The stage pulled out of Vista City as soon as the payroll was loaded. JD had watched Captain Stevens and his men as they hauled the two heavy chests into the passenger compartment. Judge Travis climbed in, his legs wedged up against one of the chests.

"You all right there, Judge?" JD asked. "Looks like mighty tight quarters."

Travis smiled grimly. "Won’t be the most comfortable stage ride I’ve ever taken. You be careful up there, son."

JD nodded and tipped his bowler in a brave show for Travis. He didn’t want to appear concerned or worried. Or least of all, scared. He wore a badge and carried two Colt Lightnings at his waist. And there were six men who depended on him to do his part to get the Judge and the payroll safely to Four Corners.

Titus Roche rode up on his big chestnut. His gaze lingered on boxes in the coach, and for a moment, JD thought he had never seen a look like that in anyone’s eyes; pure greed, and glittering lust. It made shivers run across the back of his neck, raising his short hairs. Roche turned to JD, the expression sliding away, so that JD thought that his impression might have been nothing more than a trick of light as the sun struck off Roche’s eyes. "We’ll be leaving soon."

JD climbed up on the box next the driver. He gave the man a sideways look. He was middle-aged, and tough as leather; like he’d seen it all and done it all. He spat into the street and nodded to JD. "Ya old enough t’be a sheriff, boy?" he asked, not unkindly.

"Judge Travis hired me himself." JD’s chin came up. "I c’n shoot as well as the next man. Reckon that’s good enough."

The driver grinned and gathered the reins in his hands. "Name’s Gordon. Yours?"

"JD Dunne." He held out his hand, then realized that Gordon had his fingers full of reins. He blushed at his clumsiness, and the driver laughed.

"That’s all right, Dunne. Ya ever seen a man drive a six-horse hitch b’fore?"

"No, sir. Not up close. Driven a four-in-hand, though."

Gordon eyed him with respect and nodded shortly. "It’s an art, Dunne. It’s an art. The railroads’ll make it a dyin’ art in a few years. Damn shame about that. Day it happens, I’ll lay me in my grave."

JD shivered again. "Wish ya wouldn’t talk about graves," he muttered under his breath, and Gordon laughed out loud.

"You’ll be fine, son. Should be an easy four hours."

Roche appeared at the driver’s side. "Let’s move out, Mr. Gordon. We have a payroll to deliver."

"Yes, sir." Gordon gave the reins a flick, hollered out a "Gee-Haw!" The team’s ears pricked up, and they moved out, alive to the driver’s touch on the reins.

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

Vin’s instincts would not let him sleep beyond the demands of exhaustion. Moving so silently that he startled Buck when he came beside him, he reached for the spyglass and swept it along the opposite ridge. "He’s there," he whispered, half to himself, half to Wilmington. "I’ll be back." And slid as silently away before Buck could respond.

He took his Winchester from the sling, gave Peso an absent-minded pat to his rump, and went looking for his prey. His certainty that Harper was nearby rang so loud in his mind that he had to pause and force himself to caution. He could not traverse the gully at this point without Harper seeing him; and chances were that his vantage point was as hidden as their own. He doubted that Harper was foolish enough to take a shot at him, revealing his hide. There was a narrow crook in the rocks, and Vin slipped into the crevice. It was such tight quarters that he had to lean slightly backwards and rest his spine against the rocks to see the road and the opposing cliff, but the angle of sight it provided was superior to the place he and Buck had taken for their own. He settled there, aching and uncomfortable but alert for any sign of movement.

A hawk circled overhead, and Vin watched as it hunted. The bird did not dive, or settle. Vin wondered if Harper was watching the hawk, too. He just wanted a sign, something to show that he was right in his instincts about the gunman. He had an hour to find him before he swooped like the hawk on the stage and JD Dunne.

When the hawk drifted away from the cliffs, Vin slipped out of the crevice. He moved stealthily over the rocks, pausing to be certain that he wasn’t seen until he came to a place where a tumble of bramble bushes and thick brush spilled down into the gully. They would provide cover for him to traverse to the other side; but before he took that advantage, he would have to warn Buck.

He returned to their watch point. Wilmington was still crouched by the rocks overlooking the road. Vin scuffed his boots lightly over the soil to warn Buck of his approach, then stepped forward once he was sure the gunman wouldn’t shoot first. His pistol was cocked and ready, but as soon as he saw the sloped brim of the tracker’s hat, he lowered his weapon. "You find him?"

Vin hunkered down alongside him, and shook his head. "Not ta see him. But he’s there. There’s a place I c’n cross over ta the other side. Thought I’d reconnoiter, see if I c’n draw him outta hidin’."

Buck frowned at him. "I don’t like the sound of that, pard."

Blue eyes glinted beneath the shadow of his hat brim. "Yer soundin’ like Larabee, Bucklin."

"He sure as hell wouldn’t let you go off alone."

"Well, much as I appreciate the thought, I gotta do this solo. Ain’t a matter of choice." He rose off his haunches and began checking his guns. He was obsessive about them, as would be any man whose life depended on his weapons.

Buck watched him work, long, slim fingers moving over the guns like a man might caress his lover. But there was nothing gentle about that expression on that fierce, fine-boned face, or the bleak look in Vin’s eyes. Buck understood that he wasn’t a man like Chris Larabee, who spent blood without remorse because he believed his soul to have been damned long ago. Vin Tanner felt each bullet; didn’t matter if the man on the other end was deserving to die, or was aiming his own weapon at the tracker. He meted out death when necessary and at a painful cost to his soul. Even for a bastard like Red Harper...

"Shit, Vin," he sighed heavily. "You be careful."

"Always am." He flicked up the tang sight on the Winchester, squinted along it as if testing its alignment. Satisfied, he laid it back down. His mare’s leg was like an extension of his arm, but it had never been meant for long-range shooting. Still, its weight was a comfort against his thigh. Reckoned he was as ready as he would ever be.

"Bucklin, I ain’t promisin’ ta find Harper before he c’n hit the stage," he said soberly. He hoped the words carried the weight of his concern; in his worst nightmares, he was always too late to prevent disaster. This was not a dream that he could shake off in the morning light.

Buck understood, and nodded. "I hear ya. Don’t worry about that, Vin. You jist take care of that sonofabitch as best you can."

Vin gave a short nod. "I’ll be goin’ down that defile there," he jerked his chin toward the path he intended to take. "Don’t know when I’ll be back." He slipped away, astonishing Buck as always with the ease of his motion. Smoke against a cloudy sky didn’t disappear as completely as Tanner when he set his mind to invisibility. Spooky as hell, but reassuring to know that if he couldn’t pick Tanner out, neither could Red Harper. Buck heaved a sigh and settled in to resume his vigil.

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

Mary kept her word to Chris. She didn’t tell Nathan when he left. She watched him ride out of town, his lean body slightly hunched with pain, but otherwise sitting solidly in the saddle. She knew he had been in the war, and from the scars she had seen on him, that he had been wounded. No doubt he had ridden hurt before, and would do so again. But that didn’t mean that he had to be out there alone. As soon as Larabee was out of sight, Mary threw a shawl over her shoulders and went to the saloon in search of Ezra.

He was sitting at his usual table, alone, playing solitaire, and cheating. She tried to stifle a smile as she watched him pull a card that he had no right to, according to the rules. That he would resort to subterfuge when there was nothing at stake but pride, was an indication that the gambler’s mind was elsewhere. As soon as he heard her footsteps, he swept up the cards in a tidy pile. "Mary." He greeted her with a half smile. "Have you heard from your friend in St. Louis?"

"No, nothing yet."

"And how is our patient? Though that is not a word I would apply under any circumstances to Chris Larabee."

"He just rode out of town."

Ezra’s chestnut brows peaked. "I take it Mr. Jackson is unaware of this escapade?"

Mary felt her cheeks warm. "I promised Chris not to tell him." Her chin came up defiantly. "But I never said I wouldn’t tell you. Ezra, please go after him!"

He looked at her for a moment, then a slow smile spread across his face and he shook his head, soft laughter in his voice. "You want me to ride after Chris Larabee and bring him back to Four Corners?"

"No, I want you to go with him, Ezra. He’s weaker than he realizes, and he won’t admit it."

"Mr. Larabee would not admit it on his deathbed. The gentleman gives new meaning to the word obstinate." He fanned his cards, then gathered them up. "However, dear lady, if it will put your mind at rest --"

"It will. Thank you, Ezra."

He tucked the pack of cards in coat pocket. "I hope that someday, Mr. Larabee will come to appreciate how fortunate he is." He checked the chamber on his Remington sidearm and sprang the mechanism on his sleeve pistol to make certain it was in working order. "You will continue to be careful, Mary? "

"You don’t have to worry about me, Ezra. Just take care of yourself," she reminded him gently.

"I assure you I will take no unnecessary risks," he said solemnly; but he snapped the brim of his hat to a rakish angle, and gave her a flash of a grin before he left the saloon. It wasn’t the unnecessary risks that had her worried, however, but the necessary ones that watching the backs of his fellow peacekeepers required.

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

Vin slipped silently down the defile, using the thick brush and mesquite bushes to screen his movements. Even in motion, he blended into the landscape, and when he was still, his form was indistinguishable from the rocks and shadows. Ezra Standish might poke fun at his ill-fitting clothing, but the loose, rumpled garments blurred his silhouette against the background of rocks and desert, leaving no clear shape of a man to be a target.

Adept as he was, and confident in his skills, he could not entirely suppress a soft breath of relief when he was across the gully and on the same side of the road as Red Harper without being shot at. He made his way in equal silence and stealth to the crest of the ridge and began searching for a trail.

Once he found the first sign, it was simple. A man who had no reason to believe he was being tracked had no reason to avoid leaving a trail, and therefore could be followed as clearly as if he was leading the way with a lantern on a dark night. Vin noted every sign of his passing -- broken branches and swirls of pebbles where he had reined in and paused to search for the perfect blind. Vin bent and retrieved a discarded lucifer -- Vin held the head of the match to his nose. The scent of sulfur was dull. It had been struck a while ago.

Harper was either damned careless, or baiting a deliberate trap. Vin had once told Chris that there was a fine line between hunter and hunted. The trick was to keep the advantage.

With an eye to terrain, taking advantage of every boulder, shrub, and shadow to screen him, he flitted easily over the ground Harper had taken; but there was still no sign that he was drawing near to his hide. If Harper was watching, he would have to make his move, soon. And once he did, he would betray his position.

Vin had been at that balance point more times than he could count. He needed Harper to think him vulnerable, when he was not. The sun was settling lower, the shadows growing longer. And the stage would be coming down the road ...

Aw, hell. He was growing tired of this game, and it was time to fish or cut bait. And then he caught it -- the faint acrid scent of burning tobacco borne on the light breeze from the west. Couldn’t see anything, not with the sun striking in his eyes, and he didn’t relish the thought that Harper had the light at his back. Still slow, still cautious, he dropped into a low crawl. He could not see the blind, not with the tumble of rocks ahead of him, but the scent of tobacco continued to tease his nostrils. A trickle of sweat worked its way from his temple down across the slant of his jaw. He made his way to a slight depression in the ground where a mesquite bush provided a screen. The mesquite was a dusty brownish-grey, the same color as his hide jacket, his hat. The fringes on his jacket and the strands of his hair ruffled in the same breeze that moved the branches. He nestled the butt of the Winchester into his shoulder and set his cheek against the wood. Then, taking deliberate aim at a rock about fifteen feet from where he believed Harper to be, he breathed in, exhaled, and fired.

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

Chris heard the sound of hoofbeats coming up fast behind him. Instinct told him to reach for his gun, but the realization that it was most likely one of his fellow peacekeepers, and the thought that in order to draw his pistol he would have to move his wounded arm, made him pause, and cautiously rein in his mount. He wasn’t surprised that someone had come after him. The surprise was that it was Ezra. He gave the gambler a sidelong, crooked smile. "Out for a ride?" he asked.

"I see you made good your escape, Mr. Larabee, however ill-advised that may be."

"Mary tell ya?"

"Mrs. Travis is a woman of rare perception and determination."

"You c’n go back and tell her I ain’t bleedin’ and I ain’t fallen off my horse, yet."

Ezra took in Larabee’s pallor, the shadows beneath his eyes, the way he held himself in the saddle. He shook his head. "However, you are lookin’, as Miz Wells would say, ‘a mite peaked.’ And rather than risk the wrath of either of those two ladies, I think I had better accompany you on this rendezvous."

Chris wouldn’t say that he was grateful for Standish’s presence, but truth be told, he was. He nodded once. "Then let’s pick up this pace. Time’s runnin’ short." He eased his mount into a lope, hoping that what he had told Ezra would hold true. He wasn’t bleeding, not yet. But he sure as hell didn’t feel like he had much strength in him, either. Right now, all he could think of was tipping the odds in favor of Vin and Buck. He half-smiled at his own thoughts. If tipping the odds was what he intended, then having a gambler on his side might not be such a bad idea.

"Mr. Larabee, have you given any thought as to what we are ridin’ into?" Ezra asked. "Might we want to develop some sort of plan, if I may be so bold?"

Chris’ mouth twisted into a wry smile. "I was kinda thinkin’ of shootin’ first and askin’ questions later, but I’m open to suggestions."

Before Ezra could frame an answer, they heard the first gunshot from up ahead. All notions of formulating a plan fled. With a glance of dismay, they spurred forward. It seemed they would play the hand they were dealt.

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

The first shot nearly sent Buck upright from his crouch, and startled an oath from him. He recognized the flat crack of Vin’s Winchester, followed by an answering bark from another rifle before the echo died from the gully’s walls. Shit! He couldn’t see a thing, only knew that Vin had flushed out Harper somewhere. Between the shadows, the glare of the afternoon sun, and the landscape carved into ravines and scattered with boulders, he was blind. But Vin and Harper weren’t his primary concerns. That ribbon of road winding through the gully was his focus. He could only pray that Vin was able to handle Harper without assistance.

Two more shots sounded in quick succession; then silence. Buck raised his head cautiously. Nothing. He peered into the haze of sunlight and saw a ripple of dust on the horizon. Still faint, but drawing closer, he heard the thrum of hoofbeats on the hardpan road. The ripple resolved itself into the oncoming stage. Then he caught sight of more dust on the horizon and his heart sank to his boots. Three riders -- no, four -- and he didn’t think they were guardian angels. They angled towards the stagecoach like wolves coming down on a hapless fold. They had to be alongside the coach before the road entered the defile running between the cliffs, or risk being cut off. Buck swung his rifle up, sighted, and fired without any real hope of hitting a target -- they were too far away, and he was no Vin Tanner -- his intention was to draw their fire away from the stagecoach long enough for JD and Judge Travis to provide some defense.

Buck continued loading and firing, trying to keep the riders as far from the coach as possible. He was confident enough in Vin’s selection of their vantage point not to fear becoming a target himself. Still, it was a bit of a shock to be showered with stone chips from a ricocheting bullet overhead. Damn, but he hated being pinned down!

There wasn’t a thing he could do about it, but keep shooting. He gave a crow of triumph when he saw one of the riders drop his gun and clutch his shoulder. Not down, but certainly disadvantaged, and proof that they were now in range of his rifle. A second telling ricochet kicked up a splinter of rock sharp enough to cut a deep slash in his forehead, and the feel of the warm blood on his face only raised Buck’s temper to the boiling point. Lord God, he thought. Why don’t JD and the Judge give me a hand here?

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

What Buck didn’t know, and what JD knew all too well, was that one of the first shots fired by the bandits had struck Gordon high in the chest, and JD was now trying to control the stage, six panicked horses, and the unconscious driver. He had other things on his mind than getting at his Colts. He was still slightly stunned by the speed and the ferocity of the attack. One minute, they had been rolling along at a good clip, no peril in sight, and the next thing he knew, four riders were on the horizon, rapidly drawing close enough to start firing. Then had come the wet smack of a bullet striking flesh, and Gordon had half-fallen across his lap.

"Judge!" JD screamed down, but between the sound of the runaway horses, and the gunfire that was erupting around them, Travis could not hear his cry for help. At least JD hoped that was the reason as he had a sudden sick thought that perhaps Judge Travis couldn’t answer. There was no way he could bend down to see if Travis was all right. Experienced as he was with handling a four-in-hand, trying to gain control of six runaway horses heading towards a narrowing defile lined with rocks and boulders was enough to make him wonder why he had ever come West.

It was true what they said about your life flashing before you. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed. Then he slid Gordon’s body so that it lay crosswise across the footrest. He threaded the reins through his fingers, and bit by bit began shortening the ribbons of leather, letting his fingers communicate the message to the team that they were back in the control of someone who knew what he was doing. And slowly, after what seemed like hours rather than the minute it was, he felt the team responding to his commands. Hey, he thought, I can do this! And just when it seemed the worst was over, he felt a sharp, deep sting in his shoulder blade. His fingers went numb, and he lost the reins. It didn’t even come to him that he had been shot until he felt the spreading warmth on his back, and the pain became harder and colder and sharper. Clinging to consciousness, he reached for the brake, and pulled it towards him.

The leader of the team, a big bay gelding, felt the conflicting signals coming from the driver. The slack reins were giving him his head, but the tug of the brake on the coach was contradicting that freedom to run. A bullet zinged past his ear, and the instinct to bolt in the opposite direction made him veer into his equally confused partner. The others followed, and the stage left the road, jouncing over uneven terrain, slippery gravel, and rocks. The front wheel of the stage struck a rut and the rim broke, splintering spokes and oversetting the coach. JD and the driver were flung from the seat, and the body of the coach came to rest on its side, wheels spinning, the horses frantic to escape the harness that held them, and the bullets that continued to fly.

Above them, on the rim of the ravine, Titus Roche reined in his mount, looked down at the destruction, and laughed.

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

His grandfather had taught him first, discovering those gifts that were inbred; the sharp eyesight, the nerves, the patience to watch and learn, the instinct to survive. Then had come his time with the Comanche, and he had learned from them how to see what needed to be seen; to think like one’s quarry, to move soundlessly, to watch the way nature taught her children to stalk. By the time he was seventeen, he knew what it was to be a hunter.

It had taken a war to make him a killer.

As much as Vin fought against thinking of himself that way, it was true. The Army hadn’t been loathe to recognize that a youth with deadly aim and the ability to seemingly vanish into the mist was far too valuable to be wasted as cannon fodder, and had used his talents in ways that made him wake at night in a cold sweat; and even now, years removed, still haunted him like a pale, whimpering ghost. But it was a habit that once learned, never left a man, no matter how much he denied it. It returned like blood flowing back into a deprived limb, painful and familiar.

He felt it in his bones, in his body, in his senses. The fading light struck harder and clearer, sounds were sharper, the scent of gunpowder and smoke more intense, the outlines of rock, brush, land and sky almost painful in their clarity. He could feel it settling around his heart; an icy fist closing tight around emotion and humanity. The ache of it was fit to kill him, but it was the way it had to be if he was going to live.

He fired his second shot, this time aiming over the faint drift of gunsmoke lingering in the air. And was startled when the answering report came from an entirely different angle.

Vin’s eyes widened, and a hard twitch of a smile came to his mouth as like recognized like. Might make things interestin’, he thought. Figured he and Harper shared wartime experiences, but there were still things he knew that Harper did not. Time would come to bring those into play, but not yet. Vin dodged through the cover of rocks, moving as swiftly and silently as the lengthening shadows. He caught a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye, a shadow where no shadow ought to be. The Winchester spat again; this time, met with silence.

Making sure of his cover, Vin raised himself in a low crouch, moving crabwise into the nearest stand of sheltering rocks. He dove behind them, skidding on the gravelly soil, and cursing at the noise he must be raising. He lay still, waiting for the wind to kick up again, or for Harper to make his move.

The next shot came not from Harper, but as an echo from the other side of the gully. Buck! The answering volley made Vin’s body tense, adrenaline and instinct warring with sense as he fought the urge to spring up and rush to Buck’s defense. *No, he thought. No. Y’ain’t no fool t’go leapin’ out, waving yer rifle like some damn greenhorn. So jist settle, Tanner. Settle.* He closed his eyes and listened. The shots were coming from the west, still sounding far enough away that they could not be doing much harm to Wilmington. Then why was Buck ...

He heard it then, the unmistakable rumble of wheels and the thunder of hooves coming at a gallop. The stagecoach, JD, Judge Travis, and unholy disaster waiting to claim them at the entry to the ravine. All Vin could see in his mind was Harper, taking slow and careful aim at the young heart of JD Dunne. The memory of his own wry voice whispered in his ears: *Hell, I wasn’t plannin’on dyin’ with a broom in my hand anyway.* Hadn’t had much to live for back then. Shit, hadn’t had much to die for, either. Now at least he had something to regret leaving. He cocked the lever on his rifle, wondering if it sounded as loud to Harper as it did to himself. He drew a deep breath. If he were a prayin’ man, he would have signed the cross on his breast. As it was, he cast a prayer upwards, hoping that wherever he was, Josiah would catch it and send it on to the Lord.

He wasn’t fool enough to leave his cover with his gun blazing. A whisper would do as well as a scream in this sort of battle. He slipped from the boulders, weaving a jagged path that brought him closer to where he figured Harper was holed up. He wanted desperately to be able to see the road and the stagecoach, and was close enough now that his sharp eyes could pick out the flash and puff of smoke from Buck’s gun on the other side of the ravine, even though Wilmington had the good sense to keep his body crouched low.

There was a slot in the rocks just ahead of him; a narrow crevice shielded by a thorn bush and a large boulder. The ten feet of open ground between him and that slot stretched like ten miles. Where was Harper? Vin tried to block out everything; the gunshots, the thunder of the onrushing stage, his own heartbeat, the coppery taste of fear in his mouth. All he wanted was a sign, just a sign from his enemy. "C’mon you sonofabitch. Raise yer fuckin’ head," he whispered savagely. Hell, Harper wouldn’t do it without a lure. He would know Vin was desperate to stop him from gettin’ a shot at JD.

Vin tried to moisten his mouth, but had no spit. He looked at that slot, at that ten feet of inviting vulnerability, and made his decision. He coiled his body like a springing cougar, and launched himself into the open. Two steps into that traverse, he heard Harper’s gun spit lead.

It was a telling shot, but flawed. Harper’s aim was evidently thrown off by the suddenness of Vin’s movement. The bullet ripped through the flesh over Vin’s hipbone, biting deep and crossing a nerve so that his right leg buckled beneath him. He knew he was hit, but his momentum carried him forward despite his near collapse. He dropped into a tight ball and rolled, reaching that narrow slot just as Harper took another shot at him; striking him in the thigh.

He scrambled under the thorn bush and into the crevice, so tight that he could scarcely pull himself upright without scraping flesh. He jerked his bandanna from his neck, twisted it, and tied it around his thigh to stem the blood flow. Harper was firing fast and hard, sending stone chips raining down on Vin, but he was blind now, and could not inflict damage. Vin sucked in a few deep breaths, willing away his pain. He inched forward, his body only inches away from the rim of the gully and looked towards the road that the stagecoach was barreling down at suicidal speed. Vin pulled his spyglass from his shirt and swore as he took in the runaway stage, JD working the reins, and the gunmen in pursuit.

He raised his Winchester, flicked up the sight, and began firing at the pursuing horsemen. Two went down under his deadly aim before JD was shot. Vin muffled a cry of rage as he saw the boy jerk like someone’d punched him in the back, and lose the reins. Too late, too late. Just like his nightmares. Sweat started on his forehead, and slipped stinging into his eyes. He dragged his sleeve across his face, clearing his vision in time to see the stage teetering for a moment on its shattered wheel, and then overbalance with a crack of splintering wood, and the scream of terrified horses. JD was flung clear of the wreckage, and lay still, looking even at that distance, fragile and broken.

A volley from across the way told Vin Buck had seen it too, and was now loosing a savage barrage of fire into the ravine. He heard something else, too. Horsemen coming fast down the eastern road, their gunfire starting to echo as they entered the deepest part of the gully. Vin twisted his body. Lord God, he’d know that horse and rider anywhere; Chris Larabee ridin’ in, gun blazing, never mind the hole in his own shoulder, and followed in close pursuit by Ezra Standish. The sight of them gladdened Vin nearly to the point of forgetting his own peril.

He was brought back to that awareness by a sharp, stinging ricochet that drew blood from his cheek. He startled, then realized that he was abandoning his first tenet as a hunter. Leave the emotions behind. He closed his eyes briefly. There were four men down there who had to be kept alive; and one sharpshooter who could decimate those lives in the blink of an eye. How he was going to get out of this mess, and prevent that, was something he didn’t have much time to ponder on.

He flexed his body, testing his wounded hip. Fresh blood welled and he could feel it soaking his trouser leg, but at least the stinging nerve had quieted, and he was confident he could place weight on it again. The bullet in his thigh was painful, but it didn’t feel like serious damage had been done; the bone wasn’t broke, and the bleeding had slowed to a sluggish pulse. Question was, could he get out of the slot without Harper swooping down on him like a hawk?

He could go out the way he had come in, and chance that Harper was distracted by the activity in the ravine; a faint hope at best. He peered around the boulder to his right. Didn’t seem like a good choice considering that was where he felt Harper was holed up. Going forward would get him nothing but a headlong slide into disaster. His narrowed gaze turned left. The rocks that formed the slot angled back slightly from the rim of the gully, and the thorn bush overgrew that narrow ledge, leaving a smidgen of wriggle room. Vin thanked the Lord that he was built every bit as skinny as that ledge; a bigger feller would risk a tumble down the rocks.

He lay as flat as he could, and pushing the Winchester ahead of him, stealthily edged forward, slanting his body around the rocks until he was stretched out full-length on his belly. His leg and hip fired pain that seemed to fizz up his backbone and jolt into his skull. He continued creeping forward, ever conscious of the drop to his right. The thorn bush raked his body and snagged in his clothing and hair, but he continued inching along until he felt a breeze brush against his cheek. That breath of air told him he had found a way back from the ravine to more even terrain. The setting sun struck through that opening, blinding him to what lay beyond it, and he cursed, squinting against it, as the light dazzled from his eyelashes.

He closed his eyes and laid his head down on his arms; weary, hurting, and now, starting to shiver, whether from shock, strain, or just the chill of the lengthening shadows, he didn’t know. He had been so focused on getting himself along that ledge that he had ignored the gunfire from the ravine, trusting the others to do what was needed from that quarter. A bullet zinged an inch from his head, and he jerked in alarm. For a brief moment, he thought that Harper had him in his sights, and then as the impression settled, he realized the shot had come from his right. He was screened from Harper, but Jesus Christ, he was clearly visible from the other side of the ravine!

Ain’t no time ta take a rest, Tanner. Git a move on. Gritting his teeth, he shoved the Winchester ahead of him, resuming his crawl towards safety. A second bullet tore through his sleeve, burning flesh, and a third kicked up the dirt no more than two feet from his head. Shit, shit! Never did much care t’be target practice. He drew his knees up and rolled, trusting that his recollection of the lay of the land was correct and that he was not launching himself down an embankment lined with rocks and thorns.

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

It was Ezra who noticed Vin’s precarious situation first. He had paused to reload his pistol, glancing up when he heard a shot, and saw Tanner, just a slim, dusty shape moving along a ledge that looked about as wide as an inch.

"Jesus God, Almighty..." he breathed.

Larabee heard that whisper in a lull of gunfire. He loosed one final shot, bringing down the fourth outlaw, and turned to see what had so startled the gambler. Standish was staring at the cliff face, his eyes wide. Chris followed the direction of Ezra’s stare and felt his stomach clench in fear. The same setting sun that struck Vin’s eyes, lit his body in painfully clear relief against the cliff. Chris could see what Ezra had not been able to just a few moments earlier; the dark bloodstains on his flank and thigh. Then a shot rang from above Chris’ head and Tanner jerked as the bullet scorched his arm. He slewed around and saw a dark shape moving along the ridge overhead.

Roche.

"That bastard’s mine!" Chris spat savagely and took off before Ezra could protest that a man with only one good arm shouldn’t go rock climbing after a man with gun. He was about to follow Larabee when he heard a quick slide of rock and Buck’s hoarse shout.

"Mr. Wilmington --"

Buck grabbed his arm before he could speak. His face was white beneath a coating of red dust and redder blood that leaked from a cut over his eyebrow. Ezra had never seen a look closer to despair on that face; it made him feel queasier than he already did.

"The stagecoach, my God, Ezra -- it overturned!" Buck gulped. "JD --"

Ezra cast a desperate glance back at the ledge in time to see Vin roll aside and vanish from sight. Chris was making his way up the opposite slope faster than he had any right, given that a few hours earlier he’d been out flat. Ezra sighed. There was nothing he could do to help either Larabee or Tanner, but there might be something he could do for Buck and JD. He nodded, and followed Buck as he made his way as quickly as he could to the site of the accident.

The stagecoach lay on its side, one wheel still turning lazily. Two bodies lay on the rocks nearby. Ezra went to the driver and laid his hand on the man’s throat. Dead. He’d been shot, but that wasn’t what had killed him, the gambler figured. The pool of blood at the back of his head spoke of a more catastrophic injury. He left the driver and went to Buck’s side as he knelt by JD.

"Is he --" the words stuck in Ezra’s throat. "How is he?"

Buck looked up at Ezra, relief and fear written plain on his honest features. "He’s alive. Busted up, but alive."

Ezra pulled a flask from his jacket and held it out to Buck. "Perhaps this will help rouse him?"

Buck slipped his hand beneath JD and lifted his head. "C’mon, kid. Buck’s here. Wake up ... JD, ya hear me?" He tipped a small amount of brandy onto the boy’s lips, and JD responded with a small cough, and then a groan. He opened dazed eyes. "Buck? ‘m I dead?"

"Not by a long shot, son. Just lie easy."

"Got shot, Buck."

"Yeah, I noticed. Ain’t too bad. C’n you move yer arms an’ legs?"

JD nodded. "Think so. Yeah. Hurts ..." he bit his lip. "I coulda stopped the stage if I hadn’t been shot, Buck."

"I’ll bet you could have," Buck said gently. "Just lie still. We got a bit of moppin’ up t’do before we can mosey outta here."

JD’s eyes widened in sudden memory. "Judge Travis was inside the coach."

"Aw, shit," Buck cursed. "Ezra!" But the gambler had heard and was already at the overturned coach.

"Need some help here, Buck." For once, Ezra’s elegant speaking had left him as he tugged futilely at the door. "The door’s jammed --" With a last hard pull, and a scream of splintering wood, he succeeded. A hand reached over the sill, and grabbed Ezra’s wrist, nearly stopping the gambler’s heart until he heard the familiar gravelly voice.

"Are you going to help me out of here, son?"

"Judge Travis?" Ezra tried to suppress his gasp of relief. He might have failed Mary in his promise to watch after Chris Larabee, but at least the Judge seemed to be in one piece. "Sir, are you all right?"

"I will be once I’m out of here. Pull, damn you!" Ezra pulled.

Travis emerged, dusty, bruised, and limping, but otherwise unhurt. "What the hell is going on?" he asked gruffly. "Did you get that bastard Roche?"

Ezra shook his head. "If Mr. Larabee has his way --"

"Mr. Larabee did not have his way." That voice made both Travis and Ezra look up in surprise. Chris slid down the last few feet of incline and walked slowly over to the coach. "The sonofabitch vanished." He took off his hat and slapped it hard against his leg. "Shit."

"My sentiments, exactly, Mr. Larabee. But we do have other concerns," Ezra suggested with a tilt of his head towards Buck and JD.

"Hell ..." Chris said wearily. By now, JD was propped up in Buck’s arms, looking nearly translucent he was so pale. Chris stood over him for a moment before he sank to his knees. "How’re you doin’, son?" he asked gently.

JD glanced up in surprise at the softness he so seldom heard from the gunslinger. "I’ll be all right, Chris. Just bruised up some, and I got shot." Why that fairly prosaic statement should make Larabee go pale, and startle him upright, JD couldn’t say.

Vin. Chris’ blood drained from his face. He whirled with a flutter of black duster. "Ezra, with me. We gotta get Vin."

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

He had been right. There was no precipitous drop on the other side of the rocks, just more rocks and thorny bushes to take their toll on his already battered body. Vin lay on his back, exhausted and too wary of attracting unwanted attention to move. He felt the length of his rifle alongside his arm, and he stretched out his fingers, seeking the lever, hoping to hook it and bring it closer to his body. He found the purchase he sought and inched the Winchester along the ground, then wrapped his hand around the narrow neck of the stock, carefully swinging the barrel to slant across his hip. He worked the lever, wincing at the sound that seemed as loud as an explosion in the vast silence around him. Then he lay in wait for Red Harper and the shot that he felt must come.

The footsteps approached from behind him, not what he had expected. He tried to roll to his stomach, hoping to reverse the angle of the rifle, but his body betrayed him with weakness, and when he raised the barrel from his hip, it was caught by a strong hand and held immobile.

"Don’t think ya want ta do that, cowboy. Seein’ as it’s gonna take me and Ezra both t’get you down from here."

"Chris?" His gaze traveled up the length of Larabee’s dusty, black-clad body. His eyes opened wide for a moment before they lost focus, and his hand slipped nervelessly from the trigger.

It was a brief lapse of consciousness, brought to an end by the bite of brandy on his tongue and a sharp stab of pain as Ezra removed the blood-soaked bandanna from his leg. Vin opened his eyes a slit. "Y’all ‘ve gotta find some new way of torturin’ me, ‘cause this one’s gittin’ old real fast," he rasped.

He heard Chris’ soft laughter, and felt it as well, propped as he was against Larabee’s chest. He tilted his head. "Did ya git ‘em, Chris? Harper and Roche?" The movement of the gunslinger’s chest as he exhaled a sigh was answer enough. "Shit."

"They’re gone, both of ‘em, Vin. Slipped away with the shadows. Guess neither of ‘em wanted to fight in the dark and figured we were all too busted up t’ give chase."

Vin frowned. "Are we?"

Again that soft laughter, more rueful this time. "Hell, yes, I reckon we are."

A sudden vision flashed back to Vin. "JD?" he asked, his eyes fearful.

Chris nodded. "Yeah. Oh, he’ll be fine, but it’ll take some mending time. Buck and Ezra’s the only ones in decent enough shape t’ nursemaid the rest of us poor cripples."

"Speaking of which, may I have the use of your neckerchief, Mr. Larabee?" Standish extended his hand, and Chris passed it over. He posed a silent question to Ezra as he did, and the gambler’s eyes flickered a response. "We should remove ourselves from this uncomfortable position, Mr. Larabee. I believe our compatriot will withstand the trip." Meaning, Vin was in no immediate danger, but required more care than the rough doctoring that Ezra was able to provide.

Chris held Ezra’s flask to Vin’s lips one more time. "Take a good swallow, pard. You’re gonna need it."

Vin complied. Weak as he was, he wanted to be away from this place. Using Ezra’s shoulder for support, with Chris lending a hand when necessary, they made their way to the camp Judge Travis and Buck had set up for the night.

When they got there, Buck was gone, JD was sleeping, and Judge Travis was standing guard by the stagecoach. Chris left Vin’s side. "Where’s Buck?" he asked, knowing that he wasn’t going to like the answer.

"There is ten thousand dollars in Federal payroll in that coach. Somehow, I just didn’t feel easy guarding it all night with two killers out there on the loose. Mr. Wilmington went to Vista City to bring back the cavalry."

Chris spat. "Should’ve been their duty to begin with." He gave the Judge a hard study. "We need to talk when we get back to Four Corners." He stalked away, cold anger burning in the pit of his stomach when he looked at JD and Vin. Buck had brought down their own horses before he had left, and Chris went through the saddlebags, hoping that he still had the medical kit Nathan had packed. He found it, plus blankets, and his poncho. No food, because none of them had expected to be out this long. It was going to be a slow, cold, hungry night. And for the two wounded men, possibly deadly.

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

The fire he built gave off scarcely enough heat to blunt the chill of the desert night, but Titus Roche wasn’t in a mood to appreciate it, if it had radiated the warmth of a cast iron stove. He was burning with anger, cursing the day he had ever set eyes on Chris Larabee and those men who rode with him. His plans had gone to Hades, his money, his reputation, his life, because of that black-clad devil.

Ten thousand dollars in payroll wasn’t even the beginning of the cost. Fuck the ten thousand dollars -- he would have had a hundred times that much had his plans come to fruition! Instead he was looking at a life on the run. An outlaw. He might still salvage something if he could wire his bank in St. Louis; but to do that, he’d have to get through Larabee and his gang of renegade peacekeepers. He needed Red Harper, but he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the bastard since he caught sight of him riding away from that God-forsaken gully where his dreams had wrecked right along with the stagecoach.

He kicked a branch into the fire, raising sparks and smoke, scattering the coals.

"You might regret that later, Roche. Gets mighty cold out here at night."

Roche went for his gun, but Red Harper already had drawn a bead on him. "God damn you!" he cursed, and moved his hand away, knowing how deadly the gunslinger could be. "Thought I’d never see you again."

Red Harper’s teeth glinted. "We have a contract, Mr. Roche. A thousand dollars each when Larabee and Tanner are laid dead at your feet. Remember? You still honoring that deal?"

Roche hawked and spat. "You didn’t do so well this afternoon, Harper. Lettin’ that no good tracker get away from you!"

Harper’s smile made Roche take a step back. "I marked him, didn’t I? Left a trail of blood behind him." He looked overhead at the frosty stars. "Night like this could kill a man if he’s weakened enough. You keep your end of the bargain, Roche, and I’ll keep mine."

"I’ll keep it, Harper. Believe me, it will be a pleasure to pay you." His eyes glittered hard and cold. "If we ride tonight, we can make Eagle Bend by dawn. Before word can spread."

"And then?"

"We go back to Purgatorio. And wait for Larabee and Tanner to come hunting."

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

Buck returned with the cavalry, bringing food, blankets, and something more precious; a doctor to look over JD and Vin. He was gruff, not ungentle, but efficient, slapping a rag soaked with chloroform over JD’s nose, flipping him over, and taking the bullet out with a speed that told Chris he had been battle-trained.

Vin was more resistant. He didn’t like being touched; made him feel exposed and itchy, and he rejected the chloroform, even though he knew it was gonna hurt like hellfire. He nearly refused treatment, but accepted the logic of getting the bullet out of his leg, if he was going after Harper and Roche. And he *was* going after them, tomorrow. He thought on that as he felt the surgeon’s probe dig deep, letting pain fuel his determination, even when it nearly made him puke. The surgeon’s speed was a mercy, the agony, brief; when it was over he bolted down a shot of whiskey and collapsed against his saddle with a groan of relief.

"Thanks, Doc." The surgeon was wiping his bloody hands. He fixed his patient with a sharp look.

"You could have had it easier." He started winding a length of linen around Vin’s thigh.

Vin shook his head. "Hate not bein’ full awake. Rather be hurt than half-there."

"You in the war?" The doctor glanced up from his bandaging. The expression shadowing those blue eyes took him aback momentarily, but it was gone before he could put a name to it.

Vin laughed softly. "Would y’have hurt me more if I’s on the wrong side?" His smile slanted up, and the doctor saw how young he must have been during that conflict. A boy. Now a man so wary that he wouldn’t take the comfort of anesthesia when he needed it.

He tied off the strip of cloth. "Let me take a look at that other wound."

"Ain’t no --" The futility of arguing with the doctor forced Vin to admit what he had been hoping to hide. "It’s jist a scratch, ain’t hardly worth the time." He moved the blanket aside reluctantly, flinching at the touch of the cold air on raw flesh.

The doctor’s hands were gentle in his examination, sensing that his usual brusque treatment would set this man to flight like an injured wild creature. "Should be stitched," he suggested.

"But it don’t hafta be?" Vin’s mouth was set in a stubborn draw, and the doctor frowned at him.

"Listen, son. If I thought you were gonna lay in bed with your feet up, I’d leave it go. But you don’t look the type. You want to ride tomorrow, then let me take care of it for you. If not, you’ll lose more blood, get weak and slow. Can you afford that?" Bristly brows over level dark eyes, made Vin reconsider.

"Hell. Then git it over with, Doc."

Chris had heard that exchange, and came over with the whiskey bottle. He poured a goodly amount into Vin’s cup. "Drink it."

"Don’t want --"

"Drink," Chris ordered. Vin drank, and the effect of the liquor on his empty stomach and weakened body blunted the doctor’s treatment to the point that he was able to bear it without shaming himself. Still hurt like the Devil was playin’ piano on the nerves running up his spine, and made the sweat start on his forehead and his stomach go all shivery inside. When it was over, and he was bandaged up, he thanked the Doc for his trouble. Then, exhausted, half-drunk, and tired enough not to care, he curled tightly into what body warmth he had left and fell asleep.

The doctor rose to his feet, meeting Chris’ eyes with a rueful smile. "He always this ornery?"

"Hell, no. You got him in a weakened state." He held out his hand. "Thanks for lookin’ after him and JD."

"Thank Captain Stevens. I’m here at his request."

"They gonna be alright?"

The doctor looked over to where JD was sleeping with Buck sitting near if he should wake and need something. "They should be. Don’t know why that boy ain’t addled six ways from Sunday, but the young are tougher than we realize. As for Mr. Tanner -- I’d be happier knowing he was going to get some rest for the next few days, but I figure he’s like you, Mr. Larabee."

"Me?"

"You’ve been favoring your left shoulder all evening. You need to have it looked at?"

Chris shook his head. "It’s been doctored. I’m fine."

The doctor’s eyes glinted brightly. "That’s what I thought you’d say, son."

"I’ll make sure Tanner don’t kill himself tomorrow." The real challenge would be making sure no one else would, either, Chris thought grimly..

"Good. Keep him warm, tonight. Make sure he eats something when he wakes up. No more whiskey, Mr. Larabee. Water."

"Fer him or me?"

The doctor laughed out loud then. "Both of you!"

Orrin Travis crossed over to them. He was still limping from a badly bruised ankle, and his face was haggard. He listened to the doctor’s assessment of the wounded men, feeling guilt draped over him like a lead mantle. But he had a duty to fulfill, and by God, he would do it. He wasn’t foolish enough to put the entire blame on his own shoulders, but he would do his damnedest to rectify it. He would have no more blood on his hands; not from these men who had risked their lives more times than he could count.

He faced Larabee straight on, eyes level. "I’ll be riding back with Captain Stevens to Vista City. There’s official business that needs my attention. I’ll see you back in Four Corners tomorrow." He saw Larabee’s face harden and knew the gunslinger was thinking that he was dodging accountability. "Roche won’t get away with this, Chris. I’ll make sure every law enforcement officer in the country knows exactly what he is."

"Shame you didn’t see that a lot sooner, Judge." Larabee’s voice was cold, and Travis could only respond to that painful accusation with a short nod.

"We’ll have that talk, Chris. I owe you that much, and more."

Chris kept a tight rein on his temper and his tongue. He watched the cavalry troop ride out, and went back to the fire. There was a camp kettle of soup on the boil, and he realized that he was famished. He was also tired enough to stand there staring at the kettle as if he wasn’t sure what action to take next. His knees seemed to buckle of their own accord, and he sank down cross-legged, too weary to do anything else.

Ezra was the first to admit he looked after his own skin first, but Larabee’s exhaustion was so evident that he dished out a mug of the soup and handed it to him. He gave Chris a penetrating study. "Mary Travis would kill me with my own gun, if you were to return to Four Corners in less than the condition you left it, Mr. Larabee." He had watched the exchange with Travis, and didn’t know who he sympathized with more: Larabee, who was bleeding right along with JD and Vin, or the Judge, who had been facing an impossible choice.

"Miz Travis is a remarkable woman," he said evenly. "And courageous in a way that borders on the edge of reckless. It is no wonder that the Judge values her safety and that of her son more than his own life."

Chris turned to him. He had a sudden flashback to the night of the dinner; Roche bending possessively over Mary’s hand, kissing it in a way that he had no right. "Did Roche threaten Mary? Did she tell you that?"

Ezra held up his hand as if that could ward off the sudden flare of Chris’ anger. "I believe that if he had directly threatened Mary, she would have made certain that he would never be able to procreate. However, if Roche had made that threat to the Judge ..." Ezra let his voice trail off suggestively. "You do the mathematics, Mr. Larabee, and tell me if it adds up."

It did. Chris ate his soup in silence, as he worked things over in his mind. Ezra had confirmed his worst fears, and it was suddenly urgent that he get back to Four Corners as quickly as possible. When he had finished, he went to see how Vin was doing. He was still huddled tight, his hands fisted in a wad of blankets beneath his chin. Judging from the tension in his body, he wasn’t deeply asleep. He looked cold, and Chris thought that getting some of the soup down him would give him some heat in his belly. He touched Vin’s shoulder.

Vin came awake fast, forgetting that he was hurt and tried to sit up; the pain in his leg jolting him into a gasp. His hands were clawed, ready to wrap around his assailant’s throat, but Chris was faster, catching Vin’s wrists in a secure hold until awareness returned.

Vin blinked into Chris’ concerned face. "Shit, Larabee. You got some sorta death wish, wakin’ me up like that?"

Chris released his clasp, and gave him a wry smile. "You couldn’t fight off Nettie, the shape you’re in, pard." He offered a mug of soup. "Thought this might help."

Vin pushed himself upright, surprised that he was hungry despite his pain. The soup was hot, thick with barley and chunks of beef and onions. It didn’t have a heck of a lot of flavor, but it was a heartening weight in his middle, and he ate it eagerly. When he had finished, Chris settled in beside him and lit a cheroot. "Better?" he asked.

Vin nodded. "Reckon I’ll be up t’ridin’ tomorrow. An’ b’fore you look at me cross-eyed, Larabee, the doc said I could, and I intend t’ finish what got started here."

"The doc said you could ride back t’Four Corners, not go chasin’ after Red Harper."

"Ya aimin’ t’stop me?" Vin asked, his eyes glittering dangerously in his pale face. All humor was gone from him, and Chris knew better than to argue with the man when he was set on something. He’d learned the strategies of a flank attack in the war, and had discovered that in order to make Tanner see reason when he was fired up, you couldn’t go at him head on, but had to find a vulnerable point that he didn’t suspect.

"Hell, no! I want Harper as much as you do, and Roche even more. But I ain’t fool enough to think I c’n take‘em down easy, when I’m tired, hungry, and hurtin’." His green eyes challenged Vin to refute the argument.

He couldn’t. Not feeling the way he did. He drew a deep sigh. "Don’t want ‘em t’ git away, Chris. I ain’t bein’ proud r’stubborn. I jist don’t want any more folks t’git hurt. I got a bad feelin’ about this, an’ I want it t’be over."

Chris echoed his sigh. "Yeah. I’m with you there." He ground out his cheroot and settled lower on his spine. "And I’ll be with you when you’re ready to ride, partner."

"Reckon I knew that." Simple words with the weight of utter faith and trust behind them. It was all he said before he lay down and curled into himself again.

Chris reached for two of the blankets the Cavalry had left, and spread one over Vin, and one over himself. Suddenly his entire body was aching with fatigue and he didn’t think he could stay awake if his life depended on it. The sounds of the night were all around him; the horses stamping softly, Buck’s rhythmic snores, the click and shuffle of Ezra’s cards as he played out a hand of solitaire, the yelp of a coyote in the distance. He listened as Vin’s breathing deepened and slowed, this time into true sleep. He sat there, his eyes closed, but allowing the uneasy edge of his nerves hold him alert, like a dozing cougar.