Titus Roche sat in his room in the Grand Hotel -- it seemed every smudge of a town west of the Mississippi had the gall to call the local hostelry Grand. God, he hated it! He’d be glad when his job was done and he could collect his reward and return East. Not to St. Louis, not since that girl’s death. Silly bitch hadn’t the sense to see that her father had brought it on himself. Roche had offered him the most generous terms for his cooperation. A few numbers altered, that was all. A word dropped here and there in the right circles ... a trifling matter. But in the end, he had refused, and if Roche hadn’t come across the note spelling out his deceit, everything would have been lost. But he had discovered the betrayal, and had bent his efforts to disgrace, scandal, and blackmail. The man’s daughter was tarred with the same brush as her father and cast off publicly by her fiancé. The whole social world of St. Louis knew of it. That she had been found hanging had astonished no one. Her neck had been small, it hadn’t taken her long to die. Roche had quit St. Louis, because of the association with her father. It was better to be safe.

Roche smiled to himself. He had always had a talent for homing in on the weaknesses of other men. All men had their vulnerabilities: greed, lust, cowardice, self-respect. Roche knew how to play on them so gently that his victims -- he preferred to think of them as clients -- were grateful that he was so willing to help them cover their foibles. He did not demand anything so crass as money; no, his payments were made in information. A man paid blackmail money willingly, once. But information paid dividends far beyond financial interests. Those dividends had led to his position with the Western Stage Company, it had given him access to accounts, to government contracts, to shipments of arms and money. And it had made him a player in the destiny of the West.

The era of the stagecoach was rapidly drawing to a close. The advent of the railroad across the vast reaches of the west would drive it to its knees. However, the narrow steel ribbons of track could not reach over the entire terrain -- short-line stage routes would remain profitable for years to come. But there were too many fragmented companies for any one person to take advantage of those profits. Titus Roche and a few other men were stealthily snatching up those routes; taking small, bleeding bites out of the wounded giant of the Western Stage. Time was of the essence, however. Not willing to wait until the Western bled out, his consortium was determined to deal it a death wound by forcing the government to pull out of the lucrative mail and payroll contracts that were keeping it alive.

The plan was simple and effective. One by one, the stage lines were under siege. Hired guns were abundant. Five lines had already fallen; and Davis-Vista City run was one of the last two in the territory and time was tight. Hiring the sniper had cost a bit more, but Red Harper had proved well worth the investment. The first two waylaid stagecoaches had been a gadfly’s sting; annoying and painful. The third brutal attack was meant to draw blood. The next one would sever the tendons of the beast, and then Orrin Travis would use his influence and power to kill the Western outright, leaving Roche and his compatriots to feed on the corpse.

Roche had not left the Judge’s cooperation to chance. Mary Travis was a beautiful woman, but with a penchant for meddling where she was not wanted. Roche had not threatened, oh no. He was far too careful for that. He had laid out the Clarion News and shown Travis that Mary was putting herself in danger. Hadn’t her husband died for less? Roche had heard there were men willing to rid the West of one less crusader ... he might even know of such men. Was it so much to ask for the Judge’s support if it saved Mary Travis’ life? Sweeter than honey and as subtle as poison, that was Roche’s blackmail.

Travis’ regulators were more worrisome than Roche liked to admit; they had to be made ineffective. Larabee was scary-sharp, and that half-tame tracker wafting in and out like smoke was enough to give Roche the heebie-jeebies. The kid sheriff might have done him a favor by getting Larabee and Tanner to chase after the robbers. They would be isolated, more easily eliminated. The others would follow Travis’ orders. Pity the kid would likely die for it, but that was the price one paid for success.

Roche pulled his watch from his pocket. It was past ten. He had an appointment to keep, one that he had made a week ago, but that now was of vital importance. He left his room and used the back stairs, avoiding the front desk. It was not far to the livery stable. Roche stood beneath the lantern for a moment and lit a pipe. A man stepped from the shadows. He was hatless, and the light from the lantern turned his red hair to flame.

Roche nodded. "Good. You came."

"It’s dangerous for me here, Roche." Harper’s pale blue eyes were constantly on the move, as if every shadow held a threat. He stood poised lightly on the balls of his feet, a curiously mobile posture for a man his size. Every movement spoke of an alert sense of place, and the quick reflexes of a man whose life depended on them. Roche wondered how he could remain still for the length of time that was required for his services as a sharpshooter. He was quick and lethal, that was all that mattered.

"I appreciate that, Harper. I wouldn’t have asked you to come here if it weren’t an absolute necessity. I have a new assignment for you."

"Yeah?"

"You ever hear of a shootist called Larabee?"

Harper’s eyes narrowed. "Chris Larabee -- sure I have. Man’s got a reputation as a killer. Heard he was fast."

Roche thought of the movement of Larabee’s hand towards his gun, and nodded. "He is. He’s one of Orrin Travis’ hired guns here in Four Corners. He and an ex-buffalo hunter named Tanner have it in their minds to get in our way. Tanner fancies himself to be something of a marksman."

Harper spat into the straw. "I done buried a lot of men who thought they was better’n me -- faster’n me. I ain’t afraid of Larabee and his man."

Roche’s teeth gleamed in his smile. "Excellent. Because I’ll pay you an extra thousand when you lay Vin Tanner and Chris Larabee dead at my feet."

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

It was a ghost wind; that first breeze stirring in the pre-dawn, like the breath of spirits who had died, sighing over the new day that they would not see. It stirred Vin’s hair, the chill fingers of it brushing the back of his neck and whispering against his cheek. He shivered in his buffalo hide coat as he waited for Chris at the livery stable. A man who didn’t carry a timepiece, he was instinctively sensitive to the passing of the hours, and every beat of his heart was another tick off the deadline.

He had slept very little the night before, spending it in the obsessive cleaning of his weapons, the mare’s leg that lay along his thigh, and the Winchester rifle he carried in a sling on his saddle. Then he had dozed, alert to every sound outside his wagon. He had long ago lost the habit of deep sleep, and there were times when his body ached for it. He supposed staying alive was an even trade-off for a good night’s rest.

He prepared Peso with the same thorough attention to detail that he gave his guns. He made sure that the gelding’s shoes were firmly nailed on his hooves, and paid for that effort with a bruising nip on his shoulder. He looked for any small wounds that could fester, checked him for soundness in the long cannon bones. Peso endured the inspection with poor grace; if he had stood patiently, Vin would have been worried. When he had finished with Peso, he moved on to his tack. Frayed reins and worn girths could cost a man dearly on the trail. He went over every inch of leather, his fingers sensitive to every scar and scrape.

He was just finishing when Chris came into the stable. He watched Vin in silence for a moment, then moved on to his own inspection. His taut economy of motion was that of a man with a mind to get past an unpleasant task. He exchanged a wry glance with Vin. "Ready?"

"Ain’t like I got a choice," Vin said and led Peso into the pale light outside. He was surprised that they were not alone. Nathan, Buck, JD, and most surprisingly of all, Mary Travis were there. "So y’all couldn’t sleep, neither?" he drawled, hoping to hide the foolish pleasure that their company gave him.

Nathan stepped forward and handed Chris a leather satchel. "Some medical supplies. I ain’t never knowed one of you t’ get by without bleedin’."

Chris lashed the satchel to his saddle. "Thanks, Nathan." He turned to Buck. "You watch out for the others, hear?"

"I will."

"JD -- don’t you get any notions in that head of yours about ridin’ shotgun until we figure things out. That tin star ain’t thick enough to stop a bullet, I don’t care what kind of pressure Roche brings to bear. Mary?"

Her head came up a little defiantly, certain that he was about to place strictures on her. He didn’t, but his concern warmed her. She hadn’t yet figured out what there was between them; she looked into his green eyes, wondering if the answer was there, and found them quite unfathomable. His hand just brushed her sleeve in a gesture that was as close to a caress as he would allow himself, and she caught his arm before he could withdraw it. "Be careful, the both of you." She felt the hard, spare muscles of Chris’ forearm tense for a moment before he pulled away from her touch.

"Yes, ma’am." Vin tipped his hat in the way men had of acknowledging a woman’s worries whether or not they would be heeded, and was rewarded with a tremulous smile. Mary darted one last look at Chris as her cheeks warmed. Then he turned to his horse, and he and Vin mounted and headed out of Four Corners.

The small knot of well-wishers stood looking after their retreating backs until they were past seeing. Buck laid a sustaining hand on Mary’s shoulder. "I’ll walk you to the Clarion, if you like, Mary."

She knew it wasn’t that he was afraid she would come to harm, but a rather a characteristically gallant offer of comfort that she appreciated in the cold light of dawn. "Thank you, Buck. I’d like that." As she walked, trying to match his lanky strides with her own, she thought this would be the longest twenty-four hours of her life. She didn’t think she could bear it, if not for knowing they all felt the same.

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

They stopped first at the site of the robbery, where Vin led Chris to the sniper’s covey and told him everything the small clues had revealed. When he mentioned the red hair, Chris became suddenly still. "Wait -- tell me again," he said, terse and suddenly alert.

"Fella was taller’n heavier than me. Rolled cigarettes, was right-handed, and had red hair. Picked up his shells, too." He gave Chris a hard look. "Remind you of someone?"

"Red Harper." Larabee said. "Shit, Vin. We just landed ourselves in a heap of trouble."

"You know him?"

"Not face to face. He was up in Lawrence, used to work for one of the range bosses up there -- forcin’ farmers off the land. They say he killed twenty men without being seen. Just picked ‘em off as they rode past. He’d moved on by the time --" Chris fell silent, and Vin waited, wondering if he would continue. " ... by the time I left Kansas." He drew a breath. "And he’s fast, Vin."

Vin nodded. He and Chris didn’t talk about the past; it held hurts too painful for either man to share except in brief flashes of intimacy that revealed how deep those scars ran. He sank down to a crouch and ran his fingers over the grass where the assassin had lain, imagining the hollow still held the warmth of his body. "Good thing there’s two of us, then," he said, squinting up at Larabee.

Chris was staring into the distance, and thinking about killing. As fast and as deadly as Vin was -- and Chris knew him to be both -- he did not have the killer’s soul that Chris harbored in his breast. He suspected that beneath Tanner’s homespun, laconic exterior, lay a fierce intelligence that reveled more in the hunt than the kill. He had never seen him pursue death for pleasure, though there were times when he had recognized a look in those blue eyes that seemed to comprehend that particular bent, as if he had lived in that place and moved beyond it. Chris had killed with cold, vicious intent, but he could not say that it gave him pleasure. He knew men who got hard with the thrill of taking life, and he had a nasty feeling that Red Harper was the sort to find a rush of gratification in watching a man die.

"Are you ready to hunt?" Chris asked.

Vin nodded, his eyes already seeking the thread that would lead him to the lair of the criminals responsible for the robberies and murders. "We’ll walk ‘til I pick up a trail. Damn, but I wish I had those two days back!" Frustration roughened his voice as he looped Peso’s reins around his wrist. He’d followed colder trails than this one, but hardly ever with so much at stake. His hope was that the culprits had been over-confident and careless in their flight from the scene; and eventually, he was proved right. After an hour of walking, begrudging every minute he had to spend on foot, he found what he was looking for: a convergence of four separate riders. Bruised grasses and stirred pools of dust betrayed their passage. Vin stood looking westward, where the trail led. There was a cold knot of dread building in his gut. He waited for Chris to come alongside him, and he saw the same unhappy draw to the gunslinger’s mouth that he felt on his own. "Well, pard. I reckon our questions have been answered," he said softly. "Don’t see as we have a choice other than to ride down there."

Chris did not need to ask where down there was. "I ain’t lettin’ you go into Purgatorio alone."

"You have to, Chris."

"No." Larabee shook his head. "I’ll lay low, but I won’t let you into that nest of vipers without back-up."

Vin sighed in exasperation. "Hell, Larabee. I ‘ve been there b’fore an’ come out alive."

"You don’t know Red Harper."

"Well, he don’t know me, either!" He swung into Peso’s saddle. "Give me two hours, Chris. I ain’t plannin’ on movin’ in. I’ll meet you at those rocks," he jerked his head towards a stand of boulders in the near distance. The stubborn line of his mouth and the set of his angular chin brooked no argument, even if Chris had any hopes of mounting one.

"Two hours, partner. And I’ll be ridin’ in as the last second ticks off."

Vin smiled, his eyes lighting. "I’ll hold ya to it, partner." He loosened the Winchester in its scabbard and let his jacket swing free of the mare’s leg on his thigh. A man wasn’t shy about showing his weapons when he rode into Purgatorio. The laughter that had lit his face died, and Chris saw the steel come into him; straight-spined and predatory. He spurred Peso and was gone like a falcon in the dive.

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

Ezra was losing badly. It didn’t often happen, but as with all gamblers, his lucky streak seemed to have run its course. He looked around at the sly faces of his opponents, and figured he was done. He was about to try one last bluff, when JD’s appearance saved him from losing half of what he had won the night before.

He strode in as purposefully as a boy his age could stride, and then stopped in front of the poker table. "Ezra, I know you don’t like being interrupted, but I --"

Ezra’s eyes blazed at the opportunity to escape with his shirt intact. "Mr. Dunne, Mr. Dunne ... Now, I have been known to take umbrage at unwelcome intrusions, but I assure you, if you are here in your capacity as the sheriff, I am at your disposal." He folded his cards and smiled at his fellow gamesters. "Gentlemen, I must quit your fair presence. Duty calls." He rose from the table and laid an arm around JD’s shoulders. "What can I do for you, son?"

JD pulled a paper from his pocket. "This came in from St. Louis. From your mother. I figured you’d be looking for it."

Ezra plucked it from JD’s fingers. "Indeed." He scanned it quickly, surprised by the length. Maude had not spared her words. Then his eyes darkened and he read it again, more slowly. "My, this is an ugly tale to be sure. When my mother goes diggin’ for dirt, she does not hesitate soil her fingers, I’ll grant you that. Have you seen Judge Travis?"

JD shook his head. "No. He n’ that Roche fella rode out earlier. Something about the taking a look at the road outside Four Corners."

Ezra considered for a moment. "That might be for the best. How about Mary? Is she at the Clarion?"

"I reckon so. Buck walked her over there this morning after Chris and Vin rode out."

Erza clapped JD on the arm. "Thank you, Mr. Dunne. I think I will pay that dear lady a call."

"Ezra! Wait -- what does the wire say?" He took off after the gambler, stumbling in his haste to catch up with him as he walked quickly towards the newspaper office.

Ezra scarcely heard him. His mind was tied up with Maude’s revelations. He had sensed a feline delight in his mother’s tone -- like a stalking cat. Maude might be a self-involved, mercenary con artist, but she had an unerring sense of justice and spared no malice in meting it out where she felt it necessary. She detested men who took advantage of women, physically, emotionally, financially. Ezra didn’t think he had much of a conscience of his own, but that trait had been bred into him as surely as he was his mother’s son. Roche’s sins might not be criminal here in Four Corners -- however, his actions were an eloquent testimony to the sort of man he was. And perhaps reason enough in themselves for Travis to separate himself from this business with the Western Stage once and for all before any more lives were lost.

He opened the door to the Clarion and peered in. "Mary?"

She came out of her back room, wiping her hands on a rag. When she saw him, her eyes opened wide in alarm. "Ezra, is something wrong? Have you heard from Chris?" Her concern for the gunslinger was evident, and Ezra wondered what it was about those two disparate souls that spoke to each other. It was a fleeting thought, and not one he had time to ponder on at the moment.

"No, I have not heard from Mr. Larabee, or Mr. Tanner. But I have received a wire from my mother. Did Mr. Larabee tell you that Maude was doing some investigation of Mr. Roche’s background?"

‘No, he didn’t." Mary looked troubled. "I wasn’t aware that there was anything to be investigated."

Ezra handed Mary the wire. Like Ezra, she read it once quickly, then raised troubled eyes to his, before she read it again. "It’s unsavory, Ezra. But hardly evidence. People can say a lot of ugly things. Particularly when money and scandal are involved."

"Maude would not waste her time on mere gossip. Trust me, if there is any truth to that story, she’s found it out."

"I don’t know ..." Mary shook her head. "To suggest that Roche drove the girl to suicide -- how can you prove something like that? And even if you could, what does that have to do with the Western Stage? What does it have to do with Orrin?"

"Surely a woman with your contacts knows someone in St. Louis who can verify that information," he suggested. When she still looked doubtful, he played his ace. "Chris Larabee is dependin’ on the truth, Mary. Roche left St. Louis not three days after that girl died. And ... look what the girl’s father told Maude -- there is a lot of money changin’ hands, according to him, and Roche is right in the middle of the action."

"Speculation is not a crime!" Mary exclaimed.

"But murder is!" Ezra answered back, sounding more like Chris than his usual detached self. "My Lord, Mary! If you don’t want to believe Maude, believe me! Roche is as crooked as they come, and no one -- not you, not Judge Travis, not the almighty Western Stage Company -- is beyond fallin’ prey to that man."

His words frightened and angered her. "Orrin wouldn’t--"

"What wouldn’t Judge Travis do to protect you and Billy from the predations of a creature like Roche?"

The color left Mary’s face. "Ezra, am I in danger? Is Billy?" Every mother’s fear was in her voice. "Is that why Buck Wilimington has been walking past my window every fifteen minutes since dawn?"

Ezra shook his head. "I don’t know, Mary. But I assure you that Chris Larabee would not have left this town if you were in any sort of peril. As for Mr. Wilmington, I’m sure he is just bein’ his gallant self in Mr. Larabee’s absence."

Mary’s chin came up. "I’m not going to let Titus Roche harm my father-in-law, or my son." She reached for the shawl hanging at the back of her chair.

"Mary, wait! You can’t go chargin’ after them alone."

She paused, and laughed softly. "Ezra, I was going to the telegraph office to wire a friend of mine who works for the newspaper in St. Louis. I haven’t quite reached the point where I would ride off and confront that man with nothing more than Maud’s words."

"I’m goin’ with you."

"That isn’t necessary, Ezra."

He clapped his hat on his head. "I shudder to think on my fate at Mr. Larabee’s hands if any harm were to come to you, dear lady. This is an entirely selfish gesture on my part, I assure you." It wasn’t. He knew it, and so did Mary. She might be going to face Roche armed with the truth, but it was heartening to know that she would have cold iron on her side as well.

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

Purgatorio was the sort of place where men’s names were not spoken aloud, but whispered with fearful asides and meaningful glances. Half the denizens of the town had prices on their heads, and the other half were only too willing to betray them to collect those bounties. Thieves, drunkards, whores, murderers ... and the most successful businesses were the saloons and the undertaker. You could always smell fresh sawn pine when you rode past that establishment.

Vin felt the weight of stares on him as he rode into town. Heard the whispers running through the crowd, and felt an uncomfortable itch between his shoulder blades. His reputation was about the only shield he had in this place, and he made sure that his weapons were cleared and his face utterly impassive when he reined in at the saloon. He slid from Peso’s back, and with his Winchester lightly balanced on his shoulder, went from the bright street into the semi-dark barroom.

He stood at the long bar. The mirror he faced was dingy and cracked, but it served the purpose of giving him a view of the room when his back was turned. "Whiskey," he ordered, and the scrawny, scared-lookin’ man behind the bar set a bottle and a glass in front of him. Vin fixed him with a cold, blue stare. "I’m looking for Jake Esteban. He still work here?"

"Later tonight," the man squeaked.

Vin’s brows drew level. "Where’s his rooms?"

The man shook his head, "Don’t know." But his eyes shifted nervously to the upper hall, and Vin nodded. "’Preciate your cooperation, Mister." He picked up the whiskey bottle and was gone before the man could protest.

There were three doors facing onto the hall, and he chose the one that was the most scarred. He rested the butt of the Winchester on the floor and knocked. "Jake -- it’s Tanner. Open up."

He heard movement, and stepped aside from a clear shot by the occupant of the room. The door opened a crack, and a single, dark eye looked into his. The creases around that eye deepened as recognition struck, and the door opened a fraction more. "You alone?" Esteban rasped.

"Fer now. I need ta talk. Let me in b’fore someone decides I’d make a good trophy." He jammed his boot in the door in case Esteban changed his mind, and forced his slim body through the opening. "Good thing I ain’t gained weight, there, Jake," he grinned. "I’d a thought you didn’t want t’let me in."

"Tanner, you ain’t exactly welcome in town after you and that gunslinger shot up the place last time you was here."

"And it’s real nice to see you, too." The room was dim, but Vin could see that Jake Esteban was unarmed, and smiling. "I ain’t gonna stay long. I jist need some information, and I figured you t’be the man who had it."

Jake grunted. "Let me get dressed. And put that rot-gut down. I got some tequila in the chest there. You drink that whiskey and you’ll be half-blind by sunrise."

Vin poured a glass of the pale liquor and drank it slowly as he waited for Jake to pull on his trousers and hitch his suspenders over his beefy shoulders. He and Esteban went back more than a few years. Jake had once run a trading post, and had befriended the skinny, silent youth who had come to trade buffalo hides and Indian blankets. He hadn’t questioned why a blue-eyed white boy was living with the Comanche, or why he drifted in and out of the post like a wisp of smoke whenever other folks came in, or why he vanished for months at a time. The day Vin had appeared during a hold-up, gunned down three men, and saved Esteban’s woman from being raped, Jake had sworn that if Vin ever needed anything, all he’d have to do was ask. It had been a shock to find Jake in Purgatorio after years of wandering, and re-acquaintance had been uneasy for Vin, used to betrayal. But it seemed those bonds still held.

Esteban poured his own tequila and sat on the edge of the bed, looking at Tanner. He was still slight, but the breadth of his shoulders spoke of a man, not a stripling. He stood with a dangerous grace, and his blue eyes were hard and steady as he waited for Esteban to settle. Jake tipped the tequila down his throat. "What do you want, compadre?"

"You heard anyone talkin’ about the robberies on the Western Stage?"

"Maybe." Jake’s eyes were wary. "You still working for the law?"

"Would it matter if I was? ‘Cause if it does, I’ll walk outta here right now." The soft voice didn’t waver. "I ain’t aimin’ t’make any trouble fer ya, Jake. But there’s lives at stake, here -- friends I made that I don’t wanta lose to these bastards. If there’s anything you kin tell me, I’d be obliged."

Jake rose and paced the small room. "I don’t know what you want me to say. This place ain’t exactly shy of men who’re willin’ to do that kind of work. Haven’t heard any names in particular."

Vin sighed. "You see a man here -- tall, heavy-built. Red hair. Goes by the name, Red Harper?"

Jake stopped cold in his pacing. From his expression, Vin knew that he had hit a nerve that vibrated clear through Esteban’s body. And he saw something in Jake that shook him deeply. Fear. The same as he had seen in Orrin Travis, and this in a man who lived in Purgatorio. He reckoned he had his answer.

"You n’ me go back a few years, Jake. You know I wouldn’t be askin’ you if it wasn’t important. He’s kilt two innocent men, already. One of ‘em was pa to four kids."

"Shit." Esteban ran a thick hand through his hair. "Get outta here, Vin and forget about Red Harper. You wanna live, don’t you?"

Vin smiled. "’Bout as much as anyone else, I reckon. But I gave my word, and I ain’t about to go back on that now."

"You‘ve got more guts than sense, amigo." There was a grudging admiration in Esteban’s voice. "Y’always did. I ain’t forgot what you did that day."

Vin took advantage of Esteban’s gratitude before he could harden his resolve to pose a question that instinct had prompted. "You ever see Harper talkin’ to another man -- big, dark-haired. City clothes and manners?" He was startled when Jake nodded.

"Yeah, I seen him."

"When?"

"About three -- no, four days ago."

Titus Roche. Damn, Harper was Roche’s hired gun! Elation burned through him as he hefted his Winchester. "Thanks, Jake. I c’n sneak out the back way if it’ll make you feel easier." He looked over his shoulder at Esteban. Jake’s back was turned, his heavy shoulders bowed.

"Harper’s a killer, Vin. Fast, sharp. Cold."

"Yeah, I know. But I ain’t goin’ into this alone. Not like the old days."

"The old days?" Jake faced him. "Back in the old days, you used to take my advice. Get outta Purgatorio, Vin, before you’re bein’ fitted for a pine box. I don’t want to see you dead."

There was nothing more to be said, now that Jake had answered the questions that needed to be asked. Vin tapped the brim of his hat. "You take care, Jake. I’ll be seein’ y’around."

"I hope so, amigo. Even if it’s to say good-bye."

Vin went down the back stairs, cautiously working his way to the front of the saloon where Peso was tethered. As calmly as if he had nothing more serious to do than take a leisurely ride, he left Purgatorio.

A few minutes later, the scrawny bartender came out of the saloon and pointed down the road Vin had taken. He spoke to the man at his side. "That long-haired fella went that way, Mr. Harper. Heard his name was Tanner, Vin Tanner."

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

Chris sat in the shadow of the rocks, feeling the chill of evening slowly draw the warmth from the boulder at his back. He was not prone to nervous twitches; a man could get killed by sending off signals like that, so he stayed motionless, seeming as still and as quiet as the twilight, despite the nerves jumping in the pit of his stomach. He’d been on edge ever since Titus Roche strode into the jail with Orrin Travis. Nothing had played out right -- not Titus’ story, not the murder of the two Western employees, not the appearance of Red Harper. He felt in his bones that those events were all related, and the key was just beyond his grasp. Larabee didn’t like anything being beyond his grasp. Made his fingers itchy.

The sound of hoofbeats brought him alert and tense into a crouch, his gun ready in his hand, his eyes narrowed. Tanner. He stayed hidden until Vin reined in, then he slowly came up out of his stance. "Thought I’d have to go in after you."

Vin slid from the saddle and brushed the dust off his clothing. He sank down into a cross-legged sit, bending forward to ease his aching back. "Lord, I’m stiff as a broom handle. Must be gittin’ old as you, Larabee."

Chris gave Tanner an amused glance. "Reckon y’are. Can’t take bein’ in the saddle for eighteen hours a day -- next thing you’ll be sittin’ in a rockin’ chair." He handed Vin a canteen and watched as he drained nearly half of it, drinking in deep thirsty gulps. When he finished, he wiped his arm across his mouth and fixed Chris with a penetrating look.

"We got trouble, Chris. Talked to Jake Esteban. Told me that he saw Red Harper dealin’ with a man who sounded an awful lot like Roche."

Chris should have been surprised, but wasn’t. The tumblers of his mind all clicked into place and the door opened. "Roche is behind all of this."

Vin nodded. "Don’t know the whys n’ wherefores, but it seems so. Shit, Chris. We shoulda seen it all along."

"Maybe. But I reckon if a man like Orrin Travis was taken in, then we’ve got good company." He looked at Vin, still sitting and looking as if he was about played out. "You wanna camp here? Ain’t much use in tryin’ t’find our way in the dark."

"Na, I kin ride, Chris. Might be better if’n we git outta here. Hair on my neck is risin’."

Chris’ eyes narrowed. "You followed?"

A smile touched the corner of Vin’s mouth. "Wouldn’t put it past anybody in Purgatorio. Accordin’ t’Jake, we ain’t exactly welcome in these parts. And five hunnert bucks talks loud."

Larabee didn’t like the idea of pushing so far beyond their strength and with darkness at their backs, but he didn’t see that they had much choice. He convinced Tanner that five minutes more rest wouldn’t make much difference before they both mounted and rode out of the shelter of the rocks.

They traveled as quickly as they dared in the twilight. As full night fell, a pale moon rose over the landscape. Chris was grateful for the illumination, even though it made it easier for any enemy eyes to see them as well. He glanced at Vin. The tracker’s hat was pushed off his head; no need for the sheltering brim in this cool light. The moonlight leached color from his face, silvered his cheekbones and shadowed the severe angles of jaw and chin. The tension he saw there made Chris shiver.

"We bein’ followed?" he asked Vin.

"Don’t know." Tanner’s blue eyes were scanning the horizon. "Not followed, but somethin’ ain’t right, Chris. I kin feel it." His gaze suddenly sharpened and in one of those intuitive seconds between life and death, he yanked hard on Peso’s bridle, driving the gelding into Chris’ horse. A shot rang out and Chris grunted and reeled in the saddle, his body falling forward against his mount’s neck. Vin grabbed the reins before the startled horse could bolt, and with all the strength in his wiry frame, hauled Peso, Chris’ horse, and Larabee across a hundred yards of scrub and gravel into the shadows of a stand of mesquite trees and boulders.

Semi-conscious, Larabee’s reflexes somehow held him on his horse until Vin settled both mounts down, and was off Peso’s back. He grabbed the gunslinger around the waist and pulled him from the saddle, dragging him into a deeper pool of shade. Another shot skipped across the dirt, making Peso dance. Vin dashed out, retrieved both horses, and rolled back into the cover of the thicket as two more shots rang out, kicking up dust and stone splinters. He reached for the mare’s leg at his thigh and lay prone, waiting for the flurry of gunfire that never came.

Shit. He lay flat for a few more minutes, one hand steadying the gun, the other clutching Larabee’s shirt. Finally, he drew a breath and lowered the gun. "Chris?" he whispered. "Chris!"

A faint moan. In the darkness, Vin couldn’t see where Larabee had been shot. Didn’t help that he was wearing his customary black, either. Vin ran his hands over the gunslinger’s upper body, and paused when he felt the warm blood drenching his left shoulder. He turned him and found a corresponding wetness in the back. The bullet had passed through. Vin gently slapped Larabee’s cheek. "C’mon, cowboy. Wake up -- Larabee!" He risked crossing the few feet to the horses for a canteen of water and the medical kit Nathan had provided. He yanked the bandanna from his throat and soaked it, squeezing a few drops of water on Chris’ lips and forehead.

The blond head moved restlessly, and green eyes opened, a bit dazed but otherwise lucid. "You just call me cowboy?" he whispered roughly.

"Knew that’d git yer dander up," Vin grinned, relieved that his friend was sensible. "Ya been shot, Chris. Need t’take a look see at how bad it is."

Chris winced. "Shit, I c’n tell ya it hurts."

Vin’s mouth quirked in a grim smile. "Reckon I knew that." He opened the placket of Chris’ shirt and slipped it back to reveal the wound. "Ya want good news, er bad news?" he said after he had finished his assessment.

"Got a choice?"

"Good news is the bullet went through clean. Bad news is yer bleedin’ more’n ya should be. Lay still n’I’ll patch ya up."

He rustled through the leather pouch. Bandages, ointments, some sort of astringent powder that Vin knew Nathan used to stanch blood flow, a flask of what the healer termed *medicinal* brandy. Vin gave Larabee a hard look. "I’m gonna pour a few drops a’ this inta the wound. Brace yerself."

Larabee reached up and took the flask in his hand. "Do me more good this way." He took several deep swallows and handed the brandy back to Vin. "Now I’m ready." His eyes were glittering even in the shadows. Vin nodded curtly and tipped the liquor into the wound, front and back. Chris’ breath hissed out in a foul curse, and then he fell silent and still, not unconscious, but intent on bearing up under Vin’s rapid, but effective treatment.

"Sorry, Chris. I ain’t got Nathan’s touch, " Vin apologized as he packed the wound with the powders and lint, binding it in place with a long strip of linen.

Chris’s eyes crinkled. "Reckon I c’d say th’same." His words were slightly slurred; pain, blood loss, and Nathan’s brandy all taking their toll. He tried to quell his shivering, and failed. Vin went to Peso and pulled the Winchester out of its scabbard and a blanket from the back of his saddle. He found Chris’ poncho stowed on his saddle and carried it back to where Larabee lay, covering him with it. He shook out the blanket and tucked it close around Larabee’s body. With his hand on his Winchester, he lay next to his friend, determined to wait the night out.

The moonlight turned the rocky landscape into a phantasm of shadows and light. It was too bright for Vin’s liking; if not for the shelter of the rocks he and Chris would have been sitting ducks for Red Harper. Vin didn’t doubt for an instant that he was the sniper. Warn’t no bounty hunter out fer five hunnert bucks. Question was, how patient was Harper? Was he gonna lie in wait for dawn, or take his chances another time? Vin’s brow furrowed. He knew what he would do ... he’d wait for dawn, but then he was a patient man. He sensed the Harper was not. Cigarettes gave him away -- more ways ‘n one, Vin figured. Man was a fool not to think about the tells tobacco left. Lucifers, ashes, the smell of it on a man’s clothes; the drift of smoke that’d give him away in bright sunlight. No, Harper was a good shot, but he wasn’t no tracker, and Vin smiled in the moonlight and slid his spine lower down the rock at his back.

Chris had stopped shivering, and that he was sleeping at all was a telling sign that he was hurtin’. Otherwise he’d be crouched next to Vin watching with the same intensity. Vin heard the horses moving as they settled, too. Peso was as good as a sixth sense when it came to scentin’ trouble. Vin wouldn’t sleep, but he allowed his body to rest at ease, and his mind to roam where it willed. He hoped Larabee would be up to riding in the morning, because they couldn’t sit where they were and stay alive.

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

Red Harper knew he had hit one of the two men -- he’d seen him reel in the saddle. It had looked bad, but it wasn’t a clean kill, the darkness and the quick movement of the other rider had prevented that. Didn’t matter to him if it was Larabee or Tanner he’d wounded. Only problem was he had to finish the job if he wanted that bonus from Roche. He could stay where he was, wait for dawn, and pick them off then, or he could get the advantage of complete surprise and head for Four Corners. The idea of killing them on home ground was appealing. Two clean shots. He’d contracted with Roche to take down the stage between Vista City and Four Corners. The stage, Larabee, and Tanner. It was all in a day’s work; and when that day was over, he’d be rich. Harper moved from his hiding place, retrieved his horse, and set out for Four Corners.

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

Tracking the passage of the hours through the movement of the stars, Vin waited out the night. Chris slept heavily for a while, but eventually became more restless, whether from pain, or his natural inclination to sleep lightly, Vin couldn’t say. He watched Chris’ features shift from one expression to another, and wondered if his own face was as expressive in slumber. Lord, he hoped not ... Finally, when Chris seemed to be lost in a distressing dream, Vin woke him with a touch on the side of his neck. He sure didn’t want to startle the gunslinger awake. A man could regret doin’ that, Vin knew. It was another trait he shared with Larabee.

Chris’ eyes opened, and he moistened his lips. "Something wrong?"

"You was about t’wake the dead, so I figgered I’d better stop ya." He passed over a canteen of water. "Better have some a’ this. An’ if yer up ta ridin’ we should head on back ta Four Corners b’fore Harper starts shootin’ agin."

Chris grimaced as he shifted his shoulder experimentally. "I can ride. Not too far, or too long, but I reckon I’ll make it. Besides, we got what we came for."

Vin laughed softly. "Think it’ll be that simple, huh?"

"Simple as hell, partner." Using Vin’s shoulder as a prop, he levered himself upright. Vin rose and set his arm around Chris’ waist.

"You sure ‘bout this?" he asked, not liking Chris’ pallor or the way the sweat had started on his forehead.

"You sayin’ I got a choice?" Chris raised a blond brow. "C’mon, let’s ride."

Vin’s misgivings were clanging like warning bells, but he nodded. Wasn’t much else he could do; they had no food, water would be a problem, and this was no place for a wounded man. He gave Chris a boost into the saddle, and they moved out.

After an hour, Chris knew he had spoken too soon. He felt a clammy moisture saturating the bandage on his shoulder, and a growing chill that spread from the wound clear down to his fingers. He bit down hard and kept his face slightly averted to hide his expression from Vin. The rising sun seemed to be growing dimmer rather than brighter, as if a veil of fog were overlaying its rays. He felt tired enough to drop from the saddle ...

"Larabee!" Vin grabbed his good arm. "You alright, there?" His blue eyes bored into Chris’. The gunslinger was pale and sweating. Vin pushed back the corner of his poncho and saw a darker stain glistening against the fabric of his shirt. "Dammit, yer bleedin’ agin, why d’ya keep it quiet?"

"You’d have stopped?" Chris asked huskily, one brow slanting up.

"Long ‘nough t’ patch you up. Hell," Vin eyed the sky overhead. The sun was risin’ on seven o’clock, he figured. "C’n ya hang on fer another hour?"

"If I have to. Ridden in worse shape ‘n this." But his voice sounded woefully thin to Tanner’s ears.

The tracker reached into the leather saddle bag for the brandy flask, and opened it. "Drink this. Maybe it’ll keep ya goin’. I ain’t aimin’ t’leave ya behind, Larabee, so don’t think it."

"Ain’t aimin’ on being left behind, ‘less I’m dead, Tanner."

In truth, Vin doubted Chris’d remember much about that last hour. Vin had ridden hurt plenty of times, and knew it took all a man’s strength just to stay in the saddle. Hating the necessity, but understanding the need, he slowed the pace of their ride as much as he dared; ride fast, and Larabee wouldn’t keep the pace, ride slow, and he’d likely bleed t’death. Hell.

By they time they rode into Four Corners, Chris was listing in the saddle, and Vin was edging Peso as close to Chris’ mount as the stubborn gelding would stand so he could steady Larabee with his arm. Two figures on the boardwalk, silhouetted against the glare of the morning sun, turned toward the sound of the horses and Vin breathed a prayer of relief. Mary Travis and Buck. Buck broke into a lope, reaching them just as Chris’ eyes rolled in his head, and he slipped sideways right into the big man’s waiting arms.

Mary’s hand went to her breast, as if to still her heart. Chris’ long form lay lax in Buck’s hold, his blond hair flopping off his forehead, his right arm dangling. There was a dark stain seeping through the woven poncho he wore. Aghast, Mary looked up at Vin.

"What happened?"

Vin swung down from Peso’s saddle. "He was shot. We ‘se about five miles out of Purgatorio --"

"Purgatorio!"

Vin gave her a twisted smile. "Ya wanna catch a snake, ya gotta get ‘em in their pit," he said, as if that would explain everything. "Anyways, it happened last night. It was too dark fer us t’ ride in, so we started out this mornin’. I’s hopin’ we’d get here b’fore Chris bled through them bandages I put on him last night." He sighed. "It ain’t too bad, Mary. Seen worse." His slight body took on a pronounced lean. He was suddenly weary, wished he could lay himself down, and knew he could not. "I’ll git Nathan," he said, pulling himself upright.

"No." Mary took his arm. "You’ll go inside and have some coffee. Buck can get Nathan as soon as he settles Chris in." She looked up at Wilmington. "Take him to my room."

"Mary?" Buck queried.

Vin saw her cheeks bloom with roses, and thought it was a shame Larabee had t’be unconscious and miss that sight. She just smiled. "I don’t think he’d fit in Billy’s cot, Buck. Go on, take him up." Buck went inside, Mary close at his heels. She turned back to look at him. "I’ll be down in a minute, Vin."

Torn between his desire to be with Chris, and his own need for sustenance, Vin lingered in the doorway. In the end he decided Chris had more folks fussin’ over him than was good fer a body, and wandered into Mary’s kitchen. There was a pot of coffee on the stove. He touched the side of the pot. Warm, not hot, and when he poured it into his cup, it was grainy with grounds. He wasn’t inclined to be picky. He put two spoons of sugar in it to counteract the acid, waited for the grounds to settle, and took a deep, grateful swallow. He closed his eyes to ease the ache behind them, feeling heavy and bone-tired through the rest of him. He’d have to find some resources down deep t’ keep goin’. Coffee would only git him so far.

"Vin, are you hurt?"

Mary startled him to awareness. He blinked at her. "What?"

"There’s blood on your jacket."

He looked down in surprise. "Naw, guess it’s Chris’ from when I drug him off his horse."

"As soon as I take this water up to Buck, I’ll make you some fresh coffee. That must be like mud by now."

"That’s mighty kind of you, Mary, but I cain’t stay. I’s hopin’ the judge’d be here. There’s somethin’ he needs ta hear. You know where he went?"

"No. Possibly with Titus Roche."

"Shit." His cheeks flamed. "Sorry, Mary. But that’s what I’s afraid of."

The kettle on the stove began seething as the water came to a boil. Mary moved it off the heat. "I’ll be right back, Vin. Don’t you go anywhere. I think I need to know what you were going to tell Orrin."

"Mary, I ain’t got time --"

"You do." She gave him such a stern look that he subsided meekly. When she returned, she cut off a slice of bread and set it in front of him, along with butter and a crock of honey. When he moved it aside, she moved it right back in front of him. "You need to eat, Vin."

Because she wouldn’t back down, he spread butter on his bread and drizzled honey over it. He had a sweet tooth, he was near starving, and he knew that she was right; if he didn’t fill the hole in his belly, he’d be falling off Peso. While he ate, she brewed up another pot of coffee.

"Tell me what’s going on, Vin," she said when he was on his third slice of bread, and his second cup of fresh coffee. There was some color in his face again, and despite the shadows beneath his eyes, they were alert, without the dulling fatigue she had noticed when he first rode in.

He finished chewing his bread and drained the last of his coffee before he spoke. "I went to Purgatorio, Mary. Man there I c’n trust, told me ‘bout a gunslinger, name of Red Harper. Seem’s him ‘n Roche is mighty cozy."

"This Red Harper is the man who shot Chris?"

He nodded, his eyes grave. "He shot them Western fellas, too. He’n Roche are a team. An’ whatever shit they’re inta --"

"Orrin is involved with, too?" Mary shook her head. "That’s impossible! Orrin would never do anything illegal, Vin -- you know that!"

"Ain’t a matter of doin’ it willingly. That’s why I gotta git goin’, Mary." He rose, steady on his feet now that he’d been fed and was relieved of the burden of Larabee’s care. "You know where they might’a gone?"

"Vista City?" Mary guessed with a helpless shrug. "That’s where the stage line begins."

He settled his hat on his head. "Take care of Chris, Mary. Let me take care of the judge."

"And yourself," she said. "Take care of yourself, Vin." She gave his arm a quick squeeze before he touched the brim of his hat in his customary salute. He was about to leave when Buck came down the stairs.

"Vin, he’s askin’ for ya. Mary, I’m goin’ for Nathan, now. Chris is gonna be fine." Buck grinned at the tracker. "Said ya did a damn fine job of doctorin’, Vin."

"Hell, I jist got him likkered up on Nathan’s brandy, so’s he didn’t know what I’se doin’." Vin tipped his hat to Buck, his relief plain on his face as he went up the stairs.

Chris was propped up against the headboard, looking nearly pale as the linen he lay on, but for the brightness of his green eyes that betrayed his impatience and his fever. "Buck says Orrin ain’t here," he rasped.

"Mighta gone up to Vista City with Roche. I figgered t’head up that way. Shoulda known we wasn’t gonna get time t’do what we needed."

"Vin, don’t you go up there alone," Larabee warned, not liking the look in the tracker’s eyes and the set of his jaw. "Don’t start thinkin’ you can take on Harper *and* Roche."

Vin’s eyes burned. "If I hafta, I will. Too many folk’s ‘re dead, and I ain’t standin’ by waiting t’see who they’re goin’ after next. Ain’t lettin’ it be you, Chris."

Chris mouth turned up at the corner. "Remember when Orrin played dead, pard? Might not be a bad idea fer me to do the same."

Vin shot the gunslinger an incredulous look. "Larabee, you lost yer mind along with half yer blood? Ain’t no way yer fit t’ ride t’ Vista City."

"Don’t go alone," Chris repeated. "At least take JD with you."

"JD ain’t here --" Buck stood in the doorway, Nathan at his back. "He’s gone with the Judge and Roche." He saw the look that passed between Larabee and Tanner, and his face hardened. "You all want t’ tell me what’s goin’ on?" he asked.

"Shit," Vin rubbed his eyes. "Roche is as crooked as they come, Buck -- he hired a gunslinger name of Red Harper t’kill those Western fellas. Reckon he’s aimin’ t’do the same t’us. I gotta go, Chris." He brushed past Buck and Nathan, light and quick. Chris pushed himself upright, starting to swing his legs around before Nathan stopped him with a glare.

"Don’t think it, Larabee."

Chris stubbornly persisted, and Nathan just let him, until it became obvious that he wasn’t able to stand, much less rush off after Tanner. He fell back against the pillows. "Buck, go after him," he growled.

"I’m halfway there, Chris. Nathan, don’t let him git any ideas ‘bout comin’ along."

Nathan grinned despite his worry. "I got drugs, Buck. Knock him right out if’n he sets one foot off th’bed."

"Like hell you will," Chris threatened.

"Like hell, he will," Mary’s soft voice rejoined, and Chris knew he was lost, then. He’d argue with Nathan from dusk to dawn, but he couldn’t argue against those blue eyes.

"Buck?" Chris appealed. "Bring’em back alive."

"I will, Chris. I will." Buck was gone then, nearly as quickly as Vin. Defeated, Chris let Nathan tend to his wound, and tried to figure how long it would be before his strength returned.

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

Vista City wasn’t a place with much of a vista, JD Dunne decided. He was standing on the stoop of the Vista City jail surveying the town. Bigger than Four Corners, built of the same sort of ugly clapboard buildings; hardware store, dry goods emporium, more than its fair share of saloons and gambling halls. Every bit as dusty and hot, even in the early morning. The only vista he could see was the long stretch of dry land that surrounded the town, and the road the stage would travel down. He and Judge Travis were waiting on it, and on Roche, who had gone to the blacksmith to have his horse’s loose shoe hammered back on.

JD was a little afraid of the Judge; not in the same way he was afraid of dying, or of Chris Larabee -- but the thought of all those years of schooling and lawyering behind that taciturn countenance made him feel young and awkward. He felt a vague tug of guilt for not tending to Larabee’s admonition about riding shotgun, but he figured if the Judge was there, then he would be safe enough. No one would shoot a territorial judge, would they?

He gave Travis a sidelong look. "Stage should be coming soon, Judge Travis."

Travis nodded. "Should be." His mouth was drawn hard. He could scarcely look at Dunne’s earnest young face. The sight of all that innocence and determination made him feel a thousand years old. Roche, damn him, had forced the issue of the boy riding shotgun when Larabee and Tanner had missed the twenty-four hour deadline.

That they had missed the deadline had Travis more worried than he would admit. They were men he trusted implicitly, but the frontier was a dangerous place -- the reasons for their absence could have been as innocent as a horse going lame, or as deadly as a bullet in the night. It was the latter thought that had the Judge’s stomach burning with acid. He looked at Dunne’s bright eyes, and could only nod.

"Never rode shotgun before."

The edge of nerves in his voice made Travis wince inwardly. "You’ll be fine, son. I’ll be inside, and Roche won’t be far. We’ll make it through."

"Oh, I ain’t afraid Judge, just ..." he fumbled for the word, and decided silence would serve just as well. He wasn’t afraid to get up on that stagecoach; no more scared than he had been at the Seminole Village or any of the other tight corners he’d been in since he’d come West, but he sure would have felt more confident if his fellow peacekeepers were along for the ride, and not scattered between Vista City, Four Corners, and God knew where else. He would have liked knowing Buck was at his back, with Nathan and Josiah close by, or Ezra with his fast gun and easy laughter. Chris Larabee and Vin Tanner, well, that went without saying, they’d been the first real heroes he’d seen, and he still couldn’t think of one without the other coming to mind. They were the people he trusted, his family, and right now, he missed them something fierce.

A rumble in the distance and a cloud of dust billowing on the road announced the arrival of the stage. JD’s hands went instinctively to his Colts and he pushed his shoulder away from the post he had been leaning against. He pulled himself up to his full height, and Orrin Travis was reminded of nothing more than his grandson, Billy, out to prove he was as big and as tough as any other boy in town. He damned Roche for making this trip a necessity, and kept praying that Tanner and Larabee would come riding down that road to deliver them from evil.

The stage driver reined in, raising a swirl of dust beneath his wheels. He would drop off his sacks of mail, take on his new cargo, change horses, and continue on his run. The entire process would take less than half an hour. JD watched with interest. He gave Judge Travis a curious look. "Sir, there ain’t no shotgun rider with him, now. Why does he need one between here and Julestown?"

Travis’ narrow mouth hardened. "Just wait, son." He jerked his chin towards the road into town.

JD watched, his eyes wide. More dust than before, and a wagon accompanied by a troop of blue-coated cavalry. JD thought of Vin’s comments about the Army guarding its own. "They ridin’ with us, Judge?"

"No. They have more pressing duties. Mr. Roche has guaranteed that their payroll will be delivered by the stage company in return for future contracts."

JD shook his head. "Don’t seem right, Judge. They ride in here with a whole troop, and ride out with just me."

Travis gave him a grim smile. "Should make you feel real proud, Mr. Dunne."

JD thought it just made him feel scared, but he’d rather die before he admitted it to Judge Travis or Titus Roche. JD studied the activity around the stage and the wagon. Two armored chests were being loaded into the passenger compartment on the stage. The only passenger on this run would be the judge.

"Well, that’s quite a sight, isn’t it, Mr. Dunne?" Titus Roche had come up behind JD, and he jerked in surprise at the sound of that voice. "Feeling nervous, son?"

JD didn’t like anyone he didn’t know calling him ‘son,’ particularly not this man. His brows drew level. "I’m fine, Mr. Roche. Ready to ride out." He patted his guns. "When are we leavin’?"

"Soon as we get the go ahead from Captain Stevens. Orrin -- a word?" He turned and went inside the jail. He made certain the door had closed and Dunne was away from the open window before he spoke to Travis. "Kid seems nervous."

"He’s a fine and steady young man, not a kid," Orrin said tautly. "And if anything happens to him, I’m not the man you’ll need to worry about."

"You mean those other six peacekeepers you’ve hired?" Roche sneered.

"They’re all good men who’ve been dealt a hard hand in their lives, and they’ve done a hell of a lot for Four Corners."

"Larabee is a hired gun, and that half-wild friend of his, Tanner -- he’s nothing but a bounty hunter. And where the Hell are they? If they’re so damned dependable, then there wouldn’t be any need for that boy sheriff of yours to ride shotgun."

Travis had no answer for that but his worries. "Roche, when this is over, I pray to God I never see your face again."

Roche only smiled and kept his thoughts to himself. When this is over, old man, you will be dead. He looked out the window at the stagecoach. The cargo was loaded and Captain Stevens was talking to Dunne. Roche went over the plan in his mind; he was depending on Red Harper to do his part. Apparently, he had already taken care of Larabee and Tanner, as he’d been told. Roche licked his lips. The thought of those two bodies rotting in the sun was just about as much satisfaction as he would allow himself until the entire plan was played out to the end.

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

Buck was relieved to see Peso tethered outside the jail; he hadn’t relished riding hell bent for leather after Tanner. He took the steps in a single long stride. Vin was loading shells into his belt. An empty box of rifle cartridges was on the desk, the Winchester slanted across his knees. He was intent on his work, his fingers nimble, his mouth set in a line that boded ill for his intended targets.

Buck leaned against the wall. "You huntin’ loaded fer bear, pard?"

"That fuckin’ bastard is gonna pay for all the miz’ry he’s makin’. Ain’t gonna let him leave these parts alive, Bucklin."

The profanity from the normally soft-spoken Tanner caused Buck to raise his brows. "Are we talkin’ about Roche?"

"Talkin’ about Red Harper, the slimy sonofabitch ... an’ after I shoot th’fuckin’ heart outta him, I’m goin’ after Roche ..."

"Vin, Chris don’t want --"

Vin raised blazing blue eyes to Buck’s. "Chris ain’t thinkin’ clear --" he snarled.

"Now, hold on there, Tanner. Seems to me yer the one ain’t thinkin’ clear." Buck crossed his arms. "S’posin you go in there guns blazin’ and get yerself kilt? Reckon you figger yerself t’be immortal here, but y’ain’t. Somethin’ happens ta you, what about Judge Travis? What about JD? You given one thought t’them?"

The tracker didn’t answer; he just continued loading his gunbelt. The only sign of his emotion was a betraying flush on his high cheekbones. As Buck waited for an answer, the color faded from Tanner’s face. His anger was quick to come to the boil, but it cooled equally fast, leaving only pure reason and deadly intent. When he looked up at Buck, his task finished, that calm gaze sent a shiver clear up and down Buck’s spine. Lord, he’d seen that look in Larabee’s eyes, and knew it meant death.

"Chris ask you t’come with me?"

"Yeah. Wasn’t about t’let you ride alone. And knew he couldn’t stop me from goin’ after JD. That boy ..." Buck shook his head.

Vin set the Winchester on the desk, rose, and buckled on his gunbelt. He fastened the leather tie around his thigh and holstered the mare’s leg. He glanced up at Wilmington, his mouth losing its grim line in a half-smile. "Ya ready?"

Buck’s irrepressible grin flashed out. "Full-loaded and huntin’ fer bear." But the worry in his eyes remained, easily visible to Vin’s perception.

He tapped the brim of his hat to Wilmington. "Let’s hunt."

Buck had hunted with Tanner before, but not for human prey, and he found the experience unsettling. He’d never given much thought to the tracker’s skills; they’d always seemed as easy to Vin as breathing. This hunt went beyond seeking physical talismans, to pursuing the mind, and Buck, while not short of his share of wiles and wits, found Tanner’s intellectual focus daunting. Vin scarcely said ten words in a day, and those grudgingly; his shy manner bespoke an innocence that left Buck gasping at times, yet in this world of predators and prey, he was entirely comfortable, while Buck felt about as out of his element as JD. They were traveling quickly, and for the life of him, Buck couldn’t see what Tanner was following. Finally, tired of trying to figure it out, he asked.

"Tanner, maybe I’m goin’ half blind, but I cain’t see no trail that you’re followin’."

Vin gave him an amused, assessing look. "Ain’t followin’ no trail, Buck."

"Then what the Hell are we doin’?"

"Huntin’," Vin replied patiently, as if he were talking to JD Dunne. "Huntin’ ain’t always findin’ a trail. Can be jist findin’ the right place t’bide yer time."

They had reached a point nearly halfway between Vista City and Four Corners where the road ran through a gully cutting between steep, rocky inclines on either side. Vin drew in Peso’s reins and stood in his stirrups, squinting along the horizon. Buck’s mount came to a halt at his side. "See somethin’?" he asked.

Vin reached inside his jacket and pulled out his spyglass. He swept it along the ridge opposite them, then closed it. "A perfect spot fer an ambush. See them rocks up there?"

"Yeah."

"Like a blind fer a hunter. Man could hole up there fer a long time jist waitin’ fer what might come."

"You think that Harper fella is up there?" Buck felt suddenly naked beneath the cloudless blue sky. He glanced at Vin. The tracker’s clear profile was lifted to the horizon, his eyes narrowed, as if what lay on the other side of the rocks was laid open to his vision. He raised a brow at Buck.

"He ain’t up there. If he was, I reckon we’d a’ been dead fer a while. But I’m thinkin’ that we’d have a clear view a’ the road up there. Ready?" He urged Peso into a lope and headed up the incline. Buck followed, still feeling as if they were being watched by unseen eyes.

Peso picked a sure-footed path to the crest of the ridge, and once he was able to see the land spread before him, Vin knew he had chosen the right spot. The entire swale of the land stretched out before him; the long, narrow ribbon of the road and the plateau that lay between Four Corners and Vista City. He extended his spyglass to check the range, then satisfied, he snapped it shut. "We’ll make camp here. There’s a spring runnin’ outta the rocks on the other side a’ the ridge."

"How long are you plannin’ on stayin’ here, Vin?" Buck asked uneasily. "Don’t ya think that Harper knows this place?"

Vin cast him a speculative look. "Mebbe. But he ain’t here now, and if he takes a notion to come this way, it’ll be the last one he has." He grinned, his teeth very white in his dusty, unshaven face. He headed Peso towards the spring, knowing the both of them needed water, and wishing that he had eaten more than those three slices of bread at Mary’s. Had a few strips of beef jerky in his saddlebag, but didn’t feel much like chewin’ on it. He dismounted and let Peso drink, then Buck’s thirsty mount. When the horses were settled, he and Buck filled their canteens and carried them back to the lookout point.

Buck pulled out his turnip watch. "Stage should be arrivin’ in Vista City real soon."

"Means it’ll be ‘bout two hours b’fore it gits close ‘nough fer us t’do anythin’."

"What if Harper makes his move before then?"

"He won’t. Too close t’Vista City and the cavalry."

"You seem mighty sure a’yerself."

Vin tilted his chin up, considering Buck’s statement. "I been watchin’ him, Buck. He’s got his ways a’huntin’, too." His eyes glittered with his thoughts. "Me n’ Chris scairt him outta hidin’ yesterday. But he’s gotta git back t’his old patterns ta take down a stagecoach."

"Think them Mexicans’ll be there?"

Vin’s gaze narrowed. "Yeah, I reckon so. But they warn’t no Mexicans, Buck. I never picked up no sign a’them outside Purgatorio."

"Roche’s men?" Buck asked.

"Yeah." The word was a sigh, and Buck saw that the tracker was looking, as Nathan put it, down t’ grit and gristle.

"How long has it been since you slept, Vin?" Buck asked.

Vin gave him a weary grin. "Hell, Buck. If I’s t’start countin’ I’d run outta numbers real quick."

"Then maybe you’d better catch some now, pard. B’fore ya fall asleep waitin’ fer Harper t’ show his ugly face."

Vin scrubbed a hand across his stubbled cheeks. "Cain’t say I’m inclined t’argue." His voice held a yearning note as he thought of how much he longed to lay his body down and rest.

"I’ll keep watch, Vin. Wake ya if anything seems peculiar."

"Thanks, Bucklin." He handed Wilmington his spyglass before he tipped his hat forward and lay down, cushioning his head on his arms. Buck watched him, marveling at the tracker’s ability to sleep on any surface, at any time. But he also knew how shallow that sleep was, how deceptive its peace. He settled his body behind a boulder and focused the spyglass on the road. It looked like it stretched to the end of the world instead of from one dusty town to another. He let his thoughts travel along that road, towards JD Dunne and Orrin Travis. He wasn’t much of a man for praying, but he did then; a quick, scarce-thought, but heartfelt whisper to the Almighty that they might be delivered from evil.

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

Roses. Chris woke to the smell of roses. He breathed it in, thinking of his ranch, and the rose bushes Sarah had planted outside the bedroom window. In the summer, their heady fragrance drifted in, filling the room with moonlight and perfume. Sarah ... He reached for her, and pain shot through his shoulder, making him gasp at the suddenness and the coldness of it, like a knife twisting in him.

"Shhh, Chris. It’s all right." A cool hand on his forehead, but not Sarah’s voice. The realization filled him with loss and regret. He opened his eyes and Mary was bending near him, stroking his hair. "You were dreaming."

He was horribly thirsty. He tried to moisten his lips, and Mary understood. She raised his head and held a cup to his mouth. He drained it, and she poured more from a pitcher on her bedside table and gave him that, too. "Thank you," he whispered. Using his good arm, he pushed himself upright with a grimace. He waited until the room stopped spinning before he swung his legs over the side of the bed.

Mary held his shoulder, staying him for the moment. "Nathan said you should rest."

"I’ve rested." His eyes glinted with humor. "Never thought I’d be resting here, though."

Mary blushed, but she smiled at him, unfazed by his teasing. "Funny what you never think you’ll be doing," she said. She held out her hand. "I brought you a clean shirt."

"Even though I should be resting?" Again the lightness in his voice as he took the shirt and cautiously threaded his arm through the sleeve. Mary bit her lip, wanting to help, but unwilling to risk the might-have-beens of so intimate a gesture. The buttons defeated his pride, and he looked at her, one brow raised in silent inquiry.

Mary’s chin came up, holding that jade green gaze with her own. He loomed over her, his breath stirring her hair. His warmth eddied through the woven fabric of his shirt. Her fingers fumbled a bit with the first button before her confidence reasserted itself.

"There," she said with a small sigh when she had finished, and for a moment, her fingertips were splayed across his chest. Proximity between them was a dangerous dance, and he was as shaken by it as she was, and as equally determined not to reveal it. Briefly, he let her steady him, but his strength returned and he stepped away, suddenly aware of the lengthening shadows in the room.

"How long was I asleep?" he asked.

"About two hours."

"Any word from Buck or Vin?"

"No." She saw him measuring the time in his mind. "You aren’t thinking of going after them?" Her answer came in the set of his jaw. She reached for him once more; he moved away from her touch, quick and lithe.

His gunbelt was at the foot of the bed. He picked it up, and paused, knowing he could not buckle it himself. "Are you gonna help me?" he asked.

She shook her head silently, daring him to argue.

"Fine." He slung it over his good shoulder. Lord, but it was heavier than he recalled. The knowledge of his weakness only fueled his determination. "I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a few minutes before you tell Nathan."

Her eyes filled with tears and anger. "Damn you, Chris Larabee! Are you so determined to get yourself killed? Vin and Buck are grown men, both perfectly capable of taking care of themselves."

"What about JD? What about Orrin?" he asked ruthlessly. "Billy’s lost his father. Is he gonna lose his grandpa as well?" His words hit her most vulnerable point, leaving her pale and reaching for the bedpost for support.

"Chris --"

"I’m just tryin’ t’keep that from happenin’, Mary."

His voice was softer, but his expression was grim. She knew he would not back down, and knew also, that she could not hold him against his will, no matter what she wanted. He was stronger than she was, and his heart was too true to dismiss any obligation lightly. She valued that in him, even though it angered her to know that he was willing to discard his life; as if it would not matter to the rest of the world whether Chris Larabee lived or died.

Mary sighed, seeing all this, and finally accepting his nature. "You will fall out of your saddle," she said with a wry smile.

Chris laughed softly. "Never have, and I don’t reckon I’ll start now." The flash of humor vanished quickly. "I’d take something t’eat with me, if you don’t mind, Mary."

She nodded and went downstairs. As soon as she left the room, Chris sank back on the bed. She was right; he would fall out of the saddle. He groaned and hauled himself back to his feet. Like hell, he would.

Part 3