Part 2

Chapter 8

The talking began over breakfast, where more of the biscuits disappeared. The young man wasn't the least bit picky about food. If he had been before, it wouldn't have mattered anyhow. She was a good cook. His stomach didn't let him appreciate it nearly enough. He was still so bruised and battered from the ordeal, he spoke quietly and slowly. But he told his story...all of it. He told Ethan and Martha about Rupert, Jesse, Lizzie, even about Margie.

"I can't go back home without the murderer or I'm dead myself. I thought I'd take a chance and show you what I know, see if you'd be willing to help me prove I'm innocent."

"Okay, you can show us what you've got, but you can do it later."

"Right now, hon, you're just going back to bed."

They believed him. His uncle hadn't believed him. But these two...they'd never set eyes on him before, but they believed him. Chris was astonished. Ethan got in no hurry about going over the proof. The first few days he and Martha were satisfied just feeding him, getting him warm and stronger, and letting him rest.

On the second day, Ethan approached him, another soup bowl in his hand, encouraging the young stranger to eat more of the broth. "Sun feels good today, don't it."

"Real good."

"If I were to ask you something about your kin, would you get real upset. Martha says not to let you get too riled up just yet."

"No, ask what you want. I've told it all anyway. At least I think I told it all."

"Well, I'm just hunting for details. Tell me more about this Rupert Comstock. He and your parents' get along?"

"Yeah, great friends. Ma and Matilda were close sisters growing up. The men liked each other, too."

"What's Comstock like?"

"Well, not my favorite person by a mighty long shot, but if you're thinking he might of killed them, the answer's no. He wouldn't do it. I threw the thought out real fast. I just don't think he's the type who'd go crazy and start killing people. Don't get me wrong, Rupert wouldn't have walked from here to that fence to help me."

"Why not? He liked your parents."

"Never figured that one out. I sorta felt like his son Jesse was the root of it, but couldn't prove it. I got in quite a few scuffs with him when we were little. Never did like him much."

"Why?"

"He mistreated my horses, and then he tried to date Becky."

"Somebody special?"

"Yes, sir. Becky Taylor. Planned to marry her. Guess that's done for too." Ethan pitied him, seeing the sorrow come to his eyes at the mention of her name.

"Was that the root of the matter?"

"Some of it. We could get along at times, but Jesse was the real demon from hell. I mean people thought I was an outlaw, but Jesse's the one who really got into stuff...lot's more than me...but he also knew how to blame me for what he did. We sorta looked alike, and Pa always let him borrow one of the horses. When he was riding Loco or Charlie, people sometimes thought it was me. It's a hell of a note when you have to try to defend yourself against something you didn't do to the father of somebody who started the trouble in the first place. Most times I didn't even know about it til the blame landed. I was just plain STUPID."

He continued his story. "Rupert just made up stuff. He made damn sure Pa was told of my "misdeeds," even when I hadn't done nothing. It built a wall between the two of us. At the rate things were disintegrating there at the end, it wouldn't have been long before I had to leave."

"So, what does Rupert want?"

"Want? What was there to want. Pa didn't have lots of money. He had lots of land, but generally not much in his pocket."

"There's got to be somebody who had a reason to want to see them dead."

"I can't think who."

"You better think hard. You said your Pa had lots of land. Would your uncle be interested in that?"

Chris realized suddenly that his old thoughts were visible to someone else.

"I told my brother I thought Rupert wanted charge of the farm. He's nowhere near as successful with his place as Pa was with his. He must have figured that, since both Pa and Ma are gone, Lizzie and her husband ought to take the farm over. He could justify that since she was the eldest, and the other boys weren't around. Besides, Rupert could control what Lizzie and Hobart would do, combine the two holdings and keep a nice bit of extra money for himself. Long as Lizzie had no kids, the land would eventually pass to Jesse."

"Why wouldn't it come to you and Margie. You're the youngest and not married...you'd need a source of income."

"I'd fight him on most everything. He overworks the land, doesn't plant right, misuses the animals. Farming isn't what I love to do, but when I work the land, I do it right. If he's gonna have free run on the place, he needs me gone."

"You still think he didn't kill them? Seems like plenty of reason."

"Plenty to think on, but he's just not a man who would do that...not to his own kin. But it happened...I figured he was just using a bad situation to make things worse for me, and giving himself a head start on taking over the land. He was in a waiting game. He would have had to wait until they both died, up until the killing. That would have been a long wait, and they didn't necessarily have to be the first to go. I wonder exactly how long Rupert had planned of running me off. Whoever killed my parents just helped Rupert get what he wanted."

Chapter 9

"Listen, John Christopher," Ethan approached him again near the end of the third day.

"Call me Chris, okay. I think John Christopher died with my Ma and Pa."

"Okay, Chris it is. Look, you've told me your side of all this, and at some point we'll deal with all of it. Right now, it's just too bitter cold to put you out on the trail. You stay out like that again too soon or too often, you're gonna die or worse. Trust me, the piece of dirt you're hunting has gone to ground, too. He's hold up in some den we won't find too easy."

"But I've got to find him. I promised Margie I'd be back."

"Be a shame to take you back in a box; or let her see you hang. I believe you, Chris. Martha and I will help as much as we can. Tell you what, you stay here the rest of the winter. Spring's just a few months off. You get a little meat on your bones, and we'll spend the time doing what hunting we can."

"How are we gonna hunt without heading out?"

"We'll start with telegrams. I've got lots of law friends. It'll keep Sherman out of trouble, too. When he's not sending messages, he tends to sample the sauce just a wee bit much. We'll send out questions...see if we can't locate your pa's rifle. If we get word it's found, we can always head out then, and we'll have a direction to go."

It was a plan. "Ethan?"

"Yeah?"

"I can't remember much about how I got here. Did my horses make it?"

"You sorta fell into my office. The horses got here in better shape than you. They're at the livery."

"I can't afford the livery, Ethan."

"Like I said, we'll make do. Warren Lightman owns the livery. He's close to 75, but don't let that fool you. He's a right vigorous and busy man most of the year, but he could use a little help cleaning up, doing a few repairs, things like that. He can't pay you since it's winter; you can't pay him cause you're broke. And don't you think of touching those coins. Sounds like a real good partnership to me."

"You go vouching for me to make him do that?"

"Put in a word...didn't see any harm. If he didn't want it, he wouldn't do it, simple as that. I've told you before, I'll track you myself if you run or start trouble in my town."

"When do I start?"

"Not for a few more days anyway. Martha says you're not to do much for the rest of the week, and not too much more for a week after. I'd do what she says. You feeling better?"

"Some...lots really. At least I'm warm...hard to remember how bad it was..."

"You best learn not to test your luck in the coldest part of winter, okay?"

"Thanks for the help, Ethan."

"Well, you may not thank me before it's all over. But I'll do what I can."

Chapter 10

The days settled into a pattern that suited the boy well enough. For the remainder of the first week, he rested, sleeping as he wanted, eating what he could. Martha sat him down to trim his hair, and noticed he had taken up shaving. He was fair, so what peach-fuzz beard he had didn't much show. Ethan taught him how, but seriously cautioned Martha, before she had started the barbering, to let the boy alone.

"No teasing, no jokes, no fooling around. You hear Martha. Sure it's fun to you, he blushes real pretty, but the first time I moved to sharpen my razor, I saw that boy cringe something fierce at just the sight of my strop. He hides it best he can, but that pain must run lots deeper than that scar on his back. If it was his father who hurt him that much, some folks would think a killing was justified."

"He didn't do that! He may be a stray, but he's not a mad-dog killer."

Beginning the second week, Chris worked with Warren at the livery. "You can see real clear that the place needs more than a little repair. Last man who worked for me liked downing beers at the saloon more than earning his keep."

He walked to the stalls that were home to Charlie and Loco. "You've taken real nice care of my horses, Mr. Lightman. I appreciate your help. The least I can do is help you out with the repairs."

"All I'm out is a little feed. The stalls weren't apt to be full anyhow. Now, you're to work light this week...Martha says to make you take it slow."

"Where you want to start?"

"I think the roof. Few shingles flew off in the last blow. If it snows again, this inside's gonna get real wet. Now, I'll put up the shingles, you just hand em up to me."

"I ought to be the one high up..."

The man had a temper. "You try to make me into an old feller, I'll fire you on the spot...kick your butt right out of here...very idea...here less than an hour and already telling me what I ought not to do...reminds me of my late wife Hortense...woman was always pestering me to..." His words faded into the supply bin as he began to pull up shingles.

"Sorry."

He enjoyed the work. At first it was enough to be grateful for the care Warren had given his horses, but, as he stayed around the man, he decided he really liked him. He also discovered that there was much about caring for horses that he had never learned. And Warren loved to talk about the care and raising of horses. The sorrel nickered and blew whenever the boy approached, seemingly content in these surroundings. Loco, his usual ornery self, tried nearly every time to take a bite out of his hand or his backside if Chris turned his back.

"Okay, it's time for us to quit today."

"But it's only two o'clock. I can finish this stall before five."

"Know you can, but no point in it. Tomorrow's just as good."

"But I'm not working enough now to pay for Charlie and Loco's keep."

"Would you quit worrying about that. Is it that you don't think you're working enough, or do you just miss my company when you're not here and Ethan's not around either."

"That's a big part of it."

"Well, we can take care of that. I'm ready to quit working today, but what say we play a game of chess. We should be able to finish it before five."

"It'll finish real soon, Warren. I don't know nothing about chess."

"Well, you've got the brain, and maybe the patience, to learn real quick. So just sit down over there and we'll have a first try." It was a surprise, after just a few weeks of play, that the boy was a more than fair challenger for the man, and he was hungry to learn more.

During the second week, he also tried to help Martha, but he was seriously underfoot around her. Early on, he tried to chop wood. She wouldn't allow it, not yet. So, it became milk the cow, collect some eggs, followed quickly by, "Now you sit down on the porch in the fresh air. Here's a book. Boy smart as you is bound to be able to read. You go out there and sit. I'll call you if I need you."

As she sent him out into the crisp fresh air, every time, he heard her familiar admonition, "You keep that coat buttoned, and that scarf around you too. Put your hat on. It's not spring yet." His Ma would have liked Martha.

The work with Warren was more to his liking. They knew he was better, when they finally heard him whistling a soft tune as he brushed the sorrel.

Chapter 11

Ethan walked into the jail before rounds on the fourth Monday. He'd been there nearly a month. Stronger and anxious for action, something worthwhile, the boy was fastening the tiedown of a black holster holding a Colt .44 with a brown walnut grip. The sheriff saw that the boy hadn't used it much, if at all, since he had the belt fastened far too low and on a crazy angle around his hips. "Where'd you get that?"

"It was Pa's. I added the tiedown."

"Did he know you took it?"

"No. Didn't take it until after he was dead. Last time I borrowed it, before then, I got caught."

"How old?"

"Fourteen, close to fifteen."

"He tan your britches?"

"Nearly whipped em off me."

"Good for him. Why you putting it on now?"

"Cause if I'm going to hunt for a man who might want to kill me, I'd better learn how to kill him first."

"Dark mood today for such nice weather, don't you think."

"It's important. I don't know how to shoot unless it's tin cans or food. I've fought boys lots of times, but not in a test like this. I don't want to be on the losing end. Will you teach me or not?"

"I will, if you listen to everything I say. That's no toy...you know that better than most. Once you put on that rig, you're inviting all kinds of no-goods to take a shot at you. There'll be a good many fine people who will choose to have absolutely nothing to do with you. You'll only get lonelier for wearing it. Hear me, Chris...you listen, I'll see you learn. You start fooling around, I'm liable to tan your britches myself."

The boys eyes went hard and steely. Old habits instinctively had made him back up a step or two. But he determinedly stopped and made his stand. He pulled himself to his full height, starring straight and cold into Ethan's eyes. The boy disappeared as the wary survivor deep inside him came to life. He hissed, "No, sir. No you won't. Not you, not anyone, not ever again." Ethan saw he meant it, then saw him struggle to let it go.

That began the days of practice...just that simply begun. "Don't work on fancy, Chris. Work on being true." He did like being fancy, but he practiced that after class.

It was worse than Mrs. Hick's school room, "Why didn't you reload...you count six like I told you? How many's in that rifle right now?" "How many spares you got?" "Make them face the sun if you can." "For God sakes, boy, didn't I tell you to wear that holster straight and high on your hips...that way throws your aim off." "If you don't go to ground, if you don't find cover, you're gonna die...just that simple." "You hear that? What was it? How far away?" "Who was it in that window? You want to shoot em, or are they a friend?" "It's all one motion, boy. You try to snatch that gun, you'll wind up so slow at aiming, you'll miss the bastard or shoot yourself in the foot." "Told you to clean that thing last night; looks like something took a dump in there." "If it gets fired, it gets cleaned. Otherwise, a drop of oil, wipe it down, leave it alone."

Rifle, six shooter, ways to hunt, ways to hide, blend in, stick out, face a man down, cool a man's temper...how to know when to shoot, how to avoid it, and when to head for cover.

"Mostly boy, if there's a bullet loose in the area, I'd say duck. Person never knows if one of those things is going to take a liking to him."

They fought in the livery. Bare knuckles, with and without knives or clubs or anything else close to hand, down and dirty. Martha was indignant. "Ethan Collins, Chris Larabee, you're fighting like two ruffians. Ethan, I want you to stop before he gets hurt."

"Who gets hurt?" Ethan's right eye was swelled tightly shut. "I think he enjoys having me for a punching bag."

"Shoot. I know he's pulling his punches. I'm not that stupid, but he is a sucker for an upper cut. Grew up with two brothers older and taller than me. Upper cut's been my best punch since I was, oh, say about six." He pulled to his full height, his devil-may-care smile returning to its rightful place, and he laughed. They enjoyed the sound.

"Next time, I won't be a sucker...don't get to be a wise-ass, boy."

Chapter 12

The worst of the winter broke sometime in early March. The first shoots from the ground made him sometimes better; most times worse. He was homesick. He should be working at home, planting...helping Pa. Teasing Margie. If he'd only gone home sooner. If he hadn't made Pa mad. If he hadn't run away.

He ate dinner with the couple most evenings. The conversation or even silence suited him fine. One Sunday night in late March, he joined his friends for yet another meal. The familiar blue enameled cooker was centered on the table, and Martha quickly passed bowls around. As she lifted the lid to the cooker, and filled his bowl, he eagerly took his first whiff of the savory aroma. Suddenly he was pale. To her, he was clearly as nauseous as he had been that first night. He excused himself, making it out the door and across the porch in the nick of time. It worried Martha greatly. Didn't bother Ethan. "He must have just wanted a little air. Doesn't seem to be so sickly anymore."

Martha wasn't satisfied. She walked to the door, looking for him. She found him, sitting in the dark on the wooden porch surface, as far away from the door as possible. His back was turned, his feet hanging over the narrow side of the span, his head leaning against the house. She was shocked to hear a quiet sniff or two. Her soft touch on his blond hair just made it worse. "Hon, what is it? Are you feeling sick? I thought you'd enjoy the food tonight."

"I'm sorry. It's okay. Food's fine."

"You don't sound so fine. Tell me what's wrong."

It was safe here. He could let it go. "It's Sunday."

"Don't know that that's anything to cry about," she was trying to raise his spirits.

"It's Sunday, and they're gone. You make chicken and dumplings like my Ma...a little more pepper maybe, but about the same. She always made chicken and dumplings for Pa and me on Sunday nights. Was the last meal she ever made, and she'd saved a plate for me. I just miss her, them, so ..."

She understood. He was a boy, even if he looked like a man, and he needed caring. Martha knew about caring. "Sorry they brought back memories, hon. She sounds like a wonderful woman."

"Yes, ma'am, she was."

"I know they were proud of you."

"I let her down; let them both down. It was my fault."

"Not so far as I can tell. Look, families fight. Sometimes they fight like the devil's choir master. That doesn't mean they hate each other. I can tell you loved your ma. Did you hate your father? Would have been easy given what he did to you."

"No. We fought lots of times, but I knew he was mostly a good man, even if he did have a real mean streak...I missed the way things were when I was little, when we worked so well together. I wish I knew for sure what I did to make things change between him and me. I really did love them both."

"I don't doubt that for a minute. Don't you doubt yourself either. They wouldn't want that, and you can't afford it. Well, you just take a little time to yourself. You take all you need. But don't you stay out here too long. The air's still chilly, and you don't need to take a cold. I'll just feed Ethan and me now and put a bowl of the chicken on the back of the stove. You get it if you're ready. If not, I'm leaving some biscuits too." Ma would have loved Martha.

Though the last of the tears he would shed for a long time, Chris found a smile. The memories were mostly good, and he was grateful that he had someone like her to care and help him remember.

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Chapter 13

Later that night, the two men checked the town. Chris the outbuildings; Ethan the stores. They had become a predictable pair, walking the sidewalks for the town.

He pressured his friend for a full month to start the search. Ethan was determined to wait until the weather was better. If they got word, he wanted a good chance they'd be able to travel quickly. "Patience. It's as important as learning that gun and that rifle. Patience to do something right and to keep at it until you get it done. Patience to wait and to keep your temper in check. You keep up the practice. You've still got a lot of things to learn." But the sheriff soon started sending telegrams out to other lawmen in the area, looking for the rifle. Chris gave him a description of the mark his father had put on the rifle stock.

Patience was not his best quality. The boy expected quick results, but nearly another month passed with no word from anyone. He worked for Warren, made rounds with Ethan, and practiced, and he ate Martha's cooking, and he grew. At spring's end, he was six feet tall, now slightly taller than his mentor, but still way too scrawny.

"Ethan, they don't know him, and they haven't see the rifle. They'd have told you. If I wait much longer, I'm liable to have a bounty hunter showing up here." The younger man had lost what little forbearance he had left, and he was pacing like something caged.

"Patience, boy. Patience.'

"Patience, hell!!"

"Don't say that in front of Martha. She'll box your ears."

Chapter 14

June 19, a two-line message came to the office. "Rifle here...gunman too. Come and we'll take him together. Sam Gates, Owenville."

"Ethan, this boy," Martha looked up at the boy eating another one of her sweet biscuits, a boy who returned a raised-brow look. He wondered what he'd done this time. She shook her head as she studied him, "This boy needs something to wear if you're heading out sometime soon. He's done fine in your hand-me-downs, but he needs a few things of his own, including pants that don't stop at his knees. Needs some kind of coat, too."

"Martha...I wouldn't feel right, you spending more on me."

"Hush, hon. Now Ethan, I got some dollars in my sock. You take them and this boy and get him a couple pairs of pants and a pair of boots, look for a coat...second hand will do, but make sure everything's got room...he's sproutin' like a pine. I'll make him a shirt or two if you'll bring me some goods. Don't get the cheap stuff, this one will wear them out way too fast."

The shopping spree embarrassed him. When they returned, Martha insisted he model the purchases. He was embarrassed again. He called to her, "Ethan said I'm to wear this," and stepped from the small back room. She gasped. He was dressed in black. Black boots, black pants, black shirt, black hat concealing his fair hair...with his black leather holster with silver studs buckled around his hips. The change was startling, and troubling. The easy-going, soft-spoken boy was gone; the man in front of her looked strong, intelligent, very dangerous, and deadly.

"When did you start wearing that thing?" She tried to sound calm.

"Not long ago. Asked Ethan to teach me." Martha frowned at her husband. "No, it's important. I've got to go out looking again, and I need to know how to handle myself. Ethan thinks the black will make lots of gunslingers think twice before trying to outgun me."

"Ethan, what have you done? He's just a boy!"

"Boy with a price on his head. New poster arrived today...the bounty's up to $500. That's enough money to make riff-raff come looking. Still says wanted alive, but that won't last long. Best I can do is help him get ready."

She knew that was true...he had to be ready. That meant he needed to get all his strength back. So she did her part. Martha made foods she found he liked. He was a skimpy eater, had been since he arrived. He'd put back on a little of his flesh, but his work and training took so much of his time, and he spent so much time planning for the day he found his outlaw, he seldom remembered to eat and what he did consume turned quickly into hardened muscle. She tempted him to eat extra bites throughout the day, and she found out that he could be bribed to eat a full meal when the reward was one of her much loved cherry pies.

She also had lessons to teach. The first time she found he had visited the local saloon, she did box his ears for daring to come to her table with beer on his breath. She'd glared at her husband. He'd taken a whiff of Chris and simply roared with laughter. Ethan also held his coat later as he lost it all.

She made him remember that he did have manners. If he wasn't polite, well groomed, careful in speech and actions, she let him know. "All this fighting and shooting your practicing could maybe be avoided if you remember to be polite. A man ought to deal straight with others; keep himself neat and clean; treat others well; and have his own code to live by that shows he's a man worth knowing. The fewer fights you have to handle, the longer you'll stay well." She winked at him as she whispered in his ear, "and having all those fine manners and such won't hurt your standing among the ladies, either. It's what sold me on that one. Could do a lot worse than watching him."

As summer arrived in full, with him fully recovered, they found he was full of vinegar. Ethan laughed about that too, that is until he found the young man coming out of the local saloon in broad daylight, beer mug in hand, holding on to one of the local "girls," and singing like a fool. As Ethan walked up, the "girl" left Chris' arm quickly, heading back inside.

"Afternoon, Chris," Ethan walked beside him. "Who was that you were with?"

"Mable. Ethan, she's a real nice girl." His speech was slightly slurred, and he had a lopsided grin on his face.

"What have you been doing in the saloon?"

"Talking to Mable. Got Merle to play a little tune or two. It was fun, Ethan." He tripped on nothing. Ethan steadied him.

"Talking and singing? That all?"

"Yes, sir...well, no sir. Was drinking a few beers, too. Mable got em for me." He toasted the inquisitor with the nearly empty mug. "She's real nice. Said I was welcome to come by any time, just not when she was real busy."

"She invite you upstairs?"

"No, sir. Said she was keeping an eye out for me though. Said when I was a little dryer, she'd like to show me a few things. She's a real nice girl."

"A little dryer?"

"That's what she said."

"You got any idea at all about what she means by dryer and showing you a few things?"

Chris stopped, facing the man with that devil-may-care grin. He wasn't that drunk. His smile widened. "Ethan, I've raised a heap of horses, sheep, all types of livestock. Ain't the first time I've been in a saloon or talked to a girl. Won't be near the last time. She don't know nothing I don't know...just got a little more 'professional' experience, that's all. Like I say, she's a real nice 'girl.'"

Ethan roared his laughter, then sobered. "Okay, so you know plenty. But you're still green as any tree you find. Just remember you can get in a heap of trouble courting that kind. And, Chris, I don't want to catch you coming out of there in broad daylight with one of 'em on your arm again. People don't fancy a carouser trying to protect their town. Saloon girls most often have good hearts. You treat 'em all with respect and courtesy. But Chris, you can't trust em, not with the truth, not with your money, and never with your life. You're growing up fast, so I can't order nothing; but I prefer NEVER seeing you coming down those stairs. My wife will find out in about two seconds flat...she will NOT approve...and then, you little fool, she's gonna blame me."

"Didn't think about that."

"You best think about lots of things. If she blames me, I'm coming for you."

"Oh."

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Chapter 15

He minded his manners, at least for a time. The practice continued as before, except it was getting harder for Ethan to best him in much. That was good, it kept the older man sharp, too.

With spring, the rowdies had begun to appear in town. By now, the two lawmen were busy, it seemed every day, stopping brawls, checking who had come to town, watching for the undesirables who would crawl out of hiding. The "deputy" felt a little strange watching the wanted posters that arrived. When he opened a batch in late June, his own face emerged. The bounty was up to a thousand dollars, but at least it still read Alive. He studied it for a moment, before he committed it to the fire.

Every night, he and the sheriff walked the street, watching for anything that might cause problems. It was most often quiet. They had taken to walking apart during their tours. Even at this hour he was still in class, and the current topic was learning to listen, watch, and not be distracted. "Talk on your own time, boy. Lots of times, best to just be real quiet."

On a late Wednesday afternoon, they were patrolling as usual. They'd had a good hot dinner of chicken and dumplings from Martha. She had never made them on Sunday again, but Wednesday seemed to her a good compromise. She'd also cut way back on the pepper. It was one meal where he always asked for seconds.

As they passed the livery, approaching the hardware store, a sound came from above and behind. To the boy, it was a small sound, a sound of metal being moved against metal, but he heard it. Rifle? There was a breaking crack, then one closing, with a slightly different, rising pitch.

He yelled at his partner, then headed for cover. The sheriff too, began to move; but didn't move quickly enough. The first shot fired struck him and knocked him to the ground in the middle of the street.

From his hiding place behind an upended table, Chris watched him fall. He knew there was at least one of them, probably two. The one who had fired was on the roof above the hardware store. The boy hadn't heard him move, so he figured he was still there, waiting for one of them to try something. Where the other lay, there was no cover at all, and he hadn't moved since falling.

He thought. He looked above and behind his shoulder, figuring where the man was, what angle he could use and how he could get his friend out of the way. When he'd made his plan, less than a minute later, he crouched low, then threw himself rolling toward the middle of the street. An incoming bullet passed wide of its targets. He came up firing, rifle not pistol. He aimed at, without really seeing, the man on the balcony. His aim was true. The man seemed to waiver in mid-air before he fell over the balcony and landed on the ground. Dead.

The boy grabbed Ethan under the arms and dragged him toward the cover he had found earlier. The bullet seemed to be in his back, but there was no way of knowing how badly he'd been hurt. He was breathing, but he was also bleeding, and he was unconscious. The boy called out, hoping to bring others to their aid.

They still weren't alone. From an alley across the street, a gun barrel appeared with a tell-tale flash encouraged by the last rays of the sun. The first shot was wide. He pulled the table forward from the wall, giving shelter to the sheriff and marginal protection to himself. A second shot greeted his efforts, and he barely managed to get them both in safety before another bullet ricocheted off a nearby post and flicked past his head.

He determined quickly that he had to move. He'd just get Ethan killed if they both stayed where they were. The guy had used three shots. He was using a six-shooter. Did he have a rifle, too? Could he reload? He didn't know, but if he could make him use up at least three more from the pistol, he'd have a better chance of taking him down. His own rifle was empty. The last one had found its mark, but he realized he hadn't reloaded it after practice. He drew his .44, knowing without looking that the chambers were full, but he'd left the hammer on an empty one, so all the rounds he had were five.

He remembered the lessons about moving when bullets were flying. It was pretty dark by now, he had to move fast. He crouched low again and ran, zigging and spinning to get across the street. He wasn't alone yet. Bullet number four hit the ground in front of him. He zagged in the other direction, aiming for the sidewalk in front of the bank. He knelt there, waiting in the doorway, listening and catching his breath.

Behind him, he sensed a presence. Man number three, or just the second one circling around? A hulk of a man, one that would tower over him if he stood, was behind him. He didn't want to fight the brute. He tried to wield around, but a gun clipped the side of his head before he could move. He slumped to his knees, his head reeling.

"Larabee, I bet. John Christopher Larabee, ain't ya? Boy, I'm glad I've found you...you're worth a thousand to me, and the new poster today said Dead or Alive. I like dead myself, a lot less trouble that way." The hilt of the gun crashed into the back of his skull, sending him prone to the ground. Holding to consciousness, he heard the hammer of the gun being pulled back, while the barrel of the gun touched the nape of his neck. He closed his eyes.

The cracks of two shots so close to his aching, bleeding head scared the living daylights out of him, but he was alive. The giant behind him grabbed his chest and tumbled to the ground. The angle of his aim changed, and the involuntary twitch of his fingers as he died pulled the trigger. The hunter's bullet, number five, entered Chris' shoulder. Martha stood across the street, a snarling she cat protecting her own. Ethan's Winchester was held in her capable hands. She'd already checked her man; now she went to check their stray.

"Lie still...help's coming."

The street filled with people. "Thank God," was all Chris said. Someone started to pick him up. "No, not me. Ethan...over there behind that table...hurt."

Julian Horne, the town doctor, arrived with his wife, who was also his nurse. He was a slender man, with long bony fingers, and a serious attitude. He looked like a farmer. There was no suit for Horne, just pants, a woolen shirt, and a fawn colored great coat.

It took two burley men from the town to gather up their sheriff. Martha returned to them just in time to shepherd them all toward the house. The boy followed as best he could, his head pounding and woozy from his near brush with death. He was beginning to feel the wounds, but the doctor pushed him toward the jail instead.

"Wait," Chris pushed against him.

"Get in there, boy. That any of your gang trying to shoot Ethan out there?"

"Whoa, Doc. I don't have a gang. Ethan and I walk together at night. You've met me."

The doctor looked closer at him. "Ah, yeah, Chris..isn't it...that's right, Ethan's newest stray. Sorry I didn't recognize you. Still, you just get on in there."

"Why? What did I do?"

"Don't go getting yourself all upset. Now that I see who you are, I don't figure you did anything wrong; probably saved his life. But I need you to stay here awhile anyhow. I'm going over to take care of Ethan first; but you'll need something done for that shoulder, and I don't want to have to look for you when I get the chance to fix it."

As they entered the jail, the doctor's wife came up beside them. Pulling Chris' shirt away from his body, she efficiently pressed a wad of bandaging against his shoulder. "Son," she said, "that shoulder's not too bad, but you need to keep pressure on this so the bleeding will slow down until Julian gets around to getting that bullet out. Here, you sit down so I can reach that head of yours. That must have been two hard knocks. Lucky that fool didn't shoot it off. Your heads going to hurt pretty bad, and you'll get pretty thirsty in just a little bit. Loss of blood will do that. When we get to the Collins' place, I'll send back something for you to drink. Just sip along on it, and you'll be more comfortable."

"I'll be fine, ma'am. Can you send me word on how Ethan is?"

"I'll send it. You just stay right here. If you feel dizzy, lay down on one of the bunks, and keep a blanket close by. You'll probably take some fever."

They left in a hurry with no further talk. He opened one of the cells, sat on the bunk pressing the cloth tight against his shoulder, prepared to wait it out. He was surprised that he felt a little green. They sent word that Ethan would survive, and the strong drink she sent for him was warm and soothing, even if it wasn't exactly tasty. Before long, he eased his pounding head onto one of the small cell pillows and closed his eyes to let it rest a bit.

Morning light showed through the jail windows when he finally woke. His shoulder had already been bandaged. He hadn't felt them digging for the bullet, but now it hurt like hell. So did his head, but his first questions were about Ethan.

"He's gonna do fine, son. Bled like a stuck pig, but the bullet was more in his side than his back. He'll need to rest awhile, but he's gonna be up and around in no time. He's awake, least he was a little bit ago. When you've rested a little yourself, you can go see him."

"Thanks, doc."

"Boy, you ever been shot before?"

"No, sir, why?"

"Well, takes a little tending to get a thing like that to heal proper. We sure don't want any infection setting in. You'll need some salve to rub in, bandages to change, and I'll give you a little something to ease the pain. You got anybody who'll help you tend it?"

"Yes, sir. I think Martha'll take care of it."

"Don't go putting too much of a load on her, son. She acts tough when she has to, but seeing him hurt and all, having to kill that one over you, she'll need some peace for awhile. She'll have Ethan to care for, probably for a week or two, so you see if you can't find someone else, okay."

"Yes, sir. I can probably look after it myself, if someone shows me how."

The wife eased him into a nearby chair. "Young man, you'll just need to rest a little yourself. You lost a fair amount of blood. The sheriff's gonna probably sleep most of today. Why don't you just do the same. Some of the town folk will watch for you two. Now, you drink a little more of this along. You finish it, then when you wake up, you can go see him. Julian, dear," she turned to her husband. "all he'll really need is a bandage changed here and there. Let's just see to it ourselves."

He healed fast. Healed enough within a couple of days to take up the tours by himself. He didn't ask permission of anyone; he did it for Ethan. He never stopped again to make small talk with town folk as he walked. Friendly enough when he was at the livery or on his own time, when he walked the street for the town, a tip of the hat became his hello, his goodbye, too. Otherwise, he watched, he listened. He was almost never distracted.

Ethan healed too, but not fast enough to please the boy. He was ready to ride. When he first spoke about riding out alone, it upset the bed ridden man so much, Martha made the boy leave. When he first asked the healed man to go with him, she gave him a swat he wasn't quick to forget. To himself, he took to calling her "hell cat." When he made the mistake of saying it out loud, her husband was well enough to aim a hefty swat himself.

The two headed out, leaving at first light two weeks later. The plan was to take the bastard back to stand trial. When they joined up with Gates in Owenville, it seemed there would be little trouble in locating the shooter. They felt they were right, but taking him might take some doing.

Chapter 16

The man had definitely gone to ground through the winter; but when he finally showed up, he came out mean and looking for trouble. His favorite hangout was the bawdy house at the edge of Owenville. He had been spotted soon after he arrived. He was only there a couple of days before he beat one of the girls almost to death. He wasn't worried about anything. If he wanted it, he expected to have it. He knew nobody would dare tell the truth about what he did.

Gates wanted him gone. That kind of hard case wasn't good for the town, and he didn't like having to deal with it alone, either. Now, he had two helpers coming, so it was a good time to round him up. If Ethan said he had murdered two people, and if there was any proof that he'd done it, that was all Sam needed.

The two arrived after sunset. It hadn't been an extremely long ride, but Ethan wasn't exactly up to full strength, and the one night they'd spent on the ground had made both of them grouchy...the sheriff because he still hurt from the bullet; the boy because they stopped at all. Ethan introduced the young hot-head to Gates, who told them that the man they wanted was still in town.

"Where? Come on, Ethan, we've got to go get him." The hot-head headed out of the jail. He didn't know where he was going, but he was ready to move.

"Hold on, pup," Gates sized him up. "It's too late to go charging out now. Do you think you're the one to go challenging Norris Braddock all by yourself. He's a mean s.o.b., and you'll just get yourself killed. Why do you care about him so all fired much?"

"Killed my ma and pa...left me to swing for it."

"You mean you're still wanted? Ethan, you know about this? You're sure risking a lot to take on his trouble."

"Yeah, Sam. He was more than half dead when he turned himself in last winter, but he told me his side of it right away. I've watched him for months now, and he's a man who'll deal straight. He's got evidence that proves to me well enough that he didn't kill anybody. Saved my life a few weeks ago...that's why it took us so long to get here. Got bushwhacked by a bounty hunter who tried to shoot us both in the back."

"Dang, Ethan. Thought you could handle yourself better than that."

"It was just luck he and his partner didn't kill Chris and me both."

"Well, right now, it's best if we get something to eat and bed down for the night. We can plan what we're gonna do over supper." As they walked across the street to the Sunny Trail Cafe, the two at opposite ends of the age scale began to get acquainted. "So you got your baptism, did you kid? Little on the young side, don't you think?"

"Baptism? Don't call me kid."

"Don't be so touchy. Boy puts on a rig like that, trouble's bound to happen sooner or later. In your case, seems like you were ready for it sooner. You take a bullet or a beating?"

"Little bit of both...not too bad...just butt whipped my head and put a bullet in my shoulder."

"Well, I guarantee you'll remember the day, hour, and every little thing about it, probably for the rest of your life. You kill him?"

"No, sir. He'd have shot me in the back of the head if Martha hadn't shot him first."

"Your Martha, Ethan? What have you been teaching that gentle little girl of mine, anyhow?"

"Nothing you hadn't taught her since she was knee high. She put one right in his ticker, from clear across the street, with nothing to see by except a smoky little street fire. Piece of dirt was dead where he stood."

"She get all teary-eyed after she'd done it?"

"Martha!?" Ethan laughed out loud. "Naw! Surely you haven't forgotten that little spit-fire you raised, have you Sam? You getting that forgetful, you best come for supper more often."

"Martha's your daughter?" Chris grinned at that. "Just how did she manage to wind up with this one? I tell you, she didn't cry one bit when she dropped that slug, but you'd have needed a bucket for what she was crying over Ethan, after she found out he'd be okay."

"Shut up, boy...you're a blabbermouth. Martha don't like nobody knowing her business, even if the audience is her father...and, boy, I'm not fooling."

After dinner, in a little side dining room they'd taken for their own, Ethan watched the young gunners' expression change as he thought about why they were here, "Where's this piece of dirt I've been looking for?" He began to pace.

"Last time somebody told me where the bastard was, he was at that little brothel on a back street at the edge of town. I can show you where. Spends most of his days at The Red Raven saloon, drinking or causing trouble." Gates grabbed his shoulder to stop his pacing. "Look kid, you're too worked up to plan on meeting him right now. This man's a real crazy one. That bunch he rides with are pretty much like him. They'll all go for you. There ain't no warrant for him here right now, we don't have anything for proof. He'll mess up eventually. Right now, I don't think we can take em all even with the three of us together."

He jerked his shoulder from the man's grasp. "Then, what the hell, exactly, am I doing here? And Don't Call ME KID!!"

Ethan took him by the shoulder, "YOU just calm down. You're here to see justice is done; but you're not here to learn to be a killer like Braddock. You've got to be patient...just like we've talked. You manage to stay patient, and we'll be able to get some proof that will let us arrest him. You go after him with no proven cause, you're going to be the one in jail. Sam will see to it, and so will I. I trust you, but you're not free yet."

"This is a bunch of sh..."

Ethan shook him. "YOU SHUT UP! I told you this wasn't gonna be easy. You need patience and to remember what I taught you. It saved our lives a couple of weeks ago, but you stay all unbalanced like you are right now, and you'll buy yourself or me another brand new bullet. I'd rather not have another one just yet; how about you?"

He took a breath, knowing the man was right, trying to calm his temper and nerves. "All right, then what do we do to finish this?"

Gates eyed him, with a look that would accept no back-talk from a whelp like him, "Right now, you and Ethan get some rest. You can stay in the jail if you want, or you can put up at Marietta's Boarding House...food's a lot better there than here."

They parted for a few hours of sleep. At least Ethan slept. Chris checked his gun, checked his rifle, remembered why he was here, and spent the night looking out the window into a stillness he could not feel.

-------------------------------------

Chapter 17

"Okay, kid, you just go on down to the mercantile and get some extra ammunition for that shooter of yours. Tell Cliff I said to charge em to me. Then you turn around and come to the far end of town, that way. Don't get sidetracked by this gussied-up cow town. I want to see what this buzzard has taught you. Then, we'll all settle down again and plan what we can do." The others were eating breakfast, but the young man had no stomach to hold it down.

"I'll go, but I ain't no kid that needs bottle feeding. Don't you two think you can plan this without me. It's important that we get him alive, and I've got to be the one that takes him."

"I know. From what Ethan says, if you get him with something here, you've got enough other stuff to tie him to the murders. You work with us, and we'll help you get your life back in order."

He walked away, down the street. He bought the ammunition for his six-shooter, loading and checking it at the counter. The rest of the box in his hand, he headed toward the far end of town to do a little practicing, a little showing off. He suddenly wished his audience was Becky. God, he hadn't thought about her for a long time now. Would he be good enough for her when he went back? "Don't get distracted, you blockhead." It was Ethan's voice he heard. Well, if he was good enough today, Gates would throw in with them and their odds of taking in the killer would improve greatly. He could go home.

His eyes traveled up and down the street as he walked back the way he'd come. He was accustomed to being aware of his surroundings. Since this was a new town, his attention was sharpened. He stopped when his walk took him past a saloon. Nothing special, just a saloon, except the large sign read "The Red Raven." They were expecting him on the other side of town. He looked from the sign toward the direction he was supposed to travel. When he got there, they were supposed to make plans. What was it Gates had said...don't get sidetracked...but what if...

Temptation won, leading him inside, where he walked straight up to the bartender, "Mister, is Norris Braddock in here?"

Al Hinshaw looked up at him from his neverending job of polishing glassware. First he noticed the boy's young age, then his height, then he took in the holstered gun. He figured there'd be trouble out of this one, but he answered anyway, "He's right over there under that coyotes' head."

"Would you be willing to give me an introduction?"

"Sure, but you're not planning to start nothing in here, are you? That man's not one I'd suggest a boy as young as you try for a first mark. You start trouble here, couple of the boys and me will kick your butt right out that door."

"I won't be the one to start nothing. I just plan to talk to him a bit."

"What's your name. Can't introduce no one without a name."

"I'll get to it soon enough."

He accompanied the man to the table where Braddock held dominion over two others men and three local "girls." Resting against the table, his father's rifle, with the prominent tell-tale marking, provided all the proof Chris would ever need. Gates said they needed a reason to arrest him. Theft ought to do just fine.

"Mr. Braddock, this kid wants to meet you."

Braddock sized Chris up, and then he sneered, "So what's this scrawny piece of nothing doing looking for me...say, boy? I ain't got time to listen to some gunfighter wanna-be. Get out of here."

The miscreant failed to notice the green eyes studying him. He failed to comprehend that the younger man's audacity was older than his years. "Sorry, no harm intended," Chris lowered his eyes, not wanting to start anything, as he walked back to the middle of the bar. He ordered a whiskey, not his first, and sipped it while he fixed his eyes again on the man he wanted. It was a devil-may-care grin, tinged with a touch of pure hatred. If he had looked in the barroom mirror, he would have recognized the coal-hot stare of his father. "Alright, you son-of-a-bitch. You gonna start it, you just do it," he only thought it. If he said it out loud, he would buy himself trouble again.

"Who are you, kid?" It began.

"My names Chris. Chris Larabee." His voice and his eyes, even from halfway across the room, were so cold, Braddock hesitated for a few seconds before continuing his questions.

"What are you staring at?"

"Well, I guess everyone here would say I'm staring at you."

"What do you see when you're looking at me?"

"I see one big ugly pile of garbage named Norris Braddock." The smile became more deadly The words were low and full of insult, meant to provoke.

"What did you say?"

"You heard me...I just see one big pile of shit." He pushed himself tall and straight, away from the bar. He wanted to draw, but he forced himself to stay in control.

Braddock was on his feet, his two companions backing him up. The girls knew when to leave. "Who the hell are you, boy? You here to make a reputation for yourself? You here to call me out? You here to die? I don't care if you are wet behind the ears, nobody talks to me like that."

"Mister, I'll say just about anything I want to you." He left the bar, his eyes holding those of his enemy, staring him down. He sidled up to the man, with the stare changing into a cold, calculated, close-quarter challenge, "I've been hunting you for more than a year."

"Hunting me? Why you got cause to hunt me? I ain't ever heard of you. There's no bounty on my head, either. Seems I might remember you on one of them posters though"

Chris measured the man with his gaze. He was a giant of a man, well over six feet, with muscular arms and legs to match. His beard and mustache grew full and long on his face. Chris watched his expression, noting his hostile stance and the twitching fingers that caressed his pistol grip.

"I'm hunting you cause you're the son-of-a-bitch that killed my family, and you're going to hang."

"I ain't never heard anyone, let alone a fuzz-cheeked boy, claim they could put a rope around my neck. I suggest you remember just who you're talking to. What makes you think it was me that done this anyhow?"

Chris reached into the pocket of his pants and took out the small stack of coins. "Remember these?" He handed them across to the bartender.

Braddock seemed a little nervous about what he saw. "What have I got to do with those?"

"You stole em from my home, used em in a general store in Washington." He reached in his other pocket and drew out the small white pipe.. "This came from my pa, too. You sold it to a man in Bachell." He tossed that piece across the bar as well.

"Kid, it ain't nothing but a little old pipe...anybody could find one of those just about anywhere. You sure you're hunting the right man?" The bartender determined he'd best be careful who he backed in this situation. He knew Braddock. He really hoped the boy was right.

"I'm sure," he never took his eyes off his target, but his memory slipped back and found the pain the pipe caused him. "Couldn't be any other but Pa's. Not if you look at the mouth piece. Check it out yourself. It's never been smoked, but there's a single row of teeth marks there. My Pa chewed it, always put it in his mouth in the same way, but he never smoked it. Look again, this bag of dirt didn't notice it or he'd have destroyed the pipe. Pa wound up getting stain into one of the carvings up front, second curve from the top. Been there for years, but he never could get it out."

"That don't mean nothing to me. You can't connect me to either of those."

"Yeah? I've got eye witnesses that can put them all in your hands. And mister, that's my father's rifle. It's what brought me here looking for you. It's in your own hands this minute. Where'd you get all these things if you weren't there?"

"Bought the rifle off a traveling man...what's it to you? Don't know where the traveler got em, but it sure weren't cause I stole em."

"Didn't buy em! They weren't ever sold, they were taken from my house the night my Pa and my Ma were killed. They showed up at the stores real fast...no time for go-betweens."

"Calling me a liar?"

"I'm calling you a thief, a liar, and a murderer, you son-of-a-bitch. Just like I said, you're gonna hang."

With a roar that threatened to deafen them all, Braddock went for the younger man, his two associates circling behind him. True to his training, he avoided the first rush, circling too, aware that the man could hurt him badly and very quickly if he wasn't careful. He had never fought three. The first body slam the bull of a man gave him knocked him halfway back across the room. He pulled himself steady, then made a charge of his own...aiming for the big tree-trunk legs. He caught him low and so hard, the brute fell backward into the table he had commanded a few short minutes before. They wrestled for awhile among the furniture and against the walls. Braddock had to grudgingly acknowledge that this boy might be scrawny, but he sure knew how to fight, and he didn't know how to quit.

The two associates descended then, catching their boss' adversary and pinning him so his arms and legs were useless. The beating began, and it wasn't easy to take. He felt his ribs cracking under pressure from the blows. His face had already taken a pounding before Braddock got around to working on his insides. He jerked and yanked to get at least one arm free. He'd felt the right arm slip a little when the one gripping it slipped on a spot of blood on the floor. That identified the weakest one.

He tried again. As he yanked his arm completely free, he swung the right up, directly into the bottom of Braddock's chin. It rocked the man, who bellowed, "Hold this piece of filth..."

The boy had gotten in a couple of good jabs against the others, a few against Braddock, and he thought he had found his best way to attack. For a time he hit their lead man again and again, circling to stay away from the others. Fighting three was hard work, and he was tired. It only took a few minutes before the two stalkers had him in their grip again. The beating began in earnest, Braddock immensely enjoying the change in the game.

He thought he was going to be dead, or wish he was, when this was over. He struggled to break free again. Driven by nearly a whole year of being hunted, shot, exiled from his home, and being alone, he felt nothing but his anger. The coal-hot anger stirred inside him, then it gave him strength to fight a little while more. He knew, at this rate, he wasn't going to win.

Another, more severe blow to the boy's stomach and a quick succession of punches to his mid-section doubled him over and sent him to his knees. An associate's blow pitched him forward. Braddock was poised to deliver a kick to his head, kidneys, or ribs, whichever became available first.

"Being on the floor's a little different, ain't it boy. Well, get ready for it to be over real quick. I ain't gonna waste my time wailing on ya, but I intend to give you a beating you won't soon forget."

His opponent's intent was clearly stated, yet the boy understood there was more to the plan. The man promised a beating, but behind his eyes Chris saw that his true plan was to finish him off in quick order. Beat him...yeah, Braddock was going to enjoy that, but then, he planned to just kill him.

"Every living soul in this room and this town knows who calls the shots when I'm in town. Anyone gives me grief over this, I'll just finish them too." And he drew back his massive boot, ready to carry out his plan.

A shot from a .44 made everything quits. Gates stood in the door of The Red Raven, lowering his aim to cover the outlaws. Nobody had seen the men arrive...they were too busy watching the fight and trying to stay out of the way of the combatants. Collins circled around them, holding his own weapon, until he was able to reach the blockhead and drag him to his feet. He hissed in his ear,

"You get yourself in hand, and I mean right now! You're a damn fool. You ain't done nothing but buy yourself more trouble. If you started it, you're headed for jail, and then that warrants going into effect. Don't you understand I can't protect you from that, not outside my own jurisdiction? You didn't make a real smart choice this time, now did ya?"

Gates questioned, "Who threw the first punch?" He looked toward the bartender. "Who started all this, Al?"

"Boy sorta came in looking for it, but he was just jawing, tough kind of talk, but just talk, didn't pull his shooter, nothing worth killing a man over. Braddock threw the first punch, and he was sure aiming to finish the kid off."

Ethan held him up, draping Chris' arm over his shoulder. "You're one lucky s.o.b. I told you to stay away from anything like this! You're supposed to be with us at the edge of town. What made you come in here?"

"I don't know...I saw the sign's all." It was hard to talk, harder to walk, even with the help. "Talk later, Ethan. For now, just put me down...I don't think I can breathe."

His mentor was so angry, he continued to berate the boy instead of getting him off his feet. "You're getting to be plum stupid. You just decided to ignore everything Sam and I had to say. Had to come in here and take on the whole wooly bunch by yourself? I told you before, if you ever stopped listening to what I told you, I'd give you a lesson you wouldn't soon forget."

He snatched himself away from the support of his friend, instantly regretting his move. He balanced on legs that would rather fold under him. He had never forgotten the answer he gave to the threat Ethan had made. His anger was no less venomous than it had been so many months ago, when he had trusted absolutely no one. But this was Ethan, so he cooled his anger and let it go. Plus, he knew the man was right.

"Didn't intend to start nothing. Just gonna check it out, see if he was here. If I found him, I was gonna come find you and Sam. Let me sit down a minute, okay."

"Don't go stretching the truth with me. You knew. At least you should have known what you would do if he was in here. Well, you did a great job of it. You let him know you were after him, and he had plenty of goons to take you down. You think this was such a great plan?"

"Maybe not, but Ethan, he's got the rifle!" He pointed toward the gun as best he could with his splintered ribs.

Ethan stopped, Gates beside him, finally looking over at the outlaws' table. They noticed the Winchester with the carved insignia on the stock leaning against the chair Gates recognized as the one Braddock always occupied. Together, they eased the boy into a nearby chair, walking to the table to inspect the prize. The symbol was the same as Chris had shown Ethan when he first arrived. They'd found the man.

Gates was ready and almost gleeful. He tied Norris Braddock's hands in front with a length of rope from his pocket, then called on two of the patrons from The Red Raven to help him escort the man to jail.

"Just leave that hot-head here. Al, give him a whiskey...maybe it'll cool him down...might help him catch his breath a little."

"That sounds like a plan you ought to follow, boy." Al was pouring the boy a double as he spoke.

"I'm coming with you!" Chris came half-way to his feet.

"I don't think that's..."

"I said I'm coming with you!" While the sheriff walked slightly behind and to the side, shepherding the two other prisoners, he watched the boy's progress. It wasn't pretty, but he thought the dimwit just might make it.

For himself, the boy thought everything was mighty quiet after all the noise of the saloon. His head hurt, ears rang, and he admitted to himself that he was more than slightly dizzy. He didn't want to think about his ribs. His breathing was ragged. He knew, with certainty, he would have died on that floor if Sam and Ethan hadn't come looking for him. Patience... he'd have to work on that one.

They'd gone about half way across when one of Braddock's band of ruffians made his move. He was the one they had all missed in the saloon. He'd held back, like Braddock always ordered...just in case they got in a jam. He'd exited the rear door, taking position in the alley. He crept to the front until he understood where all the men were and where his leader was in the pack. He didn't care about the others, they were all expendable, friend or foe. He only needed to save Braddock. Do this, and he was set for life. He pulled his gun, easing back on the trigger.

Why he heard it, he never understood. As crazy as his head felt, he shouldn't have noticed anything. But he did. He reacted by looking over his shoulder. The glint from the muzzle of the gun made him reach for his own weapon. With his damaged body, he couldn't hold the gun right with a numbed arm and hand. With determination, he flipped the weapon to his left hand, diving right to knock Ethan off his feet, yelling at Gates to take cover. He raised the gun as best he could and fired as he joined Ethan in the dirt. The impact knocked the wind from him again, but he struggled to regain his feet. His gun lay in the dirt, several feet away.

The new gunman grabbed his bleeding arm, but he used the confusion of the people, who were all running every direction to avoid the gunfire. For a brief second or two, the scared mass separated Sam Gates from his prisoner. The attacker used the moments to pitch his gun into Braddock's waiting hands. Braddock's first, rope-hampered shot was at Gates, who dived for cover, looking for a way to return fire without hitting any of his frantic citizens.

Ethan knew they were in trouble. Gates was of no use among the milling people. He and the two saloon-chosen "deputies" had their hands full keeping the other two from running.

With the gun in hand, Braddock should have run, too, but the anger he felt for the boy was all consuming. "Come on, boy. No insolent upstart is gonna help put a rope around my neck. No boy is going to best me. I've killed grown men for less than what you dared."

He turned to see the boy's efforts to rise. A demonic grin spread across his face as he pointed his shooter at the vulnerable head. He laughed and tightened his finger on the trigger of his gun.

Desperation was all it was. It wasn't bravery, it wasn't all the training, and it sure wasn't because he was real smart. Later, there would be no illusions. Chris just dove again, not thinking, simply reacting, knowing he would die if he failed. His left hand found the gun in the dirt. For a split second he hoped it wouldn't jam, but he rolled to his left anyway, raised the gun, and pulled the trigger in one fluid motion. Braddock was standing before him, gun raised, his finger on the trigger. He rolled right, feeling his ribs give again, but while he cried out, the last shot Braddock would ever take fell several small inches short of its mark. The bullet dug a straight line in the boy's left arm, but to that boy it didn't matter. It didn't matter at all. Braddock was dead.

Chapter 18

"Why'd I have to go kill him? I'm never gonna be rid of this bounty on my head! Hey, you, that hurts!!" His face was coated with some kind of stuff the man had rubbed roughly into the rapidly swelling bruises.

"Be still. I'm gonna stitch that up if it kills you." Against his most vehement protests, he found himself seated on the table in the local doctor's office. His two protectors had insisted that he needed tending and literally dragged him there. The man working on him was a sadist. The promise that everything would be done and over with in just a few minutes had evaporated more than an hour before. He wasn't convinced the man knew what the truth was.

After the doc had removed his patient's shirt, he poured cold water over his head, face, and chest, supposedly to return him to his senses. All it did was make his teeth chatter. His senses were just fine now, thank you very much. Then the physician, not very gently, had tied the injured ribs so tight, he felt like Braddock's clan had worked him over a few more times. Now this demon from hell was dead set on sewing up his arm, an arm that he saw as, at most, only an annoyance. All in all, being alive, he felt pretty good. At least when this ape would let him alone, "Get off me!"

"You don't have much patience, do you?"

"So I've been told."

"Just be still, I'm almost done. I tell you, I ain't never had to do this much patching on a kid your age. How old are you anyhow? Never seen one your age handle himself with that much calculation before neither."

"Calculation didn't have nothing to do with it. Ouch!" A deliberate jab from the stitching needle made him angry. "All I did was try to stay alive. That's enough!!" He pulled his arm away as he felt another prod.

"Quit your complaining. To be such a tough outlaw, you're nothing but a whinny little baby. Bet you've never been hurt once in your life before this. Bet anyone that gave you grief is long dead though. Tell me, what made you want to kill Braddock? You sure did a right smart job of it."

"Mister, don't call me an outlaw, and don't call me a baby neither" his tone was menacing. "You don't know one thing about what I've been through, do you? I didn't have any need to kill that man. I've been hunting him for over a year, but I wanted him going back to Indiana for trial. I needed him alive."

"Well, you must a not wanted him too alive. You sure plugged him quick enough and straight in the heart."

"It was him or me. He was under arrest. His stooge tried to gun us down, and then Braddock fired. After me, there was Sam or Ethan. I just did what I had to do."

"Sure you did. You just wandered into town yesterday, and today you kill somebody from this town. Ain't never seen Gates let someone go so quick for killing one of our own. Braddock wasn't that bad."

"Son-of-a-bitch killed my Ma and my Pa. Killed them in cold blood. Shot em both in the back. What are you going to do? Tell me about how good a citizen he is? Yesterday, he beat up a woman right here!" The longer he talked, the more angry he became.

"Shoot, that was just Harriett. He liked to give it; but, hell, she gets paid to take it."

Chris came off the table, towering over the little man. He couldn't hit him. He hurt too much for that, and he would certainly be back in trouble. But he didn't have to listen to him, either. "Ethan, get me out of here!"

As the men left, the doctor mopped his brow. He was glad the outlaw had the sense to leave while he could. He couldn't wait to tell his wife, Sylvia, or the boys at the social club, how he'd told this upstart off. He wanted them to all know they were fortunate they had avoided a beating or a bullet from the renegade/fugitive who had graced their town. By the time he left for home that evening, he knew for certain that the outlaw Chris Larabee had not only killed Norris Braddock without provocation, he had also threatened the doctor's very life.

As they left, Chris flexed his needled arm. "Damn, Ethan, that beating was bad enough, but remind me to avoid stitches from now on. Thought the ones in my back hurt like hell. Damn!! Do they always hurt like this?"

"I wouldn't know. Never had any before that incident in the street a couple of weeks ago. Took getting tangled up with a devil like you to get me stitched. The ones in my side pulled some to tell the truth, but Horne's a more gentle soul. He gives his patients a drop or two of "comfort juice" if you catch my drift. Need something? We can stop a minute and get you a drop if you want."

"Naw, it's okay. What set the doc off like that?"

"Braddock was probably a good source of income for him. The doc, such as he is, probably had a steady flow of cash coming in during warm weather for taking care of people who worked and got hurt for or by Braddock, and probably for patching up the women he beat up. I imagine Braddock's pay bought his silence. If nobody could prove he was the cause of a killing or beating, he could come and go, and do, whatever, whenever, or wherever he pleased. I was surprised the bartender supported you like he did...could have bought himself a mess of trouble."

"Is there any way I can go home now, or do I need to take out again? I won't be hunting Braddock anymore, that's for certain. Who's going to believe me in Indiana. Even if I was to take a pickled body back there, Carter Masters will just say I shot him on purpose. I can't put him in Indiana when he killed my parents.."

"Your father's things put him there...don't you forget that. Ain't there anybody back in your town who would stand up and say you just couldn't have done it cause you're just too genteel a boy?"

Chris laughed a little, shaking his head, the sarcasm dripped from his voice, "Who me? You know me. I'm just a real tender heart, no temper at all, don't know nothing about fighting, much less killing. I'm just a good old farm boy. You've seen me work. Why don't you just ride on back with me and be my character witness?"

Ethan was quiet.

"No insult meant, Ethan. What did I say?"

"Character witness."

"So?"

"It can be arranged, you know."

"Who?"

"I can think of three right now."

"Who?"

"Me, Martha, Sam...Warren just might pull himself out of town to be another...that's four, and there's bound to be at least one in your home town. Think, son."

He thought. "There may be one or two."

"Who?"

"Clara Hicks."

"Not a whore is she?"

"Hell no. I'm only sixteen, Ethan."

"Sixteen? Since when? I've sure known woollier than you at a more tender age. That reddish hair and green eyes you've got and that little grin you pull on the ladies, I've seen it. You'll get away with a lot with that. You could get into some fine trouble just about anytime you wanted. Just glad to know your character witness ain't another Mable."

"Clara Hicks will box your ears if she hears you hint something like that. She was my school teacher."

"Now that's what I call a fine character witness. She married?"

"Yeah, she's married. Husband's name is Matt."

"Been married a while."

"A good, long while. Get your mind out of the hog trough, Ethan. Hell, she's probably 50 years old."

"A real old witness, huh? I bet she'd box your ears for that one, too."

"Probably would. She's boxed em enough before."

"Any one else who'd have something to say about you?"

"Not many who'll say anything too good. I had myself sort of a reputation."

"Why doesn't that surprise me? Oh, hell. We'll just have to figure it out as we go. Right now, let's talk to Sam, get you some rest, and get ready to head out tomorrow. We'll stop by the telegraph office and send Martha news about what's happened."

-------------------------

Chapter 19

They rode out early, making a slow but steady pace. Ethan was quieter than the boy had ever known he could be. Quiet was okay with Chris. The other would talk when he got good and ready.

"Could you have avoided that back there?"

"Avoided what?" Chris wondered where this question was leading.

"Killing Braddock?"

"I didn't want to kill him! You're not accusing me of shooting him in cold blood are you?"

"No, he caused it sure enough. That's a clear case of self defense."

"Then why'd you ask me if I could have avoided it?"

"Cause it made me just a little afraid that I'd let you down...hadn't taught you what you needed to know."

"I'm alive and not too bad off for the experience. You must have taught me pretty good."

"Don't think so."

"Then teach me, teacher. What did I miss?"

"You've got a real special gift for hearing and sensing what's happening around you. It's a special thing and don't you ever take it for granted. You can sure shoot. That dive bit generally comes about the time you're too old to use it. But what did you aim to do back there? Think."

"Don't you ever get tired of telling me to think?"

"Yeah, I do. When you start doing it on your own, just as natural as you pull that trigger, I won't have to do it anymore. Now, think!"

"I intended to take Braddock back for trial."

"Are you doing that?"

"No.."

"Did killing the s-o-b make your life easier or worse?"

"Worse. Harder anyway."

"Well, then, truth told, you failed. Just that simple. If you failed, I didn't teach you right."

"But..."

"'But', hell. Ain't no "but" about it. I taught you real well how to fire that gun, how to hit a target no matter what's going on around you. You can do it when you're hurt or when you're strong. I'm proud you've learned so well. What didn't I teach you?"

"How would I know what I haven't learned?"

"Thin..."

"I know...Think." He lapsed into obedient silence for a spell. "I know how to aim, to shoot, to be aware of what's happening. I can hit what I want when I want." He grew silent again, pondering the question. "Didn't want to kill him, but I killed him. I killed him because I didn't know how to control my aim for him, to just wound him."

"See...you've got a good brain when you'll use it. That's what we need to work on. It's mostly fine tuning, but you've got to keep your head and you've got to think. Do you want him dead, or do you want to just stop him. Sometime you might have to bring down a crazy...man or woman. You don't want to kill em just because they're not right in the head. You might not want to kill a boy like yourself because he's accused of some mischief but hasn't had a trial. Maybe he was accused of having a beer...but he panics and pulls a gun. Do you want him dead?"

"No. I want somebody to listen to him for a change."

"That's a great deal different. But he's still got the gun, hasn't he? Do you want to take his place on Boot Hill? Not thinking things through, and not seeing it all real fast, can get you killed."

"How do I learn that? Seems it would never be the same game twice."

"It ain't ever a game, but I know what you're saying. It's never the same. We can practice some things. Talk about what to look for, how to make em back off, lots of things. But patience and age, if you learn enough to live, will teach you what you need to know."

The ride going back was easier than his first arrival had been. For one thing, he wasn't nearly frozen or starved this time. For another, it wasn't nearly as far as he remembered. He wasn't hiding out, searching for stuff. He didn't have to sleep in barns and steal food either. Still he was scared of what would come. At least this time, there was help and a bit of hope.

When the two of them entered the house, she was furious. "Look at both of you. How'd you get this boy this banged up in such a short time?"

"Ain't really nothing. It's getting better all ready." Chris wanted to sound better than he felt, but three full, slow days in the saddle, riding with the painful ribs and stitched arm, made it a difficult assignment. He didn't fool her one little bit.

"You look like you're just fine! Sit down before you get sick on my rug."

"But we got him." Ethan figured that might placate his wife.

"Yeah, you got him. You got him dead, according to your telegram. Thought you needed him just a little bit ALIVE."

"We didn't mean for it to happen, but that's the way it worked out. That's just that. Means I've got to move on."

"We've been arguing about that since we started back, boy. You leave now, and you're creating a whole new problem. You've got your evidence; you've got me, Sam, Martha, and maybe Warren to speak for you; you've got this Mrs. Hicks. Have you thought of any more?"

"No. Nobody."

"No family?"

"No. Leave them out of this." For all his stiffness and the continuing discomfort, he pulled to his feet and began to pace.

"Leaves a real hole in any defense you might have."

"Leave them alone."

"Any brothers?"

"One...Mitch...he's not there, he's on a riverboat somewhere. Last time I saw him was before the funeral. He's the one that helped me get away. Other one ...Frank...died a long time ago."

"Sisters?"

"NO!! That's not an option! Not ever!!" He came at Ethan, his eyes defiant, yet somehow scared and pleading.

"Whoa. You just tell me why we can't talk to em. How many are there?"

"Two."

"Where are they?"

"At her home."

"Who's home?"

"Lizzie's."

"Tell me a little about them. It's important."

"First born was Elizabeth...called her Lizzie. She's around 9 years older than me. The littlest one is Margaret...Margie...she's...I guess she's near about eight now."

"Get along with them?"

"Lizzie...not so much. She was all prim and real proper. Used to call her "Rulebook." That made her real mad. Margie...yeah, sure." His thoughts of her made him smile. "She's a little spit-fire. We got along real good. Young as she was, I think she was my best friend."

"Would Elizabeth back you up? What about Margie?"

"Well, let's put it this way. Lizzie believed my uncle Rupert. She didn't want any part of me anymore. She told Mitch and Margie that I was a mean one."

The memories were closing in on him. "Ethan, please, leave them alone... especially leave Margie out of it. That night, she lost Ma, Pa, was yanked from her house and home, and the two of us were split apart. She's had to live with Lizzie and that can't have been easy. She's had time to get over the worst, but you'll just dig it all back up for her. I don't want her hurt, Ethan, not again, not because of me. Leave them out of this. Please. I'd rather die than see her hurt again." Ethan had never seen him so fixed on anything.

Martha had seen his sorrow and heard his self-recriminations, before. She thought she might be the only one alive who'd ever seen his tears. She went to him and drew his tall frame to her, head to her shoulder in comfort and protection. Over his head, she simply shook her head at her husband, hoping the older one would leave the younger one alone.

"Well, I think you're making a big mistake. But I'll leave it to you. When we get you home, you can talk with your sisters. If they're willing to help you, and they're up to it, you give em the chance to help you. That fair enough?"

"Yeah, fair enough. Thanks. When do we leave?"

"Few days...we'll rest up a little, see who's the sheriff in those parts right now, who's judge, try to see what we can expect. While we're getting some information together, we'll just let Martha play mother hen to us both a little bit. She'll be a lot happier if we don't put up too much of a fuss about it, and you, little chick, could stand the attention."

She glared at them both. "You'll think mother hen...." but she was already content with the arrangement.

On the third day after, Chris Larabee with all his friends left Patomka behind, returning to his home to face his family and his fate.

Chapter 20

They'd ridden for three days. Chris figured they would reach Wheatland by noon of the next. As they began to make camp, Ethan watched the boy walk away alone toward a small creek that ambled past their stop.

"Nervous?" Ethan clapped him on the shoulder.

"Nervous, no. Scared shitless, yes." He skipped a rock toward the creek, fixing Ethan with an attempt at a cocky grin.

"I'd think that would be about normal, given the circumstances. You ain't ever really normal. Well, the judge is a plus. Name's Jarvis Putnam. Sam's met him before. Says he seemed like a good listener and a fair man. Wish the sheriff was anybody other than Carter Masters. He'll be apt to hold a big grudge, even after all this time."

"Yeah, I'd think he would. I didn't know him that well, but when some of the older boys got on his bad side, he was a miserable cuss to deal with. Remember he beat Jimmy Jenkins real bad over a bottle of sarsaparilla. Turned out Jimmy never done nothing. You think that son-of-a-bitch ever said one word in apology? Naw, he sure didn't. But what gets me, Ethan, is that I never had no trouble with him. The only opinion he had of me came straight from Rupert."

"Can you make him admit it?"

"I don't know. If I do, I've got a mighty rough road ahead to live in his town."

"Worry about where you'll live after finding out whether you'll live."

"You digging into your words of wisdom again?" He grinned...cocky again.

"Listening hasn't hurt you up til now, has it?"

"No. Hasn't hurt me one bit. You reckon there's anything to eat?"

"Martha's here, ain't she.

"Yeah."

"Then there's something real good to eat. When you're done, you slip on into your bedroll for the night...get yourself some rest."

"I've got Loco and Charlie to look after."

"Well, just this once, I'll take care of 'em both, including that brute of yours. And, believe me, if that addle-patted critter bites or kicks me, I'll just pass it on to you in the morning."

"What's this? You starting to mother hen me too?"

"Shut up, kid."

Chapter 21

Breakfast was quick. Quicker because again the boy refused to eat. He was ready to face what was coming, but he was unwilling to face the prospect that he might have to give up the life he'd been allowed to have because of his new friends. He didn't want to loose them. As he saddled Charlie, and fixed Loco's reins to the saddle, he leaned his head against the leather and willed himself to be calm...to be patient. Hell, if it came to it, once he rode into town, he might have to will himself to take the rope and the last short drop. He trembled slightly as he mounted to ride.

"Well, we best get going." Ethan slapped his thigh and looked into his eyes. "You ready?" The boy nodded, though saying anything would have been impossible. "It's been a long road for us, Chris. You're doing the right thing, and we'll be there to see you through."

"Just hope I'm not a bigger fool than you generally think I am."

"Yes, you're a fool a lot of times, but you've got heart and courage, and you've got a good streak of honor in you too. I'm proud to be your friend."

"Don't go getting sentimental on me. Martha's bad enough."

"Boy," His face changed, his expression deadly serious. "There ain't a joke anywhere in what's about to happen to you. Do you trust me?"

"Sure, I trust you. Why wouldn't I?"

"Cause I'm about to do something you'll maybe hate me for." His hand reached up past the saddle, grabbed the man's wrist, and twisted on one of his manacles, quickly bringing the locking mechanism into place."

It was like a young green stallion feeling a saddle for the first time. Chris panicked, kicking out, ready to run. Ethan was ready for the reaction and pulled the boy from the saddle, throwing him to the ground, quickly closing the other end of the shackles."

"Why?"

"Calm down. Calm down. It's gonna be okay."

"Why?"

"Do you trust me?"

"You son-of-a-bitch! Trust you? No, I don't trust you. Not one damn bit! You after the reward?" He suddenly understood that he had hurt him more with those few words than he ever had with fists.

"Hon," it was Martha's voice that made him stop fighting. "You CAN trust him. He's your friend. Whatever he's got in his head, he thinks it's gonna help. You two come here, sit down. Just listen to him. This was a mighty sorry way for him to handle this situation. He could have prepared you just a little bit. He's lucky you didn't draw."

"I want him to remember how it felt. Promise you he will." Ethan wasn't so sure now that it had been a good idea.

"Why?"

"For future reference, I want you to always know what it feels like to face a jailing or a lynching, to not be able to ever trust one living soul. Might make you a little less apt to stir up trouble like you did in that Owenville saloon. I promised you a lesson if you stopped listening. BUT...I didn't think it would look too good if I took you in bruised or bleeding. Do you? But believe me, I considered it for awhile. You almost got us all killed.

As for now, it's gonna look mighty suspicious if we ride in there all cozy together, you a wanted man riding free. Nobody's with a gun on you, nobody treating you like an outlaw? I think every pair of eyes that are on you ought to see you come in with at least a pair of handcuffs...no ropes or anything, all of us relaxed. Riding in like we ain't got a worry. With your hands fixed, we don't have to worry how much we talk or what we have to say. Handcuffs say you're not a threat."

"Handcuffs say I'm a piece of dirt that ought to die."

"Don't think so. Think about it. You determined it's a bad plan, it's your life, and we'll do it your way."

They rode into Wheatland just after noon. Well, one thing had gone right, anyway. At the town's entrance, several men, sitting on a bench, chewing tobacco, talking about anything and nothing, stopped and watched the new arrivals. One of the bench warmers obviously recognized the one in black, the one who rode in handcuffs.

Ethan heard, "I'll be. Ain't that the Larabee kid Didn't figure we'd ever see him again. Two of em's got badges. He must of given them a real fight. Guess that last wanted poster did the trick."

Chris heard it too, and saw one of the men run to spread the news, but he ignored it. The town hadn't changed very much... new names on old stores was all.

They all dismounted in front of a red brick building with fancy wrought iron columns. The name Jarvis Putnam looked back at them, painted on the front door glass.

Martha watched him. The poor thing was fidgeting, practically shivering, even though the temperature was hot. He was as bad off as the night he'd first come to their home, and no warm bath or hot meal could cure this. He was so scared, if she had said "boo" he'd have been hard pressed not to run. He couldn't do it himself with the handcuffs, so Martha reached up and brushed the dust from his coat; took the hat off his head and gave it a brushing too.

"Now, hon, you go in there and take care of your business. Mind your manners real well this time. You need me, I'll be right out here."

"You not coming in?"

"Best not for now. If he wants to ask me anything, Ethan'll get me. Otherwise, I need to stay where I won't mess your case up by opening my mouth if I think he's being mean to you. You can handle anything you need to handle. Go on, now. Ethan, you and Dad take care of him."

He looked at the ground, for a few minutes closing his eyes, gathering his courage. Well, he'd trusted Ethan and it had worked out. He'd trusted Martha, Warren, and Sam. They were all here. He knew he trusted Clara. Somewhere there was Margie. Six. He had six people who knew him and were fighting at his side to set things right. He'd been blessed to have these friends.

He raised his head, turning to the ones around him. He gave his best devil-may-care smile, took one last deep breath, and said, "Let's finish this." Then, with his manacled hands, he opened the door.

A tall man, gray headed, with sharp brown eyes and sharper features watched him move, noticing the bonds. He also noted the boy walked in front of the other men; not pushed, not dragged. In spite of the fetters, the boy's attitude said he was free. The gray headed man was sitting behind a massive desk littered with papers, journals, and folders of every size and thickness. He took in the others as well, though they remained behind as the youth approached.

"Gentlemen?"

"Sir, are you Judge Jarvis Putnam?" He could barely hear his own voice.

"Yes, that's me. Can I help you?"

"Yes, sir. I imagine you've heard my name and seen the poster about me? I'm Chris, John Christopher Larabee."

"Well, I'll be. I had that poster struck more than a year ago. Was mighty sorry to do that to someone so young, but your Pa was a real good man, and your Ma was a great Christian woman. So you're turning yourself in? You admitting you killed them?"

"No!!" It came out a feral scream. Chris closed his eyes again. "Easy...patience," he thought. He didn't feel easy at all. "Sorry, Judge...ah, your honor. No sir, I did NOT kill them."

"Who caught you? One of these two? Come forward, gentlemen, so I can see you. He face took on a more friendly look as he recognized Sam Gates. "Sam, you bring this one to heel? Who's your partner?"

"Hey, Judge. No I didn't catch him. I've been working with him, and so has this guy, Ethan Collins...he's my friend and my son-in-law."

"You trust him...this boy that is?"

"Yeah, we trust him. More than trust him." The other answered instead of his father-in-law.

"Then why have you still got him all shackled up. Is he gonna run away after supposedly running so hard to get here?"

"Oh, I forgot. Sorry Chris...hold out your hands."

Free. His hands were free again. If they'd been alone, he would have punched Ethan, but the man was right; it was a lesson he would never forget.

His friend continued with his words to the Judge, "He's saved both our lives several times since he left the tender care of this town. He's been working hard to prove that he didn't kill his folks, and we're here to bring you evidence that he didn't have anything to do with it."

"Evidence? What kind of evidence?"

"Things the murderer stole from the house, records of where he went, what he did. An account of how he died."

"Died? Who killed him?"

"I did, your honor." He still couldn't hear his own voice.

"That doesn't bode well, now does it."

"But, Judge..." Panic inched toward the surface.

"Patience, Chris...patience." Kind words in the younger man's ear. "Judge, happened in Owenville, we tried to take him alive. Boy came to me almost a year ago with part of the proof he needed to clear his name. He almost died trying to find the things. While he rested up a little, I started sending out telegrams to see if anyone had spotted the last piece of evidence we knew about. Came to be that Sam here spotted it, and let us know. Man's name was Norris Braddock...he'd..."

"Braddock? Norris Braddock? Young man, you killed Norris Braddock? You know there's a big reward for him up here? Dead or alive. You must be some saint the Lord Almighty intends to protect or you're the devil if you came out of a fight with that one alive. How old are you? Did you fight him face-to-face or shoot him in the back?"

"I'm sixteen...and no, sir, I did not shoot him in the back!" He couldn't keep the instant anger from his voice.

"Calm down. You don't want me to hold you for being a smart-mouth now do you. From hearing Ethan and Sam talk about you, I'd gather you're a decent young man. Anything you've ever done that you ought to maybe tell me about?"

He was a child in front of his father again. He ducked his head, paying respect the way he had always done, "Probably. Sir, I'm no angel, never was, but I'm no killer either, at least not until two bounty hunters showed up in Patomka."

"Boy took a bullet keeping Sam and me away from Braddock. Was the second time he got in harm's way for me."

"If it's truth you need, I'll give you the truth." He approached the desk, staring eye-to-eye with the Judge.

"Truth is always best."

"No, not by much, at least not for me. Telling the truth just brings me the worst of anything, but my Pa said to always try, so I do. You want to know if I've done anything I could be jailed for...that's what you want. Well, I have and I could be. I'm a thief. When I was running, before I was given friends like Ethan and Martha, I didn't have nothing. I was cold, wet, hungry, with two horses to care for if I was going to make it through the winter. Out of bullets, out of food, no money. Came times I stole what I needed. Eggs, milk, grain for the horses, place to stay out of the cold. I would have paid if I could. But I had to keep the coins I've got. I used nearly every other cent to buy the pipe, then a few bullets to try to bring in game for me. I ran out...time, money, bullets...so I stole. I'd pay it back if I even knew where the places were. But you don't want to hear that. You might think I'm still trying to sound like a saint. I ain't nobody's idea of a saint. But, I'm not the devil, either."

"I've got one more question for you. Then I'm gonna suggest you go settle into the hotel...stay in town. I'll think about this for a day or two then let you know how it'll play out."

"Yes, sir."

"You've got two lawmen with you. Yet, you come to turn yourself in to me... not to the sheriff here. Why?"

"Can I answer that for him, Judge?"

"No, Sam. I want to hear it from him."

"Carter Masters is just a man who believes I'm a killer. He thinks it because he's friends with my uncle, Rupert Comstock. I have my suspicions why my uncle wanted me out of here, but that's something I can't prove now or probably ever. Masters decided I was guilty the same night my parents were killed. He never hunted for nobody else. I hit him getting away. I couldn't face coming back to a jail he runs, so the three of us talked it over. Decided you'd be a safer bet. If I came to you, you'd at least let me get a hearing or trial, whatever was right. We didn't figure you'd kill me without at least listening. If the only way had been to turn myself into him, I'd probably still be running."

"Okay. That'll be all for today. Since you're riding with these two, I'll leave you in their custody. Remember, stay in town, and I suggest you continue to mind your manners while you're here. Your being here is gonna certainly shock and probably irritate a great many people, especially with me leaving you free to roam around."

"He's a good boy...man...your honor. And, anyways, my wife Martha's here, and she'll keep him pretty much in line."

"She's producing a sixteen year old saint? Sixteen-year-old saint, and killer. That should be an interesting combination to watch. Okay, you boys get out of here and let me think and get this other mess cleared up. Come back tomorrow afternoon."

"Yes, sir." They walked toward the door. It was Chris who stopped and turned around. "Judge...thank you."

"Smooth! Fellas you've about coached him enough on etiquette in front of a judge...'bout wrung the real boy out of him. As for you, I haven't done one thing yet to help or hurt you. What have you got to thank me for?"

"Hope." He reached out with his unshackled hands and opened the door.

Chapter 22

His smile conveyed his hope to Martha. She let out a sweet little yip, and kissed him full on the mouth, right in front of God, Ethan, and everybody else in Wheatland. "What did he say?"

"Come back tomorrow. He'll tell us then." He smiled a glorious smile, even as the tips of his ears burned fiery red in embarrassment.

"Do you trust him?"

"Yeah, I think I do."

His face was so much brighter, his smile so genuine, she felt tears slip down her cheeks.

"Well, then, we'd best get us some rooms...he ordered me to stay in town. Once we get the rooms, I'll take care of the horses."

"No you won't."

"And why not. He didn't' hold me to anything but the town."

"Where are you?"

"What?"

"Think, damn it. Just where the hell are you?"

"Wheatland...I'm home."

"Are you? I taught you to think better than that, didn't I? Don't make good feelings an excuse for being stupid."

The smile disappeared, just like that. Reality was a bitch.

"Okay, don't look so awful. You just can't go take care of the horses all by yourself...not yet. Sorry to say it, but you need a witness to every move you make. Warren you willing to go with him?"

"Sure. Like to see how they run the place anyway."

"Happy now?"

"Yeah. I'll try to think a little better."

"Good...saves me the trouble."

The banter returned to lively, with hope and relief in plentiful supply. Trying to be helpful, the boy turned from the group, looking for the hotel. The place he remembered wasn't the hotel anymore, but there was a place in the middle of the small street . He turned back to show his friends.

Without warning or provocation, a man wearing a shining silver star jumped onto the sidewalk and spun him around. There was no discussion, no threat, no anything. Carter Masters hit him, a round house blow that jarred him all over. Before he could return the attack, Chris felt more blows mostly to his jaw and face. Before any of the others could help him, Masters pushed him into the wall, landing vicious blows in quick succession to his ribs and more to his mid-section. He couldn't avoid letting a scream loose. The recently battered ribs gave quickly and with excruciating pain.

Ethan hit the man. Sam hit the man. Martha slapped him, then kicked him in a most tender region, then punched him herself. Warren, at his age not remotely interested in challenging the assailant, opened the door behind them and invited the Judge to the hell-raising party on his front stoop. The old man from the bench warmers, looked on, then shook his head and muttered to all who would hear, "Yes, sir...That no good Larabee boy's back. Started trouble already."

"Masters!! You get away from him right now, or you get out of town." The judge roared at the man. He knew the sheriff had a poor reputation, but this was the first time he had personally witnessed his cruelty. He supported the battered one, "Boy, are you okay?"

"No, sir. I don't think I'm .. " then he fainted.

Ethan cleared the walkway. His attack on Masters was as vicious as Sam Gates had ever seen, and the two had been in quite a few tough spots together. The older lawman finally pulled him away from the fight, "Good Lord, stop it. I don't need to be a trial witness for you, too. Think about the boy...he's the one that needs your attention."

"Let's get Mort over here. You can put him on my couch until we know what's to be done."

"I am here, Jarvis." Mort Harper, the Wheatland doctor, arrived at their heels. Crossing from his office to the Judge's when he heard his young friend was back, he'd seen the attack that miserable excuse for a sheriff, or man, had launched. As many young men as he had patched after they'd spent time in Masters' jail, he calculated the boy was going to need help, so he turned around and went for his bag. "Let me get in here." They settled the boy on the couch. "John Christopher, can you hear me?"

His body tried to stir. The frothy blood he spit out told the doctor most of what he needed to know. "We're going to need to get him to my place. I think he's got a broken rib or two, looks like a lung, too.."

"He's had splintered ribs for a week or so. He's just got more."

Mort reached into his bag and handed one of the men a small brown bottle with a blue and white label. "Well, see if you can get a little of this down his throat. Just a little, and do it slow. Mix a spoon of it in a little water, or else give him a few drops straight. Either way. It's laudanum, and it'll keep him from hurting so bad. I want to move him quickly, but I don't want to add to the misery he's going to feel."

He was out until they lifted him. He woke, cried out, and fainted again.