Josiah, exhausted in every part of his body and feeling far older than his years, made his way to the empty chair at JD's side and sank heavily into it. "Accordin' to Inez," he said softly, sadly, "he's thinkin' it's his fault Ezra and JD got shot, and he's thinkin' the rest of us are gonna blame him, too." He sighed and shook his head, his sorrowful gaze going to Buck. "'Specially you," he said softly. "Vin's afraid you're gonna hate him because of JD."Buck thrust his hands deeply into his hair and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. "How could he think that?" he whispered strickenly. "Damn it, Josiah, I saw him up there, I knew somethin' was wrong!" He rose abruptly to his feet and began pacing about the clinic with anxious, long-legged strides. "Hell, I don't blame Vin for what happened! It ain't his fault JD ran out inta that street! The only ones I blame for the kid gettin' shot are them goddamn sonsabitches who tried to rob the bank and turned that street into a battleground! Jesus, we gotta find him!"
"How?" Josiah asked tiredly. "We've searched this whole town, and no one can find him. He doesn't want us to find him. This is Vin, Buck--"
"He's hurt--"
"But he's still Vin!" the older man said strongly. "Think about it, Buck! How many times in his life do you suppose he's had to hide from folks even when he was hurt? Hell, especially when he was hurt? It's what he knows. It's probably all he's ever known, until he came to us."
"But why won't he come to us now?" Buck asked softly, a world of hurt and fear for Tanner in his eyes. "He knows he doesn't have to be afraid of us, he knows--"
"That we won't turn on him?" Ezra put in quietly. "But how does he know that, Buck?" He stared up at Wilmington through green eyes now clear of any sleepiness or drugged befuddlement. "Inez said he's confused, remember? When all you've known in your life is hurt, betrayal and abandonment, there is some part of you that never forgets that, and that never stops expecting it. If he blames himself for JD's injury, then he will naturally expect that we blame him, as well. And, if he is confused enough, he may well expect that we will turn upon him.
Why should we prove any different from anyone else he's ever known?" He sighed and shook his head slightly, his eyes filled with sorrow for the young man. "Let us not forget, Buck," he said softly, sadly, "Vin apparently has little experience with friendship. It is more than likely that in some part of himself he still cannot quite believe he now has friends who would not turn on him when given half a chance."
"Jesus," Buck muttered, suspecting Ezra spoke the truth. It pained him to think of the kind of life Vin must have led, a life where friendship had no meaning, trust was a weapon to be used against him, and loneliness the only alternative to pain. "Jesus Christ, Vin . . . " A sharp fear struck him suddenly, and he stared at Josiah. "Anybody check the livery? If he's that confused, that afraid of us--"
"I checked, just before I came here," Sanchez answered tiredly. "Peso's still there. Besides, from the way Inez described him, I doubt he'd be able to ride."
Buck gave a short, bitter laugh. "Hell, from the way Inez described him, we should've found him layin' out in the middle of the goddamn street by now! He can barely walk, but he can disappear! One'a you wanta explain that one to me?"
Josiah smiled slightly, sleepily. "Simple. This is Vin Tanner we're talkin' about. The man who thinks he can fly."
<><><><><><><><><><>
It had taken far longer than he had intended, and had been far more difficult than he had anticipated, but Vin finally slipped into the livery. He'd slunk through shadows, crept along alleys, and more than once had to hide to avoid being seen. But he couldn't take the chance that anyone would stop him. At one point, though, Josiah had been so close, and it had been all Vin could do not to reveal himself to the big man and seek refuge in that comforting, sheltering presence.
But he had to do this. He owed it to JD.
So he'd made himself continue. And all the while he'd fought the unrelenting pain in his head, his own dizziness and confusion, and the nausea that never to ease. Not to mention vision that refused to focus just right, and that was still dimmer than it should have been. He told himself he could still see well enough to track, and prayed it was true. Otherwise, it would be damn near impossible to find two men in a land as big as this. Especially for a man alone.
Alone.
Well, hell, wouldn't be the first time he'd been alone, would it? And likely wouldn't be the last. He'd spent most of his life that way, and had never given any thought to it. He'd never wished it could be otherwise, for he wasn't a man who wasted time on wishing for things that could never be. Hell, he'd never even known it could be different.
Until he'd come here.
Unbidden, the knowledge of what he'd found with these six men -- companionship, friendship, belonging -- came to mind, rising with a ferocity that nearly dropped him to his knees. He gasped at the strength and solidness of it, at its nearness even now, felt it like a living thing inside him. Most vividly he saw, felt, Chris Larabee, and almost cried out aloud. His tired soul ached from the force of the bond they shared, and he wanted nothing more than to look up and see the black-clad man standing before him, offering his reassurance and his understanding. Chris would help him through this hurt, would somehow lift this confusion from his mind, would help him find his way back to the others.
But Chris wasn't here. He was hurt, and there was no one to help him. He would have to do this on his own.
He would have to do this alone.
And he would. Just as he always had before. Making certain no one else was in the livery, he willed his eyes to work they way they should and began his hunt. At present, the only horses stabled here were those belonging to him and his friends. He knew their tracks and eliminated them, concentrating only on the unfamiliar ones. Then he narrowed the search, judging age and discounting all but the most recent. Finding what he sought, he committed them to memory, then moved to door of the livery and looked out, praying that luck was with him.
It was. There was little activity about, no one near enough to pay him any mind. So he searched the yard, found the tracks he sought, and was relieved to see they led in the right direction. Satisfied, he went inside, saddled Peso, and, drawing no attention to himself, willing no one to notice him, ignored every protest of his body and rode out of town.
And once more freed the hawk in him to hunt.
<><><><><><><><><><>
Buck and Josiah, mindful of their injured friends' need for rest, moved to their usual table in the saloon, and, when satisfied that his patients were resting well and sleeping soundly, Nathan joined them. They had about two hours yet until sundown, and still had found not a trace of Vin.
"Damn boy can walk on air," Buck muttered, downing another shot of whiskey. The three had finally eaten -- at Inez's insistence -- but were desperately tired, drained by this day's events. "Hell, maybe I was wrong. Maybe he can make himself invisible."
Nathan frowned thoughtfully. "Maybe in a way he can." When his companions shot dull, disbelieving gazes at him, he struggled to explain. "Back on the plantations, you survived by not bein' noticed. Didn't draw no attention to yaself, didn't make no noise, didn't make no trouble, never did what ya wasn't s'posed ta or go where ya wasn't s'posed ta . . . If ya kept yer head down, kept quiet an' did everything that's expected of ya, didn't nobody notice ya. You's just part'a the scenery. 'N they ain't nobody knows the scenery around here better'n Vin." He looked at his friends. "How many times have we forgot about him, when he's sittin' right here with us?" He nodded toward the chair Tanner usually occupied. "Jus' sits there silent an' still, leanin' back inta them shadows 'til he becomes a shadow hisself. An' spooks the hell outta us all when he finally moves or speaks."
Josiah arched two heavy brows and nodded. "Makes sense. Folks get used ta seein' a thing, and then stop seein' it, stop takin' notice, because they are so used to it. And a man who knows how ta be still and is a friend of the shadows can be standing right beside you and still be invisible."
"And think'a how he dresses," Nathan went on. "You think it's any accident he wears brown pants, brown boots, a brown coat, a hat the color of sand? Go outside, take a look at the land, 'n tell me what color ya see. Brown. Tan. How many times we seen him climb inta some rocks an' then jus' lost him, when he was right in front'a us all the time? Yeah, I reckon if anybody comes close ta bein' invisible, it's Vin. The man could stand in the middle of a crowded room an' make folks forget he's there."
Buck slammed his glass down onto the table in an anger born of weariness, worry and frustration. "So you're sayin' we ain't gonna find him, that it?" he growled. "Well, I ain't buyin' it! He's hurt -- God alone knows how bad -- an' likely scared as hell, needin' help -- shit, needin' us -- and I ain't about ta let him down! Hell, for all we know, he's already left town--"
"Peso was in the livery," Josiah said again. "And Vin wasn't in no shape ta ride. If he'd tried, that would've gotten noticed!" He drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly, willing calm upon himself. "Brothers, we're all tired, we've seen our friends hurt, and now we've got a friend missin'. We're scared, and we're frustrated. But we can't afford ta let ourselves get too worked up to think. More importantly, we have ta try and think like Vin would."
"Hell, Josiah," Buck grumbled dispiritedly, "there ain't but one man among us who can do that, and he ain't here right now! And, frankly, I ain't anxious for him ta come back. How'n the hell are we gonna tell Chris Vin's hurt and we can't find him?"
Nathan glanced at the doorway, then stiffened in his chair. "We better think of a way right quick," he said quietly. "'Cause he jus' walked in."
"Oh, shit," Buck groaned, hanging his head and closing his eyes as cold dread washed over him. "And here I was thinkin' this day had already got as bad as it was gonna get. How far away is he?"
"Not far enough," Josiah muttered. "And comin' quick. I hope he had a good stay in Purgatorio, 'cause if he didn't we're all headed straight for hell."
<><><><><><><><><><>
Chris paused just inside the saloon and swept his gaze over the interior, the corners of his mouth quirking downward in a slight, bemused frown. He had gotten a strong, strange sense of something not right as he had ridden into town, had noted an odd sort of nervousness among the people on the streets. He had also seen the unmistakable signs of a gunfight -- shattered windows boarded up, bullet-riddled walls, posts and troughs, dark patches of dried blood in the street -- and had felt his hackles rise high. And folks had whispered and pointed at him as he passed, a sight with which he was not entirely unfamiliar but had gotten out of the habit of seeing here. So with a roiling uneasiness churning in his gut, he had come first to the one place where he knew he would get his answers.
The saloon.
The nervousness, almost a giddiness, was present here, too, but, most important, so were three of his men. He assumed JD was at the jail and Vin out on patrol, but was startled not to see Ezra holding court at the center table. He half-wondered if Vin had somehow goaded, tricked or bullied the man into riding with him, and smiled in wicked amusement at the thought.
Ezra, out on the trail, at night, with Vin. God, there'd be hell to pay tomorrow!
He made his way to the table on the upper level with a long, purposeful stride, his long black duster whipping about his legs. Beneath the brim of his dust-covered hat, sharp green eyes noted every detail about him. His every instinct was on high alert, and Chris Larabee was not a man who ignored his instincts.
He stepped up to the table, then sank with an easy grace into "his" chair and surveyed the men sitting with him. Buck had yet to meet his eyes, was tight in the face and drawn at the mouth, and Josiah looked half-dead from exhaustion. Nathan, however, was tense, his dark eyes filled with an anxiety that sent Chris's hackles even higher.
"Evenin', boys," he greeted in a low, even voice. "Seems to have been some excitement while I was gone. Wanta tell me about it?"
"Not really" were the first words that rose in Buck's mind, but he had the good sense not to give them voice. Instead, he poured whiskey into his glass and slid it over to Chris. "Might wanta drink this, pard," he suggested softly. "I think you're gonna need it."
Chris immediately fixed his sharp, probing gaze on Buck, noting the lines in the man's face, the dullness of his usually lively blue eyes, the dejected slump of his broad shoulders. Buck was tired, bone-tired, but there was far more to his appearance than that. He was a man struggling under a heavy burden he had no wish to bear.
Vin.
Fear hit him with a terrible force, knotting his gut and driving the air from his lungs, all but stopping his heart. He knew with a terrible, instinctive certainty something had happened to Tanner, and only barely fought back the urge to reach out and shake Buck until he said what it was.
"Drink, Chris, please," Josiah urged, his sorrowful blue gaze catching and holding the younger man's. "Buck's right, you're gonna need it."
Not knowing what else to do, so scared he could hardly breathe, Chris took the glass and emptied it in one swallow. But he barely felt the burn of the whiskey, felt only the aching fear in his gut. "Tell me," he ordered through clenched teeth.
"Gang rode into town this mornin'," Buck began in a flat, emotionless voice, staring blankly past Chris. "Two gangs, actually. Seems Ben Carlton and Frank Simpson got together, combined their two gangs and made a try on the bank. Eighteen men," he rasped, his voice utterly lacking its usual ebullience. "God help us all, it was a hell of a fight. But we stopped 'em, beat 'em. Only two got away. All the others are dead. And the money's safe." He took the whiskey Josiah offered him and drank it. "So the bank still ain't been robbed."
"But?" Chris prompted harshly, his green eyes burning.
"But," Nathan took up, "Ezra an' JD got hit. Ezra in th' shoulder 'n leg, JD in the chest." At Larabee's gasp, the healer held up a hand. "They're all right, sleepin' up in the clinic now. Ezra'll be up an' around in a few days, providin' he does what I say. JD's gonna be a while longer, but, if there ain't no complications, he'll be jus' fine. Bullet broke a rib, but didn't reach his lung. Lost a lotta blood, gonna hurt like hell, but he should be all right."
Chris dragged his gaze over the three again, almost screaming in frustration. One name they hadn't mentioned, and their silence was deafening. "And Vin?" he forced out, feeling as if he'd been punched when Buck flinched. "Tell me!" he snarled.
"We don't know," Buck answered softly, raising his anguished gaze to meet his old friend's tortured one. "Out on the street, toward the end of the fight, I knew somethin' was wrong. I could see him, up on the damn roofs, but he didn't look right. Then JD ran out inta the street, yellin' for Vin ta cover him . . . and that's when the bastards shot him. Ezra'd been hit by then, most of the outlaws killed, but these last four tried ta make a break, and JD tried ta stop 'em. He thought Vin . . . Hell, you know how we all depend on Vin an' that damn rifle of his . . . But he didn't shoot. Couldn't, I reckon . . . "
"Buck an' I killed two of 'em," Nathan took up when Buck faltered. "Then we went ta see about JD, an' that's when them las' two got away. We got JD 'n Ezra up to the clinic, figgered Vin would come, but he never did. Josiah went lookin' for him -- hell, half th' town started lookin' -- but we never found him."
"He got hit in the head," Josiah explained softly, easily able to see Chris's torment growing. "Inez found him, after the fight. He'd come down off the roof, and fallen down the stairs. She tried to get him ta go to Nathan's, but he refused." He sighed and shook his graying head slowly, hurting for the young man. "Turns out he blames himself for JD gettin' shot, and figures we all do, too--"
"'Specially me," Buck muttered miserably. "He told Inez I prob'ly hate him . . . Hell, Chris," he groaned, his voice breaking, "I know it wasn't his fault! JD ran out just assumin' Vin'd cover him! It was a damn fool thing ta do, an' there's no way anybody could blame Vin! Christ, I wish he'd just let me tell him that!"
Without realizing he did so, Chris reached out and laid a hand on Buck's arm, knowing how the man's generous heart must be tearing itself to pieces. And nothing he could have said or done could have meant more to Buck at that moment than that simple gesture.
"Inez took him up to her room, cleaned his wound, took care of him," Josiah went on. "She said he was in bad shape -- dizzy, sick, confused. Said he couldn't even stand on his own. Finally, I came here lookin' for him. We'd looked everywhere else, nobody'd seen him . . . But when I asked Inez, she told me he was here and took me up to her room. Only--"
"Only he was gone," Buck breathed. "Somehow he'd gotten himself outta bed, outta the saloon . . . We've done everything but tear this town apart, Chris!" he said fervently, needing Chris to believe him. "He's hurt, he needs help, but he won't let us find him! And I'm about outta my mind, thinkin' it's fear'a me that drove him away!"
Chris gripped his friend's arm harder. "You said yourself he's confused," he said, his voice tight with a fear so deep it hurt. "It ain't your fault, Buck, and I don't want you blamin' yourself. The important thing is findin' Vin and seein' how bad he's hurt."
"We've looked everywhere," Buck said again, exhaustion plain in his voice.
"If you can't find him in town, maybe it's because he ain't in town," Chris said. "Anybody check the livery?"
Josiah nodded. "Yeah, a couple'a hours ago. Peso was still in his stall."
Chris sat back and bowed his head, thinking about his friend. Tanner didn't want to be found, that was clear. Why? He blamed himself for what happened to JD, feared the others would do the same, and couldn't bring himself to face them.
But that wasn't enough. Inez had said he wasn't even able to stand, yet somehow he'd gotten out of bed, out of the saloon, and all without being seen. Why? Why leave such a safe haven? He had to know the feisty woman would protect him from the others, even if he was the only one who thought such protection necessary, had to know she wouldn't have let anyone near him. She liked all of them, and loved teasing Buck, but seemed to show a particular fondness, almost a tenderness, toward Vin and Ezra. And she'd fight anyone to the death for either of them.
So why would he take himself away from the surest protection he could find? Vin had the instincts of a wild animal, and, when hurt, those instincts would urge him to hole up somewhere until he healed. So, having found his hole, what would drive him from it?
What would drive an animal? Depended on the animal. What kind of animal was Vin? Wolf, cougar, hawk. All predators. All . . .
Hunters . . .
He rose abruptly to his feet, startling the others.
"Where ya goin'?" Buck asked in confusion.
"Livery," Chris rapped out, already striding from the table.
"We checked there," Josiah reminded him, nonetheless rising tiredly to follow. "But I guess we'll check again," he sighed as Nathan and Buck joined him behind Chris's rapidly departing figure.
<><><><><><><><><><>
Vin squatted on his heels, one hand pressed to the ground to support and steady himself, and ran the fingers of his other hand through the dark-stained dirt. Blood. One of the outlaws was hurt, and bleeding enough for Tanner to suspect they'd have to stop soon and tend the wound. Else he'd be coming up on a body before too much longer. And he found himself hoping the bastard didn't die just yet.
A body could just be left where it fell. But a wounded man slowed his party down, could cause frequent stops, made it easier for anyone following to close the distance. And, if he was hurt badly enough or his companions weren't too skilled in doctoring, he could leave a blood trail that any pursuer would welcome. Just like the one Tanner was following now.
Yep. Vin hoped this bastard hung in there a good, long while.
Satisfied he had his quarry's trail fixed in his mind, he forced himself slowly, carefully to his feet and made his way with wobbly, weaving steps to where Peso grazed contentedly on sparse grass. Marshalling every bit of strength he possessed for the ordeal, he hauled himself once more into the saddle, reeling heavily and groaning thickly as pain and dizziness rocked him. But he clung with all his might to the saddle horn and willed himself not to fall, not to give in to the threatening blackness, and all the while gave fervent thanks that, for once, Peso was behaving himself.
But the big horse, ever alert to his rider's moods and manner, seemed to understand that, just now, Tanner was in no way capable of dealing with his characteristic fractiousness, and managed to restrain his more spirited impulses. In their years together, a deep familiarity, an instinctive knowing, had arisen between them, so that one often seemed an extension of the other. Peso was deeply familiar with the feel of Vin's wounded body in his saddle, could tell the difference between hands that guided him with strength and sureness, and hands that clung to him and sought from him the strength they lacked. And he responded accordingly.
Peso could fight Vin like the devil himself when the tracker was well and the horse needed to show his spirit, but he'd never once shown that ornery and rattlesnake-mean side when Tanner was sick or hurt, and he wouldn't start now. Vin knew it, and was deeply grateful.
"C'mon, ya hammer-headed mule," he rasped, kneeing the horse forward when he thought he could ride without falling. "Tracks say they's headed toward Round Rock Springs. Reckon we'll follow 'em fer a while, see if'n the trail holds in that direction. 'N if'n it does, mebbe we'll come up around 'em, git behind 'em 'n take 'em thataway. 'Cause I sure as shit ain't in no shape fer another all-out gunfight. 'N I'm past bein' real choosy whether they come back in their saddles 'r across't 'em."
It had been a long time since the former bounty hunter had been squeamish about the "dead" part of "dead or alive."
"SHIT!" Chris yelled furiously, flinging a stool against the far wall of Peso's empty stall. "Goddamn it, Tanner, when I get my hands on you . . . "
"But he can't even walk!" Nathan protested, his anger almost as great as Larabee's. "Damn fool was shot in th' head, likely got hisself a helluva concussion . . . How'n the hell he get on a horse? That horse in particular? He ain't in no shape ta be fightin' Peso . . . Hell, he ain't in no shape ta be doin' nothin' 'cept lettin' me tend ta that hard head'a his!"
Chris turned on his three friends, his eyes glittering in his white face. "What'd Vin take with him when he left Inez's?" he hissed.
Josiah shrugged. "Everything. Hat, coat, boots, guns--"
"'Guns'?" Chris spat, laying heavy emphasis on the final "s."
"Mare's leg and rifle," the preacher answered.
Chris whirled away from them, his hands clenching into fists at his sides as his fury at the absent tracker rose still another notch. "You said two of the gang got away?"
Buck ran a weary hand through his hair. "Yeah. Rode outta here like bats outta hell. Josiah figures he at least winged one, but we don't know for sure. And we didn't have enough healthy bodies among us ta send anybody out ta look for 'em." He sighed heavily, his exhaustion pressing like a leaden weight upon him. "I reckon one or two of us'll have ta go out tomorrow, but I'm damned if I can figure out how we'll work it, and still see to the town."
"One of us has already gone out after 'em," Chris seethed in a low voice, knowing it with everything that was in him. "That's why you couldn't find Vin." He turned back to face them, his face grim. "Goddamn fool's gone huntin'."
Buck and Josiah stared at him in stunned disbelief, their minds refusing to accept what he was saying.
"That ain't possible, Chris," Josiah protested at last, shaking his graying head slowly. "Not with what Inez said--"
"Look around, damn it!" Chris shouted, waving a hand at the empty stall. "Peso's gone, Vin's tack is gone . . . Goddamn it, Vin's gone!" He stared at the preacher through burning eyes, his lean frame so tight he almost shook. "You tell me where else he is then!" he hissed through clenched teeth. "If he ain't in town and he ain't out there, then where the hell is he? I know he can damn near disappear inta thin air, but what the hell did he do with his fuckin' horse?"
Buck turned away and went with heavy steps to sit on a low stool nearby, dropping his head into his hands. "Jesus God Almighty," he murmured strickenly, finally admitting to himself that Chris was right. "He ain't in no shape for that!" He scrubbed hard at his face with long, strong fingers, then slowly raised his head and stared at Chris, his face tired but determined. "We gotta go after him then," he said quietly. "There's two of 'em, and it's clear they don't give a rat's ass about killin'. Could be one of 'em's hurt, but we don't know that for sure. Could be they lit outta here an' never stopped runnin', might be halfway ta Texas by now, but we don't know that, either. And if they ain't hurt, and if they do stop, and if they discover Vin's after 'em . . . " He swallowed hard and forced himself to meet Chris's fearful gaze. "At his best, Vin's more'n a match for two men, we all know that. But he ain't at his best right now. And if he meets up with two desperadoes who ain't got nothin' ta lose by killin' him . . . We gotta go after him," he said again. "There ain't no two ways about it."
"True," Josiah put in, convinced as well. "But we won't do him any good by rushin' outta here half-cocked. There's a few things we need ta think about, first."
Chris exhaled harshly. "We ain't got time for that!" he spat impatiently. "Vin's out there--"
"I know that," the big man said gently, turning tired, sad eyes on Larabee. "Believe me, Chris, I'm worried about him, too. But we have to think about this." He crossed his arms against his broad chest and leaned against the wall of Peso's empty stall. "Right now, four out of the seven of us are healthy. Tired to the bone, but healthy. But Nathan's gonna need ta stay with Ezra and JD, we all know that. Just as we all know you're gonna go after Vin. Now, do me and Buck go with you and leave Nathan here alone, or do we stay with Nathan and let you go out alone?"
"I'll go," Buck volunteered quickly. "Hell, it's kinda my fault Vin's out there. If he wasn't so convinced I'd hold what happened ta JD against him, he wouldn'ta gone."
"You're not responsible, Buck," Chris assured him quietly.
"I still feel responsible--"
"But you're not," Chris said firmly. "Besides," his eyes and voice softened; he knew how his old friend felt about the young sheriff, "your place is here, with JD. Out on the trail, you'd be worried sick about him--"
"And here I'll be worried sick about Vin--"
"But at least here you'll be able to help Nathan," Chris said. "And, with him tendin' Ezra and JD, the town's gonna need somebody ta look after it." He sighed. "I'll take Josiah with me." He looked at the preacher. "You know some about doctorin'. If Vin's hurt, you can take care of him 'til we get him back here ta Nathan."
Josiah smiled slightly and bobbed his head in agreement. "I'd be glad to." He studied Chris a moment, and knew the man was ready to leave that moment. "But I got a couple'a more things to say." When Larabee stiffened and narrowed his eyes, his face setting hard, Josiah held up his big hands in a gesture of peace. "Just hear me out. We only got about an hour of daylight left. We're all exhausted, and can barely think or see straight. Maybe we should wait 'til mornin'--"
"Vin may not have 'til mornin'!" Chris exploded, his fear for his friend like a living thing within him. "He needs us now!"
"We ain't gonna catch up to him in an hour, and you know it," Josiah answered calmly, recognizing the fear behind Larabee's anger. "Chris, think, please," he urged gently, catching and holding the younger man's tortured gaze with his own. "The light's gonna start failin' soon. And neither one of us are trackers. Stumblin' around in the dark, we might destroy the very trail we need to see in order to find Vin. We need rest, so we can start out fresh in the mornin'. If we're gonna be any good to Vin, our minds need to be sharp. And I don't know about yours, but mine's the furthest thing from sharp right now there is. I'm worried about him, too. But I also know that, right now, I'd do him more harm than good. And that's not a chance I'm willin' ta take. Not when it's Vin's life we're talkin' about."
Chris wanted to protest, wanted to scream in fury and frustration and spit curses at Sanchez, wanted to pull his gun and force the big man to come with him. But he did none of those things. Not when a small, treacherous part of his mind whispered that Josiah was right. Instead, he merely turned abruptly away and bowed his head, closing his eyes tightly and clenching his hands into fists at his sides.
Buck rose from his seat on the stool and walked slowly toward his old friend, his blue eyes dark with sympathy. "Josiah," he said softly, "why don't you go on up ta Nathan's, tell him what's goin' on. Then you go on an' get some rest. And be ready for Nathan ta take a look at your arm. He ain't in the best of moods right now, an' if you argue, he'll likely slit you open for the fun of it."
Josiah nodded and forced a slight smile. "In that case, I won't argue." He switched his gaze to Larabee. "Chris--"
"Be here and ready to ride at dawn," Chris ordered in a low, steely voice. "One minute later, and I'm goin' without ya."
"I'll be here." He sighed and glanced again at Buck, then walked heavily out of the livery.
"What's wrong with his arm?" Chris asked harshly when Sanchez had left.
"Just a graze, I reckon," Buck answered with a shrug. "Hell, I reckon we all got cut up a mite. It was some fight, pard. Just the kind you like."
Chris tensed at that. "With JD, Ezra and Vin hurt?" he rasped. "No, Buck, I wouldn'ta liked it at all."
Buck ran a hand over his mustache and mouth, feeling for Chris. "Helluva thing, ain't it?" he asked quietly, compassion in his tired eyes and soft voice. "Feelin' so helpless? Bein' scared shitless because a man who's taken care of himself all his life is out there alone, hurt an' in danger, while you're stuck here, forced to do the smart thing an' wait, while everything in you is cryin' out ta ride out after him right now." He thought suddenly of JD, remembered again the soul-freezing sight of the boy falling under an outlaw's bullet, and laughed bitterly. "Havin' friends is sheer hell on a man," he breathed. "I don't recommend it for the weak."
"Why him, Buck?" Chris asked quietly, sounding every bit as tired as he felt. He frowned and stared in confusion at the man who had known him longest, whom he had once thought knew him best. Until a lanky, long-haired Texan had sauntered into his life, with blue eyes that could see straight through to his soul. "After Sarah and Adam died, I stood at their graves and swore I was never gonna let anybody in again. Couldn't bear to go through that pain again. I even tried to push you away, and would've, if you hadn't been so goddamn stubborn."
"Hell, you know me," Buck snorted, grinning. "I ain't ever been easy ta push. And I sure as shit ain't ever been good at takin' a hint."
"Tell me about it," Chris grunted, almost chuckling. Then he frowned slightly, thinking about the six men who had staked such a huge claim on his life. On his heart. "This wasn't supposed to happen, Buck. I swore I wasn't gonna let it happen. But one by one, you all wriggled your way in . . . except for Vin." He winced as a vision of Tanner rose in his mind. "Wasn't no wrigglin' there, no slippin' in unannounced. Goddamn bounty hunter hit me head on, like a train at full speed. I never saw it comin', couldn't stop it or get away. It was like . . . "
"Findin' a piece'a yourself," Buck supplied easily when his friend faltered. "A piece you'd never known was missin', 'til it was there. Hell, Chris, I coulda told you that."
"But why him?" Larabee asked again, needing to understand. "I mean . . . Shit," he breathed, shaking his head in exhausted bewilderment. "I don't know what the hell I mean!"
"You want me to explain why Chris Larabee, despite all his best efforts to the contrary, is a human being," Buck mused, crossing his arms against his broad chest and staring at his friend. "You want me to explain why Mr. Get-th'- Hell-Away-From-Me can't stop himself from carin' about folks who care about him. And you want me to explain why Vin Tanner, who needs nothin' an' nobody, who trusts nothin' an' nobody, and who's grown up convinced nothin' an' nobody wants, needs or trusts him, has found himself not just a friend, but a brother, who trusts him completely, who knows him inside out, and who cares so deeply about him that, right now, he's eatin' himself up inside that Vin's sufferin' and he can't stop it. That what you want me to explain, pard?"
Chris grinned weakly. "I guess that about sums it up."
Buck snorted and shook his head. "You know, Larabee, for such a smart hombre, you can be one of th' dumbest sonsabitches I ever met." He leaned forward and caught and held his friend's startled gaze with his own. "It's called 'family,' Chris," he said with a quiet intensity. "Now, we may be one of the most fucked-up families ever thrown together, but, by God, that's what we are. I don't know when or why it happened, and I don't really care. I just know it did, an' I ain't got the words to say how thankful I am. It's got nothin' to do with blood, an' everything in the world to do with heart, with soul. Why Vin? I'll tell ya why Vin -- because it was meant to be, pard. Because it was right. Because it was s'posed ta happen. Because you needed it ta happen, an' so did he. Because somewhere, somehow, somebody decided it was high time two hurtin', lonely men stopped hurtin', stopped bein' lonely an' started ta heal. And that, Chris, is 'why Vin.'" He stepped back and raised two dark eyebrows. "Anything else you wanta know?"
"Yeah," Chris murmured, his smile growing stronger. "When th' hell did you get so smart?"
Buck shrugged and grinned broadly. "Always have been, pard," he said brightly. "Th' brain came with th' good looks an' charm."
"And don't forget the modesty," Chris snorted. He gazed at his friend and nodded. "Thanks."
Buck's smile and teasing manner faded, replaced by an uncharacteristic seriousness. "Don't fight this, Chris," he urged, reaching out to lay a gentle hand on Larabee's shoulder. "Friendship like that between you and Vin don't come around often. A man'd be a fool ta throw it away."
Chris stared at his friend, the man who'd been with him at his highest and lowest, and sometimes been treated shamefully for it. And who'd stepped aside graciously when Vin had been able to offer Chris something he had not.
"No," Chris said finally, holding Buck's gaze with his own. "I won't. I did it once, and it's the biggest damn mistake I ever made."
Buck stiffened as Chris's words, and their meaning, hit him. Warmth filled him, giving new strength to his exhausted body, and a new light shone in his blue eyes. He squeezed Chris's shoulder tightly, then gave the gunslinger his broad, bright smile.
"Well, pard," he said at last, "it's lucky for you I'm like a kid's ball. You can throw me as far as ya want, but I just keep bouncin' back. Now," he slapped Chris's back, "let's go see how Ezra an' JD are doin', then go get you somethin' ta eat." He winked. "See if I can't get Inez ta tend our needs."
Chris had to laugh and shake his head, but went gladly with his old friend. "You better watch out, Buck," he warned, "one of these days she's gonna let you catch her, just to watch you drop dead from shock."
"Ah, but if she's with me when I go," the scoundrel answered with a grin, "then I'll die one happy man!"
<><><><><><><><><><>
Hiram Reed glanced over at his companion and swore under his breath. Hallett had taken a bullet in the back, just under his right shoulder blade, and was bleeding like a stuck pig. Sonuvabitch was slowing them down, but not even Reed had quite reached the point where he'd just leave a wounded partner to die.
But he sure as hell didn't plan on sticking around long after Hallett did give up the ghost!
And, from what he could see, that was inevitable. The bullet was still in there, Hallett was fevered, and he was losing more blood than a man could afford to. And Reed was no one's idea of a doctor. He'd rigged the best bandage he was able, but that wasn't saying much. He'd briefly considered pouring whiskey in the wound to clean it, but didn't see the sense in wasting good liquor on a man who was clearly doomed. Not for a moment, though, had he even thought about using the trail method of cauterizing the wound. He'd had that done once to him, and just didn't have the stomach to see it done again, not even to help a friend.
Friend. His lips thinned into a mean, wolfish smile at that. Hell, a man like him didn't have friends. It just didn't pay. His face was on too many wanted posters, the price on his head too high. After a five-year stint of bank robberies, stage holdups and mine, ranch and Army payroll thefts that had left a trail of dead bodies across three states, he was worth eight hundred dollars dead or alive, and he had no desire to make some so-called "friend" rich off his carcass.
Besides, what the hell good were "friends," anyway? He'd considered Carlton enough of an amigo to throw in with the bastard on his fool notion to rob the bank in a town with seven -- seven -- lawmen, and where had it gotten him? On the run again, with no money and only this poor, dumb sonuvabitch slowly bleeding to death beside him.
Goddamn Carlton, anyway! What had the damn fool been thinking? Hell, everybody knew about that town, about its "regulators"! But Carlton had insisted that two gangs acting as one, with eighteen men between them, could get the job done. Eighteen against seven -- or only six as it had turned out -- easy odds, right?
Yeah, right. A harsh chuckle escaped Reed. Easy odds! So how come out of eighteen men, only two had ridden out? And where was all that goddamn money Carlton had sworn would be theirs?
But at least he'd had the satisfaction of seeing that kid sheriff go down . . .
His hackles rose at that thought, and he threw yet another worried glance over his shoulder. He didn't see anyone, hadn't seen any sign of pursuit, but could not push aside his growing unease. Whether he could see them or not, someone was out there, following. He knew it, because he knew about those seven regulators. They were as tough and as salty a bunch as had ever ridden the river, hard men who had no equal when it came fighting time. They were also a tightly knit bunch, and they'd seen their youngest go down. That wasn't something they were likely to overlook or let go.
Nope, at least one of them was back there, following. Reed could feel it in the itch between his shoulder blades, in the hair on his neck that wouldn't lay flat. And until Hallett finally did the convenient thing and died from that bullet he was carrying in him, there wasn't a goddamn thing Reed could do about it.
Except to hope like hell the sonuvabitch following him wasn't that goddamn tracker.
<><><><><><><><><><>
Vin knelt in the dust and tried to study what was written in the ground. But the light was failing -- at least, he hoped it was the light failing -- and, between the gathering dusk and his still-blurred vision, he was having a hell of a time making out anything at all.
And the pain in his head sure as shit wasn't helping, either.
He exhaled unsteadily and slowly lifted his aching head, frowning in strained concentration and trying to focus his eyes on the area about him, trying to read something in the terrain that would help him. He had to stop for the night, he knew that now. He'd used up every ounce of strength, every bit of stubborn endurance he had in reserve, and simply had nothing left. He'd have to find someplace, hole up, lick his wounds, and start the hunt again tomorrow. He hated it, but knew he had no choice.
And at least he had the consolation of knowing the men he was after -- his prey -- wouldn't be pushing on through the night either. Not with that one losing blood like he was . . .
He'd already found signs the two were slowing down, and figured the wounded man was the cause of it. Less than an hour ago he'd come upon the place where they'd stopped for one to bandage the other's wound, had found a sizeable patch of blood on the ground and some wadded bits of cloth grown stiff with the stuff. He had no doubt he'd eventually come upon a body, but hoped it wouldn't be anytime soon.
Be a hell of a lot easier tracking them with that bastard alive and leaving a blood trail than following one man who was free to ride as fast as he pleased . . .
He glanced around again, finally recognizing where he was. Brushy Creek. Though, until the fall rains began in earnest, it was more like Brushy Trickle. But there was enough water, brackish as it was, for him and Peso, and the high, thick brush that gave the creek its name would provide more than suitable cover for the night. Especially since, without the others here, he wouldn't have to indulge in such niceties as a fire and hot food.
The others . . .
He tried not to think about them as he untacked, rubbed down and fed and watered Peso, as he made sure the big horse was tied securely enough to prevent his maddening habit of wandering away from camp. He'd let them down, had failed them, and, unable to bear thinking about what that failure might have cost him, he tried to close his mind against the increasingly intrusive images as he ate his cold meal of jerked venison and hard biscuits, as he made a place for himself in the brush and rolled himself in his blankets.
Lord God, why couldn't they leave him be?
But, stubborn as always, they were there, as real as if they wore flesh. He could see Buck, white teeth flashing against the darkness in that broad, easy smile, big hands gesturing wildly, as he recounted yet another of his outrageous tales. The man could talk the hind leg off a dog, apparently never tiring of the sound of his own voice, but he brought warmth and laughter and deep camaraderie to every camp he shared, and many a night Vin had lain awake just listening to him and taking comfort in the strength and solidness of the big man's presence.
JD, too, was there, the shadow at Buck's side, his wide, bright eyes fixed intently upon Wilmington as he hung on every word, drinking them all in like the dry desert did the rain until the big man took the story one exaggeration too far and the boy declared him "full of crap!" The young sheriff might no longer be the greenhorn he'd been when he'd flung himself off that stage looking for adventure, but, for all the hard things he'd seen and done since, he managed somehow to hold onto the enthusiasm and innocence that would mark him forever as "the kid" in their eyes. At times Vin felt a twinge of envy for the boy, and wondered how it felt to be that young. Because, though not so many years older than JD, young was not something Vin Tanner could ever really remember being.
Now he could hear Josiah and that deep, rich voice of his rumbling out of his cavernous chest like thunder rolling from the heart of a mountain as he wove the tales of magical places and mystical peoples that so fascinated the tracker. Most of all, though, Vin loved to hear Josiah reading or quoting from the Bible, from the Old Testament in particular, when that mighty voice would ring out with all the power and majesty of God Himself. He could let himself float upon that voice, let it carry him past this world of hurts and sorrows and into one where he was kept safe from such things and where all that existed was the beauty Josiah spoke into being.
He heard another voice, then, a drawl as thick and sweet as molasses, and saw the gleam of a gold tooth. Ezra, trying to drum up a "game of chance" even as he complained endlessly about his uncivilized surroundings. He had never seen a camp he liked, hated being outdoors with a passion, and was not the least bit shy about saying so. The gambler liked his comforts, liked fine clothes and fancy settings, and thought the most beautiful sight in the world was a green baize-covered poker table with a brand new deck of cards and a large pile of money upon it. He was slippery as an eel and crooked as a sidewinder, but he'd proved himself a surprisingly loyal, steady and handy man to have at your back. He'd be there when the chips were down, even if he did stop to gather them up and pocket them on his way. Like Buck, he could talk for days, that honeyed voice spinning out high-faluting, five-dollar words that made Vin's head hurt just to ponder.
And where there was hurt, there was Nathan, doing all he could to take that hurt away. Another big man, like Buck and Josiah, but with the gift of healing in his strong hands. He hated suffering of any kind, would fight against it with everything that was in him, because he'd known so much of it himself. The former slave carried scars from the whippings he'd endured on his back, carried scars from the oppression he'd borne in his soul, yet had emerged from the cruelties of his past as a man of dignity and endless compassion. His first instinct always was to help those in need, and Vin found himself wishing he could feel those gentle, healing hands upon him now, easing the merciless ache in his head and the pain in his heart.
But the most commanding presence of all was neither the biggest nor the loudest among them. Whipcord lean and nearly silent, a black-clad figure of deadly menace whose piercing green gaze could freeze a man's blood in his veins, Chris was nobody's idea of lively, entertaining, light-hearted fireside companionship. But he was everything Vin needed and never even imagined he'd have in a friend. He didn't need to speak for Vin to hear him, didn't need to be near for Vin to feel him. Hell, he wasn't even here and Vin could see him more clearly than he'd been able to see anything since getting shot. He tried to banish him, as he'd tried with all the others, but the stubborn gunslinger wouldn't go, wouldn't leave him alone, and stood before him now, those goddamn eyes staring into his soul and one strong hand reaching out to him in a gesture of friendship and concern. Despite himself, Vin wanted so much to feel that hand closing about his forearm in the firm clasp that was theirs alone, wanted to know Chris was with him, helping him, lending him strength now that his own was gone.
He knew he should resist needing someone so much, trusting someone so much, but he couldn't. Not when that someone was Chris. From the first moment they had locked gazes across that street, he had understood and welcomed it, had felt its rightness, its familiarity, deep in his soul, and had never once questioned it. He'd found someone he didn't have to explain or excuse himself to, because Chris knew him as he knew himself, knew more from his silences than anyone else could know from his words. And he knew Chris with that same completeness, understood the difficult, complicated gunman as he'd never been able to understand even the simplest of people before. Whatever it was they shared -- to call it "friendship" just didn't seem enough -- had been immediate and deeply intuitive, and to them both it was as natural as breathing.
Maybe that was why he was so certain that Chris, who was supposed to be in Purgatorio and shouldn't know what had happened, knew he was gone, understood what he was doing and why, and would be coming after him.
"Lord, Chris, I'm hurtin'," he rasped softly to the dark apparition before him, certain Chris knew that, too. "I don't know if I c'n do this, but I gotta try." The black figure never moved, never spoke, but Vin knew he understood. "I'm sorry I let y'all down, cowboy," he breathed, unable any longer to fend off sleep. "But I'm gonna make it right."
<><><><><><><><><><>
The hour was late, the town was quiet, and Chris was nowhere near being able to sleep. He stalked the dark streets like a restless, angry spirit, a grim, black shadow lit only by the flickering flames of the street fires he passed. The few people he encountered -- mostly cowboys and miners leaving saloons -- took one look at him and gave him a wide berth, no one daring to tempt the infamous Larabee temper.
The man looked ready to shoot the first poor bastard who tested him . . .
And, truth to tell, Chris was. He didn't like worrying over Vin, didn't like the feeling of helplessness that raised in him, and so transformed his worry, his fear, into the far more familiar and comfortable feeling of anger. Anger at the tracker's foolishness in going after two desperate men alone, anger at his mule-headed refusal to admit that he was hurt, anger at his apparent mistrust of his friends . . .
Anger at what the reckless sonuvabitch was doing to the heart and gut of his closest friend.
"Goddamn it, Vin, when are you gonna learn?" Chris whispered to the night. "You can trust us! We ain't gonna turn on ya, we ain't gonna turn you out . . . You ain't alone no more, you stupid sonuvabitch! And you didn't have ta do this alone! You shoulda waited. I was comin', Vin! If you'da just waited . . . "
He found himself outside Inez's saloon and stood near the bat-wing doors, sorely tempted to go in and drown his anger, and his fear, in whiskey. But he knew he couldn't. He and Josiah were leaving at dawn, and he knew he'd need a clear head if they were to find Vin. He didn't particularly care about finding the last two outlaws. If they did, fine; if not, fine. It was Tanner he was really after; finding the tracker was all he cared about.
"And when I do find you," he growled into the night, "I'm gonna take every bit of this aggravation outta your sorry Texas hide!"
He turned away from the saloon and resumed his restless prowling, consoling himself with thoughts of the way he'd spend the five hundred dollars he was gonna collect on Tanner after he shot him full of holes.
<><><><><><><><><><>
Vin was awake before dawn, and allowed himself the luxury of a small, well concealed fire to make coffee while he waited for enough light to continue the hunt. Breakfast was the last few of the hard, dry biscuits, dipped in the strong coffee to soften them. To his relief, he managed to keep it all down.
He told himself he was better, told himself the night's rest -- or what rest there'd been between the hellish nightmare visions of Ezra and JD falling beneath the outlaws' bullets -- had done him good. As his success with the biscuits proved, the unrelenting sickness that had so tormented him yesterday had eased to a much more tolerable level of general queasiness, and the constant ringing in his ears had lessened, as well. But his head still ached unmercifully, and he had to move carefully lest the persistent dizziness drop him to the ground.
Even so, he knew he could do this. Had to do this. He'd done it before, tracked men in far worse shape than this, with bullets in him, broken bones and Lord knew what else. He wasn't about to let a little head graze stop him now. After he'd brought these two down, he'd have all the time in the world to let Nathan fuss over him.
And let Chris beat the shit out of him.
He grinned slightly at that. He knew Chris would be pissed, could almost see that vein in the gunslinger's forehead throbbing now. Larabee had once said he'd never known he had such a vein until he met Vin Tanner.
"Well, hell," Vin drawled softly. "'At's whatcha git fer tom-cattin' around in Purgatorio whilst the rest of us're fightin' off a goddamn regiment. It'd serve ya right if'n that goddamn vein bust wide open 'n left ya with a headache big as mine. Betcha wouldn't feel so high 'n mighty then!"
With smug satisfaction at that thought, Vin extinguished the small fire and carefully buried all sign of it, then got his few belongings together and began the ever-challenging task of saddling Peso. The big horse was feeling fractious this morning, had apparently come to regret yesterday's docility and was now determined to make up for it. He fought the bit as if he'd never seen such a contraption before, and twice slipped it from his mouth once Vin managed to get it on him. Blanket and saddle brought another battle, with the horse picking up on Vin's unsteadiness and taking full advantage of it, sidling away just as Vin hefted the rig across his back. So quick was the move that Vin could neither turn to follow it nor stop the momentum of the saddle, and both man and saddle went down to the ground in a heap.
Vin lay there -- winded, dizzy, his head throbbing like hell -- and tried desperately not to lose his breakfast. He could barely see through the haze of pain and rising sickness, but knew Peso was there, could hear him tossing his head and snorting in haughty pleasure.
"Proud'a yerself, ain'tcha?" he rasped once he was fairly certain he wouldn't be sick. "Goddamn, hammer-headed, sonuvabitchin' mule, one'a these days I'm gonna skin ya like a goddamn buff, jerk yer meat an' boil down what's left fer glue." He managed to sit up, crossed his legs to steady himself, and glared up at the dark blur that was his horse. "Shoulda left ya down in Mexico where I found ya," he growled. "Fer all I know, you d'served what you was gittin' from them fellers. Hell, y'ain't worth the peso I paid for ya!"
Peso seemed singularly unmoved by the tracker's tirade, completely unimpressed by the threats and curses spat at him. While Vin had a number of highly effective ways of imposing his will upon the cantankerous animal, not one of them involved cruelty, and Peso knew this. And was not above using it to his advantage.
But Vin was in no mood -- and no condition -- to fight with his horse. Mustering every bit of his strength, and shoring it up with all his considerable stubbornness, he climbed carefully to his feet, forced himself to stand without swaying or falling, and snaked out a hand to grab the cheekstrap of Peso's bridle. Jerking the big head roughly toward him and holding it in place with an iron grip, he glared into the gelding's dark, intelligent eyes and scowled, baring his teeth in a wolfish grimace.
"Ain't got time fer this," he growled, standing firm before the horse, refusing to be moved even a step. "Yer costin' me daylight, an' I got work ta do. Give me just one more bit'a trouble, 'n I'll tie an' hobble ya whilst I saddle ya. You got that?"
Peso clearly recognized the change in the tracker's demeanor, sensed the shift in dominance. The black ears twitched, then perked toward Vin and flicked back and forth as he thought over what was happening, and his tongue worked nervously about his lips. Then his ears relaxed, his dark eyes softened, and he evened his weight upon all four legs, standing still and placid.
Vin felt the change, and knew he'd won this round. "Gonna saddle ya now," he said, "an' yer gonna stand there an' take it, like ya ought." Finally satisfied that Peso would comply, he released the bridle, gave the black nose a quick caress, then went to retrieve the saddle.
It was by no means easy to get the rig on, but Vin had only his own dizziness and pain to blame. Peso remained meek as a lamb, never so much as twitching. His only show of defiance came when he drew a huge breath and inflated his chest to interfere with the tightening of the belly strap, but Vin was by now so used to that he automatically kneed the horse to force him to release it.
"I ain't in no mood nor shape ta be dumped in the middle'a the fuckin' desert," he drawled as he drew the cinch taut. "Best you remember that."
He draped his saddlebags behind the cantle, secured his bedroll and checked his rifle, then gave the saddle one last tug to be sure. Never paid to get cocky with Peso, especially when the big horse was behaving. Finally, bracing himself for what was to come, he gripped the horn tightly, put a boot in the stirrup, and hauled himself into the saddle with nothing at like his usual grace or ease. The effort sent hard jolts of pain stabbing through his skull, tearing a hoarse cry from him, and dizziness assailed him with a hideous, sickening force. It was all he could do to hang on while he fought to stay conscious, fought not to throw up, fought not to let himself just fall to the ground and give in to his misery. Hot tears stung his eyes as pain lanced through his head and nausea churned in his gut, and for long moments a beckoning darkness was temptingly close. But if through nothing else save instinct and long habit he hung on, and refused to let himself sink into the oblivion his body craved.
And through it all, Peso -- Lord love him -- stayed as steady and calm as if he were a true and decent horse instead of the perverse, contrary mixture of rattlesnake and pissed-off cougar Vin knew him to be. The gelding was as ornery as an Arkansas mule, as wild as the day was long, and had a mean streak in him a mile wide. But what he lacked in charm, he more than made for in intelligence, endurance on the trail and sheer toughness. While other horses were ready to drop from exhaustion, Peso was just hitting his stride, and he thrived in wild, rough country that would kill a lesser animal.
He'd never in a million years be an agreeable, well-mannered, sweet-tempered horse. And Tanner wouldn't have him any other way.
"Let's go, ya knot-headed mule," Vin sighed, kneeing the gelding forward. "Still got some huntin' ta do."
<><><><><><><><><><>
Chris tore out of town the moment he decided he had light enough to see, with Josiah at his back. Though nowhere near the tracker Vin was, he'd still picked up Peso's trail easily enough, a fact which both relieved him and added more fuel to his steadily burning anger.
"Goddamn it," he spat after a good two hours of seething, "what the hell's he thinkin'? Damn fool ain't even tryin' ta hide his tracks!" His green eyes glittered like jewels in his face, and his lean frame was taut with fury. "Hell, a blind man could follow him! Not to mention every bounty hunter in the goddamn territory!"
Josiah sighed heavily and shook his head slowly. It was going to be a long, trying ride. Wasn't bad enough Ezra and JD were hurt; wasn't enough Vin was hurt and had run off on his own after two desperadoes. Now Chris was on the warpath, and didn't seem inclined to take any prisoners.
He'd thought he'd been lucky to get off with only a graze to the arm. But any wound would surely be preferable to riding with a thoroughly pissed-off Chris Larabee!
"Maybe," he answered at last, his deep voice calm and -- he hoped -- soothing, "he's not coverin' his tracks because he knew you'd be comin' after him, and he wanted to make it easy for you. Vin's not stupid--"
"No?" Chris shot back in a hard, tight voice. "Then how do ya explain what he's doin'?"
Josiah regarded the younger man with a practiced patience. If he'd learned nothing else in his time among these six men, it was how to be patient in the face of sheer cussedness. "If you'd been here when that gunfight broke out," he said quietly, "if you felt responsible for someone getting shot, what would you be doin'? Would you wait for Vin to come and talk you out of it? Or would you just go on with what you felt you had to do, knowin' all the while he'd be right behind you?"
"Damn it, Josiah, he's hurt!"
Sanchez shrugged his broad shoulders. "He's able to walk, he's able to ride. In his mind, that means he's all right." He fixed knowing eyes on Chris. "Seen you ride hurt a few times, yourself. Seen you ready to charge the gates of hell when it was all you could do to stay in the saddle. You sayin' Vin ain't as entitled to his stupidity as you are ta yours?"
Chris reined in his horse sharply at that and stared in disbelief at the older man. "Did you just call me 'stupid'?"
"Nope," Josiah said, returning the green stare evenly. "I said you have moments of stupidity. There's a difference." He smiled slightly. "Sometimes it's a fine one, but it's a difference nonetheless." He shrugged again. "You've had your moments, now Vin's havin' one. But it's our job to find him before it gets him hurt worse or killed." He winked. "Sorta like he's done for you a time or two."