Late Spring of 1878
It was late afternoon before Mary Travis had an opportunity to start handing out the day's edition of her newspaper, The Clarion News. The young widow's day had been full and it was getting late.
Between writing the articles for the paper all morning, Mary had the local town people coming and going through her front office, asking questions, inquiring about ads, or looking for work. Mary had just finished setting up the type on the printing press when several of the local residents walked in with one small complaint; a complaint that the mayor wanted her to relay to the seven men who protected the town. The yellow haired woman spent the rest of her afternoon listening to the dozens of complaining town folks about the young little piglets that had shown up in town. About eight little, of the pinkest swine had the run of the town over the last few days. No one knew where they came from and more importantly, no one came forward to claim them. They had been in town for only a couple of hours, when they had started causing all kinds of accidents- from grown men falling off their horses to a couple of ladies' tripping down the church steps. The latter, not sit well with some of the ladies' husbands who had to listen to their dear wives carry on all the way home about the little beasties and the trouble they were causing, demanded in uncertain terms, who should be held accountable for rounding up the piglets.
Mary's pale blue eyes danced with mischief. She could just picture how well the solitary leader of the seven men, Chris Larabee would take to being ordered by the town mayor to hunt the little dears down. Mary ran her delicate fingers through her long, platinum strands, unconsciously tidying up her hair. She finished setting the type for the first run of paper and then ran the paper through the printing press. While the ink dried Mary attempted to make herself more presentable. Deciding enough time had passed, Mary read over the paper once more trying to spot any mistakes.
Mary proudly reread her feature article, 'Remember, Gettysburg'. Her article had special meaning. In a few months was the 15th anniversary reunion for the veterans of the Battle of Gettysburg. Her work on the article had touched her deeply, especially after she had received the news about the recent and untimely death of one of the cavalry officers that had fought on that dreadful first day.
Mary had spent long, straining hours writing and re-writing the column, until she thought it was perfect. She tried to picture each of the handsome men that her father had brought to the family house in Philadelphia when she was a child. Mary had searched her late husband's files for any information regarding the Union soldiers she could remember by name. Water swelled in her eyes as she had read article after article about the brave men who had died serving their country. Farnsworth, O'Keefe, the names went on and on. Mary's hands started to shake when she pick up one newspaper clipping announcing the death of John Buford.
Mary's memories flashed drop her back to that cold day in December when her family had traveled to Washington to pay respects to one of her father's fallen comrades in arms. Mary was only 13 at the time when she stood waiting with her mother and father on the corner of New York Avenue as the funeral parade made its way to the Presbyterian Church. She was astonished at all the generals, officers and important citizens that followed the procession to the church. Of all the prominent people somberly walking behind the casket, Mary could never get the mental image of a mournful boy, dressed in Union blue, a lieutenant's uniform, out of her mind. The 13-year-old Mary didn't think the lieutenant looked that much older then herself as he led Buford's riderless mount, Grey Eagle. The magnificent sight of the honor guard drew her eyes for a moment before Mary's eyes slowly rotated back to the solitary soldier walking gradually past her family.
Mary had tightened her grip in her mother's hand as the young lieutenant stumbled; the crowd had held their breath, waiting to see if the soldier would fall. Slowly, as if he was battling to overcome great pain, the young soldier stood tall, his head bowed against his chest. Young Mary strained to see the young soldier's face as he struggled to stay upright; all she could see was his trembling shoulders and hair the color of the sun sticking out beneath his hat. Mary heard her mother's musical voice whisper her father's name, "Jonathan?" She stood between her parents as they gazed into each other's eyes. Mary knew that her mother desperately wanted her father to help the young soldier. Mary's father turned and took a step into the street muttering underneath his breath about foolish lieutenants and their superior officers, namely one Colonel Devin. As Mary's father made his way through the crowded street, Mary and her mother quickly followed him at a safe distance. Mary observed her father and a dark haired colonel as they reached the young lieutenant's side at the same time. The cavalry officer made an attempt to grab the reins of Buford's mount away from the lieutenant, forcing her father to grab the young man's left arm to keep him sturdy on his feet. Mary had watched the lieutenant stubbornly shake off the two men's offer of help as he grabbed back the reins of the horse and continue to stagger towards the front of the old church. Mary's father and the cavalry officer reluctantly made their way back to where she and her mother patiently waited. On his return, Mary's father introduced the cavalry officer, "Dear, may I present, Colonel Thomas Casimer Devin. Thomas, my wife, Claudia." Mary had watched as the colonel bowed and took her mother's hand pulling the small gloved hand to his lips. Mary remembered following her mother and father into the church.
All through the ceremony Mary had her eyes glued to the young lieutenant, sitting in one of the front pews by Buford's family. Mary and her parents had sat with Colonel Devin's family, a few benches back toward the center of the aisle. Half way through the sermon, Mary saw the lieutenant's head drop to his chest and his body lean towards the outer aisle. The minister stopped in mid-sentence. Mary, with the rest of the congregation, had watched as two officers walked over and gathered the lieutenant between them, and slowly took him over to sit between two men, surrounded by high-ranking officers. Mary inched to the edge of the pew, hoping to catch a glance at the young lieutenant's face. A man with a beard dressed in a blue uniform moved to his right making room for the lieutenant to sit beside him. The other man moved to the left. He was older and looked tall. He was wearing a black suit, his tall black hat resting in his long fingers. As the two officers turned the lieutenant to face the congregation, Mary saw a shining metal hanging from a blue ribbon around his neck; she got a fleeing glance at his face. Her young heart had cried out at the pain and despair she had seen on the young man's face before his was gently turned around. After the young man was settled, the man in the dark suit nodded to the minister that he could continue. The sermon was over quickly, and Mary lost sight of the lieutenant as the two officers that helped him earlier took him away. Mary tugged at her father's coat sleeve and was told to shush as the tall man stood and had started to walk down the aisle; the bearded man walked a few steps behind. Little Mary watched her handsome father, in his blue uniform, snap to attention and she heard the mummers of those around her calling Mr. President, as he walked by. The bearded man stopped to shake her father's hand and she overheard the man say in a deep rich voice, 'Colonel Langey, I expect to see you later at the house.'
She heard her father simply reply, 'General Grant.' She could tell by the tone of her father's voice that he had been disturbed at the request. It just dawned on Mary that he had returned back to the hotel late that night, long after she and her mother had gone to bed. She was always aware that her father had his secrets, even if he was a highly respectable surgeon.
Mary wiped at the tears gathering in her eyes and looked back at her article. It was not the first time she wondered whatever had became of the young lieutenant. There was something about him, something that drew little Mary to want to hold the young man in her arms.
The older Mary's cheeks turned rosy at the memories of her younger self -- wanting to gather the lieutenant to her growing bosom like a child needing the comfort of its mother. She admired the lieutenant's stubbornness, courage and willpower to walk the last few yards to the church. His valor as he tried to pay his last respects. Her little heart had crumbled when she saw his pale face, teeth clutched tight against the pain, his emerald eyes full of grief and guilt.
Mary shook her head, wondering what had made her remember the young lieutenant so vividly after all these years. Putting the final copy down, she gathered the dried copies of the afternoon's paper and stacked them neatly so it would be easier for her to carry. The air was turning muggy from the shower earlier in the morning and Mary went to change her apron before making her rounds handing out The Clarion News. Mary returned from the back room just in time to hear a loud crash and a few choice words escaping out of someone's mouth. She headed to the door and Mary could have sworn she heard womanly giggles as she stepped outside. Mary looked up and down the boardwalk before her eyes turned towards the street; she instantly covered her mouth at the sight before her eyes. The crash was Buck Wilmington and Mary had to stifle her own giggles as she saw a cute little piglet running across the street.
"Mr. Wilmington, are you hurt?" Mary asked, failing to keep the laughter out of her voice. Buck looked so funny; he had landed on his butt in the street with his thighs resting on the steps forcing his feet up in the air, flat on his back. Buck was yelling at the running piglet, telling the swine the unpleasant facts of pig life and how he was going to introduce the pig to an ax when he got his hands around its pink little neck. Mary repeated the question, "Buck, are you hurt?"
The womanizer stopped his yelling and looked up. "Just my pride, ma'am. Just my pride," Buck said as he got to his feet and started to brush the dirt off his trousers. He turned his head and watched Mary's back as she reentered the Clarion. Buck heard her giggling. With a sigh, he sure was glad to oblige her good mood. Bending over, Buck picked up his hat and bushing it off, moved to follow the young widow inside the news office. Buck had come to enjoy the time spent helping her hand out the paper. He had taken on the responsibility of looking after Mary when Chris wasn't in town.
Mary knew that Buck had followed her and asked over her shoulder, "Have you heard from Mr. Larabee today?" Mary tried to keep her voice even, fearing she would betray her deep feelings and worry about the gunslinger. Chris had been spending more and more time out at his shack, keeping to himself. She feared that the town was losing him… that she was losing him. A couple of weeks ago he just disappeared, showing up again in town yesterday at the saloon, without any explanation. Only a telegram from her father in-law, Orrin Travis, saying that he had asked Chris to come to Fort Laramie had stop the other six peacekeepers from riding out of town to search for the gunslinger.
Buck smiled over at her and said, "Old Chris is just fine. He's spending a little time at his shack fixing it up after that bad storm we had last week." He walked over to the stack of newspapers. Picking up the top one he started to read. His eyes caught the sight of a name that he recognized from long ago and a soft, low whistle escaped his lips. Mary turned to face Buck and gave him a questioning look.
"Buck?" she asked and walked over to stand beside him, looking to see what might have caused his reaction. She saw that his eyes were fixed on her article about Gettysburg. Mary searched Buck's face as she told him, "I met Buford's Hard Hitter once."
"You met Devin? When?" Buck asked her, the paper shaking in his hands. His vision had become hazy and the words on the page had mingled together making it impossible for him to read.
"During General Buford's funeral, I was in Washington with my parents. I'm sorry, Buck, did you know Colonel Devin?" Mary asked as she softly touched Buck's arm, giving him a gentle squeeze.
Buck couldn't find his voice. His eyes teared but he refused to let them fall. He finally choked out, "When… when did he die?" He felt Mary's fingers squeeze his arm again.
"On April the 4th in New York City. I'm sorry, Buck. If I had known you knew Devin, I would have told you sooner." Mary waited patiently for Buck to get himself under control.
"I…. I have to go." Buck murmured under his breath. This explained everything about Chris's dark mood and his disappearance. He didn't have to ask, Chris knew about Devin's death. Chris had gone home. For a fleeting moment Buck wondered if Chris had told Vin about his past. He started to say something else than when he heard his name being called.
"Buck! Buck!" JD's excited voice hollered out. Buck didn't have to wait long before JD busted through the door. "Buck, Mrs. Travis." JD had to stop to take a breath. He had run all the way from the sheriff's office and he was hot and sweaty.
"JD, calm down son, and tell old Buck what's got you all excited," Buck asked, the smile on his face never reaching his eyes. JD immediately picked up on the tension in the air and looked back and forth between the two.
"Soldiers…bunch of blue coats at the sheriff's office, asking questions, looking for the law in town," JD answered hesitantly. Buck shuffled over to the window and glanced up the street.
"Cavalry, probably from Fort Laramie," Buck said out loud, noticing the crossed swords embroidered in a gold stitch on the back corner of the saddle blankets. He looked back over at JD. "They are all blue coats now, JD." His voice was low as he remembered the time when there were blue and gray. "JD, you go round up the boys. Vin is at the boarding house, eating. Mrs. Crowell made him some of her famous blackberry dumplings for helping Martin out at their homestead the other day mending fences. You remember the blackberry dumplings that won first prize at the fair last year? Old Vin figures he better gobble it down before Chris catches a whiff of those dumpling or he won't get any. Chris sure does like his dumplings. As for the other boys, Josiah and Nathan are out at the Seminole Village visiting Rain. Ezra is probably down at the saloon, playing poker again. I'll ride out and get Chris." Buck glanced back at Mary. "Mrs. Travis, I think it best for you to stay inside for the time being, 'til we find out what the soldiers want." Expecting an argument from the widow he was surprised when she nodded her head in agreement. Buck followed JD out the door and they went in opposite directions. JD headed over to the boarding house to fetch Vin and if he was lucky some of Mrs. Crowell's blackberry dumpling. Buck headed over to the stables to saddle his horse.
Chris was kneeling over an old wooden trunk inside the shack when he heard Buck finally arrive. He heard his long time friend yelled out his name. Chris called back out, letting Buck know where he was. Chris was carefully repacking the trunk, folding the dark coat neatly before putting the last item a small blue velvet box, on top when Buck walked into the one room cabin.
"You should be proud of that," Buck told his friend, his eyes on the velvet box. Chris shrugged his shoulders. "How long have you known, Chris?" Moisture formed in Buck's eyes again. Chris carefully closed the lid on the old trunk and stood up, turning to face his old friend, his head downcast towards the floor not wanting to face Buck.
"I was at the funeral," Chris utter, barely loud enough for Buck to hear.
Buck was silent for a moment before he spoke. "I would've gone with you, Chris. You didn't have to face that alone."
"I had to go, no choice, ordered." Chris paused, taking a deep breath. "I went too Arlington, stop and paid my respects at Buford's gravesite." His voice betrayed his anguish.
"Chris?" Concern laced Buck's voice. He knew of only one man who could command the dominant Chris Larabee.
"You know, Buck, I still blame myself for his death. I should of stay by his side that day, maybe he would still be alive."
"Your quick actions that day saved Colonel Devin's life," Buck said, pausing to let his words penetrate into Chris's thick, stubborn head, before adding compassionately, "Buford was very proud of you…." His anger still must have been evident in his voice, for Chris turned his head and stared hard at the far wall.
After a moment, Chris shook his head and muttered, "Don't remember."
Buck frown, he opened his mouth only to close it again. Don't remember, My God, Buck thought. How could he forget? He remembered every inch of the ride back to the Union camp; how Chris, pale and bloody, moaned and flinched away from Buck's arms surrounding his body to keep him from falling off the horse. The four men had rode in silence, and never once did Buck surrender his burden. Buck had barely controlled his anger at the sight of the dark purple and green bruises circling Chris's neck. Beneath Chris's dirty uniform, Buck had felt the heavy cloths that surrounded the wounded man's chest, keeping the broken ribs in place. Buck remembered how he had panicked when he had felt something hot and sticky soaking his pants. He had been horrified to find the ghastly evidence where a shell fragment had embedded itself into Chris's left thigh.
Buck's body shuttered at the memory. He glanced back over at Chris and was alarmed by the spasms of anguish running across his friend's face. Buck took Chris by the shoulders and helped him over to the bed. His concern grew when Chris didn't complain or struggle. Buck checked the gunslinger's forehead to see if he was running a fever and wasn't surprised to feel the heat coming off Chris' body.
"I'm not surprised that you don't remember, Chris. You were wounded pretty badly. Took months for you to recover." During that time Buck had been reassigned as Colonel Gamble's aide and had lost track of Chris. They didn't meet up again until nine months later when Buck was reassigned again, this time to General Sheridan's staff. He was mildly amazed to see the newly promoted 1st Lieutenant Chris Larabee sitting in the corner of General Sheridan's tent when he reported in. Buck once again had found himself assigned to watch over Chris. That was the day Buck learned that Chris was being protected. Five or six soldiers always surrounded him especially when the brigade saw action. Buck was sure Chris had been unaware of Sheridan's standing orders that he was never left alone.
"Chris, have you been having nightmares again?" Buck asked, remembering the long screams of pain Chris would yell out after one of his childhood nightmares. And the look of terror that would cross his face before he woke up, confused, trembling, his knees pulled to his chest, his emerald eyes full of unshed tears, not remembering the dream. Those dreams were different from the horrible, mournful experience of finding the charred bodies of his wife and son.
"Ahhh...old ones." Chris hesitated before he admitted to Buck that he was having the dreams again as Buck helped him stretch out his long legs on the bed, his back against the headboard. He laid his arm across his eyes, and leaned his head back. His face was pale and drawn. Buck moved to the corner that acted for the kitchen and grabbed two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. He grabbed a chair before walking over to the bed and sitting next to the bed. Buck balanced the two glasses in his left hand as he awkwardly poured each of them a shot with his right. Placing the whiskey bottle on the floor, Buck handed Chris one of the glasses full of amber liquid and told him to drink up.
Chris took the glass from Buck and slowly sipped it down. The whiskey burned his throat going down. "Why you come out here, Buck?" Chris finally asked, the whiskey making his voice husky.
"Soldiers in town asking for the law," Buck replied without thinking. Chris immediately sat up and dragged his legs over the side of the bed. His legs were shaky, but he stubbornly stood up.
"Soldiers in town, what do they want?" Chris snapped. His troubles were once again neatly locked down behind a cold, black wall, in the face of unknown danger to the town. The hard, cold gunslinger's personality was once again in control.
Buck stared into Chris's face, searching. "Don't know yet, I came to get you. JD is rounding up the rest of the boys to meet us at the sheriff's office."
"Well, let's go see what they want." Chris grabbed his black duster as he made his way out the door, walking noiselessly to the corral. Buck silently followed behind, heading to his horse. Adjusting the blanket under the saddle, Buck reached down and tightened the cinch. Buck put his foot up in the stirrup and grabbed the tree and pulled himself up on the leather saddle. Buck took his hat off and ran his fingers through his hair as he watched Chris carefully saddle his black gelding, his movement slow and silent. It was going to be a long ride back to town.
Buck was right. It turned out to be a long, lonely ride back to town. Buck attempted to pick a conversation with the gunslinger but failed. Chris never said a word as they traveled the fastest route back to town. Buck barely got an eyebrow raised from Chris when he told the gunslinger about the little piglets causing havoc and the mayor's decree that it was the job of the seven peacekeepers to catch the little pink devils. Buck's reward for the information was dirt in his face as Chris dug his spurs into Diablo's flank, pushing the horse into a faster gallop.
Riding hard, the two men made it back under two hours. The black gelding, Diablo and Buck's gray mare, Darling, would need a good rubdown. The two horses smoothly cantered down the main street as their riders searched the town for the whereabouts of the soldiers. They pulled up to the livery sables and handed the two sweaty horses over to Tiny. Tiny instantly started walking the horses to cool them down by leading them around back where they could feed and drink out of the water trough. Diablo nervously paced sideways, watching his rider walk over to the corral full of horses with the army brand stamped on their buttock. The black pawed at the ground with his front right hoof, demanding that his rider come back. Both horse and rider were tired and irritable. Diablo settled down when he felt Tiny's hand rubbing him down with a curry bush, untangling the dirt and mud out of his dark, black mane. Diablo held his head up high, sticking out his shoulder blades, loving the feel of the brush circling his neck. Darling let out a squeal, wanting her share of attention. The black gelding's brown eyes sought out the mare tethered beside him and before Tiny had a chance to control him, Diablo snipped at the mare's throat, putting Darling in her place.
Chris heard Darling's sharp shrill and looked back over his shoulder in time to see Diablo nip at the mare's neck.
"Your dark mood has rubbed off on Diablo," Buck said, unhappy. Chris just shrugged his shoulders, examining the horseflesh roaming in the corral pen. The womanizer knew he wouldn't get an apology for the black's behavior. Buck grunted and turned around heading towards the mercantile.
"Where you going?" Chris asked, turning, to stare at Bucks retreating back. He heard his friend's low voice mumbling under his breath. Chris rolled his eyes, knowing full well what his friend uttered. It didn't matter to Buck if the woman had two legs or four, the womanizer was acquainted with the knowledge on how to treat a lady and Buck loved his horse. However just like his gelding, Chris snipped and demanded. "What did you say?"
"I said, that I had to go get Darling a treat." Buck faced around and yelled. "I'll meet ya at the sheriff's office." Chris watched Buck storm off, mad and frustrated. The gunslinger pushed his hat off his head, the black hat hung down his back, waving with the wind. Chris looked up at the sky, and from the deep ache in his leg muscle, knew it would be raining before nightfall. Pushing himself away from the corral, Chris strolled over and scratched the side of Darling's head, right above the eyelid. The mare leaned her head into Chris, accepting his silent apology. Diablo, lowered his head adding to his rider's apology. Chris laughed out loud for the first time in weeks as Tiny came out of the stable.
"Mr. Larabee, can I, help you?" Tiny asked, surprised at the sound of laughter coming from the usually somber gunslinger.
Chris navigated between the two horses, keeping his hands on the horses' backs, letting the animals know he was moving around them. "Here, feed them extra oats. And Tiny… don't tell Buck," he said, tossing a gold coin in the man's direction.
Tiny grabbed the coin in mid air, a smile tugging at his dirty face. He liked the tall, blond gunslinger. Larabee always treated him with respect and after the gunslinger had caught Tiny taking extra care of Diablo after a bad fall, he never interfered. Not like that longhaired, Mr. Tanner. The tracker didn't talk much, but he sure could run on about what his horse, Unalil, liked or disliked. Or that womanizer Buck Wilmington, who insisted that he put fresh flowers in Darling's stall.
"Yes, sir, Mr. Larabee. Extra oats, don't tell Wilmington," answered Tiny respectfully. Tiny's forehead wrinkled as a frown appeared on Larabee's face. He watched the gunslinger's eyes change, from friendly lukewarm pools of green to a rigid darker pools filled with anguish and forlorn. Larabee's troubled stare made Tiny shiver. Tiny swiftly turned around expecting to see twenty gunmen at his back. Instead, he saw a group of soldiers heading towards them. Tiny turned back to ask the gunslinger if there was a problem in town that he should know about, to find Larabee gone. Tiny glanced around the stables. Not seeing the dark dressed gunslinger, he went about feeding the two horses. As he went inside the barn Tiny tried to shrug off his growing apprehension that something dreadful was about to happen.
Chris made a hasty retreat away from Tiny and the horse soldiers. He was emotionally drained, raw, bleeding from the inside out. He needed time to gather himself, time alone to forget, to forget the past. Since the funeral for his old commander, Colonel Devin, in New York, a dark, deep clawing sensation had been ripping at Chris's memories. Chris was fine when he received the summons. No, he shook his head…not kidding himself, not summoned, but ordered to Washington by the man he hadn't seen in ten years, the man who had abandoned him at the age of five. The deserter had made it even harder for Chris, for he included a letter from Julia Grant, requesting his presence and her wish to see him. Doubting that the letter would pull Chris back home, the man gave Chris no chance to refuse. He sent an armed escort of soldiers out to his shack. The general had been smart, he sent war trained, experienced horse soldiers that Chris couldn't intimidate.
It wasn't until Chris reached the station in St. Louis that the feeling of being watched crept into his soul like insects crawling all over his skin. Chris pushed the tingling feeling back, deciding that it had come from the memories of home jarred by viewing the lush farm lands, moving slowly past the car window as the New York Central made it way to its destination. Again two soldiers met him when he stepped off the train in New York City. First they stopped at the hotel so that Chris could change, where he found his old uniform had been laid out on the bed, cleaned waiting for him, along with a velvet blue box. Out of respect for Devin, Chris wearily put on his old uniform on. It seemed to take Chris hours before he found himself standing in front of the dresser mirror, in full uniform. He stared at the blue box on the dresser deciding what to do. Finally, with a shaking right hand Chris opened the blue box and carefully hung the blue and red ribbon around his neck. The light reflected off of the shiny metal. A knock on the door had told him it was time.
In a daze, Chris had followed the two soldiers to a covered carriage waiting to take them to Devin's funeral. The rest of the day went by for Chris in hazy bits as painful memories from the past flooded his mind. Chris had walked right back into time; once again he found himself leading a dismounted horse before a coffin, draped in the stars and stripes. He walked in a daze as the waiting captain took the reins of the gray horse leaving Chris standing in front of the church. The next thing Chris remembered was Julia Grant taking him by the hand, her chubby fingers squeezing and holding tightly onto his own, not letting go as she led him to his seat, next to her family… next to Tyrone Larabee, his father.
Chris sat rigid staring straight ahead defiantly. Chris soon felt as if the walls were closing in all around him, his vision turned misty and he felt nausea as his stomach turned. He needed fresh air. The service was short, and it couldn't have ended soon enough for Chris and as the last prayer was said, he hastily made his way towards the back of the church and freedom. Chris never heard his father as he had painfully whispered… Son.
Chris pushed his way out the door, taking two steps at a time. During the service it had started to rain, making it hard for him to see where he was going. His uniform offered no protection against the rain becoming soaked. A strong grip on his shoulder had forced Chris to turn around.
"Christopher!" Tyrone yelled over the rain and he promptly wrapped a tight grip on his boy's arm, barely catching Chris before he had run blindly out in front of a team of four horses running full out past the church. "Christopher." Tyrone repeated as Chris strained against his hold, fighting to be released. His son had looked so desperate, tormented in his grief that Tyrone fought and overcame his apprehension of his son's rejection. He did something he should have done years ago, embrace his son.
Suddenly Chris's eyes went wide in fear, the orbs of green turning dull, void, lost in his vision of the past. A cold grip clenched itself around Tyrone's heart. He had seen that look of fear in his son's eyes before, a long time ago. Tyrone turned around, releasing all but one hand, his senses screamed danger as he scanned the mourners coming out of the church. He felt his hand loosen around Chris's arm, slipping into his hand. He held on to his struggling son as best he could in the rain, calling to his friends for help. Ultimately Chris's wet fingers slip out of his grip. "Christopher…Son." Tyrone had called out trying to get through to his terrified son, praying that the sound of his voice would make him stop. Tyrone was frantic with worry for his son's life. He had Sheridan searching the crowd, looking for the one man he hated most in his life, praying. Dear God…not here, not now.
Chris ran until he felt that his legs would give out, and then he ran some more. Chris was confused, he wanted to feel his father's embrace. He yearned for it, but when his father turned him all he could see was the man with the hazel eyes in the gray double-breasted coat standing off to the right, against the church, watching him. He was no longer a man, but a five year old boy struggling to get out of the grip of a madman. He heard the voice of his mother calling out to him, "Run Christopher…run and hide, baby," in the back of his mind. He struggled out of his father's hands and ran…ran, not looking back as fast as his little legs could carry him, looking for a place to hide. He turned down a dark alley, running until something small and pink ran across his path. Chris heard a piglet let out a loud squeal. Chris's foot caught the swine's back legs, sending him tumbling. Chris reached out with both hands trying to stop his fall. Failing, he barely heard a cry of astonishment as the left side of his head hit hard wood. Stunned, his body slid to the ground.
"Chris…?" a musical voice echoed inside his head, dragging Chris out of his cold, dark hold, where his nightmarish memories had thrown him.
"Ma…aama." Chris silently stuttered as he gradually opened his eyes. He blinked and looked around, finding himself in the alleyway beside the Clarion. He instantly vaulted to his knees, startled by the soft body lying beneath his torso. The sweet aroma of lavender jolted him back to full awareness, as did the two small hands that pushed against his chest.
"Mr. Larabee, get off me!" Mary Travis demanded, her cheeks rosy. Chris slowly got up on one leg, then painstaking stood on both feet, swaying from side to side, his right hand rubbed at the side of his head, where it smacked against the building.
Mary quickly got to her feet, straightening out her dress, brushing at the dirt. She was embarrassed and could feel the heat burning on her face, however much she liked the sensation of Chris's lean, hard body touching her own. Her embarrassment turned to anger as she looked around the street to see if anyone had seen the two collide. Thankfully, they were in the alleyway. A scolding was on her lips for the gunslinger to watch where he was going, when she finally looked up into Chris' disturbed face, Mary stopped and implored, "Chris…are you in pain? Should I go get Nathan?" Mary seized Chris's arm. Fearing that Chris had been injured, Mary helped him over to sit down on the bench around the corner in front of the Clarion.
"What the hell happen?" Chris demanded.
"You tripped and I tried to…hmmmm catch you." Mary answered back. She breathed a sign of relief when Chris's eyes started to clear. She sat down next to the gunslinger and their eyes meet.
"Did I hurt you?" He noticed her rosy cheeks and reached across and smoothed a piece of hair behind her ear.
"No…but Chris you really need to do something about those swine running around town," Mary said as a mischievous smile appeared on her lips. Her heart melted at the grin that tugged at the gunslinger's mouth.
"Buck was trying to tell me about the mayor ordering me to hunt and destroy some little piglets on the way to town." The smile reached his eyes as Chris paused then said jokingly, "Guess I'll have to invite that pig over for dinner."
"Oh…Chris it's good to have you back in town." Mary laughed as she brushed her hair off the other side of her shoulder. A stern look ran across her face, "You're really not going to eat one of those babies are you?" she asked.
"Mary," he said. She turned with a grin and went back inside the Clarion. As soon as Mary's back was turned, the smile on Chris's face turned into a frown. He bent and picked up his hat where it had fallen. He stood still for a moment. Chris was torn between heading over to the saloon and getting drunk or just riding out to his shack to get drunk. The wind picked up, forcing Chris to push back the long blondish strands out of his face. Grayish white rain clouds drifted overheard. Off to the north, out towards his shack, flowed dark angry storm clouds. They were in for a thunderstorm. Sliding his hat back on, Chris slowly made his way to the sheriff's office where the other six peacekeepers waited for him.
"I did tell him," JD yelled back at Buck. JD's hands rested on his hips as he glared into Buck's face, the younger man wasn't about to back down.
"Then where is he?" Buck shouted back as his arms waved around the room.
"How do I know?" JD yelled back louder. Both men turned at the same time when they heard a chuckle coming from behind them. Vin stopped eating and looked up at the two men innocently before shoving another spoonful of dumplings in his mouth, savoring each mouthful. As JD moved towards him, Vin shoved the last blackberry in his mouth, munching with a satisfied grin on his lips.
"Ahhhh…. now that ain't fair. He ate the whole darn thing." JD complained.
Vin just smiled and leaned back against the wall, pulling his hat down over his face.
"Stop complaining. If he wants to be a pig, then let him be a pig." Buck glared back over at the tracker. Personally, Buck hoped that Vin got sick, it wasn't right that he didn't share.
"What's this I hear about a pig running loose in town?" Josiah asked. He and Nathan had returned early from the village, trying to out run the storm brewing. They almost made it into town before the first drops fell. Now both men were warming their hands beside the wood stove.
"Piglets actually, about eight of them. The little devils are causing all kinds of mischief. We've been lucky so far that no one has been hurt," Buck told them.
"Piglets you say," Nathan asked, a questioning expression on his face, before turning with a stern look at JD. "You did remember to feed my eight little swine that the young Caldwell gave me as payment for delivering their new baby boy, Michael?" JD dropped his head towards his chest; he had forgot to feed the baby pigs.
A gust of wind blew in the office as the door flew open and Chris Larabee barged in. "Vin." Chris acknowledged, before nodding his head towards the other four men.
"Chris, you hurt?" Vin asked as he saw the dark purple bruise appearing on his friend's forehead.
"I'm fine." Chris snarled as Nathan made to move towards him, he pushed his way past the healer to stand beside Vin who was sitting at the desk. "Where's Ezra?" Chris asked noticing that the gambler was missing from the group. Josiah and Nathan shrugged their shoulders and turned back to warming their hands. Vin just pulled his hat down further over his eyes. Buck and JD turned and looked at each other then back at the gunslinger.
JD was the first to speak, "Well…ahhh…Chris…you see…Ezra…well he is…"
"Buck, where is he?" Chris demanded as he turned to face the womanizer.
"Oh hell…Chris, he is at the…" Buck started to answer but stopped as two soldiers walked through the door of the sheriff's office.
"Which one of you is the sheriff?" the younger of the two soldiers asked interrupting the tall man with a red scarf around his neck.
"We have no sheriff," JD told the soldier. He glanced back over his shoulder before finishing, "There's seven peacekeepers paid to watch over the town."
The older of the two soldiers spoke for the first time, his eyes never leaving the blond gunslinger's face. "I take it that you are one of those seven peacekeepers, son." A proud smile flew across JD's face as he remembered the day that the other six men had embraced him as one of them, one of the seven.
"JD Dunne, Sir, at your disposal," he told the soldier.
"Mr. Dunne," the soldier replied as his battle worn eyes studied the other men around the room. He turned back to face the dark dressed man standing by a desk and asked, "Which one of you men is Larabee?" The room went silent, tension filled the air as each man rested his hand on the butt of their guns settled in the holsters around their hips. Buck took a step towards Chris' right, ready to move in the line of fire if the two soldiers meant his oldest friend harm. Buck studied the man in the colonel's uniform, searching his memory; he thought the soldier looked familiar.
Chris felt Vin kick his foot and it took Chris a moment to realize that the colonel has said his name. "I'm Larabee," he responded, in a low undertone.
"Colonel Thomason, commanding Third Cavalry, C Troop out of Fort Laramie. Sir." Thomason almost snapped a salute, rubbing his brown beard instead.
Chris's eyes narrowed, and in a dry voice he asked, "What brings C Troop out this way Colonel?" He leaned back against the wall, folding his arms in front of his chest, waiting for the colonel to answer.
"Stopping for supplies, and some medical supplies, if the town doctor can part with them. We are heading over to Fort Bliss, down by El Paso."
"Any one hurt?" Nathan inquired, concerned that the soldiers had someone who needed help.
"No. Are you the town doctor?" the Colonel requested.
"I'm no doctor." Nathan fired back.
Chris stepped away from the wall and placed a hand on Nathan's shoulder, "Nathan is the town healer," he said. Turning he asked Nathan, "Can you spare some supplies for the colonel?" The healer nodded his head. "Good, Josiah why don't you go with Nathan and help him with the supplies?" Josiah knew that Nathan didn't needed help, but agreed to go. The two men walked out the door, quietly talking about which medical supplies the healer could spare.
Buck waited until Josiah and Nathan had walked out the door before saying, "I heard that Fort Bliss closed down, Colonel Thomason. So why is C Troop headed out there?" Buck stood with his hands on his hip, the situation didn't feel right; he just knew the colonel was lying. He wanted answers. It was just too convenient that cavalry troops showed up in town a day after Chris had return from Devin's funeral.
"Sir?" asked the colonel.
"Wilmington, Buck Wilmington," he stated.
"Well, Mr. Wilmington, the federal government has seen to change their minds and C Troop is to scout out a new location for the Fort somewhere down toward El Paso. We need the medical supplies because we will be going through Apache territory," said Colonel Thomason. He waved his aide to his side. "Mr. Wilmington, would you be so kind as to show Major Winslow where we can get our supplies at a reasonable price?"
"That's a good idea, Colonel. Buck, why don't you take Vin and JD and go help Major Winslow stock up on the supplies they will need for their patrol," Chris said. Buck glanced back and forth between his friend and the colonel. Buck shook his head, something was very wrong.
"Come on JD, let's go help the major spend some gold," Buck said as he walked over and grabbed JD's arm, leading him out the door. "Well, you coming, Vin?" Buck shouted over his shoulder before he pushed JD out the door followed by Major Winslow.
Vin slowly pushed his chair away from the desk and stood up. He looked over at Chris, probing his face, waiting for a signal, a message. But Chris had a calm expression on his face, no warning, no eye contract, nothing verbally spoken of impending danger.
"Chris?" Vin whispered, his senses screaming for him not to leave his friend.
The gunslinger just nodded his head towards the door. "I'll be fine, meet ya in the saloon in about an hour." He watched Vin turn his back and make his way to the door; the tracker stopped one more time and cast a glance back over his shoulders before heading out after Buck.
The room was silent; the two men stood staring at each other face to face. The crackle of lightning lighted the sky, the booming sounded of thunder hit a few seconds later. The hot muggy air in the room added to the tension in the room. Chris spoke first. "Andy, it's been a long time."
"Too long, sorry that I missed the funeral for Devin, he was a good man, a good soldier,"
Colonel Andrew Thomason said, his voice deep with sorrow.
Chris got that lost look in his eyes as his eyes started to water. "He was a good man, Andy." He turned his face away, embarrassed
"I know, Chris, we lost a lot of good men." Andy Thomason reached out and gently placed his hand on the gunslinger's shoulder.
"What's the real reason you're here?" Chris asked, looking up at the soldier's face.
"Chris." Colonel Thomason received a hard glare from the gunslinger. "All right, the General has us investigating a counterfeit ring operating in the territory."
"Major Winslow?" Chris asked
"Winslow commands C Troop and has orders to assist my investigation before heading down to El Paso," he answered. He moved to stand by the desk before continuing, "There have been counterfeit money showing up all over the territory. Two months ago, fake twenty dollar bills were passed in Eagle Bend at the local mercantile."
"Any money passed in town?"
Thomason had to be careful, he was under orders not to get Chris and his men tangled into his general's troubles. He stared hard into Chris's face and knew that the gunslinger wouldn't back down and finally said, "Three or four weeks ago a counterfeit twenty was passed at the bank. Only one, we think that whoever passed it did it by mistake and that is what got us suspicious that they may be holding up in the area. So that's what C Troop is doing, searching the countryside looking for anything out of the ordinary."
"Is there anything we can do to help? Vin's the best tracker around," Chris told Thomason.
"No, Chris, the boys and I can handle it. Most likely the counterfeiters have left the area and we will have a cold trail to follow."
"Well, if you change your mind and need help, we will be here to back you up." Chris gave Thomason his word and they both made their way to the door. "Well, since you don't need help, I have to go remind a Mr. Standish just how high to jump." Chris watched the colonel's eyes go wide at the sound of the southerner's name and Chris shook his head. "Andy, the war is over. I'll see ya off in the morning." Chris shook Thomason's hand, turned and headed over in the direction the saloon.
Colonel Andrew Thomason watched his commander's son walk away and uttered in a low, snarl, "Not by a long shot, Chris." Thomason's eyes roamed the street looking for a face the he would recognized anywhere, an old enemy; a mad dog that needed to be put down. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted two men from the old regiment standing guard around a big sorrel in front of the saloon. Lightning lit up the sky once more and the old soldiers' eyes met. The wolves were gathering for the kill. Soon they would have their prey. Then, and only then, would the war be over and honor served. Thomason drew his topcoat together against the rain and made his way to join Major Winslow and his men.
After shooing away the troublesome JD, Ezra felt lucky as he sat back down and went back to shuffling the deck of playing cards, before he handed them over to Tom Horn, the appointed dealer in the new game of five card draw. The southern gambler glanced around the table at his four intended victims. "Gentlemen, ante-up." Ezra tossed a gold piece in the center of the table. His golden tooth sparkled through his crooked grin. Waiting for old Tom to reshuffle the deck, he delicately brushed off the dust on his favorite red jacket.
The white haired Tom, stared over at the green eyed Standish. He knew the gambler was going to take his money. He reshuffled the deck again, just in case Ezra had stacked the deck. With a deep sigh, Tom dealt out the hand. He threw the first card in front of Ezra off to his left, then one at a time to each of the other three men, then himself. He repeated the motions around the table until each man had received a total of five cards, face down.
Ezra watched the faces of the other four men, waiting for any signs that would give their hand away as each one tilted the corner of their five cards, checking to see what they had been dealt. Satisfied from the expressions that no one had a winning hand, Ezra took a peek at his cards. He had a good hand; two, three, four and five of spades, with a wild card, seven of diamonds. He needed the six of spades to win. Since he was left of the dealer, he was the first to bet. "Gentlemen, I dare say I bet a dollar." Ezra reached across and put another gold piece into the kitty.
The next man, an old drifter said, "Meet ya bet," and he too added a gold piece to the pot.
The third man, a drunk, fancied himself a pretty good card player said, "Meet your dollar and raise ya fifty cents."
The fourth man at the table was a stranger in town. He was well dressed, his clothing spoke of money. He said in a refined eastern voice, "I will meet your dollar and a half," and added his money into the kitty. Ezra immediately picked up the stranger's New York accent and became suspicious.
Being the dealer, old Tom was the last to make a bet. Looking down at his cards he knew he had a good hand, and said, "Meet ya dollar fifty and raise ya two and half." He sat back in his chair, confident that he was going to win.
Ezra looked at his five cards and had to decide to bluff or draw a card. He glanced at the other four men and with a grin, the southern gambler threw in the seven of diamonds. Calmly he looked at the card he was dealt…the seven of hearts. Ezra kept his breathing even as his stomach turned somersaults. A bad omen. He held the same hand that Wild Bill Hickock held before he was gunned down, the dead man's hand. The old drifter threw in three cards and the drunk followed by throwing in two. The Eastern gentlemen along with Tom kept their original cards. It was time to make the bets.
Again Ezra had to make a decision, fold or bluff. If he folded he could say that his fearless leader, Chris Larabee demanded his presence. Studying the faces of the other players, Ezra decided to bluff his way into winning the game and said, "Gentlemen I raise the stakes to five." He reached into his vest packet and pulled out a crisp new five dollar bill and laid it in the kitty. He sat back, to enjoy the moment as shock and anger across the other players' faces.
"I fold," said the drifter as he threw his cards face down on the table. Throwing the chair back, he stood and went over to the bar, slamming his fist down demanding a beer.
The drunk took a snip of whiskey as he looked at the five cards in his hand. He smirked and reached in his dirty trousers, pulling out a wad of wrinkled money and said, "Meet and see' a five. I'll ride it out."
The easterner smiled, and smoothly said, "I will see your ten and raise another ten." His long fingers reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a clip full of twenty-dollar bills. He placed one of the bills in the center of the table. As he did, Ezra got a good look at the platinum clip etched with cross sabers.
Old Tom was mad. The bet was over the amount of money he had to his name and he quietly said, "Darn it, I fold," as he threw his cards face down on the table. That left three players.
Ezra heard the saloon doors slam open against the walls. Suddenly the room chilled ten degrees. He didn't have to look around to know who had just stormed in. Calmly as not to gather attention, Ezra made his bet, "I will see your crisp new twenty, and raise you another ten." He smiled as the drunk choked, spiting out his whiskey all over his shirt.
The drunk wiped at the whiskey with his hand and watched the two men sitting across from him. The gambler in the red jacket was part of the seven men who protected the town. The other one however, he didn't know, but he smelled and looked like a government man. His hand reached into his trousers once again, fumbling with the wrinkled wad of money. He counted the money; he glanced over at the easterner and saw his eyes light up with excitement. The drunk looked down at the money in his hand and quickly shoved the wad back into his pocket. Frantically, he stood and said, "Fold, I fold." He pushed his way to the bar to stand next to a gunslinger dressed in black. The gunslinger smiled at him, a wolfish smile that was not pleasant and the drunk backed away, making his way out the door.
The sparkle died out of the easterner's eyes. Phillip Sheridan had given himself away. He watched the drunk stagger to the bar, turn and almost run out the door. The easterner's dark eyes lingered on the tall gunslinger and he recognized the wolfish smile on the gunslinger's face. The easterner had seen his comrade in arms use that same wolfish grin many times before to intimidate their adversaries. He was surprised when the gunslinger looked up and locked his green eyes with his dark ones. Phillip had to hold himself back from standing and grabbing the boy in his arms, but the torment in those green eyes kept him firmly seated. He became nervous when the gunslinger purposefully walked towards the table, coming to a stop behind his opponent, almost standing at attention, ready to salute.
Ezra watched the emotions play across the easterner's face, excitement then disappointment, then the mixed emotions of recognition, regret, love and fear. He almost jumped out of his chair when he felt a hand grab his right shoulder and heard Chris snarl, "He folds." The added pressure on the gambler's shoulder kept him from turning around.
"Mr. Larabee?" Ezra questioned.
"Sheriff's office, now Standish!" Chris' voice was low and menacing. His eyes were fixed on the easterner. Ezra glanced between the two men and stood, and backed away from the table slowly. Turning, he saw Vin at the bar. Nodding his head, the gambler made his way out the double doors, leaving the tracker to cover Larabee's back.
The two men studied each other until Phillip finally spoke as Chris turned his back, "Christopher." Larabee stood still, then slowly turned back around, Chris' old commander gestured for him to sit. When Chris hesitated, Phillip said, his voice low and pleading, "Please, I have a message."
Chris glazed into the familiar face, squeezing his eyes shut, he whispered. "Go away. Tell him to go away." Turning he made his way to the bar to stand next to Vin. Waiting as the tracker poured him a shot of whiskey. Chris lifted the glass to his lips with a shaky hand and swallowed, letting the whiskey burn his throat. He handed the glass back to Vin for more. With a questioning look, Vin refilled the glass and watched Chris drown it down.
"Chris?" Vin asked, worried about the stranger sitting at the table watching his friend with a sad expression on his face.
"Leave it be." Chris turned to take another look over his shoulders, then turned back around and faced Vin saying, "I'm going back to my place." A mischievous grin appeared on his lips and Chris said, "Don't forget to tell Standish his job while I'm gone." Vin shook his head, trying not to laugh out loud at Chris's wicked sense of humor as Chris shot down another glass full of whiskey, before he headed out the door.
Six pair of eyes followed the gunslinger out the double saloon doors. Vin instinctively reached for his Winchester, he stopped before he had it out of the holster. Glancing around the saloon, something or someone has set off his sense of danger. He stared hard at the easterner still sitting at the poker table. Vin's eyes roamed the tables until they settled on a man, sitting with his back against the far wall. He was a southerner that had been visiting the town for the last couple of weeks looking for land to buy. For the first time, Vin's sixth sense screamed danger as he studied the tall southerner. Again his hand twitched on his mare's leg, resting in its holster.
Charles knew that he was courting disaster by coming back. He couldn't stay away, not after hearing Larabee's name in the bank and learning it was young Christopher. He was trying to be careful, he almost pulled his gun, when that arrogant conceited Sheridan entered the saloon. He almost lost it when one of his men sat down and played poker with the pompous jade. The people in this backwards town didn't even know who was walking in their mist. Charles' excitement almost got the better of him when young Larabee walked into the saloon, and right behind him was the young man the town folks call the tracker, one of the seven peacekeepers. He could tell that he had somehow made the longhaired tracker at the bar suspicious. However Charles had learned how to be patient; he had waited this long, he could wait a couple more hours. Young Larabee was heading out to that shack of his to be alone, not understanding the danger that he was in. Yes, the boy would be his and then once again he would have his old rival by the throat. Pushing away from the wall, Charles Shellburne cautiously made his way across the saloon and out the door, feeling the young tracker's eyes glued to his every moment.
He didn't care….
Soon he would have his son….
To Be Continued Next Week!
Jedikay would love to hear from you about Part One of her episode at peacekeeperprodutions@yahoo.com!
The Conclusion to "Rancor of Honor"!