When Shadows Fall



    Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction. We don't own these characters. This story is not intended to infringe upon the copyrights of MGM, The Mirsch Group, Trilogy, CBS or any others with claims. We neither seek nor receive any profit from writing this story.


    WARNINGS: This story contains some violence, harsh language, and spoilers for various episodes. It is rated PG13.

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    Part 11

    Chris stood in the jail with his hands on his hips and listened grimly as Belle told her story. What the hell was going on? Had everyone gone crazy? Buck had been stupid over women more times than Chris cared to count. If anyone should know that, it would be Chris. He'd bailed him out of more than one fix over the years. Heck, the first time they'd met it'd been when Buck had been about to get himself killed being chased by a bunch of brothers who swore he'd stole their sister away from them. Buck had been ready to face them alone and it'd startled him when Chris had stepped up and helped him. But justice had been important to Chris back then and he couldn't just stand by and watch someone beaten in a fight he couldn't win. They'd stuck together off and on after that. There were things Buck did that just made Chris cringe, but he was a good man to have in a fight; he never backed down, he never hesitated, and he would always cover your back when you needed him.

    So, what, Chris thought, forcing his mind back to the issue at hand, was all this?

    They'd been in the jail almost half an hour before Belle even calmed down enough to talk to them. "You're making her nervous," Josiah had said to Chris.

    Chris had just looked at him and after a minute Josiah had looked down at Belle again and patted her hand. She was sitting in the desk chair and Josiah was leaning against the desk with his arm around her shoulders. His eyes were red and bloodshot, but they also glowed with an almost fanatical light. "Come on, Belle," he said softly. "Tell him what happened."

    "Oh, I'm so ashamed," Belle wailed. "Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe..." she started to rise, but Josiah pushed her gently back down.

    "No, no," he said. "It's gotta be done. You gotta tell us, Belle, or we can't help you."

    Belle drew in a deep shuddering breath. She looked up at Chris, who was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, watching her. "I was at the ranch. I was alone. I've been alone for several years. Since my dear husband--" she broke off and dabbed at her eyes. "Well, yes,...I have a foreman, but he was out on the range so I really was alone."

    Chris tried to control his impatience. Couldn't she just get to the point?

    "He came...that man...that--"

    "Buck?" Chris asked harshly.

    Josiah glared at him. "Chris..." he said warningly.

    "I want to hear this story," Chris said. "I need to judge for myself."

    Josiah's face darkened and he made as if to rise, but Belle's hand plucked at his sleeve. "It's all right," she said. "I'll...I'll...I'm trying." She raised her damp eyes to Chris and he backed off again.

    'Okay,' he thought, 'I'll listen. But something's wrong here. Something has to be.' When he'd walked out of the Clarion and saw Buck in the middle of some kind of fracas involving a pretty woman, he'd figured it was just the same old thing. He was damned tired of it. And getting Josiah worked up. Damn! Buck ought to know better. But this...this was something else. And it wasn't adding up.

    Belle's voice trembled a bit as she continued. "It was just past dawn yesterday morning...This man came to the door. This...Mr. Wilmington. He smiled at me and said that he'd heard about me from--" she looked at Josiah, whose face suddenly looked thunderous.

    Buck had listened to his stories about Belle and then he'd moved in on her when Josiah's back was turned. His hand closed into a massive fist. He wished he'd killed him when he'd had the chance. "Go on," he urged her, trying to keep the rage from his voice.

    Belle shrank lower in the chair. "He kept smiling. You know, that's what I remember most. The way he smiled. He pushed his way into the house. I couldn't stop him. He put his hand on..." She drew a deep breath. "He put his hand on me and he said, well he said just awful things and he wouldn't stop." She paused and buried her head in her hands again.

    "You gotta tell him what he did," Josiah urged her. "Come on, Belle. You gotta."

    "He _ruined_ me," Belle said dramatically.

    Chris straightened. "How?" he asked harshly.

    For a moment, Belle faltered. "How?" she repeated faintly. "He...he forced me to...I mean, he...oh this is just too terrible."

    "Did he rape you?"

    Belle moaned. Josiah leaped to his feet and moved toward Chris. "That's enough!" he roared.

    Chris didn't even flinch. "I have to know," he said to Josiah.

    Josiah moved another step closer and Chris could see that his hands had already formed into fists. The smell of whiskey on his breath was overpowering. "You don't have to scare her. My God! Hasn't she been through enough?"

    Chris wasn't about to back down. "I want to know the truth."

    "Yes!" Belle's muffled voice halted both men.

    Josiah returned to crouch down beside her. He touched her shoulder. "What did you say?" Belle's shoulders heaved. "Come on, darling. Tell us."

    "Yes. Yes, yes, YES!" Belle raised her head and shouted at both of them. "He raped me! He raped me! Is that what you wanted to hear? He held me down and he raped me and I want him arrested and put where he can never do it again!"

    For a moment everything in the jail froze. It felt to Chris as if the temperature actually dropped. Because this was not what he had ever expected to hear. How could this be happening? He'd known Buck for years. He'd seen him make a fool of himself too many times to count. He'd seen him fight more than one good friend for nothing more than a woman's kiss. That's what this morning should have been. And Buck would have deserved it for messing with Josiah. But this--

    "Look," he said. "You'd better be sure."

    "I'm sure!" Belle yelled at him. "I know. Do you think I'd forget his face?" She buried her head in her hands again. "How can you be so cruel? Can't you see how hard this is for me?" She shook her head and cried. "You don't know. Neither of you. You don't know what it's like to be a woman alone. To not have a man to protect you. To be in danger and have no one to turn to. My husband..." she moaned. "If he were here, none of this would have happened."

    Josiah patted her on the shoulder again. "_I'm_ here," he said. "I'm not leaving you, Belle. I know I wasn't...that I didn't." His voice broke. "I swear nothing more will ever happen to you." He looked at Chris a dark, shining light of rage and vengeance in his eyes. "We gonna arrest him, Chris?"

    Chris had gone still and very quiet. "Why don't you take Miss Belle home, Josiah?" he said softly. "I'll take care of things here."

    Josiah wanted his promise. He wanted to know that when he came back to town Buck Wilmington would be waiting for him behind the bars of the jail, but there was something in the look on Chris's face that made him decide, even in the midst of his own grief and anger, that now was not the time to push him.

    Chris was barely aware of Belle and Josiah leaving. He stood for several minutes after they'd left and stared at nothing. Belle had said it and she hadn't even known--'you don't know what it's like...to not have a man to protect you.' And that was true. Chris didn't know. But he'd imagined it. Over and over for three years he'd imagined what it had been like for Sarah to be at the ranch alone when the men who would kill her had come. Had she screamed? Had she fought them? Had she prayed for Chris to return in time? It didn't sound right. It didn't sound possible. Chris never knew Buck to hurt a woman. But he couldn't flat out say that Belle was lying and Buck was going to have to face up and explain this one. Chris was going to make damned sure he did.

    Part 12

    Where the hell was he?

    Vin scowled very slightly to himself and leaned against the upright at the edge of the boardwalk, his eyes roaming the street quickly to see if he could catch sight of Buck as he ran the whole thing over in his head again.

    Buck had left the confrontation with Josiah upset -- understandably so. He might even have been injured by Josiah's crushing him; Lord knew the big man was a serious menace when he was in a dark drunk. Vin had thought someone needed to make sure the tall gunman was all right, and since Chris clearly wasn't going to do it Vin had decided his leaving for the reservation could probably wait another fifteen minutes.

    But that had been thirty minutes ago now. Buck wasn't in the saloon, neither Flora nor Pansy had seen him, and he hadn't gone to Nathan's. Hell, NO one was at Nathan's. Vin's knocking had resulted only in total, empty silence. The tracker scowled again. What the hell was going on? And where was Buck? His eyes lit on his saddled gelding, still standing patiently head-down at the hitching rail where Vin had left him an hour ago when he'd spotted Josiah sitting in the sun, drunk. For one blindingly intense moment Vin thought of just heading on out to the reservation and letting the whole bunch of them stew in their own juices. Then a roar burst from the dark interior of the saloon behind him and he looked back over his shoulder into it, generally irritated as the spell broke and responsibility lit on his shoulders again. Sounded like Ezra had won another hand -- which meant he wouldn't be leaving the table any time soon. And with Chris and Josiah questioning Belle, and JD and Nathan God-knows-where, if Vin didn't find out whether or not Buck was ok it looked like no one would. Well damn.

    There was really only one place left to look before he started combing the alleys, and Vin headed there with a sense of sticking his nose way too far into Buck's business. But there was always the chance that the gunman had gone to his room injured and not been able to leave again. The tracker wasn't surprised when no one answered his tap on the boarding house door. But he was surprised when he cautiously pushed it opened and saw the empty dresser drawer thrown onto the middle of the bed.

    Pushing the door a bit wider, Vin looked quickly around the small room. No boots tossed in the corner. No hat thrown across the dresser top. No dirty bandannas hanging off the footboard. Hell!

    Buck was gone.

    Vin really didn't have to check the livery, but he did it anyway. The grey was gone, too. The tracker leaned against the stall door and rubbed a tired hand across his face. Things were getting way too far out of hand. He ought to just get on his black and ride on out to the reservation and leave all this mess to sort its own self out, he thought. Of course, then Chris would have no idea that Buck had left. He'd find out sooner or later, but meanwhile he'd work himself into even more of a rage than he was in now. Not that it mattered much to Vin at this point, but there were the townsfolk to consider. If Chris got much madder he was going to start shooting people for parting their hair on the wrong side. Vin sighed again and pushed himself off the door he'd been leaning on. Might as well get it over with.

    He'd set his hand on the latch of the jail door when he heard the rising wail of a woman crying, and hesitated. It was coming from inside the jail and was accompanied by Josiah's rumbling bass, whispering reassuring words that could be heard halfway across the street. Vin took a cautious step to his right so he could see in the window slantwise, and when he saw the look on Chris's face as he stood watching Belle and Josiah at the desk, he changed his mind about going in there right now. The gunslinger looked like he had a mouth full of glass and no place to spit it out.

    New plan, thought Vin. Wait for Chris in the saloon.

    It took nearly an hour for the taut-lipped gunman to show up. He shoved his way into the dark and smoke, threw a poisonous glance in the direction of the high-stakes game that was still holding noisy court on one side of the room, and then stalked to the bar and stood there in a brittle posture that made the barkeep react quickly. He slid a full whiskey bottle down the polished mahogany; Chris caught it one-handed and tipped it to pour the dark brown liquid into a shot glass that he drained in a single swallow. He was pouring a second when Vin sauntered casually to the bar to lean his back against it, looking out at the room with idle eyes.

    "That bad?" he drawled.

    Chris just shot a look that flashed like summer lightning at Vin, and downed his second drink without replying. The tracker sighed and watched the men who were crowded around the poker table that was hidden in their midst.

    "Josiah?" asked Vin after a long while.

    Chris leaned his elbows on the bar and hunkered down so that his shoulders stuck up to either side of his hollowed back. His hat brim was low over his eyes.

    "Took Belle home," he said. He turned his shotglass in his hand idly, looking at the contents rolling from side to side inside it. He sniffed, then finished the drink and looked sideways again at Vin, the empty shotglass still held between his fingers. "She says Buck raped her."

    Vin felt his stomach lurch, but he turned only his head to look at Chris. Very slowly.

    "She says what?"

    Chris sighed and set the glass down gently on the bar. He turned to face Vin, one arm leaning on the counter. "She says Buck came out to her place night before last, just about dawn, raped her. While Josiah was out of town at the Delano Mine."

    "Buck wouldn't--"

    "She swore out a complaint. Formally."

    "But, Chris--"

    "I have to arrest him, Vin."

    The tracker blinked and looked away again, his eyes wandering over the patrons at the various tables. What the _hell_ had gotten into everyone? He straightened up and turned to face Chris fully. He felt his hands close into fists, and concentrated on flexing them and trying to relax. Over-reacting wouldn't help a thing.

    "Look, there has to be some mistake here. Buck wouldn't--"

    Chris's face hardened and his eyes turned flinty. He looked Vin up and down in a way the tracker didn't like one bit, and then turned back to the bar in a dismissive way. "Don't tell me my business," he said.

    Vin stood there a long moment looking at the side of his friend's face: the corded features, the disdainful half-sneer, the studied lack of concern. He felt himself growing cold. "Well, there's somethin' you outta' know then." Vin's voice had taken on a tight, raspy tone that made a slight smile play across Chris's lips.

    "That bein'?" He didn't even look over.

    "He's left town."

    "Buck left town?" Chris turned at that, a look of genuine surprise flashing across his face, followed immediately by one of fury.

    "Can't say as I blame 'im much, either," continued Vin, ignoring the question. "I'd a' done the same myself, you did me like that."

    Chris's face turned dark red, and he cocked his head sideways slightly. "I'll forget you said that." His voice was threatening.

    "Please don't." Vin's eyes narrowed and he shook his head. "I don't know what in hell is goin' on, Chris, but I'll go find Buck an' talk to 'im. Get this mess straightened out." He turned to leave, and Chris grabbed his arm. Vin froze.

    "He's wanted," said Chris evenly. "If you're not back with him in 24 hours, I'm comin' after you."

    Vin looked over his shoulder at Chris, then looked pointedly down at the gunslinger's hand, still on his arm. Chris released it, and Vin raised his eyes once more to the other man's face. "You just do that," he said.

    He walked out.

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

    The two men sitting across from each other at the small table outside the saloon looked up from their game of checkers as Vin pushed through the saloon doors and headed straight for the black horse standing at the hitching rail. They watched as he jerked the reins from around the wooden railing with a snap and mounted up even as the animal was still turning around in the street, then legged it into a lope that left only hot dust floating in the now- empty space. The one with auburn hair scratched at his beard and smiled wryly at his companion.

    "Well. That was unexpected." Thompson laid a black disc at the far end of the checkerboard. "King me."

    A third man came out of the saloon quietly and slid against the wall behind Thompson's partner, Striker. They both looked at him and Striker raised one eyebrow a fraction.

    "He's going after Wilmington," said this man softly. "Larabee's given him 24 hours to bring him in."

    "Or?"

    "Or he comes after them."

    Thompson chuckled coldly, a sound like scales sliding across sand. "Well, everything else has gone so beautifully according to plan, I suppose it doesn't matter if this one thing switches to the back-up." He stood up and nodded to Striker, who sat back in his chair with long fingers tapping lightly on the checker piece that Thompson had just demanded be crowned. "I'll make sure he doesn't catch up with Wilmington. Or that if he does, he doesn't keep him from -- serving our purposes."

    "That should go without saying," said Striker flatly.

    "Yes. Of course." Thompson frowned very slightly and headed for the dun mare that had been standing saddled all this time next to the black gelding. He mounted up and touched his hat brim to Striker and the man leaning against the wall. His eyes went dark. "Sullivan has his man. I am on mine. You can just figure on two down; they're as good as gone."

    He turned the mare and spurred her into a loose trot after the gelding. Striker looked back up at the man leaning against the wall behind him.

    "Get back in there," he said softly, "and step on his toes or something if he starts to calm down." He looked at the checkers and smiled. "Got to make sure the fuse stays lit."

    Part 13

    "Ma, I'm back."

    Mary smiled as the back door slammed and she heard her son clomp through the house to the offices of The Clarion. "No kidding, son." She opened her arms for a hug and her son obliged. Mary held him a moment longer than normal. She needed that; it had not been a good week.

    Billy squirmed out of her arms. "I'm hungry. Can I have an apple?" Mary looked hard at Billy. "Please, may I have an apple?"

    "Yes, you may."

    Billy went to retrieve an apple. Mary followed him into the kitchen. "I need to go talk to some folks for some stories I'm working on. Do you want to go with me or play with your friends?"

    Billy looked sideways over at his mother. He burst out of the chair with energy Mary could only envy and he was out the back door again.

    Mary waved at the closed door. Nice seeing you son, so glad we had this long visit. Mary wiped her hands over her tired face. She hadn't slept well. She was worried about the doctor editorial and knew it would take a lot of effort to make sure that when Four Corners obtained a doctor that it is done right.

    And frankly, she was very worried about Chris Larabee. He was definitely on edge. It had been a particularly busy week for the seven regulators. She knew he had spent most of the week in town because he would stop in for an early morning cup of coffee. They'd exchange pleasantries; he would get his coffee and go sit on the front porch. Mary had attempted to discuss events with him but he'd have some curt rejoinder that didn't encourage conversation and she didn't pursue it. And then yesterday, that stupid argument over the editorial. And it was the longest conversation they'd had in weeks! Mary shook her head. You're just feeling lonely and he can't or won't give you more of his time. And you, girl, just don't want to spend time with any other.

    Mary wearily stood up. She grabbed a small notebook and decided she would walk over to Potter's to pick up on any gossip or stories she could put in tomorrow's paper. She just needed some fillers -- there was plenty of news: the bank robbery earlier this week, further deaths at the Delano Mine cave-in, and she had heard word of some Indian troubles.

    Mary walked briskly down the boardwalk. The afternoon stage came barreling down the main street. Mary gave a heartfelt sigh -- guess she would need to talk to Chris about getting the driver to slow down in town. I'm sure that will be another pleasant conversation.

    Mary pushed the door open to Potter's and surveyed the store. It was quite crowded. There were several couples, a trapper's wife in for a rare trip to Four Corners to restock supplies, and a stranger Mary didn't know.

    "I think the town council should decide on qualifications and start searching for a doctor."

    "Mary," Gloria Potter, the owner and Mary's good friend, called her over. "We were just discussing your call for a doctor."

    Mary arched a brow at Gloria, my call.

    Gloria smirked, yes, friend. Mary rolled her eyes at Gloria.

    "I think the gentleman makes a good point about qualifications. Excuse me, I don't believe we've met?" Mary turned to the newcomer.

    "John Bland. I've arrived ahead of my family. We'll be settling in these parts." He extended his hand and Mary shook it briefly.

    "Mary Travis, editor of the local paper." Mary put her hand behind her and surreptitiously tried to wipe it. She thought she had an open mind but there were some people you feel are . . . are slime. Mary couldn't think of a better word. He was rather nondescript. A white man, medium build, brown hair, brown eyes. His hands were soft. That was it, Mary decided. Now, Chris's hands were rough with calluses that they'd scrape when he took her hand. He had this tendency to rub his thumb . . .

    "Mary. MARY." Mary jumped and shook her head to clear Chris Larabee from her thoughts. "Mr. Bland was just saying . . ."

    "I was dismayed when I found out there was no doctor here," Mr. Bland continued.

    "We are very lucky to have Mr. Jackson," a farmer's wife joined the conversation.

    "That won't do. He has no proper training," said Mr. Bland, "and can't get any formal schooling because . . . well, he just can't."

    "Nathan was a stretcher bearer during the war. He is well known and respected by many physicians in the territory. He has consulted with them on patients and they have asked for his assistance," Mary contradicted.

    "Pshaw," Mr. Bland snorted, "I can hardly believe that."

    "There was the influenza outbreak at Gilley's Bend."

    "The railroad accident when they were blasting at Elk Junction."

    "Cholera at Eagle Bend."

    Mary smiled at how quickly others in the store could think of examples of Nathan being called out to assist other towns or doctors.

    "My family owes Mr. Jackson a debt we can never pay." Mrs. Job, a trapper's wife said. "When my Tommy was so sick with the fever last winter, I sent my eldest Jake to fetch Mr. Jackson. Storm was blowing something fierce by the time he got to Four Corners; Mr. Jackson got him a room at the boarding house. But the storm didn't stop Mr. Jackson from riding out. He sat with my boy for days, giving him medicine, nursin' him, sittin' with him -- well, with my husband gone tendin' the trap line and with the five young 'uns, I was just so glad he stayed. Offered for him to go back to town if he was needin' to. Mr. Jackson refused. Said he couldn't imagine a more important place he needed to be right now." Mrs. Job's voice choked as she continued, "come spring when we came down for supplies, offered Mr. Jackson some of my strawberry preserves and slippers from skins I made. He thanked me like I was doin' him some big favor. So you tell me, what doctor has you known, do that for you?"

    "We lived outside Denver. Doctor was 10 miles away. He would only tend you if you paid in advance. Nothing in barter, only cash. And if he came out to your place, he'd charge $5 more," Seth Andrews, a local rancher mentioned.

    "Oh, Mr. Andrews, I heard that your wife had the baby?" Gloria exclaimed.

    Mr. Andrews beamed, "our Angel. Just the most beautiful baby girl."

    "And your wife?"

    "Well, there were complications so she needs to rest up. We're just lucky Miz Nettie is staying and helping till she's on her feet."

    "My point exactly, that's why a doctor is needed," Bland announced.

    "Don't see how he could've done much better than Jackson. Baby was turned around and a leg came out first. He took care of it and they're doing just fine." There was no missing the pure relief in Andrews' voice. The men and woman in the store, ranchers/farmers, gathered round Andrews' offering congratulations and silent prayers of thanks for his good fortune.

    Bland watched the festive group. Damn. He turned and left the store disgusted. It had gone so well. He had started talking up the need for a real doctor. He had manipulated events so the editor published a call for a doctor. It had been going so well. But lately when he talked up a real Doctor in town, they all started to rally around Jackson. A darkie at that. Well, we'll just see how you all feel once the food poisoning pandemic breaks out. Bland had seen how busy the restaurant had been last night -- they closed early when they ran out of food. Oh yes, what will you think of him then, when you all are so sick and he can't help you. Bland chuckled darkly. Little would anyone realize. It might not all be going to plan. But close enough.

    Part 14

    Buck rode steadily southward for two hours. He was not the kind of man who dwelled on his decisions and he already saw Four Corners as something behind him. There were pretty women most anywhere and a man like him could always find something interesting to do. It would be strange for a bit to be alone again. But he'd get by. He always had. And if it had been good for awhile to have men who would watch his back and maybe even worry about him a little, well...he just wouldn't think on that anymore.

    The sun was still rising in the sky and the day was already hot when he stopped to rest and water his horse underneath a small grove of trees along a river bank. He dismounted and let his horse drink greedily of the fresh clear water. He didn't realize that he'd been standing staring at nothing for several minutes until he felt his horse nudge his arm with a wet muzzle.

    He rubbed his hand along its nose. "Hey, old pal," he said. "It's just you and me again." He adjusted the saddle and checked his saddle bags and bed roll. Then, he turned and led his horse back up away from the river.

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

    Sullivan crouched in a nearby rock outcropping and watched as Buck Wilmington watered his horse and prepared to ride on. 'Come on,' he thought. 'Come to me.' And if he'd been the kind of man who smiled, he'd have smiled. He'd been waiting and watching for the right moment since the minute Buck had left Four Corners. He had a job to do and he could have done it at any time once Buck was several miles out of town. But he was Sullivan and it was important to him that he do it at just the right moment. A moment when Buck was alone and vulnerable and not expecting an attack and Sullivan could make him feel as if the whole world had finally betrayed him.

    He watched Buck approach. 'Just a little closer,' he thought. Then, Buck took another step and Sullivan, quicker than thought, nocked an arrow, pulled back his bow, took swift, careful aim...and fired.

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

    The arrow hit Buck high in the right leg, like a flat punch, slamming him backward into his horse. God damn it! He scrambled, pulling his horse back with him, trying to find some cover in the small grove of trees. A second arrow whistled over his head and he swept his hat off and crouched behind the largest tree trying to figure out where the attack was coming from. A third arrow came arcing into the trees and he fired his pistol at the rock outcropping. His leg felt like white fire, hot and cold at the same time. He pulled his horse toward him and pulled his rifle from its scabbard. He leaned on the tree and breathed hard and waited. Three more arrows came, each one swift and silent and deadly. Two of them buried themselves in the trees to either side of him. One struck his horse on the saddle, marking a deep gouge in the tough leather before slipping to the ground. The horse danced sideways, snorting nervously, its ears laid back and nostrils flaring.

    Buck thought he saw movement among the rocks and he fired his rifle, emptying it into the rock outcropping. He could feel the fury building in him, trying to crowd out the pain from the arrow in his leg. This was it! The last stinking rotten straw! Who the hell were these guys? And why were they after him? He blinked sweat out of his eyes and reloaded his rifle and waited.

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

    Other men lived for their own reasons--to raise a family, to make a mark, to accumulate possessions. Right here on this small patch of ground, faced off against a desperate, wounded man--with Sullivan holding all the power--this was what he lived for.

    He squatted back on his heels, breathing easily as he watched Buck down by the river. Things were going perfectly.

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

    When nothing happened for what seemed like an inordinately long time, Buck looped his horse's reins over a branch and sank to the ground, making sure to keep himself well-hidden from the rock outcropping. He lay his rifle on the ground right next to his hand and looked at the arrow sticking out of his leg. Shit, he thought. Why the hell is this happening? He leaned his head back against the tree. It had to be young braves from the reservation. There just weren't any other Indians in these parts. Hell! Hadn't he heard rumors of trouble in town this week? That fella at the saloon. He'd said some Indian braves had chased him off the reservation. And there'd been talk of butchered cattle, though Buck had to admit he hadn't been paying much attention.

    And it made sense in a way. Take a bunch of young fellas, bring 'em up as warriors, then lock them up with nothing to do and something was bound to happen. They'd probably been preying on anyone coming through this area, far enough from the reservation so they didn't think they'd be caught. The sweat on Buck's face had turned cold and he swiped at it angrily. Well, he thought, they picked the wrong guy this time. He'd had a damn bad day already and he wasn't in the mood to just sit quietly and take this. They were going to be sorry they'd picked Buck Wilmington.

    He looked down at the arrow again, moving his leg experimentally. He could feel the arrowhead shift, slicing a little deeper. The wound wasn't bleeding much yet, but he knew it would when he pulled the arrow out. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. With a growl that began deep in his throat, he grabbed the arrow shaft close to his leg and pulled. His lips curled back into a snarl and the growl turned into a full-blown roar, but he didn't quit.

    "AAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!"

    And, with one final wrench, it was out. For a minute he couldn't see anything except a red haze with black spots around the edges. His breath came in quick, short gasps as he dragged himself back from the dark edge of unconsciousness. GOD DAMN IT! He stared for a minute at the arrow in his hand. Then, he broke it in two and flung it to one side. He untied the bandanna around his neck and folded it into a pad and pressed it against his leg to try and stop the bleeding. Blood seeped through his fingers and ran down his leg. He pressed harder, grimacing at the pain, but not really caring all that much. The only thing on his mind in that moment was going after the people who had done this to him.

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

    Sullivan waited. While wrestling with the arrow, Buck had moved ever so slightly back into Sullivan's view. 'I could kill him now,' he thought. And he picked up the bow and nocked another arrow and took aim. 'One shot,' he thought. And he could see it, so clear. The arrow winging through the hot summer air, the dull thwack! as it hit its mark, the body slumped to one side never to move again. Buck Wilmington dead, because Sullivan hated him. Because Sullivan decreed it. Because Sullivan was better on the worst day he ever had than Buck Wilmington would ever be. 'Oh yes, that would be fine,' he thought as he sighted along the arrow and drew the bow string a little tighter.

    But he didn't fire.

    He had his orders. 'Wound him,' Striker had said. 'Make him angry. But don't kill him.' So, as disappointing as it was, Sullivan eased up on the bow and replaced the arrow in the quiver and settled back down to watch.

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

    When the bleeding had slowed a little, Buck stood and found another bandanna in his saddle bags and tied it around the first one. He leaned back against the tree for a minute to catch his breath. He bent down to pick up his rifle and it seemed heavier than he'd remembered it. He made sure it was fully loaded then he slipped it back into its scabbard. He reloaded his pistol too. He hadn't been fired on for almost half an hour and he pretty much figured there was no one left in the rocks, but it wouldn't do to do anything stupid now. Keeping the trees between him and the rock outcropping he led his horse down the river bank, crouching low and moving as well as he could under the circumstances he edged upstream away from the ambush.

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

    Sullivan let him go. He was packed up and ready to leave on the instant. Except for one or two things he left purposefully, there was no sign he had been there. The arrows would tell their own story. As would the small beaded bag he'd half-buried under a rock. The bag was from his mother's tribe up north along the Rockies, but he figured no stupid white man would know the difference. And at least now it had a purpose. All it had ever done before was remind him of a past he'd never wanted to remember.

    He crept across the rocks and down to his horse, knowing Wilmington would be along in a few minutes. He laid tracks toward the reservation, though at this point anything he did was just extra. The bait had already been taken. The path had already been set.

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

    Buck was still a hundred yards from the rock outcropping, approaching from the other side, and he could already see that there was no one there. They'd have had to tie their horses at the base and there were no horses. He reined in hard, feeling the pressure on his wounded leg and not caring. His horse danced back and forth, picking up its own tension through the way he held the reins and the pressure of his legs along its side.

    Damn! Damn, damn, DAMN!!!

    Buck was so furious it was as if something had snapped inside him. He'd gotten up in the morning and everything had been fine. He'd thought about maybe riding out later in the day to check on Casey. He'd figured he might be able to make time with that new saloon girl along about lunch time when she came in to work. He'd hoped the trail crews would have finally quieted down. But none of that had happened.

    What had happened instead was Josiah had tried to kill him and when it mattered, Chris had backed Josiah. And now someone _else_ was trying to kill him. Well, God damn it! He wasn't going to just ride away this time. The men who'd attacked him were going to pay. Oh yeah, a small humorless smile flickered across his face, they were going to pay big. He turned his horse and kicked it into a gallop, heading straight for the reservation.

    Part 15

    Vin legged the black into a gallop the moment he cleared the edge of town, and he didn't ease up for about a mile. When he reined the gelding back to a jog and then left the road to stop under a live oak, the animal stretched against the bit and blew noisily. Vin patted its neck absently, his eyes wandering back towards town but unfocused. He was frowning, and when his gaze cleared he knit his brows into a deeper frown and turned to look towards the low ridge of hills that lay between town and the reservation. How had everything gotten so messed up lately? It just didn't seem possible.

    The tracker shook his head slightly and urged the black into a steady walk as he started to scan the ground for sign. Buck had to have left the road someplace, and knowing Buck it'd happened about fifteen feet out of town. But there were too many tracks close in to pick the grey up there; a circuit a mile out should do it, though.

    The black recognized and settled into the familiar routine of casting for a trail, easing into a ground-eating amble that left Vin's attention free to search the terrain for signs of Buck's grey. His mind began working at the knots in the whole puzzling mess as he rode. How in the hell things had gotten to such a pass as for him to be trailing his own friend for -- he broke off the line of thought in disgust. Buck couldn't and wouldn't have assaulted any woman. The fact that she was Josiah's love interest wouldn't even have had a chance to come up; Buck was the most woman-respecting man Vin had ever met. Why the others didn't believe the tall gunman when he said that women loved him because he respected them, Vin couldn't imagine. It simply couldn't be any clearer. All the women that hung off Buck's arms had come to him themselves, and he was just enjoying it -- enjoying it immensely, it was true, but so were they. Vin shook his head to himself and rubbed his face with one hand as he skirted an outcropping of rocks and rode up a low rise, his eyes still on the ground.

    Then there was the trouble at the reservation. Vin glanced over his shoulder quickly towards the ridge that he'd planned to be riding over right now, if things had just gone like they were supposed to. Both Kojay and Chanu were going to be disappointed and disturbed when he didn't show up for the Green Corn festival. The trouble between the locals and the reservation folk hadn't been all that big so far, but Vin and Kojay both had enough experience to know how fast things like that could get out of hand. Hell, it was on reservation territory in the Nations that Custer had wiped out a whole damn village before the sun even came up. Vin knew his presence at the important ceremony would have reassured those people that things were going to be ok, that at least one of the white men was going to stand by them.

    Now. . . Vin shook his head sadly. Well, maybe he could square all this mess away with Buck and Chris -- maybe even Josiah, and still get out to the reservation before the four days were done. The tracker reined in to uncap his canteen and drink from it as the sun climbed higher in the sky and it got hotter.

    At least any of the trouble that might be due to someone on the reservation side of the fence would stop while Kojay's people were occupied with the festival. They sure as hell weren't going to steal and butcher any of the local ranchers' steers while they were having one of the biggest feasts of the year. Before it, maybe. During it, no. Vin smiled to himself at the thought, although he still didn't think any of the reservation people had been responsible for the here-and-there depredations of local steers that were angering the nearby ranchers. He'd have noticed strips of beef on their drying racks, if they had. Of course, he needed to spread that word around.

    Vin frowned as he remembered Yosemite telling him just last night that two of the ranchers had gone out to the reservation the day before, to talk to Kojay about the cattle problem. They'd come back to town madder than when they'd left, because "the old man plumb stood 'em up and wouldn't even come out of 'is teepee." Yosemite had spat and then grinned slyly at Vin after he'd said it, knowing as well as the younger man did that the old shaman had undoubtedly been fasting and doing a sweat to prepare for the ceremony. That's why he'd told Vin, was so the tracker could do some smoothing-over with the ranchers and townsfolk. Of course, all hell had broken loose after that, so . . .Vin sighed.

    The most ridiculous story so far had been an old sheepherder's claim that the Indians had eaten his good herd dog, and Vin hadn't been able to convince him otherwise. The flock had been right near the reservation land at the time, insisted the old sheepman, and not a sheep was missing. But no trace of the best damn sheepdog he'd ever trained. And you know, he'd said loudly again and again, that those people EAT dogs. Vin had finally left the saloon, figuring he was simply riling the man up more and that things would quiet down faster if he just let it go.

    What wasn't so ridiculous was a stranger coming into town two days later, hatless and obviously terrified, with a story about having been chased through the reservation by several warriors who hadn't been playing games. That was only a few days ago, and it was one of the things Vin had quietly wanted to poke around in when he was out there. There was always the chance that the unfairness and suffering and indignities of reservation life had finally ignited the tempers of some of the younger men without Kojay even knowing about it. Not that Vin would blame them for it, if it was so, but it had to be stopped nonetheless. If the situation got much more volatile, they could get the whole village wiped out if they weren't careful.

    Vin reined in suddenly, a smile of satisfaction breaking across his features and relaxing his face. There it was: the unmistakable drag mark at the right hind toe that was Buck's grey at a walk. Vin dismounted to touch long fingers to the mark, and then raised his head to look down the trail. South.

    He mounted up again and headed south at an easy jog. He had about seven hours of daylight left this time of year. With any luck at all, he'd find Buck before dark.

    Piece a' cake.

    Part 16

    Chris took the whiskey bottle and went to sit by himself at a table in the corner. He sat there, not even drinking, hunched over the table staring at the half-full glass in his hand. What the hell was going on? Josiah gone crazy. Vin losing his temper. Nathan...he hadn't even seen Nathan all morning. Or JD either come to that. Ezra...well, he knew right where Ezra was--he could hear the crowd around the poker table from here--and that, at least, was normal. He pushed the glass away from him and glared at it as if it were somehow to blame for this morning's events. What the hell had Buck been thinking? He'd been a fool before. He'd been irresponsible, reckless, and downright irritating, but Chris had never known him to hurt a woman. But then, if he hadn't raped Belle, why was Belle saying it? And why had Buck left? And who the hell was Vin to tell him about Buck?

    He picked up the whiskey glass and drained the contents, pouring himself another from the bottle. He ought to just say to hell with it. It served them all right. All of them. Damn them, anyway. Maybe he was wrong about Buck. The thought kept tickling at the back of his brain like the whisper of a demon. He'd known Buck for more than ten years. They'd risked their lives for each other. But it took more faith than Chris had anymore to believe in anyone without doubt. So, it sat there and gnawed at his belly--the idea that all these years he was just plain wrong.

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

    Ezra had been playing cards since six o'clock the previous evening. They'd taken a short break around three am, but he'd been back at the table before seven. Most of the players had come and gone and come back again. Only three had remained the entire time: Ezra, a rancher from south of Four Corners, who was a fair player for a man who only played once or twice a year, and a new man who'd introduced himself as Vincent Hammersmith. It had been obvious to Ezra from the start that Hammersmith was the man to beat. He had quick hands and a terrific poker face and he was willing to flat out bluff when he had nothing in his hand. Ezra liked that kind of challenge particularly and he'd let Hammersmith win several hands just so he could watch him play. The man seemed to have limitless amounts of money and Ezra liked that as well. He'd played in some marathon poker games in his time and this was shaping up to be one of them.

    He did wonder vaguely what was going on in the rest of the town, but he had a fair amount of faith that the others would handle it and that they'd come and get him if anything went wrong. He'd heard some kind of explosion last night from Josiah, but it'd blown up and gone so quickly that he hadn't worried much about it. And he'd just seen Chris and Vin over at the bar. It occurred to him that, although it was late morning, he had not yet seen any signs of Nathan, JD, or Buck.

    "Gentlemen," Hammersmith laid his hands on the table. He didn't dress like a gambler. In fact, he looked more like a trail hand with his faded shirt and vest, a well-worn holster at his hips, and his long thin duster. But he had the smooth voice of an educated man and long dextrous fingers that shuffled quickly and expertly and Ezra was sure he knew where every card in the deck was at all times. "It's been a pleasure playing cards with you," he said now. "And," he added, looking directly at Ezra. "I don't want this to end, but I simply must take a break and find a decent meal. Please, play on without me." He settled his hat on his head, gathered up his winnings, and strolled from the room.

    Ezra looked at the other men around the table. They all looked tired and hungry and a little dazed at the poker play that had been going on over the last several hours. "I believe we should all take a short break, gentlemen," Ezra said. He pulled his watch from his vest pocket. "Shall we reconvene in, say, an hour?" The other men looked at him for a minute, except the rancher, who nodded sharply and gathered up his own money. Though he was undoubtedly aware that both Hammersmith and Ezra were better poker players than he was, he had managed to leave the table ahead and that was pretty much all he asked.

    Ezra waited until the other men had left, then he gathered up the cards, shuffled them and stuck them in an inside jacket pocket. He picked up his winnings and began counting them as he walked over to the bar, though he already knew to the last bill exactly how much money he had in his hands.

    At the bar, he stashed the money in another pocket and looked around. He knew Chris was sitting alone at a corner table, but he was surprised when he didn't see any of the others. Buck was usually here around lunch to make time with the girls before the saloon got busy. Nathan and Josiah both generally came in around lunch time too. Vin he might not expect. And JD...well, JD was unpredictable. But it seemed odd to see none of them. He tapped on the bar and after the bartender had refilled his glass, he picked it up and walked over to join Chris.

    "Mr. Larabee," he said by way of greeting as he pulled out a chair and sat. Chris looked up at him with an unwelcoming expression. Ezra was unfazed. "I want to thank you, Mr. Larabee for releasing the prisoners yesterday. I assure you that their sojourn at the poker table was much more profitable than any additional time they might have spent in a jail cell. Not for them, you understand. But, at least for me."

    Chris tilted his head and looked at him as if he were a specimen in a bug museum. Ezra sipped his drink and looked around the quiet saloon.

    "Things certainly seem quiet here today," he commented. "Have the trail crews left town?"

    "No." Chris reached for the whiskey bottle again.

    Ezra frowned at him. "Did JD and Josiah find something out at the mine? Was it sabotage after all?"

    Chris looked at him. "Where have you _been_?" he asked as if Ezra were posing particularly idiotic questions.

    'What was going on here?' Ezra wondered. "You know where I've been," he said. "I was at the jail all day yesterday and since then I've been here, playing cards. Has there been a problem?"

    Chris drew in a deep breath and sat up straight. "No problem," he said, in that same cool voice he'd said the words to Josiah less than twenty-four hours before. "Vin's gone, Buck's gone, Josiah's drunk and lost his head over some woman, and I don't know where JD and Nathan are." He drained the contents of his glass, stood up abruptly and left the saloon.

    Ezra looked at the swinging doors that marked his passage. Was he saying there _was_ trouble or there wasn't? Vin, he knew, was heading out to the reservation for some festival they were having. But where had Buck gone? And Josiah _would_ get drunk over a woman so that didn't worry him too much. JD and Nathan? Hmmm...JD might be with Casey, but he'd generally tell someone where he was going. Of course, if he told Buck... And Nathan. From what Ezra had seen yesterday he hoped Nathan was holed up somewhere getting some sleep. The man sure could use it. Still, it might not hurt to take a short swing around town. Just to see what was going on. Ezra liked to know all the details. Who went where. Who did what. He figured knowing was the edge that kept him just a little bit ahead.

    He'd just risen, swallowed the last of his drink and was headed to the door when Vincent Hammersmith came back in. "Mr. Standish," he said. "I hope you're not leaving. I thought perhaps we could play a more...intimate game. Just the two of us? Perhaps we could even raise the stakes."

    Ezra looked at him, then he looked at the door. Chris had said there was no problem. And he certainly hadn't heard any gunfire or screams or other indications that things were going amiss. They were all adults after all,...surely they could look after themselves for a little while longer. He turned to Hammersmith and clapped him on the shoulder. "Mr. Hammersmith," he said, turning back toward the table he had so recently vacated. "I would be delighted to have the opportunity to take more of your money."

    Part 17

    The sun was up but the room was dark with thick curtains blocking all light. A gift from a grateful patient's family -- Nathan had been trying to sleep during the day but a knock on the door had disturbed his sleep. A small boy had broken his arm. His parents were so sorry to disturb the healer but they couldn't console the boy. Nathan had earned the boy's trust and successfully straightened the severe break. The curtains were payment for services rendered. Nathan considered them a gift and he was forever grateful every time he tried to sleep during the day.

    Of course, Nathan wasn't thinking these thoughts right now. He was unconscious, so exhausted that he had slumped into a deep, dreamless sleep. No sound penetrated his sleep. He never heard Vin Tanner's knock on his door this morning when he looked for Buck. Nor Mary Travis who had stopped by with the paper and looking for an opportunity to talk about yesterday's editorial.

    Nathan would have continued to sleep except for the agonizing, twisting pain in his stomach that suddenly broke his unconsciousness. He jumped out of bed and grabbed the bowl from his washstand knocking over the pitcher, shattering it, and throwing dirty water that he had been too tired to empty last night all over the floor. Nathan's stomach heaved and he vomited for several minutes. Once his stomach was empty, he continued to heave. Nathan put the bowl down but as he tried to walk, his stomach started heaving again and with some fluid escaping his mouth and falling to the floor. Nathan felt faint and staggered to the bed. He fell asleep but it wasn't the quiet, dreamless sleep of earlier.

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

    AAAAAHHHHHH!!!!! "Jackson, get over here." The young black man not even out of his teens surveyed the scene. A Confederate soldier in his grey was being held to the table, his leg so badly mangled that it was certain to be amputated. The terror-filled screams filled the air as Doctors took to the grim task of amputating limbs so unrecognizable to be unsalvageable. Nathan passed instruments to the doctor as he quickly worked. When the limb was removed, Nathan picked it up and carried it out of the tent to join the growing pile of flesh to be later buried. White bone, burnt flesh, congealed blood -- the stench haunted you. A young boy, maybe 12 was standing near the pile; Nathan shooed him off. Nothing to remember here, boy. But Nathan could never forget.

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

    Nathan was up again, his stomach heaving. The bowl was full and his vomit splashed over the side. In some small piece of Nathan's rational mind, he thought he needed to dump the stuff but he collapsed to the floor. At some point, he regained consciousness and made his way to his bed. Holding his stomach tightly, futilely trying to abate the twisting pain.

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

    AAAAAHHHHHH!!!!! "Mr. Roberts hold still," Nathan urged.

    AAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!

    "You're hurting him!" Roberts' frantic wife tried to stop Nathan from touching her husband.

    Nathan turned from the injured man. Nathan gently grasped the woman's forearms. "Ma'am, you're gonna have to let me tend to him." Nathan looked over to Josiah to lead the woman away.

    Roberts' had been tilling a field, the till caught on a large boulder and he was trying to man-handle the boulder. He really should've gotten help but it was late in the afternoon and he didn't want to take the time. The boulder was dislodged, with the till free it moved forward slicing into the next thing it hit - Roberts' leg.

    It had taken several men to free Robert's from the till. He was brought to his house and Nathan worked on him for several hours, carefully cleaning then stitching the long gash in his leg. Fortunately, the blade had been sharp and the edges of the wound clean. If Nathan was successful, there was a good chance he wouldn't lose the leg. Time would tell.

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

    When the diarrhea started, Nathan couldn't control his bowels.

    Then, the vomiting started again.

    Occasionally, Nathan lapsed into unconsciousness. Only to be dragged back with pain, vomiting, and diarrhea. Nathan would complain but it was beyond anything he was capable of. He was very clear on only one point -- he was going to kill JD for putting him in this fix.

    Nathan lapsed into unconsciousness again.

    There was a hard rap at the door that didn't disturb Nathan.

    Chris Larabee was at Nathan's door. Damn. It wasn't unlike Nathan to run off to tend some emergency without telling one of the seven. They had gotten so used to it that if he was around - great; if he wasn't, he was tendin' someone and wouldn't be available anyway. There was no note so Chris figured he'd been called to another emergency. It had been that kind of week.

    With Vin gone. With Buck gone. With Josiah gone. Chris had thought he could maybe talk things out with Nathan. He had a common sense, an ingrained sense of justice, and the analytical mind to maybe give Chris the clue that would prove or disprove the allegations against Buck. And he didn't set his teeth on edge like Ezra and JD could. Maybe Nathan could calm him down. Maybe provide an insight that would help Chris make sense of it all.

    Damn him. Damn him. Damn him. If he had told Nathan once, he told him a hundred times -- take a minute, leave a note. Chris left furious and frustrated. A deadly combination.

    Part 18

    There was just something in the way the red-tail was circling, its distant cry a piercing whistle of rage, that made Vin stop the black so he could watch it a minute. The afternoon sun backlit the bird as it rose higher into the sky and then it dove steeply as though after prey, only to veer off with another cry before flapping its wings heavily to disappear behind a low ridge. Vin's brows drew together. Odd.

    He shook his head to himself and legged the black on. But he glanced back in that direction several times, the feeling growing that something was wrong. He'd been trailed too many times, and trailed too many others himself, not to know the signs. The hawk had been threatening an intruder into its territory: an intruder that was powerful enough to make the hawk give up without doing anything more than simply threaten. That meant bear, wolf, mountain cat -- or man. Vin took a deep breath and reined in a second time, his eyes running along the river course several miles away that marked the boundary between the rocky, higher desert and the broad, sandy basin beyond. He'd half-expected to see Buck out there toiling his way across once he got this far, but the bare sand shimmered in the sun with not so much as a jackrabbit moving on it.

    The tracker half-turned in his saddle to look back at the long ridge that had paralleled his trail the last 5 miles -- well, paralleled Buck's trail at least. The gunman had held a steady course, Vin had to give him that. He'd borne south right through the low hills and oak groves that surrounded Four Corners, and then into the ridged and rocky desert beyond it. Now it looked like he was heading across the sand flats, and then into the mountains beyond it that were Mexico. Damn. Vin looked back again, at the ridge where the hawk had complained so loudly. Hell of a time to pick up a bounty hunter on his trail.

    The river was still pretty far away, and the intervening distance was thick with mounds of broken rock and towering, rounded granite dells that would hide him from anyone on that ridge with a scope. He could duck out right here and double back to find out whether or not he was being followed without alerting his pursuer to his suspicions. The man would just figure Vin was working his way unseen through the rough country between there and the river. And since he'd expect Vin to stay at the river long enough to water his horse well before crossing the sand flats, he wouldn't suspect anything different for hours.

    Thirty minutes later, Vin had slipped away from anyone who might be watching and was working his way through arroyos and other hidden places back towards the ridge where the hawk had given warning. It wasn't hard to find the right spot, as the ridge top was so rough that there were only a few places where a man could even travel on horseback. Still, Vin felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end when he saw the unmistakable sign: one rider, moving steadily, the tracks less than an hour old. He narrowed his eyes, drew his mare's leg to rest it across the pommel of his saddle, and legged the black on. Somewhere down this trail was a man who was following him, and he intended to find out why.

    It wasn't long before he found the place where his pursuer had dismounted to lay on an outcropping ledge, probably to use a spyglass or binoculars. Vin knelt on the little spot of packed-down earth and ran light eyes out and down to where the man would've been training his attention: the spot where Vin had first stopped and looked back several times as he seriously considered whether or not he was being followed. Something about that made the tracker's blood chill, and he stood up quickly to remount and follow on more quickly than he had before. It wasn't right. The man wasn't acting like he was supposed to, like the men who followed other men for a living usually acted. He was acting like Vin would.

    He knew when he saw the tracks veer off the ridge top and head down towards the granite dells that he really wasn't going to like seeing where the man's trail went, but he kept going. And when the trail led into the rocks where Vin himself had ridden not long before, he urged the black on faster. Although he knew he should slow down and watch for an ambush from the man, back-tracked and hidden in the rocks, he didn't. It wasn't what he would have done, and he knew now that he was dealing with someone who thought like he did, who tracked like he did.

    And sure enough, there was the place where the man had dismounted. To lay his hands upon Vin's own earlier trail, to figure out just how long ago his quarry had figured out he was being followed and had turned around to find out. Vin's heart skipped a beat and he pressed his lips together. He only had to ride his own back trail half a mile to see what he'd already known he would see: his pursuer had figured out what he'd done and tracked him. He'd followed the trail Vin had left as he'd circled back to head up the ridge, and undoubtedly followed it far enough to see where Vin had picked up his own original trail. He looked up at the ridge and narrowed his eyes. No doubt his counterpart was up there even now, maybe even sitting on that same ledge, knowing Vin had found him out just the same as he'd found out Vin.

    You're good, thought Vin, but I ain't got time for you right now. Sorry to disappoint you, but we'll be partin' company right soon.

    He touched his hat brim to the man he could not see, and turned his horse to ride down to the river.

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

    The first thing to do, thought Vin, was to get down to the river and find out which way Buck had headed. The second thing to do was to shake this damned bounty hunter off his tail, and pronto. And the third thing was to find Buck and drag him back to town before anything else could go wrong.

    Forty minutes later, Vin realized it was too late; something else had already gone wrong. Very wrong.

    A cold stone of certainty lodged in his gut when he saw the blood, and it just got heavier and heavier as he walked slowly around the site, reading the sign. Damn. Leave it to Buck to get so mad he'd yank an arrow right out of himself, thought Vin. Had to have hurt like hell. And then he'd stayed so mad he'd taken off at a gallop to get even with the ones who'd shot it. Vin eyed the broken ground where the grey's hooves had gouged out clumps of sod as it raced off to the northwest -- straight as a beeline towards the reservation of Kojay's people. Vin sighed and looked at the arrow butt he held in his hand. Only problem with that was, the fletching wasn't right to be theirs. Looked like maybe Blackfoot, possibly Crow.

    Vin's expression tightened as he rubbed a thumb against the feathers and studied the lay of the shafts embedded in the trees and earth around the place Buck had taken cover. He looked towards the rocks they'd been fired from, then circled up there with his eyes still on the ground. He found more arrows left behind up there, and felt gooseflesh suddenly cascade down both arms and his neck. Ten at least altogether, here and in the ground by the river -- ten arrows that had taken a lot of effort to make, left behind for no possible reason but one: evidence. A sudden sparkle of red caught his eye and he bent to pull out a beaded bag half-buried beneath a stone. The dull silver cones that dangled from it shook in Vin's hand as understanding flooded in and hit him so hard he staggered.

    It was a set-up! And Buck-- Vin whirled to look again in the direction his friend had ridden maybe six hours earlier. If the furious man succeeded in beating Vin to the reservation, he was just liable to shoot first and ask questions later. And that would mean--

    Vin started to run for his horse, but jerked as he remembered: he still had that God-damned bounty hunter on his tail! Shit! He licked his lips quickly, his breathing fast and shallow with a sense of urgency that was licking at his heels like a hot flame. He swallowed, closed his eyes, and forced himself to calm down. How was he going to make this work?

    It was nearly sundown. It would be dark in just a couple of hours, and there wouldn't be a moon until about 2 in the morning. The man on the ridge wouldn't be at all surprised for Vin to make camp at the river, and he certainly wouldn't expect him to ride out in the dark, either. Vin's breathing steadied as he thought. One thing in his favor was that the bounty hunter didn't know or care who Vin was following, or why. For all he knew, Vin would even break it off now that he knew he was, himself, being hunted. The tracker nodded to himself as he took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. Yes, this would work. This would work just fine.

    He'd make a camp, build a fire big enough to make a good show of it, and head out before sunup across the sand flats, leaving a trail that would lead the man following him away from Buck and the reservation, both. Except that Vin would have made the trail as soon as it was full dark, and then circled back around to head for the reservation as fast as he could go after the moon rose to light the way a little bit. There was no way the bounty hunter on Vin's tail could know where Buck was headed, or why it was so important. By the time he'd found where Vin had turned back and then followed him all that way . . . well, hell. Vin would have Buck back to town getting him stitched up. Of course, he'd have to ride like a bat out of hell to beat the gunslinger to Kojay's village, but the loss of blood had to be slowing his friend down some. Vin frowned, looking again at the arrow in his hand.

    Damn, Buck, he thought. Just don't let it stop you dead in your tracks, Pard. Let me find you first.

    Part 19

    The sun was only two-thirds of the way to the western horizon when it became clear to Buck that no matter what _he_ wanted, he was going to have to stop and rest his horse. Though the grey had made a gallant effort, the horse was stumbling every third or fourth step as it picked its way across the broken ground. The wound in Buck's leg throbbed constantly, a steady, unrelenting pain that was getting harder and harder to shove aside. It was bleeding again, too, or maybe it had never really stopped. Not that he was worried about that. He had one goal, one focus--to find the men who had attacked him and stop them. He reined in his horse near a cluster of small trees. He wiped his hand wearily across his brow. Damn! He was tired. Like he'd wrangled cattle for three straight days without a rest. He untied his canteen and drank thirstily, wiping a shaky hand across his mouth. It'd be good for him to rest too, he reluctantly admitted. He dismounted and had to steady himself for a minute by grabbing at the stirrup. He closed his eyes and opened them again, wanting nothing so much as to just sink into quiet darkness and not emerge for days. Gotta take care of the horse, he thought, and as if in a dream, he unbuckled the cinch and lifted off the saddle, staggering under the unexpected weight of it. He felt as if he were seeing the world from a long way away, as if everything were filtered through a shifting, hazy screen.

    A few hours, he thought. I'll just rest here and then go on...then, he slid to the ground and thought nothing at all for a long time.

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    Sullivan sat on the ridge and watched his quarry. He was a little disappointed that he hadn't gotten farther, but you can't run forever, something Sullivan had learned a long time ago. He watched Wilmington dismount and almost fall, unsaddle his horse, stumble, barely recover, pull off his jacket and hat, and finally collapse on the ground. 'I hope the son of a bitch isn't dead,' Sullivan thought. Then, because he didn't much worry about things like that, he stripped the saddle off his own horse, unrolled his bed roll, and made camp. All the while he kept watch on the man and horse below him. Whatever happened, Sullivan would be ready.

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    Casey poured some water into the bowl. She removed her shirt and unbuttoned her shimmy. She wrung out the washcloth and started to scrub her face. She looked at her eyes and they were red-rimmed with dark circles. Casey washed her upper torso and was struck by the bruises on her arm and chest. There were five distinct black-blue marks over her left breast -- finger-marks. She remembered the man cruelly squeezing and saying . . ."how he was gonna show her a real good time" . . . and that laugh of salacious malice. Casey shuddered with fear. She quickly removed the rest of her clothes and put on a cotton nightgown.

    How was she gonna sleep? She crept to the bedroom door and surreptitiously opened it a crack. She was overwhelmed with relief when she saw JD sittin' in the rocking chair by the fireplace. She quietly closed the door.

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    JD smiled when he saw the bedroom door open a crack. JD had done everything he could to distract Casey. He didn't even try to get her to talk about what had been upsetting her. Asked and shut off. JD supposed he should be upset about that but he wasn't. Conversation had never been smooth between them. JD seemed to always manage to get the words out wrong. Instead, his strategy had been to exhaust Casey so she could get some sleep. She had cleaned the cabin earlier, so they spent the day outside weeding the vegetable garden, repairing fence, chopping wood . . .

    After his busy week, JD was glad nobody had come to get him. Must be quiet in town - thank God. But JD had been gone from town for almost 2 days, and he was thinking he needed to go in tomorrow and check in. If Miss Nettie weren't back, he would take Casey with him. Maybe she could stay with Mrs. Travis. JD settled back in the rocking chair and relaxed back eventually falling asleep.

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    Belle poured some water into the bowl and scented it with a little lavender. She removed her blouse and unbuttoned her chemise. She wrung out the flannel and gently washed her face. She looked at her eyes and admired their periwinkle blue color. Belle washed her upper torso and was struck by the porcelain perfection of her skin. She could imagine his hand gently cupping her left breast and his fingers with their swirling touch. She remembered the man gently squeezing and saying . . ."how he was gonna show her a real good time" . . . and that laugh of salacious pleasure. Belle shuddered with longing. She quickly removed the rest of her clothes and put on a silk and lace nightgown.

    How was she going to sleep? She crept to the bedroom door and surreptitiously opened it a crack. She was overwhelmed with irritation when she saw Josiah sitting by the fireplace on the settee, his head thrown back, snoring so loudly that the crystal rattled in the china cupboard. She quietly closed the door.

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    Josiah stirred and grimaced when he saw the bedroom door opened a crack. Don't worry, Belle. I ain't goin' nowhere. Josiah had done everything he could to distract himself. He didn't even try to get Belle to talk about what had been upsetting her. Asked and shut off. Josiah supposed he shouldn't be upset about that but he was. Conversation had always been smooth between them. Josiah seemed to always manage to impress Belle with his eloquence. Instead, his strategy had been to exhaust himself so he could get some sleep. So he had drank whiskey, and more whiskey, and more whiskey . . .

    After their busy week, Josiah was exhausted. Must be real interestin' in town. But Josiah had been gone from town for only a day, and he was thinking there was no rush to go back and check in. He would definitely need go in to town at some point to make sure that things were handled right with Buck. Maybe he could have Nathan stay here with Miss Belle and provide protection. Josiah settled back in the settee and relaxed back quickly falling asleep.

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    Nathan had been awake for some time. It was dark now. Nathan struggle to lift his head, but waves of nausea overwhelmed him so he relaxed back. Just not quick enough. His stomach started heaving again.

    Minutes or was it hours later, Nathan relaxed back again. How long had he been like this? The room had a damp, fetid odor - enough to roil your stomach if it wasn't so inclined. Slow, deep breaths.

    I need help. Got to get help. Nathan started to lift his head but he was overcome with dry heaves. Slow, deep breaths.

    Nathan relaxed back again. Just can't get up. Damn JD, I'm gonna kill him for putting me in this fix. It had to be the food.

    Nathan curled into a fetal position hoping to alleviate the stabbing pain in his stomach.

    Please, please, please.

    Please make it stop hurting. Please stop the vomiting. Please stop the diarrhea.

    His pleas were not heard.

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    Mary looked in on her son. Oh, to sleep so peacefully. She gently drew the door closed.

    Restless, Mary walked to the Clarion's office at front of the building. If she wasn't going to sleep the least she could do was get some work done. Mary looked out the window at the streets. Mmm, unusually quiet for once.

    Mary glanced over the last few days' papers. Her eyes lit on the editorial calling for a doctor for Four Corners. Chris had been right. There had been talk in town. And it was replace Nathan talk from men like Bland. Mary briefly wondered about Bland's agenda - he's new, no health problems -- was it black men, healers, or something else?

    It was gratifying to hear so many defend Nathan. She owed Nathan an explanation and an apology. For that matter, she owed Chris an apology as well.

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    Bland paced the floor agitated. That editor was messing with his plans -- calls for a doctor, then rallies folks around the healer. Well, we'll see about that.

    Bland surveyed the street from his hotel room. Seemed unusually quiet to him. Very few people on the boardwalk.

    It's starting. They're getting sick that's why it's so quiet. Soon food poisoning victims would be seeking help. And you can't help them healer. You can't help them.

    A smug smile crossed Bland's face. It was a masterstroke setting up the healer this way. He was going to fall, be disgraced, and never be a healer again. You'll be like every other darkie. Unwanted. Unknown. Unworthy.

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    Thompson rolled out his blankets and laid down to rest while he waited for the moon to rise. He smoked a cigarette, looking at the stars with one arm behind his head, and thought about what would happen next.

    Sullivan had to have done it at the river; it was the perfect place. That meant Tanner had to have found out about it by now. And if he was anything like Thompson -- an assessment Thompson was grudgingly beginning to accord the other man -- he'd light out for the reservation the minute the moon was up. The redhead exhaled a cloud of tobacco smoke and watched it rise into the night sky, then stubbed out what was left of the cigarette and closed his eyes with a satisfied smile. He'd be able to grab several hours of sleep, he thought, and that would give him just the edge he needed.

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    Vin moved up to the stones above the river, away from the campfire he'd built to mislead the man on his trail. He could see the stars better away from the light, the mountains and ridges sharp silhouettes of black that lay like sleeping beasts at every horizon. He leaned back against the slab of stone behind him and thought about his friends.

    Somewhere out there -- Vin turned to gaze away towards the reservation -- Buck was in trouble. A lot more trouble than he even realized yet. Vin sighed, and looked north. Chris was probably still in the saloon at this hour, maybe Josiah with him. A flash of pain raced across the tracker's features at the thought. Good men, both of them, but . . . he closed his eyes and let it go. Maybe Chris was right, and drinking it away wasn't any less honorable, in the end, then taking off for Mexico. Or Brazil.

    Vin sighed as his mind trailed across the others and he realized suddenly that JD and Nathan didn't even know what was going on yet. Well, they probably knew by now, though. And Ezra? Vin stood up and stretched his legs and his back one last time, and started down to where he'd left the gelding, a wry smile playing across his features. He tightened the cinches and put away the little grain bag, then swung into the saddle again.

    Ezra was probably about $400 ahead.

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    $500 ahead, thank-you very much. Ezra surveyed the winnings that he had on the table.

    After an hour of private play with Hammersmith, the rancher and several others returned and the previous night's poker game resumed. The players changed but Ezra was enjoying an excellent combination of skilled play and the cards falling his way. And no one had come to call him away from the table, hallelujah. In fact, he hadn't seen much of the seven, but it was so much more fun beating strangers than colleagues.

    In this hand, the last player mucked his cards without calling. Ezra raked in the pot. Ezra didn't normally show his cards unless somebody had paid to see them but he was sending a message. He deliberately flipped his hand over showing the pair of kings and the otherwise empty hand. It was a brief flash of dismayed anger that no one else at the table, or the saloon for that matter, caught. Earlier in the hand, Hammersmith had mucked with 3 queens that would've easily beaten Ezra. Ezra had bluffed and won again.

    Hammersmith was a tough one to read. Just when Ezra got a handle on him, he would do something unexpected. Hammersmith showing his mucked cards was a mistake. The whole table now knew of his bad beat in the last hand. Maybe this was just the edge that Ezra could take advantage of. The challenge exhilarated Ezra.

    He could play all night.

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    Doesn't this guy ever quit?

    Hammersmith disgustedly mucked his cards, flipping them over showing his three hookers to Standish's cowboys. Damn. Hammersmith schooled his features. He was good at that. Wouldn't do to give Standish the edge. The conversation swirled around him. He shrugged his shoulders to ease the stiffness. He leaned forward to collect the cards. It was his deal. He shuffled, the cards were cut, and he quickly dealt six hands.

    Hammersmith looked at his hand. Three kings and an ace. One more king and his hand was unbeatable.

    The banker bet $20, Standish immediately raised $20, the rancher checked, the next two players mucked. It was $40 to Hammersmith. He raised $100.

    The three players checked and cards were called for.

    The banker folded. Standish bet $100. The rancher folded.

    Hammersmith looked hard over at the gambler. Which was it? Good hand or bluff. Standish's features were so placid. Hammersmith had looked for some tell all evening that Standish would inadvertently reveal when he was bluffing. Hammersmith smiled. Not this time - you don't. No way you bluff me to muck a good hand. Hammersmith raised $100.

    Standish paused a long time before betting. "See your $100, and raise $100." The surrounding crowd shuffled and there were low murmurs at how quick the pot was escalating.

    Hammersmith paused. Again, he looked hard at Standish. He detected Standish's eyes looking hard at the pot. He's bluffing. "Call."

    Hammersmith flipped his cards over. Three kings, one ace, and one queen.

    Ezra looked at the cards for a long pause, almost puzzled, then slowly flipped his cards over. Queen, King, Ace, Ace, Ace.

    Hammersmith saw red. In fact, the only black card in Standish's hand was the Ace of Spades. Touché, Mr. Standish.

    Hammersmith smiled mockingly. Game to you, Standish, though somehow I think that surprised you.

    Hammersmith's orders were to keep the gambler distracted by keeping him in a poker game. He'd been given a $500 stake and the boss ordered: make him play. Not that it was a difficult - that's all Standish seemed interested in. He was evenly matched with Standish, which made it that much more fun. He easily won his share of pots and was in fact, ahead a tidy sum. But he wanted to beat Standish. Beat him bad.

    Make him play. Make him play. Make him play.

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    Striker sat at a table outside the saloon, partially hidden by the shadows cast against the wall. He sipped at a beer and he studied the quiet, late night street and he waited. Striker was better at waiting than almost anything else. Unlike most of the men who worked for him who always seemed to want action or women or cheap loud entertainment, Striker liked this--sitting in a quiet spot, smoking a cheroot, watching people wind themselves into knots and figuring how he could make them do whatever he wanted. It was the one thing he liked about Sullivan, that the man could sit and hold and let things come to him. But he wasted too much time on hate, Striker thought. Striker didn't much hate anyone. He didn't care enough to hate. And that was what made him so deadly.

    Across the street he could make out the dark outline of Chris Larabee. All alone. Looking at nothing. 'It only gets worse after this, Mr. Larabee,' he thought. 'It only gets worse.'

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    Chris Larabee leaned against a post and surveyed the town. It was late and it was quiet. For some reason even the trail crews had stayed away from town tonight and at this hour only a few men, staggering from either tiredness or drink, were on the streets. The quiet seemed to mock him. Sooner or later it all falls apart, he thought. He could hear the sounds of a poker game across the street in the saloon and he wondered if Ezra was still winning. Sooner or later, no matter how much you try or how good you think you are, it all collapses and he wondered for a minute if Ezra understood that or if he thought he could win at the poker table forever. And then, he wondered if maybe his own entire sojourn in Four Corners had merely been a futile attempt to convince himself otherwise.

    He pushed himself away from the post and walked quietly into the darkness, heading for a room at the hotel for the night. And he tried not to think that tomorrow he would ride out in pursuit of men he had called friends.

    Part 20

    Moonrise.

    Thompson stood just south of the river and laid cold eyes upon the clear trail that emerged from the deep shade of the tamarisk and palo verde to head out across the basin. How the hell had Tanner gotten ahead of him?

    He felt a pulse of fury race across the muscles under his jaw and clenched his teeth to stop the unpleasant sensation. It didn't matter in the slightest, he thought, what Tanner did or didn't do. Or even tried to do. The man was obviously going to circle back to the reservation after he laid the false trail, still looking to stop his friend. He just didn't know that Thompson knew that, or that he knew where the reservation was, for that matter. Nice try, he thought, but you still lose.

    Thompson stalked to his dun and mounted angrily, then rode back across the river. Once on the north side he dismounted to slide a well-made wooden box from his saddlebag. Kneeling on the sand, he unsnapped the latches and raised the lid, letting the moonlight flood in to run like quicksilver along the gleaming metal tube inside. Lifting it from its cradle of wood and felt, Thompson reclosed the box and stowed it away again, then pulled a long heavy rifle from the boot on his saddle.

    Sullivan should still be hanging close enough to Wilmington to spot Tanner before he could do anything, he thought. He slid the telescopic site into place on the rifle and began to carefully tighten the fastenings that secured it. A few well-placed arrows to kill the tracker, followed by making sure Wilmington found the body -- well, it had been the original plan anyway. It should be fine, if Sullivan was on his toes. Thompson snapped opened the breech of the rifle and began to load it. He thought disdainfully of Sullivan's barbarity, the man's ridiculous arrows, as he rolled one of the enormous brass shells between his thumb and forefinger before he slid it into the chamber. Thompson loaded his own cartridges, and they were huge. It took a lot of powder to deliver a load a half a mile. And a damn heavy slug to have a good punch left when it got there. The red-haired man slid several more of the heavy shells into the rifle and then closed it with a sound that echoed in the stillness.

    If Sullivan missed, he'd be there as backup. And Thompson didn't miss.

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    Wilmington was ridiculously easy to track when he was mad. The man had made a beeline for the reservation that didn't flinch a fraction, even to go around stands of heavy brush. He'd just crashed right through them, leaving little spent hailstorms of broken branches and leaves littering the trail in his wake. It was like trailing a rampaging bull through the proverbial china shop, Thompson thought. And there, of course, was the bull now -- flat on his back sleeping away what was left of the night under a stand of hackberry trees. The bearded man sighed with disgust, and ran his eyes quickly along the nearest ridge to see where Sullivan was most likely to be, then legged the dun mare towards a ravine that would get him up there.

    "I hate to interrupt your practicing your woodcraft on me, but we need to talk," he said when he got where he knew the other man should be. He sat the mare silently, waiting. After several moments, the black-haired man materialized out of the shadows to stand looking at Thompson with an indefinable expression on his dark face.

    "Lose Tanner?" he taunted in a low voice.

    Thompson snorted as he dismounted and walked up to the other man. "I never lose my mark," he said. "Where are you camped?"

    Sullivan turned on his heel without a word and led the way to a dark campsite with no fire, his bedroll laid out simply on a cleared area at the very edge of the ridge. Thompson walked to the precipice and looked out and down to see that Wilmington's campsite was something over a quarter of a mile away, and in clear view. It would do very well, he thought. Very well indeed. He turned to look at Sullivan.

    "Tanner is on his way here," he said without preamble. "He followed Wilmington after you left town, to bring him back. He found the attack site and saw that he's headed to the reservation."

    Sullivan nodded silently, his smooth skin reflecting the moonlight. Thompson frowned.

    "He means to stop him," added Thompson.

    "We figured that was a possibility," said Sullivan. "We've got plans in case of it."

    Thompson took off his hat and slapped it idly against his thigh as he turned to examine the eastern sky, estimating how far off morning might be. Not long, he thought. He looked back at Sullivan. "Yes, but the best thing would be to fall back on the plan we were going to use to begin with, if Tanner had gone to the reservation like he was supposed to. Can you even do that now?"

    "Kill him?" Sullivan's face glowed with eagerness. "Of course."

    "It would have to be with the arrows," reminded Thompson, "and you'd have to make sure his body was where Wilmington would find it for the plan to work."

    "I'll be back later," sneered Sullivan. And he was gone, as if he had never been there.

    Thompson sat down on Sullivan's bedroll and looked again at the eastern sky. It was noticeably paler now than it had been only a short time earlier. Forty minutes later Sullivan was back, as silently as he had left.

    "I'm not sure Wilmington's going to live long enough to get to the reservation," he said. "I walked almost right up to him and he's not sleeping; he's out."

    "Lovely." Thompson resisted the urge to light a cigarette, knowing it was still just dark enough that the glowing tip would be visible far enough to warn Tanner of his presence. "I thought you weren't supposed to kill him."

    Sullivan's face darkened. "I can't control how much blood he loses."

    Thompson looked back at the darker man with a mild expression and was silent for several long moments. "I suppose not," he said finally. He shifted his gaze back out to the rolling terrain below, growing slowly lighter and more visible. "So what do you suggest?"

    "Wait for Tanner to show up," said Sullivan, sitting down cross-legged. "See if Wilmington even makes it. See if Tanner takes him to town or talks him into going back. See if Wilmington kills Tanner instead."

    "See if Wilmington kills Tanner?" Thompson felt his mouth quirking into a smile.

    Sullivan scowled. "You never know what will happen when a man's back is against the wall." He narrowed his eyes, piercing Thompson with a gaze like black obsidian. "A man like that is unpredictable."

    Thompson just looked away from the ferocious stare and waved a hand dismissively. "So you're saying wait. Decide which plan to follow when we see how it plays out." He looked again at Sullivan, who nodded shortly. "All right. But that seems to rule out killing Tanner. If Wilmington dies, he can't find the body. If he lives, Tanner would already have found him, so we could hardly have Wilmington find his arrow-riddled corpse."

    "If Wilmington goes on to the reservation, we just keep playing it like it is," said Sullivan coldly. "If he doesn't . . ."

    "We take them in."

    "And let Striker know there's been a change of plan. YOU let him know, that is. I ain't going back to that town."

    Thompson looked at the brightening sky a last time. "We'll have to make sure, in that case, to knock Tanner down enough that we can take them quickly, without a fuss." He looked at Sullivan and couldn't help but smile pleasantly. "Do your arrows have the range we need?"

    Sullivan's face grew darker and he rose without a word to vanish into the brush. Thompson smiled and settled down to wait.

    Continued...

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