By: JIN (sisterlou32@yahoo.com)

Disclaimer: Don't own them or profit from them - and anything else I'm supposed to say here.

Rating: PG for some cursing and violence

It was stupid. There was no other word for it. The whole thing was just - stupid.

He had woken up in a bad mood, and the day had just gotten worse as it went along. Chris Larabee sat solemn and alone, nursing another drink that would undoubtedly lead to another bad night and another bad morning and another bad day. The sun had set hours before, but the saloon remained uncomfortably warm, and he was sweltering. August was his least favorite month of the year for just this reason. He hated the heat. Hell, Vin had even taken off that ridiculous coat of his. It annoyed him that Tanner always wore that coat. It annoyed him even more that Tanner had taken off like he had. It was just - stupid.

He knew it was own fault that he'd woken up the way he had. Yesterday, a new family arrived in town. Every once in awhile, all that he had lost when his family died, crept up on him and punched him in the gut. Probably the best thing would have been to go on back to his cabin and stew for a spell, but he'd never been particularly reasonable when it came to dealing with his grief. The tavern was close by, and offered some semblance of relief, and so he'd spent his evening there.

The lean gunman had tossed and turned all night, dreams and nightmares and visions of his lost wife and son plaguing him. When morning dawned, he awoke tired and cross. His head pounded, his stomach churned, and it was already too damn hot. Nearly everyone read his mood on sight, and wisely left him alone. By afternoon, he'd felt some better though, and had headed over to the jail to see what Buck and JD were up to.

Larabee didn't normally eavesdrop on other's conversations, but he'd slipped in unnoticed while the two men discussed something of apparent importance, at least to JD.

"I just don't get it, Buck? How could Vin not know how to read? And why would he keep it from us?"

"Lot of men can't read, JD. We don't all get the same chances in this life, you know that. Hard to say what happened to Vin after his ma died, but I'm guessin' he didn't have an easy time of it. And he's a proud man, this ain't somethin' he'd want us all talkin' about."

"Yeah, but we're his friends. Don't make a difference to us," JD reasoned.

Before Buck could answer, Chris moved in from the doorway. The black cloud had descended upon him again. Vin couldn't read? That was a little thing he might like to know about the man he considered second in command. He couldn't decided what bothered him more - that he hadn't figured it out himself, or that Vin had not told him. Or maybe it was that JD knew and he didn't. Just how did JD know? He had asked the kid that very question.

JD swallowed, obviously feeling bad about revealing Vin's secret. "Last week, you left him a note. He asked me to read it for him. He was worried that it was important, and he said he couldn't make out all the words." Chris's handwriting was real clear, and that was when JD knew that the tracker just plain couldn't read.

Larabee remembered the occasion well. Judge Travis had become ill and Mary had asked him to take her to him. Vin and JD were out on patrol, Nathan and Josiah were at the reservation, Ezra was still asleep, and Buck was nowhere to be found. So he'd left a note for Tanner on his wagon.

Did it make a difference, this new information he'd learned about his friend? Apparently so, for he found himself inexplicably angry. Vin should have said something. He thought they were pards, after all. Buck must have read his emotions, because he had quickly interjected a few thoughts of his own.

"Now look, Chris, this ain't our business. If Vin wants us to know, he'll tell us."

"Tell you what?"

They were in deep then. The sharpshooter had quietly stepped in and was looking at them all questioningly.

Larabee took another swallow of his whiskey as he thought back on what had happened after that. He should have stayed quiet, but no, he was in a bad mood, so he carelessly and stupidly forged on ahead.

"Tell us that you can't read."

Vin's eyes always told the story, and this was no exception. Hurt, anger, embarrassment, they were all there. Tanner looked away for a moment, before returning his gaze to the gunman.

"Does it matter?" He'd asked in that quiet, simple way of his that normally sat well with Larabee, but for some reason, on this day, grated against his nerves.

"It could matter, Vin. What if that note I left for you last week had been urgent? What if JD hadn't been there to read it for you?"

Now Vin turned his hurt expression to the kid, who shifted uncomfortably and more than likely wished a hole would come along and swallow him up.

"Y' think I'm too dumb or too proud t' just ignore a note 'cause I can't read it? Y' think I'd ever let my . . . problem cause trouble for any of y'all?" Tanner argued.

"Apparently you're too dumb or too proud to trust me with this. How do I know what you would or wouldn't do?" Chris shot back.

Vin turned a wounded look to the gunman before answering coldly, "Guess you don't know me at all, Larabee."

"Guess not, Tanner," Chris responded with equal coolness.

And that was when the tracker walked out. He'd said maybe two whole sentences, which was more than he said some days, but the point was that he'd just walked out. Chris wasn't through yet. He wanted to understand why Vin felt compelled to hide this from him. He wanted to understand why his family had been taken from him. He wanted to understand why it was so damn hot.

He took another drink, ignoring the concerned glances of the other men from across the room.

He wanted to understand why everything felt so wrong on this god-awful, stupid day.

+++++++

Well, that was a dumb thing to do. Just walk out - like a little kid. A little, dumb kid.

Vin untied his bed roll and spread it out on the ground. He'd found a nice, quiet spot to stretch out for the night. He needed to be under the stars and away from the prying eyes of his friends right now. He had all sorts of ideas about what they were saying and thinking about him. Probably none of them were true, but he tortured himself anyway.

Walking into the jail and hearing them talking had brought back bad memories. He always seemed to come in at just the right time - or maybe the wrong time - to hear folks talking about him. They'd said he couldn't learn, that he'd never be able to read or write. Yes, he'd had a hard time growing up, but there were some good people who tried to teach him early on. He just never got the hang of it, and at the time, he didn't care much.

He cared now. He'd been kind of excited when Mary agreed to help him learn. He'd even thought about letting the boys in on it. But then, the same old problems came up. He kept turning letters around and twisting things and making them backwards. He was afraid Mary would soon give up on him. He was afraid he'd soon give up on himself. He felt like that dumb, little kid again.

So he'd said nothing, and apparently that was a mistake, at least in Larabee's eyes.

Just who the hell did Chris Larabee think he was anyway? And just why the hell was he so mad? It's not like he deliberately kept secrets from him. He'd told him the most important thing - that he was a wanted man. Just what did Chris want from him?

If he'd been smart, and stayed, he might know that. But he'd been mad and embarrassed and he'd walked away.

Vin lay on his back, his arms raised and his hands folded up underneath his head. It was still hot and muggy, so he had unbuttoned his shirt, although he'd remained fully dressed with his boots in place. It didn't pay to be careless, just because he was upset.

And why was he so upset anyway? Just when had Larabee become so important to him that a few harsh words could make him feel this way? He was just being - dumb. A man had a right to hide his own demons, had a right to keep things to himself. Your friends didn't need to know everything. Larabee didn't need to know everything.

He could hardly wait until morning to tell him so.

+++++++

Chris woke up the next morning in no better spirits, but the headache was gone, and the air felt a degree cooler. With a deep sigh, he got out of bed and pulled on his black pants and gray shirt. He felt unsettled and restless - that incident with Tanner, he supposed. He'd talk things out with Vin. With a little luck, the tracker would, at that very moment, be sitting on the boardwalk, sipping coffee. The thought did lift his mood somewhat, and he hurried to put on his boots.

He had to admit that he hadn't handled his sensitive friend very well yesterday. He was probably being over-sensitive himself, but he just couldn't believe Vin hadn't trusted him with his secret. Did Tanner really think this would change the gunman's feelings for him? Now that didn't sound right, he didn't have feelings for the man. He liked and respected him, but he could live without him if he had to. There was really no rush to talk with him.

But he hurried on down the stairs anyway, to the spot where Vin usually perched this time of day. He told himself it was not a big deal that the tracker wasn't there. There was plenty of time to straighten out this little problem between them. Still, he felt annoyed and cranky again. Tanner should have trusted him. And he wished he'd get his scrawny butt back to town so he could tell him so.

+++++++

Vin hadn't slept well, but he was still stunned when he was disturbed from his light slumber by a boot in his ribs. Now how had he managed to let someone get the drop on him? His concentration must really be off - this business with Chris, he supposed. He couldn't believe Larabee didn't trust him, but he'd have to think on that later, as became painfully obvious by a second kick to his rib cage.

Vin rolled over onto his side in an effort to catch his breath, and reached for his gun, grunting when his action was halted by another swift kick. He gathered his wits enough to peer up at his attackers. Two of them. It could be worse, although he didn't take comfort in the gleam in their eyes or the rifles in their hands.

They looked to be about his age, or maybe a few years older, and appeared to have been out on the trail for awhile. If Ezra thought he looked scruffy, he could just imagine what he'd think of the two men towering over him now. Both had full beards and long, dark hair that brushed their shoulders in filthy, matted clumps. Almost made a man want to cut his own hair and shave.

"So Jeb, is he Larabee or not?" The taller of the two spoke impatiently.

"I ain't sure, Roy. I ain't seen 'im for ten years, and I was just a kid then."

Larabee? Things had taken an interesting turn. Vin slowly sat up, raising his hands high so he wouldn't be subjected to another kick for the movement. He could see the wheels turning as the two men peered at him intently.

"I thought Larabee always wore black. And he don't seem old enough t' me," the one named Roy offered.

"Don't nobody wear black in weather like this," Jeb said knowingly.

Vin had to suppress the urge to snort as he pictured his friend in his usual attire. It could be a hundred degrees out, and Chris would still wear black. And the man had the nerve to make remarks about him and his coat.

"I don't know. He sure don't look like no tough gunslinger to me. What makes you think he's him?"

"All I know is that Larabee's the head lawman of that town over yonder, and when I was there last week, this guy took charge. Him and some other fancy gunfighters took care of a whole slew of drunk cowboys. He's gotta be Larabee."

Vin tried not to look too puzzled. How could anyone with any sense mistake him for Larabee? They looked nothing alike, acted nothing alike, thought nothing alike - okay, maybe that last one wasn't quite accurate. But they looked nothing alike - that was sure. And it seemed that last week had come back to haunt him again. Next time he'd be the one to take Mary out of town for a few days.

Of course, it was obvious these guys' excessive hair compensated for a lack of brains. Vin had learned in his time riding with the notorious gunslinger that most of his enemies were either dead, or smart enough not to cross him a second time. These two apparently hadn't learned their lesson. And wouldn't you think they'd just ask him who he was?

Jeb jabbed his rifle into Vin's chest and did just that. "So how about it? You Larabee or not?"

Now that he'd been asked, he found he didn't know how to answer. If he said no, they'd likely put a bullet in him and go searching for the real thing. Maybe he could be the gunslinger for awhile, at least long enough to find out what they had in mind. Then again, that could get him killed, too, but it might keep them away from Chris.

He decided to stall. "Who's askin'?"

Obviously the wrong choice, as evidenced by the whack of the rifle butt as it slammed into his face. Vin pulled himself back up, wiping a hand over the blood that leaked from his split lip. He was getting mad now. He had no intention of getting killed by men this stupid, and certainly not today. He had better things to do, like talking things out with a stubborn gunman - a stubborn gunman who, he reminded himself, was the true object of these men's hostility.

Jeb pushed the gun back into Vin's chest again and growled, "We're askin' the questions here, and yer doin' the tellin'. Are y' Larabee, or ain't y'?"

Vin looked up from where he still sat on the ground, his blue gaze drifting from one man to the other. He tried again, "Seems t' me, I might live longer if I let you boys keep guessin'."

Roy huffed. "You ain't gonna live five minutes if y' don't get smart real quick here and tell us what we want t' know."

Tanner shrugged. "I'm thinkin' if you were so hot t' kill Chris Larabee, you'd a done it by now. Must be some reason y' want 'im alive." He had no idea if that were true, but since no one had put a bullet in him yet, he hoped it was.

"Hell, Jeb, you sure this is all gonna be worth it? Let's just kill 'im now." Roy was already clearly exasperated with the whole situation.

"I'm tellin' y', Roy," Jeb countered, "that town will do anything to keep Larabee. The gambler I saw had a wad a bills t' make yer eyes pop clear outa yer head. There's money there, and they'll use to it get him back. Besides, Pa would want it this way - want us t' have what Larabee cheated 'im out of all those years ago."

"Long as he gets what he deserves," the younger brother sneered.

All right then, they intended to use Chris for ransom - and then kill him. That gave him time.

"Yer wrong - they won't give y'all a dime fer me," Vin stated.

"See!" Jeb exclaimed excitedly, "I told you it was him!"

They'd taken the bait - just as he'd hoped, but instead of figuring out his next move, he found himself wondering if what he said was true. Would they pay to get him back? He'd only recently gotten used to the fact that his friends would turn down five hundred dollars to keep him alive. But would they pay to do the same? Giving out money was a whole lot different than walking away from it. He knew they would do it for Chris, knew that Jeb had at least gotten that part right - but he'd never put himself in the same regard as the gunslinger.

Of course, it was all a mute point anyway. It was only a matter of time before the bandits found out they had the wrong man. His friends in Four Corners wouldn't even know he was involved, would never make the connection that he was the man they held for ransom. He'd have to wait for the opportunity to escape, then high tail it back to town and warn Chris.

"Help me get 'im tied up. Then you head on in t' town and give the note to one of them kids that's always hangin' around," Jeb instructed his younger brother.

"A kid? You sure that's a good idea? What if they lose it? How they gonna know who t' give it to? And how they gonna know we really have 'im?"

Roy was getting more nervous by the minute, and still thought shooting their father's killer would be much easier and simpler. But Jeb took control, as always, nearly losing patience with his brother's apprehension.

"Look, every kid in that town knows Larabee - they'll get it t' the gambler. And they'll know we got him cause he's gonna make his mark here on the note."

Roy continued to look skeptical, while Vin fought the familiar panic that threatened to well up when he was faced with the prospect of having to write. It was ridiculous. He was more afraid of making a few scratches on a piece of paper, than staring down the barrels of two deadly rifles. He'd just refuse, and probably earn himself a cracked rib or jaw.

Jeb pulled the crinkled up note from the pocket of his faded britches and squatted down next to Vin. "Now look here, yer gonna let those nice folks know we got y', and y' ain't gonna give me any trouble - else I just might have t' let Roy grab one of those kids and bring 'im back here t' join us. You got that?"

Vin nodded and swallowed the anger that burned inside him. Threatening him and Chris was one thing - threatening an innocent kid something else entirely. These guys were even stupider than he thought. Unfortunately, he truly had no choice now, and given the fact that he'd only just learned to write his own name, he had no idea how he'd come up with anything approximating Larabee's.

Vin tried to think quickly. If he could somehow write something to satisfy his captors, while at the same time tip off his friends, he might have a shot at getting out of this. He searched the recesses of his brain for all the rules and sounds and clues Mary had taught him so far. He was sure Larabee started with an "L", and sure there was a "B" in it. Maybe he could just put down those two letters, maybe that would be close enough. After all, he doubted Jeb or Roy could spell the gunslinger's name any better than he could.

He tried to hide his shaky hands as he reached for the pencil and paper held out to him. He couldn't make out much of the writing but, strangely enough, the few words he knew by heart were all there: dead, alive, and $500. How ironic - they were asking five hundred dollars to get him back. How did he always manage to get himself in these idiotic situations?

Taking a deep breath, he resumed his focus on the task at hand - drawing a presentable "L". Thank goodness the notorious gunslinger had the good luck to have a name that started with the easiest letter in the alphabet. But a "B" was harder, if only because he could never remember which way it went. Was the straight line on the left or right? Suddenly it occurred to him that if he made it backwards, his friends just might realize it came from him. It was a long shot, but Mary would know for sure. She'd watched him struggle with it time and again. So making the "B" backwards just might be a good idea. Except that he still had no idea which way the darn thing went. Making the letter backwards by accident was easy, now that he intentionally wanted to do it that way . . .

"Hurry up! We ain't got all day!" Roy bellowed impatiently.

Vin took a chance and scrawled his best "B". It was a long shot - that was for sure.

Jeb frowned at the roughly scribed letters. "This the best y' can do?"

"They'll know it's from me. My men know my mark," Vin responded more confidently than he felt.

"Hell, fer a famous gunfighter, y' ain't too smart, are y'?"

Tanner winced at that, but remained silent. Why should he care what these men thought of him? He knew who he was, knew he was smarter than most. It didn't matter if they thought he was dumb. Didn't matter if Larabee thought that, either. He'd have felt better, though, if he'd gotten a chance to tell his friend that. He'd have felt better if he'd gotten a chance to tell his friend a whole lot of things.

+++++++

Ezra relished the feel of the crisp bills folded and tucked neatly in his boot. He was almost there. Another night like last night, and he'd have enough cash to buy out his mother and resume his rightful position as owner of the Standish Tavern. He grinned broadly as he shuffled his lucky deck and took a sip of his drink. He rarely drank alcohol when he was preparing himself for a big evening, and never this early in the day, but he felt he deserved a small celebration.

The late afternoon sun shown directly through the bat wing doors of the saloon, and he was nearly too blinded by the light to realize, at first, who'd stepped in. Mr. Larabee. Standish shook his head - he'd make a fortune on that man alone when he finally owned the place. Larabee brushed by his table with barely a nod of acknowledgement. Something had been bothering the man for a day or so now, though no one spoke of it. They'd all had their moments when the town, the responsibilities, and the other peacekeepers, had crowded in on them. Leaving the disgruntled teammate alone seemed to be the best solution in such cases. And that was exactly what Ezra intended to do now.

He looked up as another form rushed through the slated doors. Billy Travis ran breathlessly to the gambler's table, halted from crashing into the con man by Ezra's quick reflexes.

"Now hold on here, young man. What matter could be so pressing that you'd feel the need to careen in here like a wild stallion?"

Billy gulped before handing a sorry scrap of paper to the puzzled gambler. He swallowed nervously as he began to excitedly relay his big news in a jumbled rush of words. "They got him! They got Chris! He's gonna . . . they're gonna . . . we gotta get some money real quick. He said . . . said they'd kill 'im! Said to give you this note, Mr. Ezra."

Ezra merely smiled at the shaken boy, and reached up a hand to lay on his shoulder. "Now calm down, son. I assure you that no harm is going to come to Mr. Larabee."

Billy looked at him with brows furrowed. Mr. Ezra was surely not taking this as seriously as he needed to.

Ezra saw the boy's stern expression and continued, "Mr. Larabee will not come to any harm because no one has abducted him, I assure you." Ezra gripped the boy's shoulder a bit tighter and turned him slightly to his left, "For he is sitting right there, as you can plainly see."

Billy mouthed an "Oh!" in surprise, but said nothing for a moment.

Chris, hearing the commotion, made his way over to the table and sat on the other side of the boy. "What's going on, Billy?"

The child looked into the green eyes of the man he worshiped, and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Billy?" Larabee questioned again.

"I was playin' out by the mill, and this man came up to me. He handed me this note, and said to give it to the gambler. Said he had you tied up, and he'd kill you if we didn't do what the note said."

Chris took the paper and read the scrawled contents. The handwriting was poor and the spelling worse, but the intent was obvious. The town's leading lawman was supposedly being held captive, and only $500 would ensure he would be seen alive again. The gambler was to bring the money to the old mine outside of town at daybreak. The blond shook his head. Must be some kind of prank.

"Billy, you and your friends aren't playing some sort of game, are you?" he asked seriously.

"No! I promise, Chris. This big, ugly, hairy man gave it to me. Said it even had yer mark to prove they had you."

Chris looked at the note again. The "LB" scratched in the corner had obviously been written by someone else. Before he could put the pieces together, Mary came in to pull her wayward son home for dinner.

"Wait!" the child objected. "I can't go yet."

Within minutes, Mary was apprised of the strange man and even stranger note. When she saw the initials at the bottom of the page, she blanched.

"Chris," she spoke hesitantly. "I think Vin wrote this," she said as she pointed to the two letters.

"Vin? Why would you think that?"

Mary looked down before continuing. She didn't want to betray the tracker, but she had a gut feeling this was too important. "I've been working with Vin. I've been teaching him to read and write."

Chris looked at her incredulously. What else was going on around here that he had no idea about? "Go on," he demanded.

"Vin tends to turn his letters around, like this "B". I can't be certain, of course, but I think this is his handwriting."

Chris rubbed a hand across his forehead. The headache had returned with a vengeance. It all made no sense. Could someone have grabbed Tanner, believing they'd grabbed him? Why would Vin sign a note with the initials "LB"? Just what the hell had the sharpshooter gotten himself into?

Ezra echoed those very thoughts. "I'm having a difficult time comprehending this entire situation. Are we now considering the possibility that some scoundrels have taken Mr. Tanner, and erroneously believe him to be you, Mr. Larabee?" While he had to admit that the men seemed to be joined at the hip, mentally if not physically, he could not imagine anyone confusing them.

Chris knew by the sick feeling in his stomach that that was exactly what had happened. "Damn," he whispered softly.

Billy looked from one man to the next, and finally up at his mother. "I don't understand, Ma. Are they thinkin' that man has Vin?"

"Yes, Billy," Mary responded sadly.

"But why would he say he has Chris? Why wouldn't Vin just tell him who he is?"

"I don't know, but Chris and Ezra will figure it out." She gave the two men a hopeful smile before ushering a most unwilling young boy out the door. Billy had been a part of this mystery from the first, and he wasn't keen on missing out on the action he was sure would come.

"How do you propose we proceed, Chris?" Ezra asked quietly. He knew that whatever had been bothering their leader likely paled in comparison to the turmoil he was experiencing now.

The blond man shifted his gaze briefly to Standish before staring back down at the table. "Get the others," he muttered hoarsely.

Damn tracker had gotten himself into trouble, he just knew it. No doubt these men, whoever they were, had come looking for him, and Vin had let them believe they'd found Chris Larabee. Tanner was probably trying to buy time. Probably figured he'd take care of matters on his own. It was about time the sharpshooter learned that he didn't have to do that anymore, that he had friends watching his back. This time, it wasn't even Vin's fight - it was his, and he sure as hell didn't need that skinny Texan fighting his battles for him. He'd better get the chance to tell him that. He'd better get the chance to tell him a whole lot of things.

+++++++

Jeb prodded his unwilling prisoner along the stony path, using the end of his rifle as a constant reminder of who was in control. He loved the long weapon, and never could understand why a man would chose a small handgun when a rifle was so much more useful. He'd been mildly surprised at the gun Larabee carried, figured he'd have something smaller and lighter, but he didn't dwell on it - he was just glad they'd managed to get the weapon away from him and his deadly aim.

The brothers had tied their captive's hands securely behind his back, and roped his feet together, too, leaving just enough leeway for him to walk. Of course, it wasn't easy, climbing uphill the way they were, but when he stumbled and went down a few times, it was just an added bonus, as far as Jeb was concerned. He'd inherited his father's mean streak, and was proud of it. His brother, on the other hand, always opted for the quick and easy way, and didn't seem to take the same satisfaction that he did out of watching his enemies suffer.

He hoped his brother had managed to do his part of the scheme successfully. It wasn't that difficult, but Roy had managed to screw up easier tasks in the past. Of course, Roy couldn't help it that he wasn't as smart as him. Jeb congratulated himself again on coming up with a truly ingenious plan. When they found the old mine, he thought it would just be a good place to hide after they killed Larabee. But then he discovered the tunnel that extended all the way through the mountain and out the other side. That was when the idea of making some money off this deal came to him. Tomorrow morning, after taking the ransom, they'd simply take off through the tunnels to where their horses waited at the opposite end. Even though the note insisted only the gambler come, he was sure the other men would follow, especially after he left a parting shot at Larabee, but it would be easy to pick them off as they made their way into the dark mine shafts. Like shooting fish in a barrel.

Jeb's prisoner had ideas of his own. Vin quickly grew irritated at the constant poking of the rifle barrel against his back. He couldn't very well work on untying his hands with his captor right behind him, and as inept as these men were, he had to admit they tied a good knot. Still, there was only one of them, surely he could make a move and get the hell away. When they came upon the mine entrance, he knew he'd have to do it soon. There was no way he was going in there. Just the thought of being kept in that dark, cramped space caused his heart to practically explode from his chest. No, he was not going in there.

As they climbed the steep incline that lead to the abandoned mine, Vin turned with lightening quick speed. Ramming his entire body into the startled gunman, he knocked him off his feet, the rifle discharging harmlessly before plummeting to the ground. Both men tumbled clumsily down the rocky hill, landing with a thud some forty feet later. Vin was momentarily dazed, but the urgency of the situation forced him to shake off the haze and regain his footing. Doing that proved to be particularly trying, without his hands to help him push up off the ground, but he managed to get to his feet. Cursing the rope that shackled his ankles, he stumbled on towards a stand of trees, hoping to find some cover. Every second counted at this point, and he knew that even if he managed to elude the outlaw, he faced daunting odds without a weapon. He didn't take time to decide if he'd hurt himself, or how his opponent had faired. With a little luck, the man he knew only as 'Jeb' had broken his neck in the fall.

Luck had never been his, however, and now was no different. He became acutely aware of his harsh breathing and the sounds of his boots as he trudged awkwardly along the rocky ground. The sound of the rifle's bark echoed in his ears and head, long before he felt the sting of the bullet creasing his thigh. The ground tilted ever closer as he slowly pitched forward, landing hard on his left shoulder. Still he would not stop, and he rolled to his side in an effort to once again get to his feet. From the corner of his eye, he saw the blur of the brown rifle butt as it approached his head and he tried to duck. His only good fortune was that the intense pain was short-lived as he spiraled into the blackness.

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