As Josiah rode out of Purgatorio, Titus Roche rode in. He reined in at the posada where Red Harper had taken a room several days earlier. He was tired, dusty, dry as a bone, but there was a fortune in his saddlebags. Not all of his assets had been so easily converted, but at least he had managed to have some of the money from his banks wired to Eagle Bend. Enough to get him to South America in comfort, where he could establish a new identity and arrange for the transfer of his remaining fortune. Orrin Travis and his hired guns were the only obstacles in his path. He’d have to give up a portion of his financial gains to Red Harper -- or seem to give them over -- but first, he wanted those bodies at his feet. And this time, like the Doubting Thomas, he would dip his fingers in their blood to be sure they were dead.

He knocked softly on one of the doors, and when there was no answer, he tried the knob, surprised that it gave to his touch. He pushed it open, standing well to the side. "Harper?" he rasped. The answer was a long splinter of wood carved from the edge of the door by a gunshot. Roche cursed and dove for cover. "Dammit, Harper! It’s me, Roche!"

From the dark interior of the room, he heard a low snarl of laughter. "Welcome to Purgatorio."

Roche grunted and rose to his feet. "You’re wasting ammunition that you might need, Harper." He grabbed the saddlebags that he had dropped and entered the darkened room. He turned up the wick on the lamp. Harper was sitting on the bed, long legs crossed at the ankles, a lit cigarette in his fingers. A nearly empty bottle of whiskey sat on the table at his side.

"You’re drunk," Roche said in disgust.

"No. I’m not drunk." Harper held out his hand. Rock-steady. His eyes were cold and clear. "If I was drunk, you’d be dead."

"I’m not paying you to play games, Harper."

"You haven’t paid me, yet."

"You haven’t delivered." Roche started to reach into his vest pocket, and Harper’s gun was suddenly trained on his heart. "Put that fuckin’ gun away, Harper." He held his hand out, palm open.

"Slowly."

Roche complied, reaching once more into his pocket and pulling out a leather billfold. He extracted several bills and held them just beyond Harper’s reach. "Five hundred, a retainer for your services to hunt down Tanner and Larabee."

Harper raised a ginger brow. "In addition to the thousand on delivery?"

"As promised," Roche concurred. "Fifteen hundred, plus the bounty on Tanner. Two thousand dollars, Harper. But you’ll have to find them first."

Harper laughed and took a drag on his cigarette. "Hand over the five hundred, Roche. I know where they are."

"How?" Roche was incredulous. "Why aren’t you on their trail?"

"Easy, there. I said know where they are, not that I’ve found them." He slid off the bed and plucked the bills from Roche’s hand. "Got real lucky. One of their number turned coat, showed up here looking for revenge on Larabee."

"And you believed him?" Roche hissed. "Never took you for a goddamned fool!" Harper’s eyes narrowed dangerously. Inches from Roche, his glare was intimidating, but Roche didn’t recoil.

Harper grabbed his lapels. "Shit, I know that! I haven’t stayed alive this long by being a gullible rube. Maybe he was telling the truth -- but it don’t matter, because even if he was baiting a trap, I still have the advantage."

Roche jerked away. "How do you figure that?"

"Simple numbers, Roche. Something you should understand. He held up his hands. Seven fingers. "One, the boy sheriff. Two, three, and four -- the three left in Four Corners, Five, the preacher man here in Purgatorio. Six and seven, Larabee and Tanner -- both of ‘em hurting. Those, Roche, are even odds." As he counted down his fingers curled into a fist.

"I’m telling you, those seven aren’t what you expect -- Ever."

"Then we must do the unexpected ourselves," Harper said. "Feel like spending some of that cash you’re carting around in those saddlebags?"

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

All through that night, Vin rested in a light doze, even though he was aching with the need to let go and sleep deeply. He left that luxury to Chris, knowing that he had pushed himself beyond exhaustion for longer than any body could bear, even Larabee’s. He’d made a good attempt at it, but in the end, his head had dropped forward on his breast, his hands slipped nervelessly to his sides, and he was gone.

Vin couldn’t have slept anyways; his mind was too wrapped around the morning and what it would bring. In one of his wakeful periods, he lay gazing up at the stars -- so far beyond comprehension that even the myths of the people couldn’t plumb their existence. He could feel the pressure of the cool light on his skin, every breath of air and night sound brought his nerves to alert. The discomfort meant that his body and mind were prepared for the day, and he accepted that as the price he paid to stay alive.

Chris startled awake just as the dawn was beginning to lay a wash of light along the horizon. He looked over at Vin, a long, lean shape in the darkness, his hat tilted over his eyes. With a certainty he knew that Tanner was awake, probably had not slept all night, and recognized that his own rest was owed to the tracker’s vigilance. It was pointless to feel guilt.

He sat up, stretching cautiously, feeling his healing wound ache and tug, but no longer with debilitating pain. The fire had long since grown cold, and it seemed like breakfast was going to be water and hardtack since a fire would take time. He rose quietly, even though there was no need. Vin remained unmoving. Chris had seen that concentrated quietude before, had sought it himself in the hours before the great battles. Some soldiers had prayed, others had thought of their families, their lovers. Chris had not. He had used that hour of stillness to plan how he would kill, how he would remain alive. And knew that was why Vin husbanded his strength.

He washed up in the spring, grateful for the cool, fresh water, and when he returned to the camp, Vin was upright. There were deep shadows beneath his eyes, but the blue gaze itself was peaceful, focused.

"You want something to eat?" Chris asked.

Vin nodded. "Guess so." He took the offered hardtack and chewed on it thoughtfully. "You feelin’ better?"

"I slept. It helped. Yourself?"

"I’ll keep. Thanks, Chris. Fer what ya done last night."

Chris shook his head, amused and rueful. "Nathan’ll kill us -- you know that, pard?"

Vin smiled. "Hope he gits the chance." He drank from the canteen Chris handed him. The light wind stirred his hair, and his eyes reflected the colors of the early morning sky; a touch of gold, the tranquil blue depths. "I’s thinking, Chris. ‘member when that fake Marshall throwed me in jail, and was waitin’ t’take me back to Tascosa?"

"Kinda hard to forget."

"What I said -- ‘bout not bein’ afraid t’die ... back then, I warn’t afraid ‘cause I figgered I didn’t have much t’live fer." His mouth set hard, fighting against emotions that he was half-ashamed of feeling, but that he had to acknowledge, because he didn’t want to die with them unspoken. "I’s never proud a’ what I done with my life ... hell, all I ever done was t’be good at takin’ lives -- one way ‘r another."

"No." Chris shook his head.

"Hear me out, Larabee. I got somethin’ t’say, and I’m only gonna say it once. Might be the only chance I git. I still ain’t afraid t’die, but at least I got somethin’ to look back on that’d do my Ma proud. Ya done that fer me, Chris. You n’the others. And I’m grateful fer it."

There was a faint uncertainty in Vin’s eyes, as if revealing his emotions had made him vulnerable. Chris reached out, took Tanner’s slight shoulder is a firm clasp. The contact lasted only a moment, but the strength and the faith in it went to Vin’s heart. Reassured, he gave Chris one of his short nods and stood up; testing his leg, which held, and his hip, which protested with a throb of pain.

"Reckon we oughtta ride, Larabee."

"Can you?"

"Better ‘n you, cowboy."

Mocking, insolent, and entirely welcome to Chris’ ears. They saddled up and headed south towards Purgatorio.

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

Five men. Five men willing to go up against Larabee and Tanner. Seemed the rest valued their lives more than Roche was willing to pay; and of those five, only two that he considered to be the sort of man capable of taking down Larabee. He’d leave Tanner to Red Harper since it seemed the shootist had a particular bent for taking down the sharpshooter himself.

They rode out of Purgatorio at dawn, heading north through the dry, rocky landscape. It would be hard fighting, Roche figured. But his men were well-provisioned, well-armed, and rested. Larabee and Tanner had spent an uncomfortable night in the open, they were injured, and probably lucky to have enough food to see them through the day.

As the sun rose blood-red, Titus Roche believed it was a good omen.

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

Vin squinted at the blood-red horizon. "Gonna storm soon," was all he said as he rode alongside Chris. Larabee’s hard-cut features were tinged with scarlet beneath the brim of his black hat.

"As long as it holds off until we can take care of Titus Roche."

"Twelve hours, maybe. By nightfall, could be rainin’ hard." A sigh of breath escaped him. Maybe raining on our graves, he thought. With a sick chill in the pit of his stomach he figgered that he wouldn’t be in his grave until he was in Tascosa, with Red Harper collecting the bounty on his corpse.

"Don’t think it, partner," Larabee said softly.

Vin cast him a sidelong look. "You don’t know what I’m thinkin’, Larabee."

"Sure I do. Tascosa. You got tells that you don’t even know."

"Shit."

Chris’ mouth twitched. "Even Ezra can pick that one up."

"Shit," Vin said again, under his breath, wondering how he had gotten so lax as to let anyone, even the man riding next to him, get close enough to read the shadows in his mind. He could get killed making mistakes like that. But this didn’t feel like a mistake; like everything in his life since that fateful day in Four Corners, it felt exactly right. A smile curved his mouth. "S’long as he cain’t read when I’m bluffin’, I reckon I’ll be alright."

They crested a ridge, and came to a place not far from where Harper had taken his shot at Chris. That was four days past, and seemed like an eternity. Vin took out his spyglass. He and Chris had been riding along a defile. Harper had to have been on the slope to the east, concealed by the broken landscape and the stunted mesquite and thorn bushes that grew to form a natural cover. He doubted that Harper would be fool enough to ride innocently down that trail as he and Chris had done. Guilt tugged at Vin, uselessly since he couldn’t take back that decision. They had needed speed, and the flat track had offered the best chance.

He closed his spyglass with a finality that made Chris look at him sharply. "This where we split up?"

"Yeah." He pointed along the eastern ridge. "He’ll be lookin’ to the road, figgerin’ that ya’ll be after him fast, if’n Josiah sets him up right. An’ he knows that eastern face better since that’s where he was holed up th’ other night."

"Seems like an awful lot of supposin’, Tanner."

Vin sighed. "Can be ... but seems like Harper’s the sort who fancies knowin’ his terrain, thinkin’ it’ll give him some sorta advantage."

"Will it?"

"‘Times, it can," he shrugged.

Chris thought there were times when it was easier getting blood out of a stone, than words out of the laconic tracker. "You?" he asked.

Vin smiled, showing teeth. "Kiowa taught me a diff’rent kind a huntin’. Taught me that no matter where the prey was hidin’, or how many burrows an’ hidey-holes a critter’s got -- they go t’ground in the same place when they’re cornered."

"You think Harper’s cornered?" Faint disbelief echoed in Larabee’s dry tones.

"Roche is. A man don’t run t’Purgatorio if he’s got a better place."

That much was true. Chris took off his hat and ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair. The dawn wind had died, and the air was still, waiting. "You sure about this?"

"Sure as I c’n be. An’ if I’m wrong, I reckon I’ll see ya on the other side."

Chris gathered up his reins and turned his horse towards the slope running to the riverbed. His eyes met Vin’s briefly. Tanner just tipped the brim of his hat and gave one of his one-sided smiles; half regret, half genuine amusement, as if he knew and understood what lay beyond that divide between life and death. Chris nodded and spurred his mount forward. When Larabee reached the flat, Vin began a parallel ride along the ridge.

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

Josiah rode north from Purgatorio. He had taken a few hours rest during the darkest part of the night, fearing to risk injury to his horse at the expense of haste, but as soon as the eastern horizon lightened, he mounted up again. He had memorized the map Vin had drawn back at the church, and knew that the easiest and quickest transit of the terrain was the trail through the gully. Whether or not Harper and Roche would take advantage of that was unknown. He had to avoid discovery as well, and could not follow that route himself. His wide swing around the outskirts of Purgatorio had taken him out of the most likely routes, and about five miles west of the land Vin had sketched. His intention was to work his way east gradually, and if the Lord had mercy on him, he would find his way to Vin and Chris in time to lend a gun or a hand, whichever they would require.

As the light strengthened, the lay of the land became clearer; the long ridges crowned with boulders, the hard worn ravines that seemed to have cracked open in the earth, the sagebrush and tufted grasses that broke the sides of the rocky hills, giving them an illusory softness and providing cover for hunter and prey. There wasn’t a straight line for a man to follow anywhere that Josiah could see. A stand of wind-twisted mesquite trees crowned a slight ridge up ahead, and Josiah turned his horse towards them, hoping that he could find a better path through the maze of low hills. As he rode beneath their branches, a harsh caw sounded overhead, and Josiah startled, looking up and shading his eyes with his hand. Crow. Lord God, how he hated the sight of crows. The echo of the bird’s scream had no sooner faded than another sound pierced the silence.

The hard crack of two rifle shots, followed in quick succession by the rattle of pistol fire. Josiah’s heart nearly stopped in his chest, and for a moment the only coherent thought in his mind was the words of Psalm 91:

Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the hunter ... Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day; Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday. A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.

Seemed those words came to mind with alarming frequency. Josiah goaded his horse forward, urging him towards the menacing gunfire. He had two friends in peril, and he would not let them fight alone.

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

Mary Travis was awake at first light as well, out of long habit. Even when Steven was alive, she would rise first to prepare his breakfast, and then they would sit at the table with coffee and bread and talk about the paper, what they would print, what news was the most important to folks. Later when Billy was born, she would bring him downstairs and nurse him as Steven ate. They had so little time together that each moment was a joy.

Sometimes, even now, she would open her eyes and expect to feel Steven’s warm, solid body next to hers, or lie awake listening for that first small cry from an infant as he greeted the day. Then the light would grow stronger, and she would be alone with those shadows of memory.

She sighed and turned her head on the pillow, realizing for the first time that Chris’ scent still lingered on the linen. She had been so worn with worry that she had crawled into bed without changing the sheets where he had lain. The aroma of tobacco, gunpowder, and a tang of masculine sweat overlay the light lavender sachet. Even with her eyes closed she knew him; then shame set in, as if that faint ghost of his presence was in itself a betrayal of Steven. Angry at Chris for being so careless with his life, angry at herself for caring that he was, she rose from her bed, dressed quickly, and went downstairs.

For a moment, the dark shape silhouetted outside her door, made her heart leap in her throat, before the familiar set of those wide shoulders made her smile. She opened the door. "Buck?"

Wilmington turned to her, tipping his hat. "Morning, Miss Mary. Did you sleep well?"

She shook her head. "No. But well enough, all things considered. I was about to make coffee. Would you like some?"

"That would be right nice."

Mary thought he looked tired. He was still sporting a white bandage on his forehead, and there were unaccustomed shadows beneath his eyes. Mary laid a sympathetic hand on his arm. "How is JD?"

"He was runnin’ a fever last night. Nathan said it was t’be expected, but I hate seein’ the kid feelin’ bad."

"I’m sure that Nathan is right, Buck."

"Yeah, he usually is. What about you, Mary. Will you be all right?"

"Of course! With you and Ezra at my doorstep, how could I be otherwise?"

"Y’know that ain’t what I mean. You c’n say it. That stubborn cuss Larabee’s been my best friend through a lot a rough times. I know how worryin’ about him c’n wear on a body."

Mary sighed. "I am worried, Buck. Not just about Chris, but about Vin, and Josiah. About Orrin. Why isn’t he back yet?" She rubbed her forehead, feeling dangerously close to breaking into tears. "I’ll get that coffee." She turned to go inside, and Buck caught her arm, gently.

"Chris’ll be alright. And Vin. Ya gotta believe that."

Her eyes were brilliant with tears. "You saw how close they came to not being all right, Buck! My God, a couple of inches either way, and they would have both been dead! How many miracles is God willing to spend on those two?" She wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. "I stopped believing in miracles the night Steven was murdered."

Buck laughed softly. "Ya know, Mary, that Chris is still walkin’ this earth ought ta make you rethink that idea." His blue eyes twinkled at her, and she couldn’t help but smile in return.

She raised a slender forefinger. "Coffee." Then with her head held high, she went inside. She came out a short while later with two steaming mugs and sat beside him on the steps. The sun was staining the sky a deep red as it rose over the horizon. Mary had seen red skies at morning before and knew the old superstitions as well as anyone. Usually she shrugged them off -- how many times had a red sunrise heralded nothing worse than a change in the weather? Why should this one portend disaster?

Buck stirred at her side, his attention caught by a rider approaching. "Mary, go inside," he said, his voice low and terse. He reached for his pistol. "Now."

She wasn’t about to argue with him. She fled to cover, but stayed close to the door, crouched below the level of the window. She heard the horse’s hooves crunch on the stones, heard Buck’s quiet challenge, and then the doorknob turned beneath his hand.

"You c’n come out now, Mary. It’s the judge."

"Orrin!" Mary was out the door and in her father-in-law’s arms. "Thank God! Are you all right?"

"Yes, yes ... of course." He patted her back comfortingly. "I’m a tough old bird, a night’s ride won’t set me down." He nodded at Buck. "I appreciate you watching over her, Mr. Wilmington. But we’ve got trouble."

Mary pulled away. "What is it, Orrin?"

"It seems Titus Roche has wired for funds from his banks in St. Louis. He has money, and since the wire came from Eagle Bend, I think we have to assume that he is heading south, to Mexico. Where’s Larabee?"

Buck scrubbed a hand over his forehead. "Not here, Judge. He n’ Vin have gone after Roche."

"Mexico?"

"Vin figgered Purgatorio. Along with Red Harper."

Travis heaved a sigh. "I might have known."

Mary opened the door. "Come inside, Orrin. I’ll fix you something to eat."

While he ate, Buck apprised Travis of the events since their return to Four Corners. Travis nodded gravely, asking after JD, and what the hell had Tanner and Larabee been thinking to take off after Roche in their respective conditions? Mary just raised a blonde brow at that query. Her expression was so nearly identical to Buck’s that Travis had to smile. That turn of his thin lips was fleeting. He could read Mary’s concern for Larabee and Tanner, and did not misinterpret that the weight of that concern rested on the gunslinger. Chris Larabee was about as far removed from Steven as water from fire. Yet each was elemental, dangerous in their own way. Steven had been relentless, as wearing as water against stone when he was in pursuit of an injustice. Larabee was fire, attractive warmth, bright peril. And Lord, Mary could not resist that.

Buck was fidgeting with his hat, one long leg bouncing with impatience. Judge Travis set down his coffee cup. "I can see that you have someplace else you’d rather be, Mr. Wilmington. I may be somewhat older than you, but I believe I can keep my daughter-in-law safe, if you and Mr. Standish would care to tend to other matters --"

Buck was on his feet before the Judge could finish speaking. He hastily tipped his hat to Mary and Travis and bounded out of the kitchen. Judge Travis’ eyes met Mary’s.

"Thank you," she said, rising to clear the table and planting a light kiss on his cheek.

"I never thought when I hired those men to keep the peace that they would stick together longer than a few days. I figured I’d be lucky if one stayed the course." He shook his head wonderingly. "Instead I find a band of brothers."

Mary bit her lip, thinking of Chris, and Vin Tanner, of Buck and JD. Of Nathan, who healed their bodies, and Josiah who tended their souls. Of Ezra, who was finding his own place among them. And not one who wouldn’t offer his life for the others ... her hand tightened on Orrin’s shoulder, and he stroked it gently, recognizing her need for reassurance, and his own.

"They’re tough, Mary. Tough, resourceful men."

"So was Steven," she whispered.

A shot to the heart, Orrin thought, and closed his eyes. "I’m sorry," Mary apologized. Travis nodded, wishing that she had not taken Chris Larabee into hers. He pushed himself away from the table decisively. "Well, young lady. You’ve got a newspaper to print, if I’m not mistaken."

Mary put the dishes in the sink, untied her apron, and wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. "And I’m ready." Her head was held high as she swept out the door. Judge Travis looked at that straight, stubborn back and was more proud of her than he could say. Son, you married quite a woman, there, he thought as he followed her to the Clarion. Quite a woman.

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

The gunmen came so quickly into Vin’s field of vision that there was little time for conscious thought; six men mounted and riding hard, one of them Titus Roche. Even at that distance, Vin recognized the high carriage of the man on the fiery chestnut stallion. They were headed straight down a chute in the landscape towards Larabee. Vin yanked Peso ‘round hard, feeling the gelding tense as his rider’s nerves communicated themselves through every point of contact. Vin scarcely had to touch him with his spurs; Peso went from standing still to a flat out gallop with scarcely a hitch between paces. Chris was approaching the turn past a jut of boulders, and once he rounded it, he’d be in plain sight of Roche and his gunmen. Vin headed Peso up the rock-strewn hillside, feeling him fight for purchase on the loose gravel, and grateful that the gelding was strong and sure-footed even on that unstable surface. When he had reached the crest, he reined in sharply, slid from the saddle, grabbed his Winchester on the way down, and dropped flat. Larabee was below him, blind to the danger approaching him -- probably couldn’t even hear the hoofbeats due to the odd land formations and the heaviness in the air. Vin flicked up the sight on the Winchester, and aiming at the ground in front of Larabee’s horse, fired two shots in rapid succession.

The first shot kicked up stones and dirt at the feet of Chris’ horse, making the big black half-rear in alarm, and setting Chris into a precarious balance in the saddle. He managed to maintain a grip on the reins with his left hand, as his right went unerringly to the pistol at his side. A second shot in the same place had him whirling, his mouth drawn into an angry snarl as his eyes searched for the direction of the shots. Where was the bastard? And then, in a heartbeat, he realized that only one man could place those shots so unerringly, and that they had been fired not as a threat, but as a warning.

He kneed his horse and headed for the nearest nest of boulders for cover, as Roche and his men rounded the turn and unleashed a sudden barrage of pistol fire. In that chaos of noise and bullets, Chris vaulted from the saddle, gave the black a slap on the rump to send him back away from the flying bullets, and crouched low. How many were there?

Impossible to say. Roche, certainly. Chris had recognized him from the corner of his eye, but he was nowhere to be seen now ... probably had taken shelter somewhere on the slope. Cowardly bastard wouldn’t show himself, probably wouldn’t even fight until he was forced to it. Chris’ sharp eyes scanned for the other shooters. They had scattered when the first shots were exchanged, and the pistol fire seemed to be coming from about six different directions, and until he caught his breath and cooled the hot blood that set his temples pounding, he could not isolate one source from the other. He would not waste precious ammunition firing blindly and hoping to make a hit. The wide focus narrowed, and he saw a shadow of movement from behind some rocks. Damn fool, Chris thought as the man raised up high enough to get an angle, only to be leveled by Chris’ bullet.

A ricochet nicked Chris’ hat, sending it from his head to hang from the stampede string, and bringing him back to his own precarious situation. Nothing got Chris Larabee’s blood up higher and hotter than being pinned down and held tight, and more than one man had died in the trying. He heard the sharp bark of a rifle, and a startled cry from a man on the slope. No telling how badly he was hit, but chances were with Vin shooting, he’d not be rising until the last judgment.

Two down. But bullets were flying too close and thick for Chris’ liking. Sure seemed like Roche had found himself a few extra guns in Purgatorio. About the only comfort he could take from that knowledge was that Josiah had done what Vin had hoped, and lured Roche to the killing ground. But where was Harper?

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

Vin saw Chris dive for safety, picked off the one man he could draw a bead on, and then started to move from his cover toward a thicket of brush and small trees. The sudden zing of a rifle shot passing not two inches from his head sent a shiver like quicksilver through his veins, and for a moment the present was fractured into the past; the desert shimmered into tall Georgia pines, the air became humid and heavy, the smell of smoke from a hundred campfires drifted into his memory. The next shot passed close enough to brush the tips of his hair, and Vin knew then, that Harper had just issued his challenge.

If he had been alone, he would have taken it up, chosen his ground and hunted as he was meant to hunt. It was how a predator lived, pitiless and looking inward; it was what he had learned to do to survive. But that was in the past, and he was no longer alone, no longer willing to dwell in that cold and ugly place where humanity had crawled to die. Knowing that Harper was at his back, that he was vulnerable and in mortal danger, he still turned and half-ran, half-slipped down the scree towards Chris.

Larabee thought for sure that he was about to draw the last breath of his life. Paused to reload, he heard the fall of stones behind him, and braced for the bullet that had his name on it. He slewed around to face his killer, and instead found himself nearly nose to nose with Vin.

"Jesus!" The breath went out of him and he fell back against the boulder.

"Ya got a bit a trouble, here, Larabee?" Vin took his mare’s leg from the holster and started firing back at Roche’s men, giving Chris enough time to reload his Colt. "Thought I’d better drop in fer a look."

"Well, shit, Tanner. You coulda gotten killed real easy, doin’ that."

"Waited ‘til ya was reloadin’, didn’t I?" Vin smiled grimly, blue eyes hard and hot. "Ya git any of ‘em?"

"One. Thanks for the other one. You take care of Harper?"

Vin jerked his head. "No." His mouth was grim. "Thought I’d better help clean out this little corner a’ Hell. Make it easier t’keep my mind --" He ducked down as a bullet shaved off a shard of boulder that could have taken his eye out. "Got yerself a right nest a’vipers here." He squinted and fired at a bit of dark fabric that ruffled behind a rocky outcropping. Didn’t have much hope that he had hit anything, but might take ‘em aback enough to give ‘em pause ...

Chris cursed as a bullet tore a crease in his arm and fell back against the rock, long legs drawn up and breathing hard at the sudden fierce pain. He jerked off his bandanna and tried one-handed to bind the wound, cursing when his fingers fumbled and the scarf fell to the ground.

Vin emptied the chamber of his gun before bending to retrieve the strip of cloth, grabbing Larabee’s arm and rapidly bandaging it. "Y’ all right, pard?" He sat shoulder to shoulder with Chris as he reloaded.

"Yeah. I’ll keep. You go after Harper."

"Fuck Harper!" Vin rammed the final shell into the chamber. "I ain’t leavin’ ya ta fight alone. Think I c’n get one of ‘em if I go up a bit higher. Cover me."

Chris grabbed his arm before he could rise up. "Get your ass down here, Tanner," he growled. "You get yourself killed and then what? Roche and Harper come down like wolves -- and not just on me. On Mary, on Judge Travis. On JD." His eyes bored into Vin’s, willing him to see the truth, and felt the tension leave his body ever so slightly. It was enough. He released the tracker. "Partners, remember?"

Chris still had the power to surprise him, to bring his breath to a halt, as he had that first day. A line of fire from eye to eye, mind to mind, unlike anything he’d known before or since. "Well then, partner. Ya got any suggestions how t’git outta this little bind, here?" The laconic drawl was betrayed by the fierce joy that had risen in his eyes.

"Shoot hard, shoot fast, and pray," Chris retorted and began doing just that.

For the next few minutes, it seemed like that was enough; Chris picked off another of the hired guns, leaving three still shooting at them, with small success, but with a withering fire that kept them pinned helplessly. Vin’s shoulder blades were starting to itch; he felt Harper’s presence, and half-expected to be ambushed from the back. He was about ready to make a move, no matter what Larabee said, when Chris reached over and tugged at his sleeve. "We got company," he said, with a grin that made Tanner wonder if he was losing his mind.

A big man, on a big horse. Gun blazing as he tore towards them at a gallop, with a plume of dust at his heels and the fury of the Lord in his face. "Josiah?" Vin said, feeling as if he were seeing a mirage produced by the dust and the heat. "Josiah!" He shouted hoarsely, and even over the tumult of gunfire, the big man heard him, and wheeled his horse around, nearly tumbling from the saddle as he reached them. He crawled over on his belly, his blue eyes dust-rimmed and reddened, but very bright.

"Figured you boys could use a hand." He grinned at them. "Looks like I’ve come from Purgatory straight into Hell."

Seeing Josiah alive and in one piece was an answered prayer. Vin slapped his broad back. "Good t’see ya, Preacher. You keep them bastards busy. Chris, I gotta get after Harper."

"You take him down for me, Vin." There was no doubt that he could in Larabee’s eyes. Vin gave him a short nod, and scrambled back up the slope.

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

Red Harper cursed and lowered his rifle. A minute ago, he’d had the tracker in his sights, and now he had vanished. Harper blinked and rubbed at his reddened eyes. The wind had picked up, stirring the grasses, and raising puffs of dust to confuse the eye. It rattled the dry branches of mesquite and thorn bushes, making Harper’s nerves leap and twitch at every rustle. He scanned the landscape, searching for something to give away his adversary’s position, and saw nothing but the waving husks of grass and shifting shadows. He was so focused on the tracker’s whereabouts that he scarcely heeded the gunfire coming from the arroyo. The distinctive sound of Tanner’s Winchester was absent, which made the sniper very wary.

A sigh of a breeze on his cheek sent Harper’s heart leaping in his throat. He swung his rifle around as a mourning dove startled from the thicket, wings beating. He dropped to one knee and bowed his head. A trickle of perspiration slid down his spine, and his breath rasped in his dry throat. He was unsettled by this wilderness, by things he could see and not see, hear and not hear.

He was a man who relished the kill, not the hunt. He preferred to lie in wait until the moment was right, and then strike with the speed and lethal intent of an adder. He was accustomed to being the predator and not the prey. He was out of his element, and he feared Tanner was in his.

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

As Vin made his way back up the slope, the crack of Chris’ and Josiah’s guns was muffled by the turns of the landscape and by the rising wind. A faint haze overlaid the sun, softening the light of noon, blending shadows and light into a wash of grey and dun. He moved carefully, taking advantage of every tussock of grass and thicket of brush; pausing and listening to sounds he knew as familiarly as his own heartbeat. He was a part of this world, as Harper would never be, no matter that he could shoot out your eye at a thousand yards or draw a pistol before you could blink.

A mourning dove bolted from a thicket of brush and mesquite up ahead, and Vin’s rifle was at his shoulder; not at the sound of the bird, but at the faint, unmistakable crunch of gravel that followed a heartbeat later.

Harper.

Vin dropped slowly behind a screening thorn bush. Harper had to be on the other side of the thicket, not a hundred yards away, but invisible. Vin was tempted to flush him out with a shot, maybe even get lucky and hit him, but he wasn’t ready to take that risk, not with Josiah and Chris still besieged by Roche’s hired guns. If he was going to take Harper down, it had to be quick and it had to be mortal.

He sank back on his haunches, feeling the raw ache of the wounds in his thigh and hip, but banishing it from his mind as he took stock of the physical obstacles in the way of his plan. He was on the downgrade of a fairly steep slope, strewn with boulders and brush. The most dense part of the thicket was ahead of him, the thinnest towards the apex of the slope. The ground cover was dry grass and loose shale, precarious and noisy underfoot.

Two choices: stay put and wait for Harper to make his move, or set a trap of his own devising ...

He closed his eyes, and breathed deeply, letting his mind settle and a vision of his plan take form. Getting to the crest of the slope would give him an advantage over Harper; and if his movement alerted the gunfighter, at least the battle would be joined. He looked up, gauging the distance he would need to cover quickly. Not far, really. Even hampered as he was with his wounded leg, he should be able to gain the high ground. A smile curled at the corner of his mouth as he thought of what Josiah would say about the odds. Hell, maybe he was just spittin’ in th’ devil’s face. The only way to find out was to move.

Vin timed his first advance with the rising of the wind so that the rustle he made over the grasses was masked by the sough of the mesquite, and his motion disguised by the moving branches. He reached his objective; a large boulder and a clump of thorn bushes, without being shot at, though his heart was thudding in anticipation of it. He settled in, drawing his knees close to his chest and waiting for the pain in his hip to subside. Lord, don’t let that wound break open, he prayed. My own damn fault if it does, but not now. Not yet. After a time sitting still, not more than a few minutes, he prepared for the next advance.

Marking the tenuous thicket with his eyes, he uncoiled his body, waiting for the next advantageous gust of wind, and hoping that when it came, it would sustain itself long enough to cover him. The sound of gunfire from the gully seemed to be fading and sporadic -- might have been a trick of the wind, might have been the end of the fight, and for a moment his heart seemed stuck somewhere in his craw so he was fit to choke on it. There wasn’t a hell of a lot he could do about that. He could only change what lay ahead for himself.

Sweat beaded on his forehead and slid down his temples to sting in the creases at his eyes. He blinked and wiped it away with his sleeve. A breeze stirred his hair, brushing it against his neck. Move, his mind commanded. And his body obeyed.

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

Titus Roche watched from his cover as four of his hired guns fell, one at a time, to Larabee and the man who had ridden to his aid. Tanner had struck one down, slipped away in the confusion, and had vanished. But the tracker was not Roche’s concern. He’d paid Red Harper to deal with him; Harper had laughed as he counted out a payment on the bounty. Said he was looking forward to dragging Tanner’s body to Tascosa. Said he’d slice off a lock of that long, light brown hair and give it to Roche as a souvenir.

Words. Bitter in his mind and roiling in his stomach as Larabee’s deadly fire cut down another man. The last of Roche’s cadre, a Mexican whose only name was Ortiz, was making his way back towards his hiding place, and the Larabee was dodging from cover to cover, firing as he ran. Ortiz yelped and grabbed his leg, falling to one knee, and looking frantically for assistance from the man who had hired him. Roche was prone on the downside of a slope, invisible. Without a second thought, he abandoned the place he had hoped would be Tanner and Larabee’s grave. He mounted his waiting horse, and hesitated, his choices warring in his mind. He could take what he had salvaged from this debacle and ride south to Mexico. Or he could return to Four Corners and take revenge.

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

The last man staggered as Chris’ bullet caught him in the leg. He teetered for a moment on his knees, then dropped face down on the slope, his blood spattering the pale stones. Josiah was securing the three other men who were possibly yet alive. The fourth, the one Vin had shot, was dead with a bullet between his eyes. There was no sign of Titus Roche, and Chris wasn’t about to let him slip away. With revenge and anger burning in his heart, he scrambled up the slope towards the wounded gunman, his own pistol drawn.

The man heard Chris’ approach and raised himself on his elbow. His gun was trembling in his hand and his breath was coming in harsh gasps. He took in Larabee’s rapid approach, saw those cold eyes that would have petrified wood, and the rock-steady aim of the pistol. He laid his gun down and raised a defeated hand. "No mas," he cried hoarsely. "No mas, senor."

Chris stood over Ortiz and shoved him down with a booted foot. "Habla Ingles?"

Ortiz nodded. Chris grabbed him by the collar and held tight. "Where’s the man who hired you?" he demanded.

"I don’t know."

"That ain’t the answer I’m lookin’ for, Senor." Ortiz yelped as Chris dug his fingers into the flesh above the bullet wound in his leg.

The green eyes boring into his were those of the Devil. Roche had not paid him enough to take this abuse, much less buy his loyalty. "Gone!’ he gasped. "I heard him ride away ..."

"Where? Back to Purgatorio?"

"Por Dios, senor. I do not know, I swear it!"

"Shit!" Chris released Ortiz roughly. He heard Josiah laboring towards them, and turned to the big man. "We lost Roche."

"We’ll find him," Josiah said. He knelt beside Ortiz and took off the gunman’s neckerchief. He bound it around his leg, then with the rope he had carried with him, tied the man’s hands. "Vamanos, senor." He hauled him none too gently to his feet, then guided him down to where he hand tied up the other surviving hired guns.

Chris holstered his pistol. After the continuous gunplay, the silence was deafening. Silence.Chris’ head came up sharply. The rising wind struck a chill through his sweat-soaked shirt.

Jesus, where was Tanner? Had he fallen to Harper’s bullet while Chris and Josiah were fending of Roche’s hired guns? Was he bleeding on the far side of the slope? The wind rustled through the mesquite and brush, kicking up dust devils that spun away and withered as the energy faded. For a moment, the earth was paused and breathless. Then the report of a rifle broke that fragile peace. Chris startled from immobility. He skidded down the slope sideways, raising dust that greyed his black clothes and coated his throat. It hurt to swallow. Not that he had any spit.

It had not been Vin’s Winchester that had fired.

Chris caught up to Josiah, who had paused to listen, as Chris had. Their eyes met, concern evident, made worse by the absence of return fire. Chris handed Ortiz’ gun to Josiah. "Keep your eyes on them, and watch out for Roche. He might still be around."

"Where are you goin’, Larabee?"

"After Vin."

Josiah laid a restraining hand on his arm. "Wouldn’t do that, Chris. Remember what Vin wanted -- said he couldn’t afford no distractions."

"Hell, him bleedin’ t’death is a distraction he can’t afford. I’m goin’ after him."

"Chris!" He was speaking to Larabee’s rapidly departing back. With a highly unchristian expletive, Josiah shoved Ortiz to the ground beside the other hired guns. He sat on a boulder, his gun slanted across his wrist and murder in his eyes. He caught Ortiz studying the cross that he wore on his chest. "I may be a man of God, senor, but I ain’t a saint," he warned, his threat implicit. Ortiz subsided into a quiet heap.

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

Hell, so much fer easy.

Three paces from safety, Vin’s luck ran out. Harper’s bullet kicked up dust at his feet as he dove for the cover of the mesquite thicket. He landed hard on his wounded hip, and bit back a gasp. Black specks swam in front of his eyes, and the sharp, sudden pain made the bottom drop out of his stomach. He blinked hard, clearing his vision. Couldn’t afford anything less. He jacked the lever on his rifle. Brought it up against his shoulder, and waited. Harper was cagey, wouldn’t give away his position by firing again. Vin figured he had shot from the screen of the branches, and aiming uphill, only not high enough to compensate for the elevation. It was Harper’s mistake, letting him reach the safety of the crest.

Vin’s gaze narrowed, like an eagle searching the landscape below his aerie. He could feel the moral center that held his balance yielding to the instincts of a predator. The cold logic of the hunt settled in his mind and heart, and the simmering worry about Chris and Josiah faded to a dull hum. He was so still that the dove that had fled its nest at the sound of gunfire returned. He let the sounds wash through him; the creak of branches in the wind, the dry rustle of leaves and grasses, small noises that underlay the wilderness. Nothing out of place, nothing ...

Nothing but a slim dark shadow that caught the corner of his vision and made him check rapidly, rifle coming to bear and finger tight on the trigger. A flicker of duster tail disappeared behind a boulder, and Vin’s breath left him like a the kick of a mule. Goddamn, Larabee! A few choice epithets skittered across his mind, but he tamped his emotions down hard. Later, when he and Chris were outta this, then he’d flay the hide from the gunslinger, but right now, he had to keep Larabee alive so he’d have that opportunity.

A rustle of movement that was not that of wind in the branches made Vin swing his rifle around. A glint of gunmetal grey caught a sliver of light. Without thought, with the reflexes he had learned to trust, Vin fired a fraction of a second before Harper’s rifle cracked out.

He didn’t pause to see the result of his shot. He moved. With the quick, sure paces of a cat, he ranged higher on the ridge, moving to flank Harper. He slid behind a thorn bush, the inch-long spikes raking across the back of his hand, and cursed softly. That Larabee hadn’t answered Harper’s fire had to be a bad sign. The branches of mesquite made a thin screen between him and the pile of boulders where Larabee had taken cover. Lay low, Chris, lay low, he prayed.

Harper was too smart to assume that he had dealt a fatal wound to the gunslinger, and not knowing where Vin was, he had gone still again. But this time, there was no peace in the stillness. Vin felt it shivering through him, from the ground to his belly, to the wind that tugged at his hair. The blood on the back of his hand was as bright as a string of red glass beads. He brought it to his mouth and sucked softly, tasting iron, salt, and gunpowder. The wound on his hip had broken open, and the bullet hole in his thigh was starting to bleed again, as well. He glanced down and saw the stain beginning to seep through the brown cord of his trousers.

Time to move. Time to kill.

He chose his objective. The mesquite thicket where Harper believed he was safe.Vin gathered himself for his next move, regardless of pain, of thirst, of heat. The wind was nearly constant, and the sky overhead was clouding up; there were no longer distinct shadows to betray either of them. Vin rose to a half-crouch and using the tussocks of grass to cushion his paces, moved in near silence towards the thicket.

The trees were spindly saplings, scarcely taller than a man, with thin brittle branches that snapped and whispered in the wind. The silence was different in here, layered with nuances that trembled through Vin. He paused to listen, found it hard to hear beyond the beating of his heart. He let the sounds come to him, let his ears become accustomed to them. He swallowed, his throat aching and dry. Blood scrawled down his leg, and he knew that if he moved, he would leave a trail that could be his death. He pushed that thought away and listened. He breathed softly, scenting dust, the tang of the leaves, the hint of distant rain, and something else ...

Smoke ...

Harper had lit a cigarette. Might not be burning now, but it had been, not too long since. The scent hung in the air like a lure for Vin to follow. The wind was coming from the northwest, so he was downwind from Harper. He moved cautiously, gently shoving branches aside as he went, making no more sound than the wind soughing overhead. He remembered hunting with the Comanche who had taught him. He had moved so lightly that he could have touched his prey before he shot it with an arrow. He had once caught a bird in his hands, grinning at Vin’s astonishment before releasing it back to the skies. That is how you hunt, he said. And he had taught Vin to move like the shadows, to walk as water flows, to be unseen.

He used all those skills now, as he took an uphill, staggered path through the matchstick trees. The crack of a branch breaking under a heavier weight made Vin draw up short. There was no safe place to drop and shelter, so he didn’t. His rifle was balanced lightly in his hands, lethal and ready. He kept moving towards the direction of the sound. The trees were thinning; he should be able to see something, some sign of his adversary. There was still that tantalizing hint of smoke in the air. Vin touched a splintered branch and looked down to see the faint impression of a boot-heel. Harper had been there.

A few steps further on, there was another broken branch, and a cigarette butt crushed flat against a rock. Vin had the uncomfortable feeling that he was being lured down a trail towards destruction. But where, and to what purpose? Wary, he moved back the way he had come, heading not further up the slope, but parallel to the crest, towards open ground. As the trees thinned, and the air moved more freely, the scent of smoke came to his nostrils again, but not tobacco this time. This was the acrid, dusty scent of burning undergrowth. The bastard was trying to smoke him out, like a jackrabbit in a prairie fire.

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

Harper’s shot damn near blew Chris’ head off, and he didn’t want to think what might have happened if Vin hadn’t distracted the sniper. A grim smile curled his mouth, and he flipped his hat back, knowing his dusty blonde hair blended into the desert coloring more easily than the black of his hat. The grin widened. Hell, no wonder Vin always wore that buckskin jacket, made him damn near invisible against the desert background.

There had been no shots fired, no apparent movement from the copse for several minutes, and Chris was getting nervous waiting for Hell to break loose. He knew that snipers fought differently than other gunmen, relishing a dance of death and wits with their opponents. Vin had told him as much; but that didn’t stop him from worrying about the tracker. He didn’t like the idea of Vin and Harper being in that thicket, both screened from his sight, stalking each other. But until there was some sign, he couldn’t force a way into this fight, like he could during a pitched battle. Something had to break, and soon.

The wind gusted. Chris looked up at the darkening sky. Vin’s prediction had held true. There was a storm brewing up fast. A storm, and something else. Chris’ eyes narrowed as a slender spiral of smoke uncurled against the clouds. His pulse quickened. He had waited for Hell, and it had come.

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

The breeze freshened, nourishing the first small licks of flame and speeding them through the dry undergrowth. Red Harper watched as they spread, laying a line of death between himself and Tanner. The wind was driving the fire down the hillside towards the tracker. He would have to emerge or burn to death. Harper felt the familiar weight of power growing in his chest; this was what he was meant to do, this was what gave him the thrill other men got from women, from gambling, from money. Hell, they had their pleasures, he wouldn’t deny that! But nothing was like plotting a man’s death and watching him die. Nothing.

Harper jacked the lever on his rifle -- that fine weapon with a telescopic sight that allowed him to pick off a man at a thousand yards running. Scarcely needed that for Tanner. Be like shooting at a jackrabbit.

Harper drew in a deep breath, relishing the scent of smoke and imagining Vin Tanner bleeding at his feet. He settled back to watch and wait. The anticipation was like the taste of a cigarette before a sip of fine whiskey. It enhanced the experience. He was so intent on watching for the tracker, that he didn’t notice the dark shadow flitting up the hillside towards the crest.

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

The smoke was beginning to thicken, and every breath of wind seemed hotter against Vin’s face. He was still moving at the edge of the thicket, in no real danger from the fire, but aware that Harper never intended it to be anything but a way to force him out into the open. The fire was doing that, but it was also providing him a smoke screen; not a very efficient one, given the tenuous nature of its fuel source, and the wind that kept shredding it into tendrils, but enough of a cover that it was allowing him to advance up the hillside.

Harper had to be up there, crouching like some wily old cougar, just waiting for him to come out and get caught. For the first time in a while, Vin smiled. Wouldn’t be that simple. He wished he knew where Chris was, if he was all right. Would make things a lot easier knowing his back was being watched.

Then the wind shifted direction, and for a moment, the air was clear. Vin looked up and saw Larabee moving swiftly from one patch of covering brush to another. He was saved, and he was damned, all in one second. Instinct as strong as a physical shove, made him drop and roll just as Harper’s bullet ripped across his arm. The second bullet tore up the ground inches from where he lay. The third shot was the welcome crack of Chris’ pistol, and Vin took advantage of that by scrambling to his feet and heading for the nearest clump of ground cover.

Chris was on the ridge above him, crouched behind a boulder and firing deliberately into the thicket, probably not doing any harm to Harper, but drawing his attention from Vin. Taking advantage of Chris’ covering fire, Vin dashed up the slope, gathered himself, and skidded behind the rocks, with Harper’s fire kicking up dirt at his feet.

"Damn, Larabee! I thought I told ya t’stay put," he gasped.

"Nice t’see you, too, cowboy." Larabee smirked, then dropped behind the rocks to reload his pistol while Vin tried to figure out where exactly Harper was concealed.

"Didn’t say I ain’t glad t’see ya." He fired off another shot, and was met with silence. "Hell, he’s on the move again." He slid down beside Chris and reloaded the Winchester. "Cover me."

Chris grabbed his arm, and Vin tried to bite back the catch of his breath. Chris looked at his bloodstained fingers, saw the growing darkness on Tanner’s flank. His green eyes clouded with concern. Vin shrugged it off casually. "Ain’t nothin’ t’ worry ‘bout."

"It’s your call, partner." But he scanned his face anxiously. Beneath the grime and shadowing beard, Vin was as pale as the dust at his feet, and his cheekbones were stark and hard beneath his skin. His eyes were steady, though; amusement glinting in their depths as he returned Chris’ anxious study.

"Yer watchin’ me agin," he grumbled without rancor. "Jist watch me up that hill. I’m aimin’ t’git behind Harper, need ya t’distract him from that."

Chris nodded, didn’t say a word, and finished reloading his Colt. Vin laid his Winchester beside Larabee. "Reckon ya might need this."

Larabee’s brow slid up. "And you won’t?"

Vin touched his mare’s leg. "It ain’t a shootin’ match no more, Chris. I need ta move fast in tight quarters, an’ that rifle needs space. I’ll be close t’Harper when I kill him."

Chris took up his pistol, gave Vin a glance and as soon as the tracker moved away from his side, resumed firing at the thicket. In the space of three shots, Vin reached the crest of the hill and vanished, making Larabee’s heart nearly stand still in his chest. Hoping to further confuse Harper, he switched to Vin’s Winchester for a few shots. Frustrated by his inability to see Vin, and by the lack of response from Harper, he decided to make a move towards the crest of the hill himself. He reloaded both weapons, holstered his Colt, and drew in a deep breath before launching himself up the slope.

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

Vin dashed to the rim of the hill, then dropped and rolled to the downslope. Sheltered there, he raised his head. The fire was burning its way through the thicket; spirals of smoke were caught in the wind currents, spreading capriciously as the wind changed direction. The gust front was coming through, and the rain was near. A rumble of thunder in the distance reminded Vin of the big guns of the battlefield, and once again he was back in time, in the thick Georgia pines, hunting human quarry.

The memory was like a lance in his breast. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he could see Red Harper. Not the clear shape of the man, but a hint of darkness where his clothing didn’t quite blend in with the landscape. When the wind stirred the branches, his form was blurred, but when they were still, he could be seen like a shadow. Vin nearly laughed, wondering how he had not noticed him before.

Problem was getting close enough to take his shot. He wasn’t about to take chances with Harper. Was hard enough to catch a man like that unawares. The wind, the fire, the smoke, the fear that the weight of the Winchester would make his hands shake -- the true reason he had chosen the mare’s leg over the rifle -- he had to be sure that when he shot, he would kill.

Vin heard the sharp crack of his own Winchester and realized Chris had moved up the hill with him. He was firing on Harper from a different location, and Harper had taken the bait. If he had been a praying man, like Josiah, Vin would have crossed himself. Instead he gave a brief thanks to whatever spirit happened to be listening, and stood, more conscious than he cared to be of the pain in his leg and the blood seeping from his hip. Didn’t matter. He pushed it aside and forced himself to move down the slope.

Chris saw Vin begin his descent; a halting dodge from cover to cover. He judged from the purposeful intent of that advance that the tracker had found Harper. He also knew that Harper would not be deceived for long by his decoy act. He had to offer more than random rifle shots if he wanted to give Vin a chance at the sniper. Sliding down behind his cover, Chris put his hat back on his head, laid down the Winchester, and baited the trap to save Vin’s life.

Harper was curled behind a nest of large rocks and thorn bushes midway between the burning thicket and the crest of the rise. The run of the slope was steep, littered with scattered boulders, thorn bushes, and loose shale that made footing precarious. Vin expected to be struck through by Harper’s bullets with every fall of rock he dislodged. The wind, the gunfire, the rumbling thunder all disguised his advance. He thought he was lucky, until he halted to catch his breath and steady himself for the last few steps he needed to get into position. Then he saw Chris making what had to be a deliberately clumsy advance.

Cold fear hit him so hard that he gasped. What the Hell did Larabee think he was doing? He might as well throw down his gun, rip open his shirt and invite Harper to shoot him through the heart. Did the damn fool gunslinger think that black duster and green glare he wore would scare Harper into surrendering? That he could throw his life away, like Vin’s was worth more than his own? Hell.

He heard Harper’s rifle fire, saw Chris grab his side and fall to the ground, saw his legs draw up in agony. A savage cry tore from his throat and he sprang forward, forgetting his wounded leg in the red fog of rage that enveloped him. Pain shot from his hip to his spine. His leg, weakened from the bullet wound in his thigh, collapsed, and he went down hard. He slid a good twenty yards before he was able to brake his fall with his good leg and a lucky grab at a tussock of grass.

Harper heard that cry, the rasp of gravel, the long skidding fall. He swung his rifle around and saw Tanner prone on his side, his leg jacked up awkwardly, and utterly still. There was blood everywhere on him; on his arm, his flank, his thigh. Harper came closer, watching for the rise and fall of his ribcage. There it was, faint but perceptible. He prodded Tanner with the rifle and got no response.

A thrill like lightning shot through him as he looked at the slight, tattered man who had the arrogance to believe that he was a better shot and a more clever hunter than Red Harper. He put his foot on the tracker’s shoulder and shoved him over. "Do you really think you’re worth five hundred dollars?" he sneered. He chambered a shell and prepared to kill.

Vin scarcely seemed to move. A shift of his body, and his mare’s leg cleared his hip. The gun spat fire. Harper’s blood misted as the shot tore through his beating heart. For an instant his body hung on the impact, then lifeless and broken, he dropped to the rocks, his gun still in his hands.

Vin fell back against the ground. His chest hurt, and he was shaking so hard he couldn’t draw in any air. He closed his eyes, and thought about breathing. He felt like he’d forgotten how. He heard footsteps and his first thought was that Titus Roche had come to finish off what his hired gun had failed to do. Then the light was blocked off and a strong arm was lifting him to gently gather him in. That sure as hell wasn’t Roche. A smile curved his mouth. He opened one eye. "Thought you was dead," he croaked.

"Not yet, partner. Not yet." Chris brushed Vin’s hair aside so he could see his face. "You hurt anywhere I don’t know about?" he asked.

A small shake of his head. "Jist need ta catch my breath." For a few minutes he rested in Larabee’s arms and did just that. He knew he’d have to move soon, and he really wasn’t that bad off, but it was over ... wasn’t it? That thought set him to struggle upright even against Chris’ restraining hold.

"Where’s Josiah?" he asked.

"He’s fine, Vin. I left him guarding the few hired guns Roche left behind."

It took a moment for all of that short sentence to register in Vin’s tired mind. "Left behind? Roche ain’t dead?"

Chris shook his head. "He got away. Turned tail and ran, leaving his paid help to deal with us." He grinned. "So we dealt."

"We gotta git him, Chris." Vin pushed his friend’s hand off his chest and sat up, coughing from the smoke lingering in the air. "I’m all right. Need some water and some bandaging, is all."

Chris was pretty certain that wasn’t all, but arguing would get him nowhere, and if Vin said he was able to ride, then he’d stay on Peso until he fell off. He looked into Tanner’s determined blue eyes and nodded. "Then let’s find Josiah and get that taken care of. We’ve gotta find Roche, Vin. Are you gonna be able to help?"

"I ain’t gonna sit on Peso and let you an’ J’siah do all the work. ‘sides, I figger I already fergot more’n you both know about trackin’ put t’gether." His words were still a bit slurred, and his voice sounded weak to his ears, but with Chris’ support, he struggled to his feet, and together they made a limping progress back to the gully where Josiah was waiting with the prisoners and the horses.

The storm had held off for longer than Chris had expected, but he could feel its breath on the wind. The thunder which had threatened in the distance was closer, and the clouds on the horizon were black-bellied and heavy. They had to move quickly.

Ortiz and the other gunmen were tied up; their gunbelts collected and ammunition confiscated. Chris figured they’d get loose and return to Purgatorio, their service to Roche ended. He just needed that extra insurance of time and inconvenience. He tossed the last gunbelt on the pile and turned back to Josiah. "Ready?"

Sanchez finished tending to Vin’s injuries, rose with a grunt and walked over to Chris. His brows were drawn level and he looked grim. Chris’ heart plummeted to his boots. "Is he all right?" he asked. His eyes were on Vin, sitting propped against a rock, his head tipped forward so his hat brim shielded his face. Every line of his body spoke of exhaustion and pain.

Josiah wiped his bloody hands on his bandanna. "All right as a man who ripped open two bullet wounds can be. I’m no doctor, but I tell ya, Chris. The man ain’t got much more blood left to lose b’fore he runs dry. Don’t know how he’s gonna hang on t’ Peso."

"We gotta find Roche, Josiah. If he’s headed back to Purgatorio, fine. Let the bastard run. But if he’s going elsewhere, we’ve got to get him." He didn’t need to elaborate on elsewhere.

Josiah nodded heavily. "Then I reckon we better ride." He caught Larabee’s grimace from the corner of his eye. "You’re hurtin’, Chris." Before Chris could deny it, Josiah touched the side of his shirt. Blood. Not a lot, but enough.

"I’m fine. It’s just a scratch."

Larabee said it like it was a litany, and Josiah grinned at him. "I’d better see to it before we head on out. Won’t hurt Vin to set still for a few more minutes."

Chris’ mouth tightened, but he offered no real resistance as Josiah opened his shirt to clean and bandage the graze along his ribs. As soon as he had finished, Chris shrugged back into his duster. "Let’s ride."

Josiah watched Larabee unobtrusively steady Vin as he mounted Peso. He shook his head, unhappy with what he was seeing. The gunslinger’s whipcord-lean frame was looking fragile, and Vin’s shadow had more substance than his body. But they would ride, and maybe the Lord and his angels would ride with them this night.

They set out towards Four Corners as the first heavy drops of rain began to fall.

Part 6