin looked back at Josiah. "Preacher?"

"I’m with you all the way, Brother Tanner."

Chris gave a soft hiss of laughter, and Vin saw the gleam of his teeth bared in a grin. He kneed Peso into a lope. The other two men followed, grateful to be moving more quickly, but still not as swiftly as they would have liked. They all felt the underlying urgency that was driving Vin beyond weariness and pain -- the fear that they wouldn’t get to Four Corners in time to stop Titus Roche.

*********************

JD’s fretful muttering woke Nathan from his sleep. He rose quickly and went to the boy’s side, touching his shoulder to wake him, and then his forehead to check for a fever. JD gasped sat upright, blinking into the shadows of the dimly lit room. He pushed Nathan’s hand aside.

"Geez, Nathan! Why’d you wake me up?"

"You was about to wake yo’self up, thrashin’ around an’ mutterin’. You all right, son?"

"Yeah. I don’t even remember what I was dreamin’, now."

Nathan nodded. JD wasn’t running a fever, and as for the dream, he was pretty sure JD did remember, and was just covering up what he saw as weakness. Didn’t understand yet that even men like Chris Larabee and Buck Wilmington couldn’t fight the dreams that haunted their nights. He let JD get out of bed to use the necessary and get some water to shake off the effects of the nightmare, and then sat and waited until he had drifted back to sleep. The young did that easily; Nathan couldn’t settle again.

The night air was still and heavy, but the sound of the rain dripping from the rafters was soothing. Nathan thought a walk might calm him. Maybe he’d go see if Ezra wanted to get some coffee and take a break. He waited a while to be sure that JD’s sleep was untroubled, and then crept silently out the door, and down the steps to the street.

He strolled towards the Travis house, paused and frowned. Where was the gambler? If he’d cut out for the comfort of the saloon, Larabee’d have his hide -- the uncharitable thought brought a pang to Nathan’s heart. He’d thought he was past that distrust they’d both brought to the table from their first meeting. Guess some scars were harder to heal than others, and he reckoned they always would be.

"Ezra?" he called out quietly. "Hey, Ez ..." Nathan’s voice trailed off. Ezra’s hat was laying on the boardwalk, not like he’d set it there, but like it had tumbled from his head. Nathan’s stomach lurched. He hurried forward and in the light from the watch-fire he saw the scattered cards. And something else, a dark smear on the boardwalk that he knew was blood. "Shit!" He looked around, and saw the alley.

"Ezra!" he hissed, and stepped into the darkness. His foot made contact with a solid form. Ezra’s leg. Nathan moved his hand to the gambler’s chest, felt the heartbeat jar his palm, and knew that he was alive. With a muttered thanks to God, he took hold of Ezra’s limp body and maneuvered him out of the narrow space back into the light of the boardwalk.

He made a quick examination. No gunshot wounds, no blood on his torso or back. Just the heavy flow that had soaked his collar and matted his hair. Nathan very gently palpated his skull and found the huge knot at the back of his head. There was a deep gash in the scalp, but the bones all seemed intact. Ezra’s breathing was steady enough, and his pulse was strong. Nathan patted down his body, searching for the flask he carried, and realized that not only was Standish’s Remington gone, the sleeve pistol was missing as well. What the hell had happened?

He found the flask, opened it and tried pouring a small amount into Ezra’s mouth. Just a couple a’ drops to make him rouse. "Ezra!" he whispered urgently. "C’mon, wake up -- Lord, we got trouble if ya don’t!" he prayed.

Ezra coughed as the whiskey fumes hit the back of his throat. He shuddered in Nathan’s arms and his eyes opened, the green depths clouded, his pupils dilated and blurry.

"Mist’ Jackson ..." he slurred. "Is somethin’ wrong?" He frowned as if trying to recapture some lost fragment of time in his mind. "My head ..." He groaned and closed his eyes. "Everythin’s spinnin’." His throat worked against nausea, and Nathan turned him quickly so he wouldn’t choke as he vomited.

This wasn’t good. He held Erza until the spasm passed. Turned him back so he could see his face. "Ezra, ya gotta tell me what happened. You remember?"

Ezra’s ragged breath faltered as he tried to recall. "Don’t know ... I was sittin’ here, and this drunk was staggerin’ past ..." The memories came flooding back, bringing pain and a shock that made Ezra gasp. "Roche! It was Roche! Mary --" He struggled to sit up, but the world spun out again and he sank back gasping in Nathan’s arms.

"’S’alright, Ezra," Nathan soothed. "I’m gonna lay ya down here. I’m comin’ back, I promise. Gotta git Buck here, y’understand?"

"Mary, first," Ezra whispered, keeping his eyes closed. "See if she’s all right."

The door was open. A bad sign. Nathan felt like he was trespassing in this place, but he had to find out if Ezra was right, or if his mind was playin’ trick on him. A blow like that could leave him addled for sure. The downstairs was silent. No sign of any trouble. Nathan went upstairs. "Miz Travis?" he whispered. "You up here?" Nothing.

Mary’s door was open. He peered inside. Her bed was unmade, so she had at least laid down there. But she wasn’t there now. Nathan felt sick. He went down the hall. He knew Billy’s room, and that door was open. The next door was the back bedroom Judge Travis used when he was in town. Nathan knocked softly. "Judge Travis? Nathan Jackson, here. You awake?" A slightly louder knock.

A moment later, a disheveled-looking Orrin Travis opened the door. Disheveled, but holding a gun in a steady hand. When he saw Nathan, he lowered the weapon. "What’s going on, Mr. Jackson?"

"Judge, I jist found Ezra knocked out in the alley, and Mary’s gone. Ezra says he was blindsided by Titus Roche. Th’ bastard musta come an’ took her."

Travis went grey with shock. "My God! How?"

Nathan shook his head. "I don’t know, sir. Ezra ain’t clear in his mind. I’m gonna git Buck Wilmington. We’ll find ‘em, Judge. We will."

Travis’s hand on the doorjamb tightened until his knuckles were white. "I’ll kill the sonofabitch if he harms just one hair on her head." His eyes sharpened into points of steel. "Get Wilmington. I’ll be ready before you get back."

"Judge, I’d like t’bring Ezra up here. He’s in a bad way."

Travis nodded. As much as he wanted to run out into the night and start searching for Mary, he knew that he could not do it alone. "Any word from the others?" he asked.

"No." Nathan’s dark eyes were worried. They both knew that it was possible that they might never see them alive, again. Yet Nathan could not acknowledge that willingly. Tanner and Larabee were survivors, they would fight tooth and nail and bleed out the last of their blood to get back to Four Corners, if they were still alive. And Josiah, hell, his spirit would come a-whisperin’ if they was dead.

Together, Nathan and Travis carried Ezra up the stairs, and it was the Judge who went to get Buck, realizing that Nathan’s worry over the gambler was well-founded. When he and the gunman arrived back at the house, Nathan was stitching up the gash on Ezra’s head with some of Mary’s silk thread and a sewing needle. Somehow, the Judge didn’t think she’d mind seeing it put to such a use, so different than what was intended when he’d had it shipped from New York out here.

"How’s he doin’, Nathan?" Buck asked.

"Got a hell of a concussion, but I reckon he’ll be all right. I won’t be able to leave him, though. Gotta keep a close watch on somethin’ like this." He rested a gentle hand on the back of Ezra’s head. "Coulda’ kilt him."

Buck turned to Travis. "Judge, we need t’look for Mary. Figure the livery’d be the place t’start. See if anyone’s seen Roche."

The judge had a thought. "Roche wouldn’t come just to take Mary. He’s got something else on his mind, and the only thing that would drive him back here when he had a clear shot at Mexico would be money."

"He’s holdin’ her for ransom?" Buck asked incredulously.

"Or as a hostage." Travis’ mouth went grim and hard. "I’d be willing to bet that he’s still in town."

"But where could he take her without folks noticin’ somethin’ was wrong?"

Travis’ eyes met Buck’s. "The Clarion."

"Let’s go!" Before he could take more than two steps, Travis grabbed his shoulder.

"We can’t go bulling in there! He’ll kill her without blinking an eye! We’ve got to make certain that’s where they are. We need help."

"Well, help ain’t comin’ from heaven," Buck said shortly. "An’ ain’t no one in town able to take Roche but us."

Travis’ heart sank at the truth in Buck’s words. He released his shoulder. "One step at a time, Buck. Let’s make sure that he’s at the Clarion, first."

They went out into the dark streets. It was raining harder, and lightning was flickering on the horizon. A low growl of thunder rumbled in the distance. Travis looked at his watch. It was a long way to dawn. He and Buck made their way down the street in the shadows. The shutters were drawn at the Clarion windows, but a light showed through the cracks. Buck indicated to Travis that he was going to take a look through the back window, and the judge nodded that he understood.

A few minutes later, Buck returned. He gave Travis a small grin. "They’re in there."

"Is Mary all right?"

"Yeah. She’s tied up. I couldn’t see her face, but she looked okay, Judge. Just caught a glimpse of Roche’s sleeve. Looks like he’s sittin’ at her desk. Got a gun on her, though. And ain’t no way I c’n get a clear shot at him." He paused. "Vin could," he said so quietly that Travis scarcely heard him. Buck made a sound in his throat; half laugh, half frustrated sob. "I’m goin’ t’ saddle up and ride out. See if I can’t find the others."

"They could be dead."

Buck ducked his head. "They could be." He was silent for a moment. "Look’s like Roche ain’t goin’ nowhere fast. I’ll be back before light, no matter what I find. We’ll get her back safe, Judge Travis. I swear it."

"There’s weather coming in, Buck."

"Another reason to go now." Buck tipped his hat to the Judge. "You need backup in a hurry, get Nathan r’ JD. The kid’s strong enough to hold a gun." But the look in Buck’s eyes also warned Travis that should be the last resort.

Buck took the back way to the livery, saddled up his gray, and rode quietly out of town. The weather had him worried. It was a slow-coming storm, but the clouds were dark purple when the lightning lit them, boiling into anvils at the tops; and the following thunder had a menacing threnody as it rolled over the plains. Dark times coming, Buck thought. Dark times. When he reached the edge of town, he urged his horse into a lope, lightning illuminating his path.

******************

Vin stayed in the saddle, though Chris wondered how when he looked as if a strong gust of wind from one direction or another would knock him right off Peso’s back. But a glance over at him as lightning flickered showed that hard, squared-off jaw set in a determined line, and Tanner’s blue eyes, shadowed as they were, remained focused on the horizon with an intensity exhaustion couldn’t dull.

Chris knew you could see a source of light a long way in the desert night. He wasn’t able pick out the halo of brighter sky that was Four Corners, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if Vin could. "See anything?" he asked.

Vin startled as if Chris had reached over and touched him. "Maybe. Town should be jist ahead." The fitful illumination of the lightning was deceptive, but he thought he had seen something moving, not too far off. He pulled Peso to a halt. He reached into this jacket and took out his spyglass. He held it to his eye. "Rider headin’ this way. Comin’ fast fer such a night." And a moment later. "Looks like Buck’s gray." He didn’t need to elaborate for Chris to know it was a bad sign.

"Aw, hell!" Chris swore. He could only think of one reason why Buck would be ridin’ out on a night like this. Trouble. Now even he could pick up the glimmer of Buck’s mount, and the glow on the horizon that was the watch fires of Four Corners. The three men urged their horses forward.

They were just shadows moving before a looming darkness lit with the coming storm, but Buck didn’t need a telescope to know them. He hailed them with his best Rebel yell, waving his hat. Saw the largest of the three shadows rise up in his stirrups and sweep a light-colored hat in a wide arc to acknowledge recognition. Buck’s heart swelled in his chest at the sight. Alive, all three alive! In just a few moments, they were together. Hands clasping, a friendly thump on a shoulder that brought forth a grunt of pain from Larabee and a slow, weary smile from Vin. Josiah let them savor that reunion briefly before he spoke up.

"Brother, I figure you ain’t takin’ this ride for your health," he said when he felt it was time.

"We got trouble," Buck said, his eyes glinting hard and angry beneath the brim of his hat. "Roche is in town. Knocked Ezra out cold and took Mary."

Chris couldn’t hold back his sudden intake of breath. "Took her where?" he asked, with a cold feeling growing in his breast making it hard for him to breathe.

"He’s holding her at the Clarion. Judge Travis figgers he’s gonna keep her there ‘til light, then make a move."

"Only place he’s movin’ is to his grave," Chris growled. "Time’s wastin’ --"

Buck laid a restraining hand on Larabee’s arm. "Chris, ya can’t go chargin’ in on him with your guns blazin’. He’ll kill her b’fore ya can get a bullet in him, he’s that close. We gotta git back t’town as quick and as quiet as we can."

"Buck’s right," Vin drawled. "Cain’t take a man like that down easy, Chris. He gits wind a’ us bein’ back, and he’ll kill her like he kilt that girl in St. Louis." He paused, his eyes very bright. "One man, one bullet. That’s what’s got ta be done."

Chris turned pale killer’s eyes to Vin. He looked at him, cold and steady as if he were looking at a stranger. "How good are you, Vin?" he asked.

Vin didn’t flinch. He met Larabee’s gaze and knew that he could not evade answering this time. The past came before him like mist shredded through by the wind; all the ghosts and all the guilt that he had carried with him rising up to taunt him with the true answer to that question. "That good," he said simply.

Buck uttered a soft, awed curse beneath his breath. He knew a prideful boast when he heard one, and this wasn’t it. If Vin set aside his customary reluctance to admit his skills, then what he said was as true as the aim of his Winchester rifle. Buck laid his hand on Vin’s shoulder. "Reckon we’d better git a move on, then."

Vin ducked his shoulder out from Buck’s hand. He appreciated the support, but Buck’s touch was a painful reminder of all that he had to leave behind if he were to walk once more with those ghosts. He did not speak to the others as he pulled Peso’s head around and headed for the dim glow that was Four Corners.

Chris studied Vin’s back. He had seen something shift in the tracker’s eyes as soon as he had asked that question, and now he wished he could take it back. No one should have to cut off their humanity; he should know, he had done it to himself.

Josiah reined in next to Chris. He canted his head towards Vin. "That boy’s starin’ down a long, dark passage."

"You’re talkin’ in riddles, Preacher."

Josiah’s eyes rested on him, bright and all-seeing, reflecting the pale glow of lightning. "Am I? Seems to me you’re a man who would know th’answer to that one."

Chris’ mouth twitched. "Ain’t no answers, Josiah. Just more questions."

Josiah’s deep laugh rumbled out. "Now who’s talkin’ in riddles?" A roll of thunder echoed down the hills, and Josiah looked heavenwards. "Seems even the Almighty found that amusin’."

"Sounded to me like a warnin’. Like we’d better watch Vin’s back." Chris urged his horse forward. Four Corners was waiting.

***********************

It was a hell of a question to answer. He knew he was good. He’d never been a man to notch his rifle to keep count of his kills; not even in the war when those marks on a man’s gun were a matter of pride. His rifle had been pristine, but no one had questioned his skills. He’d been younger than JD, and grown men had moved out of his way as he passed, as if the touch of his shadow was as lethal as his gun. He was that good, and he took no pride or pleasure in it.

He knew that he should not have cut Larabee off like he had, but if he was going to do what they were asking, he could not afford emotion. Not even the hate and anger that he harbored in his breast. He’d been raised to believe that women needed protecting and honoring, not because they were weak, but because they were the greatest gift the Lord had given to man. Mary, with her fierce intelligence that put him in mind of a righteous sword, and her belief that there was more in his heart than killing, was infinitely precious to him. Her gentle concern made him ache for something he didn’t deserve, and most likely would never have. But Lord, how he loved her for it. And that was why he would put Titus Roche in his sights and take his life.

Several lengths behind him, Chris saw the hard set of that slim, buckskin-clad frame, and thought how fragile, how brittle Vin looked; all bones and angles strung together by taut nerves and very little else. And when that last strength was gone, he would break. The thought slammed into Chris’ gut. He wouldn’t let Vin face Titus Roche alone. He had his own score to settle with that demon.

The wind gusted, whipping his duster about his legs and making his mount shy at the sudden movement at the corner of its vision. Chris fought for a moment, then let the tension out of the reins. He felt as if he were being called to haste with the devil at his heels. Lightning sheeted across the sky, and the thunder shuddered over the plain. Vin half rose in Peso’s stirrups, as if he scented danger on the wind. He looked back at Chris. Comprehension as sharp and hot as the lightning arcing overhead ran between them. Chris nodded slightly.

They urged their horses to a faster pace; Vin riding point, and the three of them trailing like the other Horsemen of the Apocalypse deferring to Death.

************************

It was the hardest thing Orrin Travis had ever done, just waiting and watching from the shadows, knowing that Mary was in grave danger. He was not accustomed to being helpless. In a courtroom, he wielded the power; life and death in his hands and meted out with justice according to the laws of God and man. Many a criminal had looked into his eyes and trembled to see their fate in them. Now, he knew how they felt.

Helpless, stripped naked, and alone.

Vulnerable. Titus Roche and seen it, and before Travis knew what sort of man he was, he had preyed on those tender places in Orrin’s heart, like a vulture. Evie, Mary, and Billy, those aching scars left by Stephen’s death, all laid open and unguarded for too long. He could have screamed out his agony and rage, but Roche had silenced him with the gun he held aimed at Mary’s breast.

A sudden flare of lightning caused Travis to wince and shrink back farther into the recess between the Clarion and the next storefront. Thunder rolled in a menacing growl. The storm had gathered itself like a monstrous panther and was prowling the land. Travis worried that it might force Roche to move before daylight. The rains would make escape impossible, and he might choose flight even in the teeth of the storm. What would happen to Mary then? Would he kill her outright, would he take her with him as a lure? Lord God, he could leave her out there to die, and with this rain, not even Vin Tanner would be able to trace her.

Travis’ hand went to the gun at his side. He was not afraid to use it; he’d been in the West for too long not to acknowledge that there were times when a man had to back up his words with force. But not like this -- not with Mary’s life at stake. The grip of his pistol was cold against his palm. He felt a chill rise up his spine. He closed his eyes and saw his grandson’s face, the way he looked at his mother at times with fear that she might be taken from him like his father had been. Travis released his gun. He would not use it unless Titus Roche forced his hand.

*******************

Lightning limned the edges of the Clarion’s windows with a blue-white incandescence that seemed to grow brighter with every flash. It flickered on Mary’s pale hair, but could not reach the shadows of the dimly lit room. The candle Roche had lighted was burning low and guttering as fitfully as the lightning outside.

Mary cast a furtive glance at Roche. He was sitting at her desk, his body leaning forward as he watched the play of the lightning. He was distracted for the moment, and Mary took advantage of his inattention to try to loosen the knots binding her wrists. Her arms were aching from the strain of being bound behind her back, and the wooden slats of the chair she was tied in were digging into her back. Her fingers were going numb, and she was afraid of losing the circulation in them. She gave the rope a hard tug, and was brought up short by the sharp pain the motion sent shooting down her arms and across her shoulders. She caught her breath audibly, drawing Roche’s attention back to her. His eyes glittered like shards of obsidian.

"You won’t get free that way, Mrs. Travis. You’re only hurting yourself by trying."

She raised her head and looked at him. "You can untie me, Mr. Roche. I give you my word that I won’t try to escape."

"Your word?" He laughed softly. "I’d trust you about as much as I’d trust that gunslinger Larabee."

"Chris Larabee is an honorable man! He’s not like --" Mary bit back her retort, realizing that her emotions were about to run away with her sense.

"Not like me?" Roche sneered. "Don’t mistake honor for pragmatism, my dear. Larabee is a hired gun, no more, no less. Travis told me how he hired Larabee to keep the peace. A better offer comes along, and Four Corners will be nothing more than a smudge of dust in his past." He came from behind the desk and ran a cold finger down her cheek. "Your beauty notwithstanding."

Mary jerked away from Roche’s touch, and he caught her jaw in his hard hand, forcing her to look at him. "He won’t come to rescue you." He slid his hand down to her throat. "No one came to rescue that girl in St. Louis. She was still praying when I snapped her neck."

Mary’s eyes widened, not only because of his confession, but because she knew Roche had just given her a death sentence. He wouldn’t let her live, not after telling her that. He had never intended to let her live.

Oh, God. Billy ... A tear slid down Mary’s cheek, and she blinked, angry at her own body’s betrayal. She wouldn’t be a coward. She wouldn’t want that to be her legacy to her son.

A flash of lightning brighter than the rest, flared through the shutters, and the crack of thunder that followed made Mary startle. Roche cursed and released her. The wind rose, and a lash of rain scored across the shingled overhang of the Clarion’s roof.

Roche went to the window and moved the edge of the shade to peer outside. The rain slanted down in a hard grey curtain chased by the wind. He was not so new to the West that he didn’t realize the danger the storm posed to his plans. Impassable roads, flooding rivers, swollen fords. No escape.

He looked at Mary speculatively. He wondered how much the Judge would be willing to pay for her safe return. It wouldn’t compare to what he had planned to retrieve from the bank, but it would be something. Travis had friends in high places who would be more than willing to extend a loan to the judge in exchange for a few favors from the bench.

Roche released the shade and strode over to Mary’s chair. Holding the derringer in one hand, he untied the rope holding her to the chair, but left her wrists bound. "Get up," he ordered.

"W-why?"

"We’re leaving."

"B-but the bank," Mary stammered. "Your plan --" Stall, her mind said. Keep him talking. Buy yourself time. If he took her out of Four Corners, she was as good as dead.

"Plans change." He grabbed her arm roughly. "Let’s go."

"Wait!" Mary’s fought to keep the desperation from her voice. "You can’t leave in this storm. It’s too dangerous. Have you ever seen a flash flood, Mr. Roche? I have. It can sweep you away in a moment, without warning."

"Your concern is touching," Roche said acidly. "but unconvincing, Mrs. Travis.And this delaying tactic on your part won’t work." He pushed her towards the desk. "Sit down."

Mary obeyed. Roche untied her wrists, but as soon as the ropes fell away, he held the derringer to her temple. "Write what I tell you."

Mary’s hands were shaking as she took out a sheaf of paper and dipped her quill into her inkwell. She wrote out the words of the ransom note, feeling sick bile rise in her throat as she thought of Orrin having to ask for money to redeem her body from Titus Roche. She finished the letter, blotted it, and left it on the desk where it would be found easily.

As soon as she had finished, Roche tied her up again and pulled her to her feet. "Very nice. I’m sure it will have the intended effect. We’re going to the livery now."

Mary felt the hard gun barrel digging into her ribs. She could imagine the bullet ripping through her body; the pain, the blood, and she was frightened by it. God, Chris. How can you live with this everyday? she thought.

Roche felt her body sway, and then stiffen. He nudged her with the gun. "Go. And remember, one false move, and I’ll kill you. Do you understand?"

Mary drew a sharp breath. "I understand that you will kill me, no matter what I do."

Roche’s laugh hissed through his teeth. "But you don’t know that for sure, do you? Just keep thinking of that boy of yours, Mrs. Travis. It would be a real shame for him to be left an orphan because of your stupidity." He opened the door just wide enough to allow her to slip through.

"I may be many things, Mr. Roche. But I am not stupid." Mary said. "I won’t fight you." The gun in her ribs urged her forward, and she stepped outside. The wind tugged and tangled her hair, and scattered the raindrops into a cool, fine mist that chilled her skin. She stumbled from the boardwalk onto the street, followed by Roche, one hand holding her arm in a cruelly hard grip, the other shoving the gun against her body.

She was grateful the raindrops sliding down her cheeks hid her tears. In the wind and in the rain, trying to hold her head high, she let Titus Roche take her to the livery.

***************************

Mindful of Buck’s warning, the four peacekeepers took the back way into Four Corners, as far from the Clarion offices and the Travis house as they could manage. The thunder was rolling in long echoes, the lightning flashing hard and blue as the flare of a lucifer struck on stone. The streets were deserted. The fading watch-fires hissed and smoked as the chilly raindrops hit the coals.

Vin raised his hand and brought Peso to a halt in front of Josiah’s church. He sat in the saddle for a moment, trying to work up the strength to move. He knew that once he attempted to dismount, he would hurt. He felt the weight of Chris’ concerned study on his back; Larabee wouldn’t miss a twitch. He braced his arms on the pommel, set himself in the stirrup, and managed to swing his leg over without groaning. The testing point would be letting his weight down. He prayed Peso wouldn’t pull one of his stunts, and make a sidewise hop as he was want to do at odd moments, but the gelding remained steady as a rock as Vin tentatively stood and tried to look as if he wasn’t leaning against that strong flank.

Then he was down, and his leg didn’t collapse, and the world stopped spinning in a few seconds as the pain in his wounded hip quieted. He slid his Winchester from the scabbard.

Chris and Buck had watched that dismount, ready to stand to his side if he had needed help. Chris set his hand on Vin’s shoulder, felt the tension there. "You got a plan, Vin?"

Vin gave him a grim little smile. "Gotta scope out what’s goin’ on."

"You just gonna walk down the street?" Buck asked. "

Vin cocked his head slightly upwards. "Ya might say so." He was eyeing the roof-lines, where he prowled regularly, as sure-footed as a mountain cat.

Buck gave a gasp of laugher. "Yer gonna dance around up there, hurtin’, in a storm?"

"’Less you got a better idea," Vin said rebelliously.

Buck didn’t. He looked at Chris, who just shook his head. Larabee knew that once the tracker set an idea in his head, he’d make it work if Hell and the Devil stood in the way. He gave Vin a sidewise look. "You don’t have ta do this alone, cowboy."

"You gonna take the shot?" Vin asked, amusement roughening his voice. But there was a hint of a challenge there, too. Chris’ mouth rose in an answering smile.

"Maybe. Least let me shadow you."

Vin looked at Larabee’s black-clad body. Shadow. He knew the gunslinger could move silent as ghost, knew that he had more at stake than he would let on, and that Chris would make sure Mary was all right if for some reason he failed. He nodded. "Let’s do it."

Buck spoke softly. "Ya might want ta keep an eye open for Judge Travis. I left him watchin’ the Clarion."

The building next to the chapel had an outside stairway ascending to a second-story porch. Chris and Vin went up those steps, and from there, gained the roof of the lower building next door. Vin moved along those narrow, rain-slick surfaces with an ease that Chris envied. He kept pace out of grim determination, but couldn’t say he felt happy about being ten feet higher than a man was meant to walk. As they neared the Clarion, Vin slowed his pace, and motioned to Chris to stop. They were at the alley breaking between one block of buildings and the next. Lightning sprang across the sky, chasing the shadows, and revealing a man’s dark shape on the edge of the alley.

"Judge Travis," Vin whispered. He took a shell from his belt and pitched it down, hoping it would land on the boardwalk and not in the mud.

The small, clear thunk made Travis whirl and look up, his drawn gun in his hand. The lightning illuminated the scene, revealing Tanner and Larabee. The tension left Travis’ body and his hand came down. The two gunmen dropped from the overhang, Tanner landing with an audible grunt of pain, and needing Larabee’s hand to raise him upright.

"You all right?" Travis asked. Vin caught his breath and nodded. Chris shot the Judge a look.

"Roche still in there with her?"

"Yes. He’s holding her at gunpoint, Chris. There’s no way to get a shot at him without him killing her."

"We’ll see about that," Vin rasped. "Where’s he got her?"

Before Travis could answer, Chris gave them both a shove back into the shadows. The door to the Clarion opened a slit, and Mary stumbled out with Roche holding tight to her arm. Her breath caught on a sob, and Chris’ anger surged in his breast. He was about two seconds from running after them when Vin’s touch brought him back from that foolhardy act.

"I’ll follow ‘em. Judge, you get Buck for backup in case somethin’ happens and he starts gittin’ away." His blue eyes reflected the sheen of the lightning. "Chris --"

"Take him down, Vin. I want that bastard dead." He felt Vin’s fingers tighten on his arm, and then the tracker was ghosting into the shadows as he followed Roche and Mary’s progress towards the livery. Chris nodded to Travis, and once the Judge had gone, Chris went after Vin.

The cold rain lashed down, running into Vin’s collar, soaking his hair. He was cold, so cold, but he pushed that thought away. Roche was far enough ahead of him that he didn’t have to dodge into the dark recesses of buildings, and the bruit of the storm was masking the sound of his paces as he hurried after them. The glare of the lightning turned the night briefly into day and the thunder was close, wrenched from the skies in torment. The wind snatched Vin’s hat from his head to hang by the stampede string, and whipped his wet hair into tangled strands. He pushed them impatiently from his forehead. He surveyed the buildings. He needed a vantage point, someplace where he could get a clear shot ...

He felt Chris’ presence as he came to his side. The lightning paled the gunslinger’s sharp features. His mouth was drawn narrow and hard and the knotted muscles of his jaw jumped with tension. "They in there?"

Vin gave a short nod. "Cain’t see through walls. We gotta git him t’come out."

"You pick where you want to take the shot, Vin. Leave Roche t’ me. I figure this has been a long time coming."

Another man would have argued with Larabee. Buck would have knocked him upside the head for even thinking of luring Roche out. Travis would have been aghast at the danger to both Chris and Mary. But Vin just looked at him with a clear, measuring gaze that Chris felt to the soles of his boots. Same as he had that first day.

"Ya trust me, Chris?"

The eyes warmed. "Are you that good?"

"Yeah, I am." A brief spark of laughter shone in Vin’s eyes. He pointed to a low, flat overhang that angled into the shadow of a taller building. "Up there."

Chris watched as he limped over to the back stairs of the building and from there, swung himself up onto the roof. He melted into darkness that even the lightning couldn’t penetrate. Chris shivered and strode into the livery yard. The wind moaned around the corners, whipping the sodden tails of his duster flat against his legs. He swallowed hard, and took his stance.

"Roche! Titus Roche! It’s Larabee. You want me dead? I’m waiting!"

"Chris! NO!" Mary cried out, and then fell abruptly silent. All of Chris’ instincts were telling him to charge through that door, guns blazing, and damn the consequences, but the thought of the man in the shadows stopped him, forced him to breathe, and speak.

"Roche, let Mrs. Travis go. I’m the one you want."

No response. The seconds ticked away. The rain fell, the thunder rolled. And just when Chris felt like he couldn’t draw another breath, the stable door inched open.

Chris’ hand went to the pistol on his hip, his fingers flexed, every muscle primed to make a move as swift as any lightning bolt. He saw the edge of Mary’s skirt, her awkward movement as Roche muscled her forward, then they were both out in the rain. Mary’s hands were tied in front of her, and Titus Roche held her tight across his body, the barrel of his pistol pressed hard against her jaw.

"Chris!" Mary sobbed, and Roche dug the gun deeper, making her choke at the pressure. There was a bruise darkening her cheekbone, and a trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes were wide, fixed on him as he stood there.

"Let her go, Roche." Chris repeated. "She’s got nothin’ t’do with this."

"She has everything to do with this, Larabee." Roche had to shout to be heard over the storm. His eyes were glittering dangerously, like a cornered animal’s. Chris had seen desperation in men before, and he knew how close Roche was to madness.

Now, Vin. he thought. Now.

Tanner was crouched on the treacherous roof, his Winchester cradled against his cheek. But he could not shoot. Roche had Mary in so close a hold that every mortal part of him was covered. A hit anywhere else, his finger would jerk and Mary would be dead. Vin had one chance, the same chance Chris had given him earlier that day.

He eased forward out of the shadows and into a dazzle of lightning that lit him as clearly as day. Roche caught the motion, saw the barrel of the long gun, and in an instinctive, self-protective motion, he raised his gun and fired. The Winchester spat flame into the night. The bullet slammed into Roche’s suddenly exposed upper chest. His hold on Mary fell away, and she wrenched out of his arms. Roche snarled, whirling towards Larabee. Lightning split the sky overhead; Chris’ gun and the crack of thunder sounded Titus Roche’s doom. He staggered back under the force of the bullet; and his last expression was shock and bewilderment, as if he could not believe he had failed and his life was ended. Then he measured his length on the ground, his eyes open to the falling rain.

Chris stood over Roche. He felt the familiar, vague astonishment at how death diminished a man. He holstered his gun and looked up to see Mary standing a few paces away, in the rain. She was shaking, staring at Roche’s body as if unable to believe he would not spring back to life to threaten her. Chris stepped around the corpse to take her in his arms. "It’s over," he said.

Mary gasped and hid her face in his shoulder. She shivered against him, and he wished he had some warmth to give her. Gently, he raised her head. "Are you all right?"

"Yes." Her lip trembled, and Chris ran the pad of his thumb over the cut Roche had left. "He hurt you."

Mary shook her head. "I’m fine." Chris worked at the ropes binding her wrists. When they fell away, he gathered her close once more and didn’t release her until Judge Travis and Buck came running to the scene. Travis laid his hand on Mary’s shoulder, drawing her out of Chris’ embrace. He released her reluctantly into the Judge’s protection, jealous of that prerogative, but knowing that Travis needed the reassurance that she was safe as much as Mary herself did.

Buck looked down at the body. "You or Vin?" he asked.

Vin limped into the livery yard to join them. He stood hip-cocked and swaying slightly as the rain sluiced down his hair and face; seemingly dispassionate until Chris saw the pulse beating hard and fast beneath his jaw. "Reckon it don’t matter, long as he’s dead." His voice went out in a sigh and he quietly folded to the ground at Chris’ feet.

*************************

Lord, how much longer can this night last? Josiah asked his God as he watched Nathan and Buck carry Vin towards the clinic with Chris at their heels like a shadow. Tanner was limp in their hold, his head lolling forward on his chest, his long hair trailing across his face in wet tendrils. Sorrow clenched around Josiah’s heart. Ain’t none of them gonna live long, he reckoned, but it seemed the Lord owed Tanner a few more years.

My Lord, my Lord, He had no other words, just the endless litany of that sacred name he recited as he cleared off the table Nathan used for examinations. He heard them struggling up the steps, then a pause before Buck kicked the door open and backed into the room. Vin wasn’t heavy, but he was long and lax, and both Buck and Nathan were breathing hard. In contrast, Larabee seemed scarcely to breathe at all; he stalked into the room, his eyes fixed on Tanner’s face with an expression so bleak and so devoid of hope that Josiah’s hand closed around his crucifix in silent prayer.

They laid Vin down on the table. A flash of lightning from the fading storm shed a hard light on his face. He looked dead, and for a heart-stopping moment Josiah was certain that he was, before he saw a quick, shallow breath raise his chest. Not dead. But barely alive.

Nathan took charge, as much in his element now as Larabee had been facing Titus Roche. He started barking out orders. "Buck, get them wet clothes off him. Boy’s gonna catch pneumonia b’fore I kin stitch him up. Josiah, light them lanterns and bring ‘em over, so’s I kin see what I’m doin’."

There was a flurry of activity around the table. As Nathan gathered his instruments and bandages, Vin was stripped and laid out pale and naked on the planks. So thin, Josiah realized with a shock when he hung the lanterns overhead. Like he hadn’t eaten in days -- Lord, he probably hadn’t, not a proper meal. The two older wounds were seeping blood, but it was the fresh wound high up near Vin’s right shoulder that Nathan was working on, trying to stop the crimson flow.

He cast a desperate look over his shoulder. "Chris! I need you here."

The gunslinger had retreated to the shadows, but when Nathan called him, he stepped forward and took the cloth Nathan held out to him. "Need you to hold this, right here." Nathan pressed Chris’ hand hard just below Vin’s clavicle where the bow of the bone met the shoulder joint. "Hold it tight, now. I gotta stop the bleedin’ b’fore I kin get the bullet out. Josiah, need you, too. Help Buck hold him still. I ain’t takin’ any chances with him thrashin’ around."

Nathan kept swabbing blood from the bullet wound until Chris thought Vin couldn’t have any more to bleed. A steady stream of scarlet ran from the wound, to the table and dripped through the planks to pool on the floor. Chris gritted his teeth and pressed harder. After what seemed an eternity, the bleeding slowed enough to allow Nathan to probe for the bullet.

"Keep him still," The healer cautioned. The two big men set their hands to Vin’s body, firm and gentle, but ready to respond with strength if necessary. Nathan looked at Chris; the gunslinger was nearly as pale as Vin, and reddened to his wrists with the tracker’s blood. Larabee gave him a brief nod and Nathan steeled himself to go after the bullet.

Even unconscious, Tanner’s body bowed up hard when Nathan’s forceps bit into the wound, making Buck and Josiah exert more force than they wanted to, just to keep him on the table. But Nathan was quick, and the bullet was in his grasp and jerked out of the wound in seconds. All the fight left Vin, and he lay still beneath their hands. Nathan wondered that he’d had the strength to struggle at all, as slight and bled out as he was.

He took a deep breath. "Chris, ease up on that pressure now." He watched the wound closely, and when he was satisfied that the bleeding had stopped, he flushed it with carbolic and packed it with lint and astringent herbs.

One more task. He disinfected and bandaged Vin’s other wounds. He’d be damned to have saved him from bleeding to death only to have an infection kill him. At last, he was done, and he stepped back from the table. He looked at his fellow peacekeepers. They all seemed to be watching the rise and fall of Vin’s chest as if their own lives depended on that respiration. Chris started upright when his breath caught on a hitch, and then relaxed again when it resumed a regular rhythm.

Josiah had warmed blankets in front of the fire, and when Buck had carried Vin to the cot by the window, he nested them close and laid a gentle hand on Vin’s forehead. His lips moved in a silent prayer, and he felt that prayer echoed and sent heavenwards by the others. They might deny it, but Josiah knew their hearts. Buck gave Chris’ shoulder a comforting squeeze, and drifted downstairs, needing air, needing a drink, needing to look in on JD. Josiah followed him, feeling awkward in those small quarters, and wanting to sit someplace peaceful where the gunshots would stop echoing in his head.

They were all so weary. So weary that death would feel good, Chris thought as he pushed a chair next to Vin’s bedside. He slumped forward, dropping his head in his hands and trying to rub the ache from his temples. It didn’t work. He looked up at Nathan. "How’s Ezra?"

"I’s gonna check on him, if ya don’t mind stayin’, Chris."

"I ain’t goin’ nowhere, Nate. You know that."

He did. Larabee’s eyes were sunk in shadows and Nathan saw nothing of the killer in those green depths; exhaustion and patience, but not the cold detachment he’d seen so often. "I won’t be long," he said.

"I’d appreciate knowin’ Mary’s all right."

"I’ll make sure that she is." He hesitated with his hand at the doorknob. "I got some whiskey in the cupboard there, Chris."

Larabee shook his head, an amused smile playing about his lips. "Hell, Nathan. If I start drinkin’ I’ll be stretched out on the floor after the first shot. Wouldn’t mind havin’ some coffee, though."

"Pot’s on the stove. Help yo’self." He opened the door, letting in a draught of cool, rain-laden air that swept away the stench of blood and carbolic. Chris poured himself a mug of coffee and settled back in his chair to begin his vigil.

**********************

Dawn was beginning to grey the eastern sky when Buck let himself into JD’s room. Nathan had left a lantern burning a low flame, and Buck sighed and sank down into a chair. JD was sleeping on his side, thick black lashes splayed over pale cheeks, his raven’s wing hair swept across his forehead, and tumbled on his pillow. The kid looked about six years old asleep. Buck was envious of that innocence, his own long gone, if he had ever had it. He slouched lower in the chair. Thank God the night was over, and Titus Roche was dead.

"Buck?"

He sat up quickly. "Sorry, kid. I didn’t mean ta wake you."

JD pushed himself upright. "Is something wrong? Did Roche --"

"Dead. Him and Harper, both. So there’s nuthin’ fer you ta worry on. Just go back ta sleep."

It was hard to see Buck’s expression; his face and eyes were shadowed by the brim of his hat and the dim light, but the tenor of his voice made JD’s short hairs rise. "You ain’t tellin’ me everything, Buck." When Wilmington remained silent, JD got angry. "Damn it! I ain’t no kid who needs protecting. You got somethin’ to tell me, you spit it out. You’d do it for Chris an’ Vin -- why not me?"

"Kid -- JD ..." Buck opened his hands in a helpless gesture, which alarmed JD even more. Those wide eyes of his went even wider and his freckles stood out against his pallor.

"You tell me, Buck!"

"Vin’s hurt bad."

"How bad?" JD asked in a small voice. "Is he dead?"

"No, but Nathan don’t seem too hopeful." He hated saying those words. JD had a mighty high regard for Vin; thought the tracker walked on water, vanished into thin air, and tamed horses by breathing on them. He had to take this hard. JD started to swing his legs over the side of the bed, and Buck was across the room in two lanky strides to push him gently back. "You stay put, son. Least until Nathan gives you the go-ahead."

"But --"

"JD," Buck sighed. "Vin won’t know you’re there. B’sides Chris is with him, and ain’t no room for anyone else."

JD tried to push Buck’s arm aside. "I’m gettin’ out of bed."

"Go back to sleep."

"I’m full-growed, Buck."

"You’ve got a hole in yer shoulder, kid. And don’t tell me it ain’t hurtin’ still. I’ve been shot more time than you c’n count, and I know how it feels three days out."

"Four." But he subsided against the pillows. "I want to know everything," he warned. "And if it looks bad, you gotta let me see Vin ... Please?"

"Sure, kid. Ya know I will."

JD studied him with those bright hazel eyes. "Promise."

"Ya got my word." He rose from the bed. "I’m gonna check on him right now. I’ll be back, I swear it." He gave JD a long warning glance, and left, reassured by Dunne’s argumentative spirit. Meant he was on the mend, which was a weight off Buck’s mind. He’d go back to Nathan’s, see how Vin was doing and if Chris needed anything, and then he’d crawl into bed and sleep for a hundred hours.

Those steps going up to Nathan’s clinic seemed twice as long and steep as usual, but he dragged himself up and opened the door quietly. The room was so dim that he could barely make out Chris’ form as he sat by Vin’s bed; just the white blur of his face and light hair, the shape of his hands wrapped around Vin’s, the curve of his spine.

"Hey, Chris." A whisper, faint in the darkness. "How’s he doin’?"

Chris looked up. "The same. At least he’s restin’ peaceful." He laid Vin’s hand down gently and scrubbed his aching eyes.

"Ya look like you could use some sleep, pard."

Chris shook his head. "I’m stayin’."

Buck hooked his ankle around another chair, and moved it next to Chris’. For a long time, neither man spoke. Buck watched the light strengthen in the room, the dawn bringing a faint, illusory color to Vin’s face. His features were finely carved; cheekbones, shadowed orbits, blade-straight nose, and stubborn jaw. The set of that jaw made Buck smile slightly. "Ya never answered my question, Chris."

"What?"

"Which one a’ya killed Roche?"

"Reckon we both did," he sighed. "He made the shot, Buck. He did it with a bullet in him, between one heartbeat and the next, just like I said." He shook his head. "I never saw a man shoot like that. It was inches, Buck. Inches ... One way, and Roche would’ve shot Mary, the other way, and Vin’s bullet would’ve hit her. I couldn’t do what he did. Don’t know if anyone could."

Buck gave a soft whistle. "He is that good."

"Yeah. He is."

Buck rose wearily to his feet. He brushed his fingers over Vin’s hair. "He’s gonna make it, Chris. He’s too damn stubborn t’let a sonofabitch like Roche kill him. Kinda puts me in mind of another stubborn bastard I know."

"Get some rest, Buck. You’re not makin’ much sense." Buck flicked the brim of his hat and closed the door behind him. Chris took up Vin’s cool hand and held it as if he could will some warmth into his body. "Partner, it’s about time ya started wakin’ up," he sighed. "So I c’n get some sleep."

*****************

Orrin and Nathan had combined forces to make Mary drink one of Nathan’s sedative teas and send her to bed, even though she didn’t sleep. She kept re-living those moments in the stable yard: Roche pressing her hard against his body, the pistol at her jaw. Chris, standing in the rain, his face taut with rage. The flash of lightning that had revealed Vin; Roche swinging her free to aim and fire, and the sickening sound of a bullet striking flesh as Vin’s shot hit home. Then the crack of Chris’ gun and Roche falling with the rain splashing into his unseeing eyes. She would never forget.

When dawn tinted her windows, she rose and dressed. She had a paper to put together, a life to pick up. And she had to see Chris and Vin. Nathan had told her that Vin was wounded, but resting easy, and that Ezra had regained consciousness and would recover completely in a few days. She owed them all so much that the idea of repayment seemed absurd.

She crept quietly down the stairs, not wanting to alert Orrin that she was awake. He would insist on going with her, thinking she was fragile. She hadn’t been fragile since the day Stephen had died. She couldn’t afford that luxury. A quick look in the mirror at the foot of the stairs made her gasp. Her lip was still swollen, and the bruise on her cheekbone had darkened spectacularly. Titus Roche had left his mark. She lifted her chin. The bruise would fade, and so would his memory. Mary wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and stepped outside into the rain-washed morning.

It was early enough that no one saw her pass the Clarion offices and go straight to Nathan’s. When she got to the top of the steps, she raised her hand to knock, and then not wanting to disturb Vin if he was resting, she opened the door and slipped inside.

The sun was coming through the windows, the warm rays falling across two sleeping figures. Vin, lying still and looking fragile in that strong light, and Chris, bowed over at a spine-wrenching angle, his cheek cushioned on one bent arm, and his free hand resting on Vin’s chest, over his heart. There was such faith in that gesture, such open and aching need for that life to continue, that Mary stepped back, as if she were intruding. Her heel came down on a creaky board and she gasped softly.

Chris came awake all in a piece, his hand reaching towards the gun at his side, and then dropping away as he realized that she posed no threat. Every muscle in his back tightened, and he groaned, a grimace twisting his lips. Mary bit back a smile as he drew himself upright; no longer lethal, just tousled and heavy-eyed, and very human.

Their eyes met, and then skated away, coming back to each other when their emotions were once again trustworthy. They both spoke at once: "How are you ... how is he ..?" They laughed softly, and Chris deferred to Mary with a lift of a brow.

"How is he?" she asked.

Chris drew a breath. "He’s alive. I thought I was gonna lose him there a couple ‘a times, but towards dawn, he seemed to rally a bit, start breathin’ easier." He wouldn’t tell her more about those hours until he was certain Vin would pull through. The memory of it started a cold sweat on his forehead. Instead, he searched her face, troubled by what he saw there.

Mary’s hand went to her cheek. "I look like I’ve gone five rounds with Gentleman Johnny," she said.

"If Roche weren’t dead, I’d put him in his grave for that alone." He came to her, touched the bruise lightly. "Did Nathan take care of you?"

"Endlessly," Mary smiled. "I will be all right. I have to be."

"You will be," he said. No doubts, no vague words of comfort.

Mary took that certainty to her far less confident heart. She would think of that whenever she felt her courage crumbling. Her shoulders squared. "I really came here to thank you. And to see Vin." She crossed over to the cot and knelt at Vin’s side. She smoothed the damp waves of hair from his forehead and touched her lips to his skin, much as she did when Billy was running a fever. "Thank you for my life, Vin." she whispered.

She turned away, her eyes misty with tears. Her lip was trembling. She wouldn’t cry, she swore. Then she saw her own fear reflected in Chris’ expression. She laid her arms around his shoulders and rested her cheek on his hard chest. She felt his muscles shift as he embraced her. "It will be all right," she said with the same force of will that he had offered to reassure her.

They stood like that, finding comfort in shared pain until they heard Nathan’s footsteps on the stairway. Mary stepped out of the circle of Chris’ arms, composed and unhurried. She tucked her hair more neatly behind her ears and settled her shawl on her shoulders. "You send word to me if there is any change. I’ll be at the Clarion."

Chris smiled slightly. "You won’t let it go for one day?"

"No. I’m fine." She dared him to argue otherwise, and when he didn’t, she swept out of the clinic, nodding to Nathan as she left.

*************************

For a while Vin drifted in that dark, gentle place between consciousness and not, where there was no pain. Then suddenly everything hurt, and he fought to go back to the darkness, but the warmth on his face drew him closer to the light, and he took a breath which hurt fiercely, and a second one, which was not quite as bad. He wasn’t dead, then. His other senses were waking; the scent of coffee and carbolic, the feel of rough wool against his naked body, the sound of someone trying not to make noise as they walked around the room ... And then the touch of a hand over his.

His fingers stirred in that grip, and he heard Chris call out Nathan’s name. Wasn’t too happy about that ‘cause he figured the healer would want to do something to him that would hurt. Maybe if he kept his eyes closed, they would go away and leave him be until he figured out whether he wanted to stay, or slip away to the darkness again.

"Vin, c’mon. Time to wake up here, cowboy."

Hell. He opened his eyes a crack, seeing the light shimmer like rainbows through his lashes. The brightness hurt, so he turned his head a bit away from the dazzle and tried again. The sunbeam streamed through the window, across the blankets swathed around his body. Dust motes floated like small stars in the light, and Vin’s eyes followed the path it laid down to the fingers twined through his, and the blond head bent down as if in prayer.

"Cowboy?" His voice was so weak and raspy, his own ears scarcely recognized it. Chris’ head came up, and the light blazing in those green eyes was nearly as dazzling as the sunlight, but they were also weary; bruised with fatigue and reddened from lack of sleep. "Ya look like Hell, Larabee." It was as much as he could manage without black specks gathering at the edges of his vision. He closed his eyes again, and Chris’ grip tightened as if he feared Vin would drift again beyond recall.

"Nathan!"

The door to the clinic banged open and a shadow blocked out the bright light. Vin knew Nathan was there, placing a hand on his forehead, slipping the other behind his head and raising him so Chris could hold the cool rim of a cup to his lips. The water was the sweetest he had ever tasted. He drank it greedily, his shaky fingers wrapped around Chris’ wrist to hold the cup there, not wanting it to be withdrawn.

"Easy, Chris. Don’ let him drink too fast. It’ll jist come right back up," Nathan cautioned. He slipped his supporting hand away, laying Vin back gently. "Thought you wasn’t gonna stay with us this time," he said, his big hand laid alongside Vin’s neck, feeling the weak but steady throb of life there.

He and Chris were both looking at him like they expected some sort of reassurance that he was once more firmly anchored to this life, painful as it was. He managed a smile -- at least he thought he did. "Don’t have anywhere else ta go," he sighed. Then he did slip into the darkness, but not so deeply that he wouldn’t come back.

************************

Chris bounded up the clinic stairs, worrying about what he would find, even though Nathan swore Vin was on the mend. The cold feeling of dread wouldn’t leave the pit of his stomach until Vin was back prowling the roofs of Four Corners. When he saw the tracker dancing over the shingles, then he would know he was healed.

He paused for a moment to gather his courage before opening the clinic door. He was rewarded when he went inside. Vin was sitting up. For the first time in days, he had some color to his face, as if there was finally enough blood in him to spare for matters less than mortal. He was wearing one of Nathan’s flannel shirts; sizes too large for his slight frame, but warm, and he was squinting at a copy of the Clarion News as he sounded out the words he recognized. He could pick out a puff of smoke two miles away on a dark night, but he had to squint to read.

The sound of the closing door made Vin startle slightly and look up. Chris sauntered over to the bedside and pulled up a chair. He tilted his head appraisingly. "Readin’ about your exploits, pard?"

"Hell, the damned script ain’t makin’ no sense, t’day, Chris." He set the paper aside. "Ya sound like Ezra," he grumbled.

"Maybe. Just came from talkin’ to him. Nathan let him move back to the Standish Tavern today."

"Wish he’d let me move back t’my wagon," Vin said wistfully. But he laid his head back on the pillows, worn out from the small exertion of just looking at the Clarion.

"Not until lifting a sheet of newspaper doesn’t leave you wrung out." He took the broadsheet from the bed and set it aside. "Looks like Mary was here."

"She brought the paper, and left a jug a’cider on the table."

"You want some?"

Vin lifted his uninjured shoulder in a noncommittal shrug. "Reckon so." When Chris handed him a mug, he drank a bit and then stared down into the pale amber liquid for a few moments, as if he had something he wanted to say, but couldn’t find the words.

"She thanked me for savin’ her life, Chris."

Larabee’s brow rose. "You did. Saved mine, and a lot of other folks, too, if you consider Harper and Roche together."

"I didn’t do it ta be a hero."

Chris’ mouth quirked at the corner. "There’s worse things t’be, Vin."

"Hell, I been most a’ them, too," Vin said with a rueful chuff of laughter.

Deep amusement glinted in Chris’ eyes as he recognized the truth in those words. They pretty much described his life, as well. Seemed he and Vin were on the same road, struggling through the same dark places; though Chris wasn’t so sure that his footing was as secure as Vin’s, when it came to backsliding. Sometimes those shadows just pulled him down.

Larabee was silent for so long, that Vin laid his head back on his pillow and closed his eyes. Thinkin’ made his head hurt. But despite that, words came unbidden, and he found himself speaking them to Chris. "They said I’s a hero b’fore. But I warn’t nuthin’ but a killer. Didn’t make nuthin’ right, didn’t make nuthin’ better. I jist took away lives. Got ta thinkin’ I’s never gonna be more’n that."

Chris studied Tanner’s pale, fine-boned face. "You don’t have to tell me, Vin."

But he did. Vin opened his eyes; wide and blue, holding both terrible knowledge and terrible innocence. "Ya wondered why I took t’huntin’ buffs? I did it ‘cause I figgered I’d be as good at it as I was at killin’ men. Didn’t hafta think about ghosts an’ souls, jist aim and fire and see sumthin’ die. Didn’t think I was killin’ folks jist the same, ‘til I saw th’army tryin’ t’corral th’ Lakota -- an’ realized I’s starvin’ em t’death."

Vin’s throat ached, and a fierce burn drew tears to his eyes. He felt Chris’ hard, warm hand close over his forearm. "Lord, I didn’ know what t’do, then. Took ‘bout a year a’ livin’ wild, an’ then another with the Lakota b’fore I moved on. I couldn’t stay -- I was white an’ I couldn’t ask ‘em t’see beyond that, not th’way th’army was treatin’em."

Chris held his breath, afraid to speak or move. Vin was unfolding his life before him -- so few words, so many years, and so much pain. He waited for that voice to resume. When it did, it was softer, fainter, as if all of Vin’s strength was running out of him like blood.

"Took t’ bounty huntin’ in Texas. An’ I’s good at that, too -- didn’t even hafta kill too many of ‘em. That’s what made Eli Joe framin’ me fer murder so strange, Chris. I kilt a lot a men, and the one I didn’t kill’s the one I’m likely t’hang fer." He shook his head, swallowed the bitter tears in this throat. "Some hero, huh?"

"Yeah," Chris whispered. "Some hero." He tightened his hold on Vin’s arm. "You’re wearin’ down, pard."

Vin’s head moved on the pillow. "Some things needed sayin’, I reckon."

Chris rose to leave. He settled his hat, and stood looking down at his friend. "We took a lot of lives, Vin -- and somethin’ tells me we ain’t finished, yet. But this time, we ransomed some of ‘em back. Maybe that’s all we can do."

Vin was silent, weighing what Chris said, and thinking of many things; of his mother, of Kojay and his balance, of Josiah and his Bible, looking for meaning in words that rolled like thunder. He recalled hearing Josiah read one passage out loud -- knowing that Vin loved the poetry in it, and Vin had listened hard, committing it to memory, so he could ponder on it.

They weren’t fancy words, not like the ones Ezra liked to use, but they fit his heart as comfortable as his own clothes fit his body:

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; A time to kill, and a time to heal ...

Chris was standing over him like he could keep the world and all its dangers from troubling his rest. Vin closed his eyes, waiting to hear him leave. Instead, the chair at the bedside creaked as Larabee sat back down, followed by the scratch of a lucifer against a boot sole, and the scent of tobacco in the air as he lit a cheroot and settled in.

The words whispered again. A time to kill, and a time to heal ... They drifted in his mind like the smoke of Larabee’s cheroot, as familiar and strengthening as the presence of the man next to him. Vin hunched his shoulders a little deeper into Nathan’s shirt, slid his spine lower in the cot, and let the world spin off in the hazy glow of sleep.

It was time to heal.