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.

    1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25
    26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50
    51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75
    76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100
    101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125
    126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150
    151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158

    Part 71

    Chris had been on the trail for two long days, bound and blindfolded.

    He was not a happy man.

    He'd worked at the ropes for hours until he had hardly any feeling left in his fingers. Two days. Two days of darkness. Of travelling with a man who only spoke when he wanted to and whose face Chris never got to see. He could tell as time passed that they were climbing further and further into the mountains. Last night when they'd camped it had been downright cold and Chris had hardly even been able to sleep with his hands tied and his legs tied and the blindfold, the stinking, unchanging, goddamned blindfold, across his eyes.

    The man had fed him and given him water, but there was no sense of him, no presence that Chris could grab at, no weakness to exploit, no way to see if he ever let down his guard. And Chris wanted to know this man, wanted to see him, and somehow--somehow--he wanted to destroy him.

    In the darkness where he had been living for the last two days, as his headache slowly waned and he started to think more clearly, he'd built an image in his head, an image of the man who'd trapped him and who, Chris knew, sooner or later, was going to die. The man hadn't killed him. There had to be a reason for that. And it seemed like a weakness to Chris. Sure, he couldn't do anything right now, but sooner or later the blindfold would come off and the ropes would come off and then...well, then someone would certainly pay.

    He'd been noticing for the last few minutes that they seemed to be travelling on a smooth fairly flat road. He could hear men's voices and the knowledge that there were _other people_ who could see him, bound to this horse and blindfolded, and did nothing made the muscles in his neck cord tight. Kill him. He would kill this man the minute he had the chance.

    "Mr. Larabee." The voice, so unexpected, after so long, startled him. "I hope in the course of the days to come that you will find everything to your satisfaction." Then, he laughed, a dry chuckle, like old bones rattling. The sound made Chris strain, almost involuntarily against the ropes that bound his wrists, blood slicked the ropes and he didn't even feel it.

    "Untie me, you son of a bitch," Chris said very quietly. "Let me see your face."

    "All in good time, Mr. Larabee," came the slightly amused response. "All in good time."

    Chris felt the horses slow and turn. There were more voices here. So many people, he thought. And none of them willing to do a damn thing. Who is this man? What does he want?

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

    Ezra was bored and uncomfortable and starting to get cold. He'd been perched high above the compound with binoculars for the last two hours trying to keep an eye on what was happening. Nathan had gone down to the main house to try and get a job, something Ezra did not approve of at all. The man was still recovering from his recent bout with arsenic poisoning. He'd ridden hard to get here and it would be stressful for such an essentially honest man as Nathan Jackson to carry off the dissembling and outright lying that would be required.

    Of course--Ezra tilted his head to one side and tried to make out something worthwhile in the chaotic view spread out before him--it was impossible for _him_ to go. He'd actually met Sterling Michaels. Beat him handily at poker. It would be unthinkable for the man not to remember him. On the other hand, as he'd pointed out to JD and Josiah after Nathan left, that didn't mean he couldn't explore other parts of the compound. The place was huge and if he didn't want Michaels to see him, Michaels would never see him. Unlike Nathan, he _was_ actually pretty good at lying and dissembling. So, to Ezra at least, it made sense for him to go in and see what information he could find.

    When he had pointed this out, however, Josiah had just looked at him, with that annoying preacherly expression. "Ezra," he'd said. "In that jacket you couldn't be inconspicuous if you tried."

    Which Ezra had to concede was likely true. But there was a gambling tent down there. He fixed his binoculars on it and focused. He could see men walking in counting their days wages--actually counting it out in the open!--and he knew he could make a killing if he could just get down there. But he'd also had to agree with Josiah that they had to be conservative. They best they could figure was Vin and Buck were somewhere in the compound. And they _knew_ that Nathan was at the house. They couldn't risk any of them. But knowledge was power. That Ezra knew without doubt. And so, reluctantly, Ezra had agreed that JD would try to slip into the stables as a new hand and Josiah would go too, saying his horse had lost a shoe up the mountain and could the smithy fix it for him since there wasn't a town around for miles.

    So, now, here they all were. Nathan in the house--assuming all had gone according to his risky dangerous plan. JD and Josiah at the stables and taking any opportunity that presented itself to learn more about the mining operation and the man who ran it. And Ezra, way up the mountain, cold and miserable and annoyed, trying to figure out the lay of the land.

    He focused his binoculars on the gambling tent again. Well, he had to admit it was really more of a saloon with a few working girls laughing at the wide opening, trying to entice the miners in. But to Ezra it was a gambling tent because that was the only thing inside that mattered to him. He swung the binoculars up and over until he could see the stable. It was a fairly large stable and they'd figured JD could find out a lot just pretending that he wanted a job. Ezra adjusted his focus again, trying to pick JD out from this distance. There were horses coming and going, a large paddock next to the stable itself with twenty or so horses in it. Ezra saw two riders approaching and something in the odd stiffness with which the second rider sat caused him to look more closely.

    His fingers froze to the binoculars. Everything froze as if an icy winter chill had just spread through and over him. Without even noticing it, his hands, holding the binoculars, fell slowly away from his face. Then, he realized he couldn't see anymore and he snapped them up again. His eyes strained through the double eyepieces. 'It couldn't be,' he breathed to himself. 'It's impossible.' But there it was and there was no denying it. The one thing they hadn't known, now known.

    Finally, Ezra knew where Chris Larabee was.

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

    Striker smiled to himself. This was too good, he thought, it was all just too good. He rode through Michaels' mining compound with Chris Larabee on a lead rope behind him and no one looked at him.

    Yes, he thought. Yes, exactly.

    Occasionally someone would look up, see who it was and look away again. Being noticed by Striker was not a good thing.

    He reined in his horse in front of the stable, dismounted, and handed the reins to one of the hands. He turned to another man who was trying to figure out how to fade into the background without Striker noticing.

    "Do you know Sullivan?" he asked. At the man's nervous nod, he said, "Get him."

    As the stable hand ran off, stumbling on the rutted road in his hurry, Striker looked over at Chris. The man sat his horse like a coiled spring and Striker knew that if he untied him now Larabee would flat explode. And if he were ever tempted to do something as unreasoned as that, he'd be tempted to do it now. 'Chris Larabee,' he thought, 'you're supposed to be a challenge.' And he was a little disappointed at how easy it had all been.

    "Looking for me?"

    Striker didn't even have to turn to know that the flat voice he heard behind him was Sullivan. He took a deep relaxed breath before he faced him.

    Sullivan looked much the same, though Striker noticed something, a hint of angry desperation in his eye that hadn't been there a few days ago. 'Not enjoying the big house?' Striker wondered. 'Too bad,' he thought. Striker himself generally avoided Michaels and had no intention of going over there unless he absolutely had to. Sullivan would just have to buck up and deal with it.

    Striker walked Sullivan ten feet away from the horses so Larabee couldn't hear what he said. "Get him down. Take him to Michaels. Make sure his horse is taken care of."

    He could see the thought cross Sullivan's mind, 'Why the hell don't you do it yourself?' But the words themselves never formed and Striker was satisfied.

    He left Sullivan and Chris Larabee and headed for the saloon.

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

    JD couldn't believe it.

    He'd convinced Ezra and Josiah to let him go in first. He might not know as much as the others about some things, but he knew stables. He could fit in anywhere. Josiah had looked at him critically, but JD had beaten him to the punch. "You're thinkin' my clothes ain't right," he'd said. "But if I leave the jacket and roll up my sleeves and get rid of the hat..."

    "You gotta get rid of the guns, JD," Josiah had told him reluctantly. "You can keep them in your saddlebags, but you're not going to convince anyone you're looking for any job you can get with those pistols."

    It had left JD feeling really vulnerable, more vulnerable than he'd expected considering he'd spent an awful lot of years never wearing a gun belt at all. But it made him feel kind of good too, that he was risking so much to find Vin and Buck. He wondered sometimes if he could ever make a real sacrifice, could ever step in front of a bullet the way Buck had stepped in front of Anderson's sword. Maybe this wasn't that. But it was something.

    JD'd talked himself into a try-out as a stable hand and he was already working, mucking out stalls when Josiah arrived.

    JD could hear Josiah's deep voice buzzing in the background as he worked. It was comforting to know he was there, and JD's mind started to drift to ways he might get away from the stable and search the compound. The place was huge, but they had to be here. They had to be! They weren't any place else and they had to be somewhere. He dug the fork into the fresh straw and threw it into the stall he'd just finished cleaning out. Okay, maybe it wasn't great logic, he thought, but he sure wasn't going to give up. And if he wasn't going to give up then he had to figure that what they were doing was going to help somehow.

    He suddenly noticed that the entire stable had gotten quiet. There were five or six other men working and they'd all quietly stopped what they were doing. JD looked up. Even the man that Josiah was talking to had held up his hand. And, JD looked at Josiah and felt a slight shock, Josiah had frozen and was staring at something beyond the stable door.

    JD followed the line of his gaze and almost shouted out loud. Chris! My God, it was Chris! He'd come here looking for Vin and Buck and it was a minute before his mind even registered that the bound and blindfolded man on the horse outside _was_ Chris. But it was. JD stopped for a minute and tried to think. They had to get Chris out of here. And they had to get him out now. He laid the pitchfork carefully against the stable wall. Quietly, he slid back into the shadows, moving slowly to the south side of the stable where his own horse and his tack were stored. He'd get to his guns. He'd get them fastened...

    He'd just turned to head straight for his saddle bags when someone grabbed him by the back of the collar. "What are you doing?" It was Josiah, his voice deep even when he was whispering.

    "We gotta help him, Josiah. Did you see? It's Chris!"

    "What are you planning to do, JD?"

    "Cut him loose."

    Josiah pulled JD with him into a shadowy corner of the stable. The rest of the men had either slipped away or were standing near the man who had brought Chris in, seemingly too frightened to move. "And then what?" Josiah asked JD calmly.

    'How could he be calm?' JD thought. What he said was, "And then we get out of here."

    "Past how many men?"

    "But it's Chris!" JD protested. "We have to help him."

    "Yeah, we do, JD. But we don't do him any good if we get ourselves killed. You know that. Just wait."

    JD watched as one of the stable hands took off, returning in a few minutes with another man. The man who'd brought Chris in gave the other man some orders and left. JD saw the second man's face darken as if he didn't like what was going on, but didn't have much choice. Then, he grabbed the reins of the first man's horse from the stable hand and stalked into the stable.

    Josiah grabbed JD's arm and pushed him farther back into the stable until they were standing in the deepest shadows near the last two stalls in the barn.

    JD could still see Chris and he wanted to help him, felt as if he was failing him in the most basic way by hiding back here in the shadows, even though he knew Josiah was right. They didn't have a chance. 'I'm sorry, Chris,' JD thought. 'I'm sorry.'

    He closed his eyes for a minute, took a deep breath, and opened them again. This was the way it was. They couldn't rescue Chris now. That was the truth of the matter. So he needed to do what he had come here to do. Gather information. Find a way to get them all out of this. He looked around him, his eyes adjusting gradually to the pervading dimness. He turned his head and almost gasped out loud.

    "Josiah," he whispered urgently.

    "Shhh!" Josiah warned him.

    "Josiah!" His whispered voice was even more urgent, not to be ignored. Josiah looked at him. JD pointed to his left.

    The horse in the stall right next to them was Buck's grey.

    Part 72

    "Cigar." Sterling Michaels didn't even look up from the map he was studying as he threw the words casually over his shoulder, but there was a clipped sound to them that made them into a command. Nathan stepped to a side table and lifted the rich leather humidor on it in his hands, carried it to Michaels, and came to a respectful halt just at the man's side and a step in front of him. He turned around and raised the lid to proffer the box's contents, and Michaels looked up with a swift, appraising expression.

    "Good," he said. "Very good."

    Reaching into the box, he selected a cigar that permeated the air with its odor even unlit, and then slid it between his lips and paused. Nathan closed the humidor and slid it beneath one arm so that he could strike a match; he leaned slightly forward into Michaels' cigar to light it, then shook out the match as a long slender tendril of smoke curled up from the end. Michaels leaned back away from Nathan, drawing on the cigar and then puffing out a cloud of blue, fragrant smoke. He smiled. Nathan returned the humidor to its place without having spoken a single word.

    "You'll do well, here," said Michaels. "Tomorrow, when you-"

    He was interrupted by a tap on the door to the library that made him turn with a slight frown. He glanced quickly to Nathan, and the tall man went to the door and drew it opened with a studied and gracious movement. When he did, a dark man in buckskin shoved another man through the opening with a sharp blow to his shoulders, nearly knocking him into Nathan as he did so. The healer quickly ducked his head to look at the carpet rather than let anything show on his face that Michaels might see. For he'd recognized the man in buckskin as a stranger he'd noticed around Four Corners more than once the last few weeks. And the man who'd been thrust through the doorway so forcefully ahead of him was Chris Larabee.

    Michaels smiled broadly, like a greedy boy eyeing a pony in silver trappings, and pulled the cigar from his mouth with two fingers. He threw a glance to Sullivan and a shade passed over his face.

    "Why are you the one bringing him, Sullivan?"

    "Striker had somethin' else to do. He said bring him to you."

    "I see." Michaels looked at Chris again, and then smiled with glittering eyes as he gestured to a leather chair with his free hand. "Sit down, Larabee."

    Chris stood silently about five feet into the room, his hands tied in front of him and his dark clothes dusty. His hat hung behind his back, and there was a smear of dark, dried blood on his head. He eyed Nathan briefly with a flash of expression that Nathan imagined Michaels would take for envy, but that Nathan knew was deep, bone-chilling shock overlain by a mask of aloofness. Then his gaze slid slowly to Michaels and he stared at him unmoving, with eyes like pale agate. Sullivan frowned suddenly, and started to push Chris farther into the room -- clearly with intent to send him sprawling full-length on the expensive rug. Michaels raised a broad, well-manicured hand immediately and shook his head at Sullivan. His eyes snapped angrily.

    "This man is my guest," he said coldly.

    Sullivan froze. Chris slowly turned his head just far enough to lock his gaze with that of the man in buckskin, and hold it. Sullivan's face darkened and he jerked suddenly, gesturing at Nathan.

    "Then let your trained monkey take care of 'im."

    Chris looked slowly at Nathan with a sideways glance, and Michaels' eyes grew as hard and brittle as onyx buttons.

    "You'll do well to remember, Sullivan," he said, stopping the man in his tracks as he stalked from the room, "that it is precisely _because_ he is so well-trained that Nathaniel is on the premises. If you are not careful, I may train him to take _your_ position next. After it's been vacated." Sullivan stared back at Michaels and his face grew even harder. "I do believe," added Michaels softly, "that he's bright enough to learn any job you might do."

    Sullivan bit his lower lip ferociously, and left the room so quickly that it literally blew a draft through the library, to flutter the corners of the maps laying on the desk. Michaels stood looking at the empty doorway for a moment, then dropped his eyes to the maps, then looked up at Chris. The smile was gone now. He pressed his lips together tightly, then knocked the ashes from the end of his cigar in a sudden angry motion and indicated Chris as he spoke to Nathan.

    "Cut 'im loose," he said roughly.

    Nathan drew a penknife from a container upon the desk and approached Chris diffidently. The gunfighter held out his bound wrists, and kept his eyes on the ropes as Nathan sliced through them, drew the severed coils away, and removed them without dropping any of the bits on the rug. He wadded them and slipped them into a pocket, and returned the penknife to its case. Chris rubbed his wrists and turned his gaze to Michaels. He still hadn't taken a step on his own, or said a word.

    "Two bourbons," said Michaels. Nathan went to the liquor cabinet as Michaels perched himself on a corner of the desk, cocking his head at Chris. "Well? Are you going to sit down so we can talk? Or will I have to call Sullivan back in here and let him convince you?"

    Chris looked at the leather chair, heard the tight fury in Michaels' voice, and thought about Nathan being caught between them. He went to the chair and sat down. Michaels smiled and turned to face Chris, reaching out to accept the bourbon Nathan was serving to him on a silver tray. The healer turned then to offer the tray to Chris, and the gunslinger took the drink on it and exchanged a fleeting look with Nathan while the latter's body blocked Michaels' view of their faces. That single look was enough to convince him that he needed to proceed with even greater caution than he'd imagined. He took the bourbon and leaned back into the chair, raising it to dry lips as Nathan moved away again.

    "I hear you're quite a leadership figure," smiled Michaels. Chris swallowed a sip of the bourbon. Nathan wiped the tray and returned it to its place on the shelf.

    "I hear the same about you," said Chris mildly. Nathan smiled a small smile to himself. He was fairly certain Chris had no idea yet who his captor was.

    Michaels stood up and walked around to stand behind the desk, his forefinger tapping against the side of the bourbon glass. He set it down on the desk suddenly and put both hands on the surface to lean his weight on them and point a suddenly hungry face towards Chris.

    "I am not about leadership," he said softly. "I am about power." He straightened. "Do you know the difference, Larabee?"

    Chris drank another sip of the bourbon, his steady gaze tracking Michaels' face as the other man moved around. "I have a feeling it doesn't matter if I do," he said evenly. "I think you want to explain it to me." His lips quirked at the ends. Michaels laughed.

    "Listen to that, Nathaniel," he crowed. "Listen to the man!" He shook his head. Then he looked at Chris more closely again and held his cigar out towards Nathan without looking at him. The tall man in butler's livery came to him silently and took the cigar carefully between two fingers, to set it to rest several feet behind Michaels in an ornate marble ash tray. Michaels leaned even more closely to Chris, and his eyes gleamed. "You're a smart man," he said softly. "I don't think I have to explain anything like that to you. I think you know about power, too. You just," he said, leaning back, "don't know how to use it effectively."

    Chris set his bourbon down on the table next to him, feeling the rush of the alcohol burning in his veins too swiftly in the absence of food or water. He remained silent. Michaels frowned slightly.

    "Do you know my name?" he asked. "Do you know who it is you have the privilege of being addressed by?" He waited a moment, and then smiled as if unveiling an enormous secret of great worth. "Sterling Michaels." He laid one hand upon his breast, literally indicating his own person with pride. "I am Sterling Michaels . . . of Apex Mining."

    "Should I know you?" Chris managed to look entirely innocent, although Nathan was fairly certain he not only knew who Michaels was, but had some idea of what he controlled. The name was prominent, however shockingly unexpected in the context of their own lives at Four Corners. He studied the glasses he was polishing more carefully so that his facial expression would not change. Michaels studied Chris's face a long moment, then laughed.

    "Very witty," he said. He walked to the wall where a large framed map hung, and pointed to it. "This is Apex," he said. "3600 square miles. Two hundred eighty miners working shifts around the clock at this location alone. Four other shafts going full-bore, and the largest stamp mill in operation between Virginia and the Comstock."

    "But . . .? " Chris paused, and again the edges of his mouth quirked upward a fraction.

    "But." Michaels tossed down his bourbon suddenly, and held out the glass for Nathan to receive back. "But there is a slight . . . inconvenience." His eyes penetrated Chris with determination as Nathan took the glass away. "Apex does not seem to have . . . the apex. Funny, isn't it?"

    "If you say so." Chris folded his hands in his lap.

    "NO! It's a travesty!" thundered Michaels. He swept the maps on the desk to the floor in a sudden savage attack on them, and they slid in a pile that carried paperweights and several books with them. The thump and crash of their landing brought Bitsy's small face to a crack in the door, but it withdrew quickly, the door shutting again, when Michaels roared incoherently at her and threw a book at the door that rebounded from it to land in the middle of the room. The library was silent, then, but for his panting. He looked at Chris again, his eyes brittle.

    "Those savages don't even care about silver. They don't need or want it. But I do. And I will have it." His voice was low and throaty. "And you and your men will not be there to stop me from getting it. Indian wars . . . happen. All the time -- if no do-gooders are around to ask too many questions of the rumor-mongers. No one will know I had anything to do with it at all."

    "I'll know," said Chris simply. His own eyes had grown hard.

    "Yes," said Michaels, recovering his poise and smiling again slightly. "But not for long." He nodded to Nathan. "Tell Sullivan to lock him up," he said shortly, "and then draw my bath."

    "Yessir."

    It was the first word Nathan had spoken all evening, the only one in Chris's presence. And it made him unaccountably shamed somehow. He averted his eyes from both men and left the library silently, walking backwards as was proper, drawing the doors closed in front of him with both hands.

    Part 73

    It wasn't much of a plan, even Buck had to admit that. And it involved using Vin as bait which Buck found damn near intolerable. But he didn't have a choice. No choice at all. If he didn't get Vin out of there soon, then there was no point getting out at all.

    He tried to blink away the fatigue that grabbed at him every time he was still for more than a minute at a time. He stretched out his bad leg, trying to keep it from stiffening up. He had no idea what time it was, no way to tell if time was passing at all and he had to be ready when Sullivan came. He'd moved Vin so that he could be seen clearly in the lantern light by someone standing halfway down the stairs. He'd positioned himself to one side in the shadows beyond the stairs. All he needed was for Sullivan to come down the stairs and take two steps toward Vin before he realized Buck wasn't there. Two steps. That was all. If he did that then Buck had him. He hefted the statue arm that he was going to use as a weapon. Despite the stifling air in the cellar, the marble was cool and smooth. It was a woman's arm, finely carved and broken off right at the shoulder. It was heavy as an iron rod and aside from once having been a thing of beauty, it would do the job Buck needed it to do. If the whole situation hadn't been so grim, he'd have smiled, getting help from a lady one more time.

    He grasped the marble limb by the hand and swung it, just to keep himself awake, just to be ready. There was no way for him to stand and take his swing at Sullivan that wouldn't make him put a lot of weight on his bad leg. There was only one chance. If he missed... well, if he missed it wouldn't be worth thinking about. Underneath his moustache, his lips were set in a thin, grim line. He had to take the one chance against the stark certainty that otherwise Vin would die.

    Not knowing how long it would be or how it would all turn out, Buck settled down to do what he had never learned to do well--to wait.

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

    Chris couldn't remember ever being quite this angry. And for Chris Larabee that was saying a lot. Four days earlier he'd been sitting in the saloon sipping whiskey and things had seemed more or less all right. Since that moment Buck had left town and Vin had left town after him. Neither one of them had returned forcing Chris to leave town in search of them. Rape accusations. _Rape_! He couldn't ignore that. Not even for his friends. And then, he'd been kidnapped, by someone who knew who he was and what had happened in his life. By _this_ man--Sterling Michaels--who he'd just met. And why? Hell! Why?

    But then, he thought, fighting hard to rein in his temper as Sullivan suddenly shoved him in the back, trying to send him sprawling down the hallway, he had so many questions that it almost didn't really matter. What the hell was _Nathan_ doing there? If he'd come there looking for Chris then that meant he knew a hell of a lot more about where they were and what was going on than Chris did. What had Michaels told him? Indian wars? Silver? What the hell had he been talking about? And he thought Chris was a threat? And what did any of this have to do with the reason Chris had ridden out of Four Corners in the first place? What did any of it have to do with anything?

    Sullivan stopped abruptly, yanking at Chris as he did so. It was all Chris could do to keep from decking him, but, judging from the house they were in and Michael's talk of the kind of facility he had, Chris knew he had next to no chance to get away. Not yet. And he'd just be endangering Nathan. Or leaving him here trapped. And he had no intention of doing that.

    "Stand right there," Sullivan said, pointing to a place where he could see Chris clearly. Chris looked at him with smoldering eyes, but moved to the place Sullivan had indicated. 'I could take you,' he thought, and he took some pleasure in thinking it. 'If I wanted to, you'd be finished.' He'd have been startled to learn that Sullivan was thinking the exact same thoughts about him.

    Sullivan unlatched and unbarred the cellar door, swinging it wide on its hinges. He took a step back and gestured to Chris again to precede him.

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

    Buck heard the scraping sound of the latch on the cellar door being lifted. Adrenaline rushed through him, raising the hair on the back of his neck and heightening the sensation in his fingertips. He shrank back a little further into the darkness. He'd moved the lantern one support beam over so that, although the light was still clearly visible from the stairs, it left the stairs themselves in darkness, making it easier for him to fade into the shadows to the right of them.

    He heard the bar being lifted. He looked at Vin lying in the small circle of light cast by the lantern. Even from where he stood, Buck could tell that he was fevered and in pain. 'I'm sorry, Vin,' he thought. 'I'll make it up to you.'

    Then, the door was swinging open and he heard the first footstep on the stairs.

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

    Chris looked down into the darkness of the cellar opened up before him. He cast a brief glance back at Sullivan. 'You've got to be kidding me,' he thought. But of course, Sullivan wasn't. He gestured harshly toward the stairs, indicating that Chris should proceed. Once more the thought flickered across Chris's mind--'I could take you.' And he wanted it so badly he could taste it, like a bitterness in the back of his throat. 'No,' he thought. 'Wait. I can wait.' So, with a sharp, smoldering look at Sullivan he turned and started down the stairs. The steps themselves were dark--really dark and Chris had to grab at the rickety railing to keep from stumbling. But there was a lantern already lit, below. And...he paused for a moment, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. A man lying on the packed earth floor. A man...oh my god, Vin!

    Chris practically leaped down the stairs. He was within half a step of Vin when he heard a sound behind him. He turned and saw something big and unidentifiable rushing at him. He threw up his arms, bracing for a blow that didn't come. Instead he heard a choked-off gasp, the rush of air past his face, and a sharp hiss as someone stumbled. He took a step back and braced himself and only then did he see who had tried to attack him.

    It was Buck.

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

    Buck had waited as he heard the first foot step on the stairs. From where he stood, he couldn't see Sullivan, except for the silhouette of his boots between the risers on the stairs. He heard a second step. And then another. Then, a pause. 'Yeah, you bastard,' Buck thought. 'Just do it.' And his lip curled back at the thought of Sullivan, looking at Vin and thinking about what he would do to the injured and nearly helpless man. And in turn that thought sent strength rushing through Buck's arms, strength that made the heavy marble arm feel feather light in his hands. He heard Sullivan's step quicken, heard the impact of his boots soften as they hit the cellar floor. 'One more step,' Buck thought. 'Just one more.'

    Sullivan took one more step. Buck moved out of the shadows, raising the arm to swing it, all his weight behind it, all the frustration of the uncountable days he'd been locked in here. The man in front of Vin turned toward him as he drew back the arm and, as he had already started to swing, as the muscles in his arm were already tightening and pulling back and getting ready for the impact of the arm on Sullivan's exposed head, Buck realized with horror that the man he was swinging at was Chris.

    He changed the arc of his swing and pulled back, leaning heavily on his bad leg to compensate and causing him to suck in his breath sharply at the pain that rushed up through him. 'Jesus!' he thought. 'Hell!'

    "Chris!" he said. "What are you doing here?"

    And above him, at the top of the stairs, like Cerberus at the gates of hell, he could hear Sullivan laughing.

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

    The cellar door slammed shut above them. They could hear the sound of the heavy bar dropping back into place. Chris looked at Buck. He looked down at Vin, who lay nearly still, his face flushed with fever, a large hole in his right shoulder. Chris's eyes glittered as he looked at Buck again. He'd used Vin. Used him as a distraction to get himself out of the cellar. Of all the miserable, low-down things...

    Buck lowered the marble arm he'd been using as a club. The expression on his face flickered from shock to remembered anger to despair and finally settled on tired relief. He began to speak, "Chris, I sure am g--"

    Chris exploded. He hit Buck in the chest with both his hands, sending him stumbling backward. "What the hell were you thinking, Buck? What the HELL were you thinking?"

    Buck struggled to keep his balance without putting too much weight on his bad leg. Chris hit him again with the flat of both hands square in the chest, sending him into the back wall. His fingers dug into Buck's shirt and twisted it up into two tight handfuls of fabric, and he slammed the man against the wall so hard that it drove the breath out of him audibly. "Damn you!" he said. "What the hell were you thinking?" He slammed Buck again. And again. "Damn you! DAMN YOU!!"

    A growl started rising low in Buck's throat and Chris pushed him hard against the wall, holding him with one arm across his chest and the other pressing against his throat. "This is your mess, isn't it?" he hissed. Images flashed across his mind--Buck facing off against Josiah, laughing with a dark-haired senorita while Chris's family was dying, leaving Vin to lie on a cellar floor while he looked for his own way out.

    "Vin came looking for you. And now look at him," Chris said. "LOOK AT HIM!" Buck pushed Chris back hard in the chest, but it barely moved him. The arm on his throat released slightly and then was back, pressing harder. "You never think, Buck. That's your problem. You got Vin into this. You! You got me into this. You've got Nathan upstairs now trying to do God knows what!"

    From the first moment Chris hit him, Buck's expression had grown darker and darker, but when Chris mentioned Nathan, he frowned. "Nathan? Here? What--"

    Chris shoved against Buck's chest, pushing him back tighter against the cold damp dirt wall. "Don't! Say anything until I'm finished." His voice sank down and when he spoke again, it carried a cool, flat tone. "You ran out on me. You couldn't even stay and face up. I guess I was wrong about you."

    "I guess you were," Buck whispered, a thin deadly edge to the words. His eyes bored straight into Chris's.

    Chris looked at him. He looked back at Vin, who had barely moved since Chris had been in the cellar. "Were you going to just leave him?"

    Buck didn't answer and it would have been clear to anyone but Chris at that moment that he wasn't going to answer. His face was terrifically still as if he'd removed himself completely. Chris didn't even notice. His voice was silky with a threat he wanted more than anything to carry out. "I'd really like to know, Buck. What you were thinking? Tell me. Were you going to leave him?" He shoved Buck in the chest again, pressing him harder up against the cellar wall. "Tell me!"

    "Back off, Chris," Buck said in a low brittle voice.

    "Tell me!"

    "BACK OFF!" Buck pushed back at Chris with a full measure of strength that used his last remaining reserves, not even knowing that he did it, just knowing that he wouldn't take any more. He grabbed Chris by the front of his shirt and slammed him into a wooden support post, surprising Chris and shaking dirt loose from the cross beams to rain softly down on their heads.

    "You don't know anything," Buck said. And he held Chris there for a minute, the way Chris had held him. Chris felt his own fury building again. 'Damn you, Buck!' he thought. 'Damn you!' Then, something shifted in Buck's face. Chris could see desperation and defeat chase away the anger, leaving behind only a bone-weary look of fatigue in the depths of his eyes.

    His arm dropped away from Chris's throat. "The hell with this," he said. He walked away from Chris and sat down heavily on the cellar steps, his face half-hidden in a shifting sea of shadows.

    Chris looked at him for a minute, unwilling to let things drop. Vin shifted again and this time he moaned slightly. Chris looked away from Buck toward the wounded man lying on the packed earth floor. He knelt beside him and put his hand on Vin's arm. It was hot and dry to the touch. "Vin. It's okay," he whispered. "I'll help you." He found the bucket of water and tried to get Vin to drink. He managed to get a little bit of water past his lips without spilling too much and Vin seemed to ease a bit. Chris carefully pulled back Vin's shirt to get a look at the wound. Big slug he thought with a sour tight look on his face. What the hell had happened to him? The flesh around the wound was angry and red. Did Nathan know Vin was down here? Why hadn't he done something? And how was Chris going to get him down here? Because it was clear Vin needed help as quickly as possible.

    Vin shifted again and Chris looked around the small pool of light from the lantern for something he could use as a sponge cloth to cool Vin's fever. He heard movement behind him. Buck came across the cellar and without a word handed Chris the damp bandanna that had been sitting out of sight on one of the boxes. He turned back toward the stairs and for the first time Chris noticed Buck was limping heavily.

    "You hurt?" he asked abruptly.

    Buck stopped, turned back, and just looked at him for a minute. "Yeah."

    Chris started to rise. "Let me look at it."

    "Go to hell."

    The two men stood and looked at each other for a full minute. Buck's eyes looked almost black in the unrevealing light, but there was something there, some spark of truth or integrity or...something that made Chris suddenly uncomfortable.

    "Take care of Vin," Buck told him. Then he walked away.

    Part 74

    Dusk was approaching as a subdued Mary Travis and an uncharacteristically silent Casey Wells rode slowly back into the town of Four Corners. They'd spent the afternoon cleaning up the ranch. Casey had been determined that things be back in order, or at least as close to order as was possible, before her Aunt Nettie returned. They'd raked up the hay and untangled the tack and burned the chicken carcasses.

    The two women had said very little as they worked, though once Casey had turned to Mary and said, "Do you think they're all right?" For a moment Mary had thought Casey was asking about Vin and Buck and Chris again. Then, she'd looked at the corral and she'd realized that in this moment at least Casey was thinking about the missing horses.

    "It if was Indians who took them," Mary said carefully. "And there's no reason to think it wasn't. Then there's a good chance they can be recovered."

    "But why would they do it? If they're just going to get caught anyway? Why?"

    "Sometimes," Mary had told her, "people carry so much anger around inside that they have to do something with it. So they lash out at the nearest thing."

    "But," Casey had protested. "That doesn't make any sense. We've never done anything, me and Aunt Nettie! Why would they do this to us?"

    "They aren't seeing you or your Aunt Nettie," Mary had said. "They're seeing something that they can never have and that takes away from what they used to have. Do you understand?"

    Casey had nodded, though it had been clear to Mary that she hadn't understood. Not surprising, Mary thought now as she flicked the reins at her tired horse, she didn't always understand herself.

    Since that conversation, Casey hadn't spoken, but as they neared the lantern-lit livery, she sat up straight and looked intently down the darkening street. "Do you--" she began and when her voice trembled, she stopped and tried again. "Do you think there's any hope?"

    The question made Mary's heart leap because she'd had the same thought herself and hadn't wanted to think it. Was there any hope? Had everything finally fallen irrevocably apart? "I think there's always hope, Casey," she finally said, not entirely certain that she really believed it herself.

    Yosemite came out of the livery to greet them. "Mrs. Travis," he said quietly as he took the reins of her horse. "Is everything all right?"

    Mary climbed slowly our of the buggy feeling a stiffness in her joints that was not entirely a product of fatigue. "Thank you," she said, aware of Casey still sitting silently in the buggy. "We're fine." She had thought the whole way back to town about whether to tell anyone what she and Casey had seen at the ranch. If there were really renegade Indian raiders operating out of the reservations then it was essential to do something immediately. No one had been hurt, but someone could be. And yet, she found it so difficult to believe. Ezra had just been out to the reservation and he hadn't seen anything, he hadn't been attacked. She didn't want to get the townsfolk worked up for nothing. She remembered all too well how close they had come to avenging Claire Mosley's death and how tragic that would have been. And yet, to say nothing...

    "...a little worried about you, Mrs. Travis."

    Mary realized that Yosemite had been talking to her and she shook her head slightly and turned toward him. "I'm sorry," she tried to smile and brushed a lock of hair off her forehead. "I didn't hear you. What were you saying?"

    Yosemite looked at her closely, his grey eyes winking in the lantern light. "I said there was talk of Indians off the reservation. I was a little worried about you, Mrs. Travis."

    "Indians?" Casey spoke up sharply from the buggy. "Who said so?"

    Yosemite stepped a little closer to her as Casey scrambled down and into the pool of light cast by the two lanterns on either side of the stable door. "Clarence Solomon. Isn't he a neighbor of yours?"

    Casey looked at Mary with troubled eyes. "He's just one property over to the west," she told Yosemite.

    "Well, he was in town today, complaining to that deputy from Eagle Bend. Said he saw a whole pack of Indians riding across his property early this morning. Said they were wearing buckskins and warpaint."

    "Is he sure they were Indians?" Mary asked.

    "Now, I'm never one to jump to a conclusion, ma'am," Yosemite said in his deep and quiet voice. "And I don't like what's bein' said anymore than you do. But who else would be ridin' out that way dressed in buckskins and feathers and war paint."

    "And they stole our horses," Casey said quietly.

    "What?" Yosemite looked at her sharply. "They raided your ranch? Stole your property?"

    "Yosemite," Mary said urgently, laying her hand on his arm. "We need to proceed cautiously here. We don't know that everything is what it appears."

    The liveryman took a deep breath. "Mrs. Travis," he said. "You know I respect you. You've made this town a place that someone can think about settling down in. And I am not a man who thinks the worst of others. Especially Indians." He looked at her carefully for a moment before proceeding. "It's not something I talk about much, but my wife was a member of the Sioux Indian tribe. We lived with them for quite a long time before she....passed on."

    "I'm so sorry," Mary said, thinking that it was possible to see someone every day and never really know them.

    "What I'm saying is I know Indians get blamed for a lotta things they don't do. But that doesn't mean I'm stupid. And it sure doesn't mean I'm going to stand around and watch you or Miss Wells there get hurt."

    This time it was Mary who paused for a minute. "Yosemite," she finally said. "There are some things going on that you don't understand. Actually, I'm not sure _I_ understand them either. But, I have reason to believe that in some things at least we are being manipulated. And until I understand what's manipulation and what's real...well, it makes it difficult to decide what to do." She studied him for a moment to see how he would react to this information. When he didn't say anything, but just continued to look at her steadily, she went on. "Perhaps we should talk more about this," she said. "Would you join Casey and me for dinner?" she said. "I don't want to involve too many people, but I'll invite Mrs. Potter too. Maybe together we can figure out what to do next."

    He didn't ask her about inviting any of the seven, but Mary figured if anyone knew that they had all left town, Yosemite would since they all stabled their horses there. "Around seven?" she asked.

    "Make it seven-thirty and I'll be there, ma'am," Yosemite said. "My night hand comes on at seven and I need some time to clean up."

    "Yes." Mary said briskly. "Seven-thirty." She felt better just talking to him, felt as if she were doing something again instead of just waiting in dread. She still didn't know if the Indian threat was real or imagined, but she did know that in the current environment, acting too quickly could be just what someone wanted.

    Yosemite walked into the stable to find a red-haired man with a close-cut beard waiting for him. "Yes sir?" he said, turning to unhitch the harness on Mary's buggy.

    "You the liveryman?" the red-haired man asked.

    "That'd be me." Yosemite had seen this man in and out of town several times in the last couple of days.

    "You buy horses?"

    "When I need them. You wanting to sell me yours?" Yosemite nodded toward a tie stall housing a dun-colored mare. He couldn't always remember people's names or even whether he'd met them before or not, but he always remembered a horse.

    The man grinned at him. "Naw," he drawled. "That little gal there's not for sale. She's gotten me through a lot of rough situations. I'm just thinkin' I might be picking up a few extra horses in the next couple of days and I'm looking for a place to sell them."

    Yosemite studied the man for a minute. There was something about him that he didn't quite like though he couldn't put his finger on it. Usually he judged a man by the horse he rode, but the dun was a fine specimen, obviously well cared for. And yet, there was something that made him uneasy.

    "You ever have a horse for sale as nice as the one you've got," Yosemite said. "I'll be happy to buy him from you."

    The man smiled at him. "I'll remember that." He walked by Yosemite toward the door.

    "Mister?" Yosemite called after him. The man turned with a question in his eyes. Yosemite pointed to the side of his neck. "You got some mud or somethin' there. Might want to wipe it off."

    Thompson slapped his hand to his neck and looked at the dark substance that came off on his hand. He looked sharply at Yosemite, but when he saw the man looking back at him with nothing but a friendly expression he smiled. "Thanks," he said. "I'm sure any ladies I meet this evening will appreciate it."

    Yosemite watched him go, then shrugged and turned back to the task at hand.

    Part 75

    "Blast that Thomas." Miz Ruby stood in the darkened kitchen and looked at the kettle of soup. She'd left it on the table for the old man who did odd jobs and ran errands to take to the men Marse Sterling'd had to lock up in the cellar. Mister Sullivan had told her to feed them, and although he gave her the creeps, that Mister Sullivan, he worked for Marse Sterling same as she did, so what he said went and she'd set up the kettle and some bread and bowls. But here it sat, still on the table, and it nigh on to 10 o'clock p.m. at night. She shook her head and sighed. Want a thing done, gotta' do it your own self, she thought. Never any different, no matter what.

    Miz Ruby slipped the wooden bowls and spoons into several pockets of her huge house apron, slid the handle of the covered kettle over her arm, and then picked up the loaf of bread. She pulled out a ring of keys with her other hand as she headed for the cellar door with a tired tread. Not for one minute did Miz Ruby worry about what kind of threat the men in the basement might pose to her. She was 64 years old and had faced down everything from raiding carpetbaggers to robbers and Yankees. God help anyone who crossed her when she was this tired. She'd smack 'em and toss their suppers on their heads to boot. Blast that Thomas.

    She fumbled with the key in the lock a moment, then swung up the heavy bar that lay in place across the doorway and pushed the door opened. She could see they had a little light down there at least, so she wouldn't have to balance a lantern, too. All right. Miz Ruby pulled the door shut behind her and stuffed the keys in her apron, then started down the steps, calling to the unseen men as she went.

    "Marse Sterlin' has sent ya' gent'men supper," she said. She still couldn't see anything of them, but she could hear at least one or two of them stand up at the sound of her voice. She went down a couple more steps and stopped to peer into the dim light so she could make out their features. A slender man all in black, but dusty as a hot day, was standing in an alert posture not far from the bottom of the stairs. She didn't like the way his eyes looked at all, no sir.

    "Y'all back up," she said shortly, "if'n ya' wants any a' this. Ah ain't no fool."

    The man backed away from the foot of the stairs, casting a quick glance to his left as he did so. Miz Ruby saw then that a second man stood a little farther off, more in the darkness, and he looked a lot less commanding than the first one did. He backed away, too, though, and Miz Ruby went on down the stairs and set the things she'd brought on one of the crates without taking her eyes off the two men.

    "Y'all still gots water?"

    "Yes ma'am." It was the man who was farther off who answered, and his voice made Miz Ruby's dark face crease into a smile.

    "Y'all sounds like a nice enough fellah," she said, "Shame on ya', whatever you done to make Marse Sterlin' lock y'up down here." She paused, then indicated the food. "Wal, don' jus' stands there; eat up. It ain't gonna' get no warmer sittin' on that crate."

    The farther-away man exchanged glances with the one closer to her, and then he nodded and limped heavily towards the crate. Miz Ruby bent down a bit to look at him more closely, and then slapped one broad hand to her breast.

    "Lawd! What'd y'all do t'ya'self!? Heah now! Cain't you see this'n needs t' sit down?" She was waving one finger in the closer man's face, sternly. "How kin ya' stands there an' let this poor hurted fellah' go walkin' aroun' like--"

    "It's all right, Ma'am." The man whose leg was all bloody smiled very tiredly at her and then took the hand she'd been remonstrating with into his own. "Thank you for bringin' us food."

    Miz Ruby looked at him, speechless, as he limped past her to sit down heavily by the crate and lay his face in his hand for a long moment before he looked back up at the man in black, who hadn't moved a muscle in all this time. There was a tension here that the woman couldn't understand, and it made her knit her brows. She scowled at the man in black, then.

    "Don't do t' waste good food," she said, and then she turned to go back up the stairs.

    "Ma'am?" It was the one with the moustache, the one whose leg was hurt, who called to her, and Miz Ruby turned back to look at him with one hand on the stair railing. She waited while he obviously fought something inside himself, and then sighed heavily. "I don't know," he said softly, "if you can--"

    "Shut up, Buck." The other man's voice carried a threat that made Miz Ruby bristle.

    "Y'all kin let 'im talk," she said to that man. "He gots a right."

    The one called Buck nodded thoughtfully to himself, stole a quick and bitter glance at Chris, then licked his lips. "We need some help," he said. He looked right into her eyes, and Miz Ruby blinked. She didn't see a bad fellah there at all, God bless her. Just one with his back to the wall and not much left in him. She leaned closer to him over the railing.

    "Ah's listenin'," she said simply. Buck ran a shaking hand through his hair.

    "My friend," he said. Miz Ruby looked over at the man in black and then back to the one called Buck. She narrowed her eyes.

    "What about yo' frien'?" Her voice was suspicious, but Buck didn't hear it. He was way beyond subtlety by now.

    "I think he might be dyin'."

    Miz Ruby snorted. "Shoot! He ain't no closer to dyin' than Ah is," she said. She started up the stairs again. "Enjoy the soup."

    "No! Please!" Something in the man's voice, some note of desperation made Miz Ruby turn back once more, and she crossed her arms over her ample chest.

    "What IS y'all's trouble?" she said. "Ah don' see nothin' wrong down here 'ceptin' yo' laig. What's so all-fired important that--"

    "He's not saying that _I'm_ his friend," said Chris dryly.

    "No, not him." Buck shook his head. "The man back there . . . " He nodded towards the dark, farther beyond where he had been standing when she came down the stairs. He looked again at Chris, who still looked like he'd sat on a spider but remained silent this time. "If there's anything you can do, or bring us . . ."

    "What?" Miz Ruby looked quickly towards the dark area the man had pointed to, and she suddenly thought maybe they were both dangerous after all. "How many a' y'all is down here?"

    "Three." Buck stood up and limped heavily towards the darkness, where he sat down and turned his pale face to look at Miz Ruby.

    The woman stood on the bottom step several long minutes. It had to be getting close to 10:30 by now, and she had to get up at 4:00 to start the bread. No tellin' what these two were up to. Still. She looked at the untouched soup and bread. They had to be hungry, but they had ignored the food she'd brought like it wasn't all that important right now. So maybe something else was. She studied the man closest to her one more time, then shook her head.

    "Ah'll warn ya' both," she said, "that if ya' tries any fancy tricks on me, Ah'll clobber ya' good. An' Ah means it." Then she walked heavily over to where the moustached man was sitting on the floor. As she got closer, she bent down, then drew in her breath.

    "Lawd," she said softly. "Ah's sorry Ah disbelieved ya'." She knelt next to the young man who lay insensible on the cold cellar floor, and touched the back of his wrist with a practiced hand. She looked then at Buck's wrists, quickly appraising the similarity of the marks on them, then into the gunman's dark eyes. "How long's he been fevered like this?" she asked.

    "Two days," said Buck softly. "Have you got any herbs or anythin' that might--"

    Miz Ruby stood up suddenly, and Buck looked up at her. She sighed heavily.

    "Ah'll go see what Ah gots," she said firmly. "Ah'll be back direc'ly." She was halfway up the stairs before she stopped and bent down to look at the two men again. "Y'all eats while ya' waits for me," she said. "Looks to me like ya' kin both use it. Ah'll bring y'all some coffee when Ah comes back."

    Part 76

    Nathan couldn't sleep, even though he was so tired he'd thought several times during the day that he was going to fall right to the floor. He rolled onto his side on the little cot that Miz Ruby had set up for him on the side porch, and wondered for the hundredth time where Chris was right now. In the house, most likely, but where? And if he was here, then why hadn't Nathan seen Buck and Vin if they were here, too? Maybe he was too late, and they were both dead already. Nathan squeezed his eyes shut, trying to make sense of what he'd been able to learn.

    Then he heard a stealthy tread come through the kitchen doorway and out onto the porch where he was laying. Nathan lay perfectly still, but looked with opened eyes at the farther edge of the room. Someone's arm reached out to a shelf there, and drew something from it. He heard a rustling sound, then soft breathing. Nathan thrust himself up off the cot on one arm.

    "Miz Ruby?"

    "GAWD!!!" Miz Ruby fell back against the wall with her hand to her breast in such horrific fright that Nathan leaped to his feet and went to grab her arms.

    "It's just me, Miz Ruby. Nathaniel. Take it easy." He lowered her to an old wicker chair and knelt down by her, looking at her closely to see if she was maybe having an apoplexy. The woman lowered her head and closed her eyes for some moments as her breathing stabilized, and then she raised the hand that had been on her breast and smacked Nathan across the arm with it.

    "Ya' scared the LIFE outta' me, boy! Whatcha' go an' do a thing like that for!?"

    "I'm sorry, Miz Ruby." Nathan smiled when he saw the return of her normal personality and realized she'd be all right. "I thought you remembered I was sleepin' out here."

    "Oh." Miz Ruby looked over at the cot and then at Nathan.

    "You all right, Ma'am?" Nathan saw that there was still something wrong, and he couldn't keep the concern out of his voice. He looked at what she'd taken from the shelf and then pulled it from her fingers.

    "Feverfew?" He waited for her to say something.

    "Ah keeps the herbs out here, where it's dry." The woman's voice was almost shaking. Nathan shook his head.

    "But why feverfew," he asked.

    "It's for fevers," said Miz Ruby simply.

    "I know that." Nathan smiled. All the old people thought that, because of its name, but it really worked better on headaches without fever. He made his voice more gentle. "I'm askin' who's got the fever. Do you need any help?"

    Miz Ruby paused a moment, then remembered how Nathan had put that stuff on Bitsy's burn and made it so much better. She looked at him quizzically. "Ya' knows some about healin', doncha'?"

    "Yes'm." Nathan lay a reassuring hand on the woman's arm. "I'd be glad to help you. I wasn't asleep anyway."

    Miz Ruby stood up and laughed. "Wal, ya' owes me at least. Seein' as how now Ah gots one foot in mah grave, thanks to y'all scarin' the livin' dogsbreath outta' me."

    "Yes, ma'am." Nathan stood up as the woman did, and then was surprised when she suddenly fixed him with a penetrating look.

    "One thing," she said.

    "Yes'm?"

    "This's a favor for ME. Ain't got nothin' t' do with no one else here. Mah bidness. Ah'll ask ya' t' remember that, an' keep all of it t'yerse'f. No matter what." Nathan was about to reply when she added. "Ah gots t' make ya' swear it to me, Nathaniel."

    "I swear," he said solemnly. "I won't say a word to a soul. No matter what."

    "Good." Miz Ruby turned and headed back into the kitchen, then out the other side and into a long hallway. "Ah ain't got t' be this old without Ah learned how t' keep outta' trouble." She pulled out a ring of keys and opened a heavy door, and a cool earthy smell rolled out of the opening when she did. Nathan's heart leaped as he realized it led to a cellar.

    Chris.

    But how or why would Chris be sick with a fever, especially when he'd been fine before? Miz Ruby bustled past Nathan even as he was turning it all over in his mind, then pulled the door shut behind them as he followed her in, and down the rickety steps into the dimness below. Nathan had to bend low to keep from hitting his head on the beams, and all he could see until he reached the bottom was the back of Miz Ruby's ample person. But suddenly and to his immense relief he saw that it _was_ Chris who was there, and he seemed as fine as he could be under the circumstances. Immediately, though, Chris's eyes shot him a warning look, so Nathan braced himself thoroughly enough not to react when he turned a little farther and saw Buck. He swallowed, and nodded towards the man's bloodied leg as if he'd never seen him before.

    "Is this the--"

    "No, no," said Miz Ruby. She was bustling off farther into the dark. "Over here. This'n, on the floor here."

    Suddenly Nathan realized who it was who had a fever, and he knew by the cautious looks that Buck and Chris gave him that he was right. And that it was bad. When he got to Vin, he knelt down already having a good idea of what he might find; Buck had obviously been hurt and not received any medical care, and Nathan remembered all too well the bullet hole he'd seen in the tracker's coat. So Vin . . . He felt his heart sink as he ran practiced eyes over his friend's still form, and then started to examine him.

    "How long ago was this man shot?" Nathan didn't even look up, and it was Buck's voice that answered him.

    "Four days. I think."

    "Anybody get the bullet out?" Nathan had carefully and gently rolled Vin to his side and pulled off his shirt to look for an exit wound.

    "No."

    Nathan shook his head at the angry appearance of the wound, and sat back on his heels. He looked up at Miz Ruby.

    "He needs a lot more'n feverfew, Ma'am, if he's gonna' live."

    Miz Ruby looked into Nathan's face very carefully. She licked her lips. "Is that somethin' y'all knows how t' do, Nathaniel? Fix 'im up, as bad as 'e is?"

    "I can try." Nathan regarded the woman steadily, trying not to let her see the desperation he was feeling. He didn't know what he'd do if she told him to leave it be at this point. By the time he could slip down here on his own without her knowing it, Vin would likely be dead.

    Miz Ruby looked at Buck and Chris and then back at Vin. She looked at Nathan, then. "Ah cain't stan' by an' watch a man die jus' 'cause no one done nothin' to help 'im," she said. "See what y'all kin do for 'im, Son. Jes' don' tell Marse Sterlin' or . . . that Sullivan fellah a' his."

    "Yes'm." Nathan felt nearly dizzy with relief. He took one of the woman's work-worn hands in his own. "Miz Ruby, I need some things down here to help this fellah. Can you get 'em for me?"

    "Why not," she said. "Looks like we ain't none of us sleepin' tonight nohow."

    "Thank you, ma'am." Nathan released her. "I need hot water, boiled. A real sharp knife. Cloths I can use to press on that wound, an' some to tear into bandages. Soap, a coupla' clean basins."

    "No feverfew?"

    "Yeah, feverfew." Nathan smiled at the woman. "You were right about that. It was a good idea. An' if you've got any willa' bark, bring that, too."

    He watched her as she went heavily up the stairs, his hand on Vin's arm, then waited as they all heard the door shut and lock. Nathan leaned quickly over Vin and touched his face lightly, as Buck and Chris joined him.

    "Boy am I glad to see you," said Buck softly.

    Nathan was prodding at the wound with his fingertips, and Vin moaned very softly and turned his head, then shuddered deeply. "That's a hell of a big slug in there," said Nathan.

    "Yeah. He's been in a lotta' pain from it." Nathan looked up at Buck sharply, to see a wrenching look of guilt and fury flash across his face.

    "He ride all the way up here like this?"

    "Yeah." Buck looked down at his own hands, and Nathan started to say something reassuring, then realized he couldn't. Not yet. He looked at Chris instead.

    "I'm gonna need better light here."

    Chris stood up without a word and pulled the oil lamp down off the hook on the beam, then carried it over carefully to Nathan and set it on the crate above Vin's head. "Will that work?"

    "It's better." Nathan pulled the edges of the wound apart to break the yellow crust over it and start it draining, and Vin jerked sharply when he did. "Y'all are gonna' have to hold 'im for me when I start workin' on this," he said. He looked quickly over his shoulder as the cellar door opened, and all three men held their breaths for fear it wasn't Miz Ruby coming down.

    But it was.

    "See if these'll work," she puffed. "They's ol' but clean." She set a stack of cloths in Nathan's hands, and the healer smiled at her.

    "They'll do fine, Miz Ruby."

    She reached into an ample pocket. "An' here's two knives. Take whatever works. Ah gots to go back up an' git the water; ain't quite boilin' yet." She rose and went to the stairs again, then looked back at Nathan as she pointed to Chris.

    "Watch out for that'n," she warned him. "Th' fellah' with the moustache is nice enough, but Ah don' trust this'n here nohow."

    Part 77

    They had a second lamp now, that cast enough light for Nathan to see what he was doing. He'd laid the knives in a shallow basin of boiling water, and torn bandages from strips of the cloth. He sat back on his heels and looked at Miz Ruby, who was standing bent over with her hands on her knees looking down at Vin.

    "I think you outta' leave now, Miz Ruby," he said seriously.

    The woman turned her head slightly to regard Nathan with a long, thoughtful look. "An' jes' why is that?"

    "Two reasons." Nathan stood up. "There's no tellin' who might come down here before I'm done, an' no reason for you t' get caught if that happens."

    Miz Ruby stood up, too, and folded her arms across her bosom. "That's one. What's two?"

    Nathan bit his lips, glanced at Vin's flushed face, then looked back at Miz Ruby. "I gotta' go get some whiskey to clean out that wound."

    The woman's face went slack for a moment, and then her eyes flashed. "T' think! Ah stood up for y'all to gets a job here, mahse'f."

    "I ain't askin' you--"

    "Ah know." Miz Ruby threw one hand up towards Nathan and shook it as her eyes snapped. "Y'all gots a key to Marse Sterlin's liquor cabinet, same as Ah does. An' ya' knows what happens t' folks like us what lifts so much as one sip outta' one a' those bottles in a rich white man's house."

    "Yes'm." Nathan put one hand on the woman's shoulder and looked into her eyes. "That's why I don' want you to stay here, or for them to know you had anythin' to do with this. If it gets found out."

    Miz Ruby returned Nathan's gaze steadily for a long moment, then shook her shoulder out from beneath his hand and looked pointedly at Chris and Buck. She looked Nathan up and down and cocked her head. "It's nigh ont' midnight," she said, "but when ya' finish up here, come 'n' talk t' me on the side porch about all these doin's. Ah may have to close mah eyes to some things, but that' don't mean Ah'm blind." She looked at Buck again, and then Vin, and turned and went up the stairs without a backward look. They could tell that she'd only shut the upstairs door this time instead of locking it. Nathan looked at Chris and Buck and sighed.

    "I'm goin' to get some whiskey," he said. "I'll only be a minute, an' then we'll do this."

    "Nathan?" Chris's voice brought Nathan to a halt. "What _does_ happen to folks like you an' her if you take liquor from the cabinet?"

    Nathan looked at the floor between Chris's feet a minute, then looked up and met his eyes. "Man, woman, or child -- we get beat," he said simply. He turned and went up the stairs.

    He had the little key to the liquor cabinet in the pocket of his waistcoat, and his finger rested on it all the way up the stairs and down the long hallways that led to the library. Nathan couldn't remember his heart ever pounding like this in all the years he'd been free, not even when he and the others had gone up against impossible odds in a gunfight. But this -- the admonitions all little slave children heard rang in his ears. Stealing liquor was the worst and lowest thing there was. Anybody that did it deserved the beating he got, and probably worse. Couldn't NO body trust a darkie who'd--

    Nathan brought his thoughts up short, and frowned. I ain't a slave no more, he said to himself silently. And this ain't to drown my grief or sorrow. It's to save a life, an' the one in the wrong is Michaels. Not me.

    But even as he forced the words into his mind, he felt the guilt of believing them to be false. He would just have to do it anyway, he realized. Some things were too ingrained to change them; you just had to act against them and let it go.

    Five minutes later he had a tall bottle of whiskey in his hand and was headed back down the stairs in the cellar, his heart pounding so hard that he was light-headed and had to sit down for a moment when he got to the bottom. Chris squatted down in front of him and laid one hand on Nathan's knee, quietly.

    "Thank you," he said softly, when Nathan looked up and met his eyes. "for all of us."

    Nathan swallowed. How Chris knew what he was going through, feeling, remembering -- he wasn't sure. But it was there, in the gunman's still, clear eyes, and Nathan felt a warmth grow in his being and spread out like a clear light, to ease the guilt and shame he'd been getting more and more tangled up in all day. His dizziness receded, and he handed Chris the whiskey and cleared his throat.

    "Let's get 'im fixed up," he said.

    "All right," Chris breathed.

    It took nearly an hour for Nathan to remove the bullet from Vin's shoulder, clean the wound, pack it with a cloth strip soaked in the whiskey, and then bandage it tightly enough to hold the packing in place. He'd been pleased when the wound had finally begun to bleed enough to push out the pus that had collected in it, and he'd had Buck and Chris turn Vin on his side for a while to help all the infection possible drain out on the tide of fresh blood. Now, sitting back with his fingers on Vin's throat feeling of his pulse, he wondered if it would be enough. He shook his head at the count he got, felt the fever again, and looked at Chris.

    "We'll see," he said. "Not much more I can do right now. He should rest better now, anyway. Not be in so much pain if he comes 'roun'."

    Buck sighed and rubbed his face with a tired hand, and Nathan studied him a long moment.

    "Buck," he said, "I need to look at that leg a'--"

    They heard the door open.

    "Marse Sterlin's callin' ya'!" It was Miz Ruby's voice in a savage whisper, and Nathan leaped to his feet and began to roll down his sleeves.

    "Hide all this stuff," he said in a quick, low voice. "I'll get word to the others somehow tomorrow -- today -- whatever it is. We'll get you outta' here tonight." He turned around and gave a final tug to his vest, then sprinted up the stairs. Buck and Chris heard the door shut, and locked, then looked at each other in the dim light.

    "I'm gonna' look around in these crates an' see if I can find something to put under Vin, maybe wrap him in so he's not layin' on this cold floor," said Chris.

    "Be my guest," said Buck, "I'm gonna' eat."

    "No surprise to me." Chris turned to start going through the crates Buck had already been through, and Buck thought for a brief moment of telling the gunman there wasn't anything there. Then he scowled.

    "Hell," he muttered. "Never mind." He stood up stiffly and started dragging himself over to the crate where Miz Ruby had put out food so long before. He dropped heavily to the ground beside it, and started ladling out a bowl of the cold soup even as he was chewing on a piece of bread. That was where Chris found him twenty minutes later after he'd given up finding any blankets. Buck's face was on the crate, and a spoon was in his hand, and he was asleep with his head against the side of the kettle.

    Part 78

    The first thing Nathan saw as he grabbed his coat from the kitchen chair he'd hung it over was Bitsy racing frantically through the kitchen. Her face wore a look of deep terror, and Nathan reached out a quick hand to catch her by the arm and pull her up.

    "What's wrong, Bitsy?"

    "Th' Mistress is back!" The girl leaned away from Nathan trying to draw her arm from his hand. "I gotta' go turn down her bed quick-like, or she'll be riled!"

    "Does it matter that your dress is backside-to?" Nathan chuckled, releasing Bitsy's arm as the girl looked down at herself and threw up her hands in dismay. "Don' worry. I'll stall 'em," smiled Nathan. He hurried from the kitchen into the hall as he shrugged his arms into the coat sleeves, and headed for the front parlor. There was no question that it was there his services were required. He could hear the woman's voice three rooms before he got there.

    "STERling!" she was crying, "STERling! For GOD's sake, get me a drink!"

    "NATHANIEL!!"

    "Yessir. What can I do for you, sir." Nathan had moved smartly around the corner into the room just as Michaels bellowed, with the result that he seemed to appear almost magically in response to the summons.

    "Where were you?"

    Nathan laid a hand casually upon his coat. "Proper attire, sir."

    "Ah. Yes."

    Belle peered at Nathan and walked closer to him. "Oh Sterling," she cooed, "what a perfectly lovely gentleman's gentleman you've gotten." She looked at the master of the house with her happy features restored. "Can he fix me a drink? Oh do say yes."

    Michaels nodded slightly to Nathan, who turned immediately to Belle and inclined his head to her respectfully. "What would you like me to get you, Ma'am?"

    Belle clapped her hands gaily. "Oh!" she cried. "Oh! Whatever I want?" She looked at Michaels and he nodded silently, a pleased smile on his face. The woman cocked her head to one side and looked back at Nathan. Her eyes sparkled in a way he remembered only too well from his days serving other women who had enjoyed the same sense of power. Suddenly she lay a single gloved forefinger lightly on his vest and smiled. "Cocoa," she said.

    "Cocoa!" Michaels laughed. "It's AUGUST!"

    Belle pouted. "You said ANYthing, Sterling."

    The man sighed and looked at Nathan. "This is Miss Belle," he said. "She is mistress whenever she is here, and you will serve her as you do me. Cocoa it is."

    "Yessir." Nathan nodded to Belle and to Sterling, and then backed from the room and hurried to the kitchen again. Damn! COCOA! How the hell was he going to--

    "Here, here . . .already gots it on." Miz Ruby was at the stove, a little pan hissing over the flame.

    "How you . . ." Nathan broke off and came over to peer into the pan. He looked up at the woman and she cackled lightly.

    "Little Pedro." She pointed to a boy who was even then slipping out of the kitchen like a tiny shadow, his face sleepy. "We has him hang close an' listen at doors an' such-like when that Belle's in the house. He kin run fas' enough to git things goin' b'fore that woman gits all riled."

    "She get riled often?" Nathan thought about Bitsy and shook his head.

    "Ohhhh, she do indeed." Miz Ruby wagged her head and swirled the cocoa in the pan so it wouldn't burn, looking up at Nathan as she did so. "Y'all saved Bitsy gitten' herse'f slapped but good, ya' know that? Ah'm thankin' ya', Nathaniel."

    "Bitsy. Slapped? Why?"

    "For havin' her dress backside front. If'n Miss Belle'd seed 'er that a-away . . .mmmm. BAD bidness." She poured the cocoa into a rose-painted china teacup edged in gold, set the cup on a saucer, and the saucer on an elegant silver teatray. "Napkin," she said, pointing. Nathan took a square of the Irish linen off the shelf and folded it into a point, then set it next to the cup and saucer. Miz Ruby looked up at him and made a shooing motion with her two hands. "Now git it in to 'er. Hurry up!"

    Nathan hurried.

    He kept on hurrying for nearly two hours. Belle had to have a hot bath. With lavender. But that was TOO hot. And the towel really wasn't soft enough, and what had happened to the sachet she'd left in the linen drawer with it? Bitsy ran in and out of the boudoir with the same look of terror Nathan had seen on her face in the kitchen, and he did his best to back her up every step of the way as the lilting voice was raised for first one thing and then another. She had to have a soft bed, of course. That _dreadful_ man who'd driven her here after she'd gone to her little house and packed all her things had kept trying to go so fast that it would have raised endless dust that just totally destroyed all her laces and satins. Three days they'd been on that miserable road, and two nights. IMAGINE! But she'd made him listen to her, and here they were at last with all her precious things intact. But not another night in a hotel. Not her, no. She'd insisted, as any lady would, that even if they had to drive all night this night, they get to the manor without stopping for anything less than a down mattress and silk sheets. Ooooh, Bitsy-dear! Do see if my rose damask dressing gown is still hanging in the closet. And I need my nails buffed, don't you think?

    Dreadful cowtown. Dreadful gunslingers.

    Nathan stopped hurrying. He stood in the hallway outside the boudoir's closed door, his arms filled with a silk comforter he'd been taking to air, and listened as Belle's melodious voice filled in Bitsy-darling-Bitsy with all the horrid details of the absolutely _enormous_ ox of a man she'd had to seduce with her considerable charms. A preacher, of all things! Who was a GUNslinger! Fortunately, she was a consummate actress, so the part had been well-done and she'd claimed her victory. Fancy me being ruined, Bitsy! Isn't that ridiculous? I am PERFECTION!! Her laugh sent a shiver down Nathan's spine, and he thought for a moment he might stop breathing altogether.

    One day. A single day. And already he'd slipped into a place where having been caught off-duty and potentially "in trouble" had knocked him so far off his center that the name he'd heard hadn't even registered. Miss _Belle_. My God.

    Later, he wasn't at all sure what he did after that point in the long night, except that Nathan knew he somehow fulfilled all his duties and that Belle and Sterling had both been fully and amply tucked into their respective bedchambers before he was permitted, finally, to drag himself to the kitchen and drop into a chair at the table. The old clock was chiming three as he pulled his arms out of the sleeves of his coat, and he wondered tiredly if he could even make it to the cot without passing out. A soft hand on his shoulder made him turn his head wearily, knowing already that it was Miz Ruby. The woman pulled out a chair across from him and sat down heavily, to regard Nathan with serious eyes that were dark as deep ponds in the unlit kitchen.

    "Ya' knows 'em," she said softly. Just like that. No preamble, no reference, no recrimination. Just a statement. Nathan looked down at his hands and then back at the woman. He was so tired.

    "Yes," he said.

    Miz Ruby took a deep breath and rubbed a tired hand across her eyes. "Lawd, Ah was hopin' Ah was wrong," she muttered sadly.

    "I won't lie to you, Miz Ruby." Nathan looked at the woman and lay his large hand over her worn one where it lay on the table. "You're too good a woman."

    "What Ah is, is a LIVE woman," said Miz Ruby. Her voice sounded almost angry, but still soft in the silent kitchen. "An' Ah didn' live this long by gettin' int' such as this!"

    "I didn't know it would involve you," he said. "I'm sorry."

    "Ah kin see that." The woman shook her head and pulled the skirt of her apron up over her head suddenly in a gesture Nathan had not seen in many years -- not since the days when he'd lived with women whose only chance of privacy was to cover their heads, women who'd wept alone beneath their aprons in little one-room shacks full of too many people. He stood up and went to stand with his arms around her shoulders and waited while she got her composure back together. Finally she lowered the apron far enough to wipe at the tears that were streaming down her dark face. "Nathaniel, what's Ah gon' do? Ah cain't let y'all jus' walk outta' here. But if'n Ah was t' tell Marse Sterlin', he'd tell that Sullivan fellah, an--"

    "Miz Ruby." Nathan's voice took on a serious tone that made the woman look up at him. He squatted down in front of her, so that his face was nearly at the same level hers was as she sat in the chair. "Sullivan is responsible for that man bein' hurt to start with. If he finds out any a' this, he'll kill him. An' the others, too. An' . . . me."

    "But why?" Miz Ruby's face worked as she looked into Nathan's for an answer, and the healer found he wasn't sure he could give her one. He had only suspicions about Michaels. Maybe Sullivan had acted on his own. Maybe Belle had . . . his thoughts trailed off and he rubbed his face wearily. God, when had it gotten so complicated! He realized Miz Ruby had put a hand on his arm, then, and looked up at her.

    "Miz Ruby, one thing I gotta' tell ya': my name ain't Nathaniel Lincoln. It's Nathan Jackson. But I was afraid someone here would know that name, so . . . " His voice trailed off and he sighed.

    "What's 'is name, that one that's fevered?" she asked softly.

    "Vin."

    "What kinda' man is 'e?"

    "A good one, Miz Ruby. I met 'im 'cause some cowboys was fixin' t' lynch me, an' he stopped 'em. Him an' the fellah in the black."

    "Him!?" Miz Ruby scowled. " Ah never figgered that'n for nothin' good. Ya' tellin' me true? He saved yo' life?"

    "Yes'm. It's God's truth."

    "Why was them cowboys gonna' hang ya'?"

    "'Cause I ain't white." Nathan said it softly, knowing that she knew it already, anyway. The woman frowned slightly.

    "So why'd them two save ya'?"

    "'Cause I'm a man."

    Miz Ruby pulled back from Nathan and put her hands on his arms and looked deeply into his eyes. "Y'all ain't lyin' to me."

    "No, ma'am."

    Miz Ruby was silent a long while, her eyes distant. Nathan waited, listening to the heavy beat of the clock echoing through the still house. Finally she sighed, a long shuddering sigh that Nathan swore he could hear plantation field songs in, and she laid one hand on the side of Nathan's face and spoke to him in a steady voice even as tears welled up in her eyes to spill down her cheeks unheeded.

    "Ah be sixty-fo' years ol'," she said, "an' Ah ain't never done nothin' wrong that Ah knowed it in all those years. Ah'll admit, they's been times Ah've hadta' work kinda' hard not to know certain things, but they wasn't big ones." She patted Nathan's face and lowered her hand. "Ah cain't find it in me to turn y'all over t' that Sullivan fellah. Ah knows he'd kill y'all. No doubt atall. Ya' kin see killin' in the man's eyes. But . . . " she hesitated, and bit her lip, then went on, "Ah don' know what'll happen, rightly. When y'all have got away. Maybe 'fore ya' go, ya' kin help me figger what to do, so's Bitsy 'n' Coco 'n' Pedro 'n' me don' wind up on the wrong side a' that man's temper neither. Ah'd hate like sixty t' see them young 'uns --" Her voice broke suddenly, and she put her face in her hands and bowed her head and began to rock back and forth. Nathan drew her into his arms and simply held her. He bowed his own head over hers as a mockingbird called from outside, and the night began to fade into morning.

    Part 79

    JD extended his hands to the stove, trying to warm them up while he waited for the coffee to brew. It was about three hours before sunrise. He'd need to be at work at The Compound at dawn. Who knew it would be so cold? Of course, JD was used to the cold in Boston but he'd never expected to feel this cold in August for pete's sake. JD huddled his arms close to his body and tried to generate some body heat.

    "Feeling the heat there, JD?" Josiah walked in with an armload of chopped wood.

    JD shuddered and smiled wryly, "there's heat?" JD questioned skeptically.

    Josiah chuckled deeply. "Coffee should be ready. Let me have a cup while I pack some food. Need to get out there and relieve Ezra. Bet he's really feeling the cold."

    JD sobered, "what about the guys?"

    Josiah pursed his lips considering JD's question. "Well, we saw them take Chris to the big house. If they're not being held there, you can pretty much depend it's inside somewhere. So I expect they're not as bad off."

    JD cocked his head and looked skeptically at Josiah.

    Josiah laughed again. "Not as bad off if they were outside in the elements." Josiah sobered and made eye contact with JD and nodded his head firmly. "We'll get 'em, JD."

    "How can you be so sure?"

    Josiah winced hoping he wasn't lifting the boy's spirits too high. "No crows," Josiah flashed his broad smile and looked up.

    JD grinned for a brief moment. "Josiah," he asked seriously, "do crows even live here?"

    Josiah just chuckled.

    "Come on, we gotta get moving?"

    "Thanks, Josiah."

    Josiah paused. 'For what, son? For what?' Damn, he couldn't forgive himself that at least half the problems they now had were due to his hateful tongue. A weapon he used so effectively that it might now cost Buck and Vin their lives. He might not have fired the gun but he delivered the first shot, maybe the fatal one. Josiah ran a hand raggedly through his hair, 'shit,' and he'd run off at the mouth to JD. Raised his hopes, probably should have prepared him that they might not all survive this. Hell, they just knew Buck and Vin were brought here. Nobody said anything about alive.

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

    Ezra rocked back and forth. He was in a low squat hunkered down trying to stay warm and watching the big house and compound. He'd been reduced to stealing his foul-smelling saddle blanket to wrap around him in a desperate effort to stave off hypothermia. God damn, it's August. Ezra looked up beseechingly and just a tad bit annoyed, 'you do realize it's August?' A gust blew up and Ezra shuddered. 'I take it that's a no,' Ezra frowned, 'maybe a yes,' he did realize.

    Ezra was just a tad bit cranky and he wasn't sure he was thinking clearly; he hadn't gotten any sleep. Not that he was supposed to, but if it had been quiet down there he could have closed his eyes, any change in rhythm of the normal noise of the compound would have jerked them open. The thing was the lights were never doused in the big house and the compound never quieted to that rhythm which every town and establishment inevitably did in the middle of the night. What did it mean?

    He had seen the lights doused upstairs and assumed the big man had retired for the night. Next, he had seen the front rooms of the house go dark. It should have been a matter of at most an hour for the kitchen lights to go down but they never had. He'd seen the shadows move continuously, he'd seen light on the back porch and another figure rise up, and more movement. They'd disappear for awhile and then come back many minutes later. Where would they go? One time he had seen a light toward the front, maybe the library? Liquor cabinet? Why do you need liquor in the middle of the night, Ezra mused. To relax? To drown in? To treat the injured? -- treat the injured! He'd never saw Chris leave the house -- so where would they keep him. Where were those people in kitchen going? A cellar? Did that mean that Vin and Buck were there too? Ezra chewed his lip worriedly, 'shit, pure speculation.'

    Ezra had seen the people again in the kitchen. A broad figure with a big bosom -- the cook? A much taller, leaner figure -- Nathan? Ezra half-considered sneaking into the back porch to see if he could get information from Nathan but he quickly rejected it. 'Don't let impatience draw you into a stupid mistake. Wait for Nathan. He'll come to you.'

    In what was clearly the middle of the night a carriage arrived -- one man and a petite woman aboard. The man was obviously a lackey -- Ezra smiled with grim empathy -- the woman was a shrew. Ezra had seen the lady hit the man with some implement, probably an umbrella, and he could see the lights of the house come up as the whole household was roused by her arrival. It was several hours later before the lights were doused upstairs. The back of the house lights never dimmed. Her arrival interrupted any sleep the household staff could possibly have gotten. 'Selfish bitch,' Ezra thought cynically and he'd never met the woman, but he didn't doubt his assessment was accurate.

    Ezra heard Josiah and JD draw up in the woods behind him and walk towards him. He smiled. He prided himself on knowing it was them and not having to move from his huddled position.

    "Ezra," Josiah greeted.

    Ezra nodded, his teeth chattering. Josiah poured coffee into a cup and offered it to Ezra. Ezra looked over at JD who was staring at the ground and idly kicking his foot, then he peered up at Josiah. A shudder raked Ezra's body and not from cold. "What?" Ezra asked Josiah in a flat voice.

    "Rode by their cemetery. Two, fresh unmarked graves," Josiah's voice fully conveyed defeat.

    'Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.' Ezra's mind screamed and he valiantly held his composure. "Might not be them," Ezra forced out passed his clogged throat, desperately searching for hope.

    "Might not," Josiah affirmed, but his heart clearly was not in it.

    Ezra looked up at Josiah. "No matter what. We know we have two men alive in that house. Maybe more. . ."

    Josiah's head swiftly turned to Ezra and he frowned at him. Ezra nodded in return. "JD," he quietly called the young man over.

    "No, I don't know if they are alive. But there has been a lot of activity in the house and not related to servicing Mr. Michaels. I saw activity in the kitchen well into the early morning. They would be in the kitchen then leave it but no light shone in other parts of the house. I speculate they went to the cellar. Might be where the men are?"

    "Good, good." Josiah was talking himself into this being good news -- Ezra knew it. "JD, keep your ears open. Also see if you can move Chris, Buck and Vin's horse to a corral that we can claim them if we need to. Look for their saddle bags, they might have dumped them in the tack room and we grab them when we get them out of there."

    "If we get them out of there," JD acknowledged.

    Josiah grabbed JD's arm as he started to walk down the steep incline to the stables. "No, JD - when." Josiah smiled slightly and released JD's arm. "JD watch for Nathan's signal. If you have to, slip out and meet him. Then meet at the lumber camp. Do not go back to the livery. Understand?"

    "Yup," JD responded shortly. "See ya later."

    Josiah and Ezra didn't say anything as they watched JD approach the mining compound's livery. When they saw him safely in, they both visibly relaxed.

    "Let's get you back to the cabin and warm you up."

    "Will he be all right?" Ezra had not taken his eyes off the livery.

    "Only *if* we get Buck and Vin out of there."

    'If, not when.' Yes, Ezra did notice.

    Part 80

    Nettie Wells loved this country. Always had. Since she'd arrived in the territory when she was young bride, she had loved it. She had found her home. Wasn't quite the same for her husband, he'd been gone a long time now. But Nettie had not once considered going back east -- this was it for her. When her young niece came to live with her after the death of her parents, well that just made it that much more certain. She had found her home. And Nettie was returning to it after a long week away.

    Nettie had been at the Andrews' ranch this past week caring for a new baby and her recovering mother. With four children already in the household and a difficult delivery, she had needed the help. She was now back on her feet for several days

    And Nettie was coming home. She felt like dancing a jig as much as you could in a buggy. She wanted to see Casey, putter in her vegetable garden, can some preserves, sleep in her own bed -- the things you did at your own home.

    Nettie felt fear as she approached her little ranch and just knew something was wrong. There was a heaviness to her arms as she lifted the reins and a dread that she didn't want to go there - to her_own_home. Evil had visited here.

    Nettie drew the reins and stopped the horse. She scanned her small homestead. No fire in the fireplace or stove, but it was warm and that wasn't so surprising. Plus very likely Casey was in town. She spent a lot of time around that young man, JD Dunne. Nettie rolled her eyes thinking she just needed to bonk their heads together to get them see what a treasure they had found in each other.

    Nettie was startled from her thoughts realizing what was wrong - it_was_too_quiet. Where are my chickens? The rooster always crowed when a horse pulled in. Her very own guard dog. But there was no welcoming crow. And where were her horses? The bay, the sorrel, the mares - all gone.

    With trepidation, Nettie urged the horse forward. She had assumed Casey was fine. Casey was always fine. Nettie climbed down from the buggy and hurried into the cabin. On the table was a note.

    Dear Aunt Nettie,
    Staying in town with Mrs. Travis. Indians came in and killed the chickens, stole the horses.
    I'm sorry, my fault,
    Casey

    Nettie's hand fluttered to cover her mouth and tears pricked her eyes. For a moment, she had thought . . . Oh dear Lord, she is safe. That is all that matters. Thank you, Lord.

    Nettie rushed out and quickly mounted the buggy urging the horse into a brisk canter to get her to Four Corners.

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

    Mary Travis had not missed a day publishing The Clarion News and today was no different. She walked through the town making deliveries. Folks who knew her well were taken back by the editor's appearance. Not that she wasn't perfectly coifed, appropriately attired, and a pleasant smile on her face; but her porcelain skin had an almost a blue cast and the dark circles under her eyes were pronounced.

    Mary stopped by the jail to leave a paper for the visiting deputy. As she stepped out, he walked toward her from the boarding house. He sure did not cut an impressive figure. He was extremely lean, some might say skinny, about six feet tall, his face was thin and gaunt, his clothes hung from his frame, and he wore a badge - bright as day, over his heart.

    Mary couldn't remember the last time she'd seen a badge in this town. JD had worn one for about two hours until Buck Wilmington had chased him down at the jail as the newly-pinned sheriff and made him hide it under his lapel. By the end of the week, he had tossed it in a drawer. Before that there had been a sheriff and deputy but they ran the day they tried to hang Nathan Jackson. The day Chris Larabee had come to town.

    Chris Larabee could be a show-of-force just by his presence. The deputy from Eagle Bend wouldn't intimidate anyone with his presence. Mary, you know you're not being fair. Yeah, well I don't feel very fair today.

    "Ma'am, I would like to talk to you about the incident with the Indians."

    Mary stiffened, her dander already up. "_If_ it was an Indian incident. I'm not convinced it is."

    "An eye-witness places a band of renegades in the area that morning."

    Mary gritted her teeth. "Renegade - what?"

    The deputy sputtered, "Why Indians, of course."

    "I didn't see them."

    "Did you talk to the eye-witness?" Mary let an element of derision enter her voice.

    "Yes, certainly."

    "Did he see Indians?"

    "Well, of course."

    Mary looked at the deputy skeptically.

    The deputy quickly dissembled. "He saw men in buckskins, whoopin' and hollerin' as they rode through his ranch."

    "He was positive they were actually from Kojay's tribe. Sure they were Indians?"

    "How could he know that?"

    "My point exactly. He doesn't. So might I suggest you alert farmers and ranchers to be cautious? No person has been hurt. Let's be sure it stays that way."

    "Ma'am, I know you are a respected community leader. I think we should get a posse and ride out to the reservation in a show-of-force."

    "I respectfully disagree, deputy." Mary's voiced hardened. "You cannot be sure who is responsible for this. I will not support you in this."

    "As you wish, ma'am. But I'm going to organize the men."

    "Good luck, deputy." The deputy walked off. Mary knew folks would be upset. But riding in a posse to the reservation, Mary doubted there would be many volunteers -- yet. There was only property damage thus far. She knew she needed to keep tensions in check. Mary sure hoped she was right dissuading the deputy to form a posse. Without her, he wouldn't be able to do it. If lives were lost, there would be no stopping a posse, or worse, a vigilante gang.

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

    Yosemite was busy tendin' the bowed tendon of a drummer's horse. At least he hoped that's all it was. Yosemite shook his head sorrowfully; damn fool, kept ridin' lot longer than he should. Horse could barely stand to put weight on it now. Yosemite added liniment to his rag and in a steady, firm massage he continued to work the sore leg.

    The owner of the dun mare came into the barn. He'd been in and out of town all week. He nodded at Yosemite and then looked around the barn almost furtively to see if anyone was about. Apparently satisfied, he approached Yosemite.

    Tipping his hat in greeting, "Got some horses out back want to sell."

    "Always interested in good flesh. Let's go take a look?" Yosemite straightened slowly from his task, never limber it took a long minute before he was straight and start movin' to the back of the barn.

    "Name's Yosemite," Yosemite stuck out a hand.

    The other man didn't take it immediately, "Thompson," he said finally as he grasped Yosemite's hand in a quick handshake.

    Yosemite smiled ruefully, not a right friendly sort. Yosemite stopped up short when he got a look at the horses tied to the rail of the corral. He might not remember the owner but he knew horses and he knew these ones. Yosemite's mind raced at what to do. He decided to play it out for now.

    Yosemite looked carefully at all the horses in the line. The bay and sorrel were particularly fine. "What were you thinking on price?"

    "$400 for the four of them?" Thompson spoke firmly.

    But before the words were even out, Yosemite was shaking his head. "Bay and sorrel are fine, the mares are over 10 years old. I'll give you $200."

    Thompson reached for the lead. "Forget it."

    "$250," Yosemite stopped him.

    Thompson looked assessingly at Yosemite. "Cash now."

    "In five minutes, need to get it from the bank."

    "Do that -- I'll be here."

    Yosemite nodded shortly and with a nonchalance he was far from feeling strode out of the barn. As he looked for that dang deputy from Eagle Bend -- he saw Miss Nettie hurry into town. Yosemite saw her pull up at the newspaper office and sprightly jump down from the buggy hurrying into the office. He could understand her apparent distress; he'd tend the horse for her as soon as he found that deputy -- sheesh, never a lawman around when you need 'em.

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

    "Nettie!" Mary startled as Nettie bustled through the door, obviously agitated. Mary just pointed to the back of the building.

    Nettie gave a brief nod of acknowledgement and hurried through the office to the quarters at the back of the building.

    "Casey, girl." Nettie called out as she entered the kitchen. Casey had been at the stove preparing stew when her aunt called. The spoon dropped with a clatter and she rushed into her aunt's arms.

    "Oh, Aunt Nettie, I'm so glad you're back," Casey exclaimed fervently as she held her aunt in a tight hug.

    Nettie kissed Casey's forehead as she looked up into her face. A frown crossed Nettie's face -- what happened to my little girl? Her face was an unhealthy pale, her hair listless, dark circles framed her eyes, and her cheeks were hollowed attesting to great weight loss from her already small frame. Nettie pulled her into arms again.

    "Have you been sick Casey?"

    Casey just burrowed her head into her aunt's breast, refusing to speak. Nettie just held Casey till some of the tension eased from her body.

    Once Casey calmed, Nettie tried to pull Casey up, "Casey, now, what's happened? I was at the farm?"

    "They killed the chickens and stole the horses. Pulled down the corral fences and generally made a mess," Casey told her aunt.

    "You were there?"

    "Oh no, no, no. I'd been staying in town."

    Nettie frowned. "Why was that?"

    "Well, when JD had to come back to town, I just thought . . ." Casey's explanation was halted by the thundercloud expression on her aunt's face.

    "JD Dunne was at the farm without me there?" Nettie's words were very measured and her anger apparent. Mary came into the kitchen.

    "I . . . well, I asked him to stay." Casey explained weakly, she looked beseechingly over at Mary.

    "How long did he stay, Casey?" Nettie asked gravely.

    "Two nights," Casey admitted quietly.

    "You gave no thought to how inappropriate that was. It was improper and you've shamed us," Nettie could not hide her disappointment in her niece.

    "Shamed us . . . oh, oh, oh," whatever Casey was going to say went unsaid as she started to sob and her breaths came as gasping wheezes.

    Mary rushed over to calm Casey. "Shush Casey, come on, calm down." Mary rocked her in her arms, trying to reassure Casey.

    Mary looked up at Nettie with glistening eyes. "Obviously, there is so much more to this story." Mary continued to rock Casey in her arms till she calmed down.

    Her aunt remained unwavered by Casey's emotional display, her anger was simmering and looking for some outlet. Her foot tapped a steady rhythm.

    As Casey calmed, Nettie looked to Mary for answers. "Were you aware that JD stayed out at the farm?"

    Mary shook her head. "Nettie, please have a seat at the table, you too, Casey. A lot has happened." Mary pulled a chair out for Casey who had stopped crying but was looking intently at the table. Nettie sat with an upright posture so stiff and gentle breeze would crack it, by the thinnest thread she was keeping a hold on her temper.

    "Mary, please tell me what has happened," Nettie managed to ask calmly.

    "Two men from the trail crews cornered and tried to have their way with Casey. Casey fought them off and hid until she could get help." Nettie reached her hand out to Casey. Casey clasped it.

    With that the thread of Nettie's anger broke with the realization that Casey has been attacked. "Oh Casey, I'm so sorry that happened to you," it was Nettie who was feeling ashamed of her reaction.

    "No, you were right. I shouldn't have been in town. If I had listened to you, I wouldn't have been. No, it was my fault," Casey was calm and looked up at her aunt, giving her hand a squeeze. "I'm sorry."

    "Buck Wilmington escorted Casey home," Mary continued. Nettie smiled at that, Buck Wilmington was quite the rogue but he was a good man. "That, in fact, became very important. Mr. Wilmington was accused of raping a woman, Miss Belle Corydon. Casey cleared his name by providing an alibi. Unfortunately, he's left town. Vin Tanner is with him and apparently shot and seriously injured. The others are looking for them."

    Nettie frowned, "Did Buck shoot Vin?"

    "Oh no. It seems there might be a plan to separate the seven and drive them from town. There have been four incidents with Indians. Mr. Delano believes he's having problems with sabotage at the mine. Nathan Jackson was poisoned and almost died." Nettie's eyes widened.

    "Is he alive?"

    "Ezra Standish saved him. He's riding with them now."

    "The gambler?" Nettie asked skeptically. Mary laughed softly as much as the grave situation would allow. Maybe Nettie shouldn't have been surprised -- Vin Tanner wasn't the only Robin Hood in that group.

    "He was actually quite good as a healer," Mary defended Ezra.

    Nettie smiled but when the implications of what Mary told her, she looked over at her niece. "And Casey," Nettie asked with a calm dread.

    "I cannot be sure that she isn't now a target," Mary stated slightly confused, like she had just come to that realization herself.

    "What?" Casey's head bobbed up, shocked at Mary's pronouncement.

    "The attack. Miss Corydon confronting you. The attack at the ranch when you weren't present. All in one week. It seems to stretch credibility that your luck is that bad."

    "Gee, thanks Mary," Casey commented, disgruntled but with a slight smile.

    "Nettie?"

    Nettie nodded her head. "Think it might be best if we stayed in town."

    Mary smiled at that pronouncement. "Please stay with me, I would appreciate the company and your counsel, Nettie."

    "That's settled then." Nettie pulled Casey to her side and kissed her forehead. "I'm sorry I wasn't here for you. I love you, girl. And nothing and no one can change that."

    "I love you, Aunt Nettie." Nettie looked up to see Mary smile as aunt and niece embraced.

    Mary sighed deeply. "Think I need to talk this over with the deputy."

    Nettie frowned, "Deputy?"

    "All the seven are gone. Ezra wired Eagle Bend and they sent a deputy. He's trying to form a posse to ride on the reservation. I tried to dissuade him but I think I need to talk to him more about what's going on."

    "Do you want us to come with you?"

    "No, no, you two catch up. Casey can give you a lot more information on what's been going on -- she did the research." Mary smiled as Casey ducked her head at the complement. "I'll be back in a bit."

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

    Thompson wanted to close the deal. Easy money. Hammersmith was a fool for not taking advantage of such an opportunity. That liveryman had been gone a good five minutes. Come on, old man.

    A man entered the barn, real skinny with a bright shiny star. He nodded at Thompson. "You have horses for sale."

    Thompson relaxed his face, damn. The seven regulators were gone. Shit deputy, why the hell did you decide to be a hero today? It ain't your town.

    The lawman's hand was wavering around the handle of his gun. "Just got, just got a few questions," the deputy half-tripped over the words. "Understood those horses were stolen by Indians."

    Thompson eyes narrowed. "Are you accusing me of something?"

    The deputy's hand rested on his gun. He looked Thompson in the eye.

    Thompson didn't wait to hear more; he drew and shot the deputy down. The deputy didn't even have an opportunity to grasp his gun, never mind drawing it.

    Thompson's instinct was to flee the barn. He could hear voices; it was only a matter of time before they checked the livery. Thompson looked at the fallen body and started to chuckle. He pulled a knife from his boot and slammed into the deputy's chest at the point he took the bullet. The lawman's body jackknifed at the impact then collapsed down. Guess, he's really dead now, thought Thompson.

    Thompson pulled the deputy's gun and pulled the trigger once into a saddle blanket and then placed the gun in the deputy's hand. He pulled a feather from his jacket pocket and let it drift to the floor. He then started to sprint from the barn.

    Thompson slammed into Hammersmith.

    Hammersmith quickly surveyed the scene, "What the f*ck were you thinking? Huh?" Hammersmith grabbed Thompson's lapels and slammed him against a stall door. He slammed him back a second time the air exhaling from Thompson in a whoosh.

    Thompson forcefully pushed Hammersmith back. "It was easy money."

    "Easy money. You're an idiot," Hammersmith spit out disgusted. "With the bonuses Michaels is paying, why take a stupid chance?"

    "You sanctimonious bastard. What's the harm in a little side money? Don't tell me you weren't pocketing the profits from the poker table."

    "That was different," Hammersmith responded grimly.

    "Why are you so worried? They'll think the Indians have gotten even bolder -- attacking in town, killing a lawman."

    Hammersmith looked back over the scene. "You have a point," he grudgingly conceded. "Get out of here and go to the rendezvous. We'll settle this later."

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

    "Here, everybody in here," came the urgent cry from the livery.

    As Mary arrived, a crowd had gathered around the livery. Mary entered to see a blanket pulled over the face of the deputy.

    "How did he die?" Mary asked.

    "Stabbed. He tried to shoot but missed."

    "Looky here," as a man picked up a feather from the livery floor.

    "Indians." The crowd that quickly turned ugly with vows to hang the red bastards.

    "Please everyone, let's just stay calm," Mary pleaded to the crowd.

    "Our only law is dead here. What are we going to do?"

    "We'll wire the fort at Yuma for troops. They are much better equipped than we are to handle this. Please everyone, let's just stay calm and get the help we need," Mary searched the crowd for support of her plan.

    "I agree with, Miz Travis," one rancher concurred and several men nodded.

    "I'll send a wire right now," Mary started to leave the barn.

    "You do that, Miz Travis." One of the local ranchers called out. "Much rather troops handle this. But if they don't come, well then, we'll just have to take care of it ourselves."

    Yosemite entered the barn and saw the deputy, 'Aw hell.'

    Continued...

    Please email DesertSage, Deb, and Joby with any comments.

    Magnificent7.com | Fan Fiction

    webmaster@Magnificent7.com