The dream was always the same.

He stood bare-headed in a vast, sprawling field, swept by wind and caressed by sun, surrounded on every side and for as far as the eye could see by a gently rippling, softly whispering sea of blue. It was not water that rose to his knees and lapped against his legs, though, but flowers, an eternity of flowers, so intensely blue it almost hurt his eyes to see them. Wave upon wave of them, an endless tide of brilliant purple-blue blossoms crowned by white tips that near sparkled in the sun.

He knew this place, was part of this place, just as it was part of him. His body had been fashioned from the earth upon which he stood, just as the rivers and creeks that watered it coursed through his veins and spilled out through his tears. The wind that swept like an unseen hand through the field, bending stalks of grasses and flowers in a gentle rhythm, was his breath, and the same pulse of life he felt in all about him thrummed and throbbed in the beating of his heart. He was this place, and it was him.

Once again, his dream had brought him home.

Home. The word whispered to him, sang to him, danced through his mind and slipped into his soul and severed every bond that would have held him. Suddenly set free, he threw back his head and cried out aloud, feeling every wild part of him rising up fiercely in response. He cried out again and began running through the field, arms out at his sides, eyes as wide and as blue as the field fixed upon the sky...

And all at once he was flying. Exultation surged through him hard and hot, and as he climbed ever higher upon currents of air, he loosed the shrill, piercing scream of the hawk. Powerful wings pumped, carrying him aloft, and he was as he had always been, born of the earth but not bound to the earth, free only when he could fly.

But the dream was always the same.

From the sky he looked down, his sharp, all-seeing hunter's gaze catching every flicker of light and life below him, and, to his horror, his beloved field began to change. Amid the white-capped blue flowers flecks of red began to show, crimson blooms pushing through like blood upon the land. With each beat of his heart more red stained the field, and he looked down to see the drops falling from his breast.

His heart was weeping tears of blood.

With the loss of blood came loss of strength, and soon he was growing too tired to fly. Each pump of his wings required more effort, more than he had to give. He needed to find shelter, needed to rest, to heal, to wait for his heart to stop weeping. And he knew such a place, remembered it, felt its peace calling to him even now. Tired, so tired, he turned and willed his wings to keep beating, dragging himself through the air to the patch of land that had given him birth.

When he saw it, he wept with his eyes as well as his heart. A small cabin, never much, but always enough, and more than he'd ever wanted. Yet where once light would have shone from it, now it was dark, no longer warm, but cold and lifeless. He looked around and saw the graves that marked where the light and life had gone. Gone, all gone.

But still here. They had returned to the earth, were part of the earth, and now made that earth sacred. He could still feel them, if only in that earth. Needing them, needing what they gave him, what they'd always given him, he flew desperately to them, needing once more to take their strength into himself.

He hadn't forgotten, he'd never forgotten. Oh, God, it was all he had left, but he still remembered! With a weak, plaintive cry, he dropped from the earth toward the graves...

And was attacked by a seething, shouting mob that sprang suddenly from the earth. With vicious hands they grabbed at him, clawed at him, beat him, brought out their ropes and tried to snare him. Time and again they lashed him, always shouting, then one of their ropes landed around his neck and began to draw tight about his throat.

Lord God, he couldn't breathe!

Panicked, he fought them, tried to flap his wings to escape but could not break free. They dragged him out of the sky, down to the ground, and over to a body. Terror rose up cold and sharp within him as they tied him to the body and began pulling tight the rope around his neck.

Oh, God, no, no! He hadn't done this thing! He'd killed, yes, but not this time, not this man, and he wouldn't die for something he hadn't done!

With a last burst of strength he screamed and broke the ropes, screamed again and launched himself into the air. Bleeding now from more than just his heart, he pumped his wings frantically and raced away from the furious crowd, propelled by his fear.

He flew over ground he'd once known but didn't now, watching as his field of blue ran red with blood. His blood, the blood of the man he hadn't killed, the blood of those he had... So much blood, he was drowning in the smell.

Then he saw him, and knew she'd sent him so her boy could rest. Fury filled him and he dove toward the man running through the purple-blue flowers and painting them with blood. He now hoped the crowd was following him, wanted them to see the blood flowing from this man's hands and know it was all his doing. The man looked up, saw him, and started running faster, but not fast enough. Fury turned to rage, and he screamed again, extending his talons and swooping down to strike. The man was so close he could feel his heat, could hear his heart beating and the blood pumping through his veins, and the hunter in him rejoiced.

He had him, his prey, had only to reach down a little more...

An explosion sounded and the man was torn from his grasp. And to his horror, he saw that the man who had painted the field with the blood of others was now drenching it with his own. He hovered above him, and watched helplessly as his hope, and his field of blue, drowned in a sea of blood.

=======

"NO!"

He awoke with a cry and jerked upright, hugging himself and shaking uncontrollably as terror rioted through him. For long, horrible moments he couldn't breathe, was gasping and gagging for air denied him by the rope around his neck. Sweat poured from him as he twitched and struggled for life amid the suffocating closeness of death.

"No!" he pleaded again, and with that plea came breath. He sucked it in greedily and raised shaking hands to claw at his throat, his fingers encountering nothing but flesh. "Oh, shit! Shit, no!" he whispered, burying his face in his hands, then running his fingers through his hair. "'S jist a dream!" he told himself, his breathing still harsh and ragged, his body refusing to stop shaking. He ran his hands once more through his hair, then lifted his head and looked around, trying to make out his surroundings.

A room. What the hell was he doin' in a room? How the hell did he get here?

He sat up straighter, crossed his legs and folded his arms tightly against his chest, trying to remember. On a bed, no less. Why wasn't he in his wagon?

He licked dry lips and glanced cautiously around, peering through darkness and shadows. Then he saw the window and willed his eyes to adjust to the faint light filtering through it while straining his ears to sort out the sounds that floated up to him.

Up. He was up. Upstairs. He glanced around, and picked out familiar shapes through the gloom. Boardinghouse. His room. The room he rarely used. But he wasn't sick, wasn't hurt...

Memory dawned then, and he relaxed slightly with a shuddering sigh. Larabee. Chris had insisted he sleep up here tonight, within the security of walls instead of the flimsy canvas of his wagon. Larabee had been just as shaken up as he'd been...

He heard it again then, and couldn't help flinching at the sound. The explosion, the gunshot that had blown it all to hell. And once more, he watched in helpless horror as the body fell to the ground.

Eli Joe, dead. Vin Tanner's last hope, dead. Both killed by his best friend.

An anguished groan escaped him and once more he dropped his head into his hands, his body bowed by and shaking with despair.

Though now he was past believing he'd ever clear it, anyway.

=======

Out in the hallway, Chris Larabee stood in silence, clad only in his undershirt and black pants, one hand pressed to Tanner's door. Unable to sleep, he'd heard the muffled cries through the thin wall separating his room from Vin's and had been struck through the heart by them. He couldn't forget the desolation he'd seen in Vin's eyes after Eli Joe's death, and knew he never would.

How could he, when that look had been his doing?

He groaned softly and leaned forward, resting his forehead against the door near his hand, his shoulders slumping. The silence in that room was more haunting even than the cries had been. Instinctively, he knew Vin was awake, could almost picture the man huddled on the bed he so rarely used, wrapped in and racked by grief. He wanted so much to go in, to offer some measure of comfort, but hadn't the vaguest notion of how.

What could he possibly say? "I'm sorry?" Jesus, how useless was that? And what right did he have to clear his conscience when he'd destroyed Vin's last chance of clearing his name? His name, for God's sake, the only real thing of value Tanner had ever had!

But he was sorry; God, so sorry he ached from it. It was like a stone in his heart and a cold weight at the center of his bones, a weight that made his whole being hurt from the burden of carrying it. Vin was innocent, and Chris had promised he'd help him prove it.

Instead, he'd killed the only proof there was.

Straightening with an effort, his tired body protesting, he ran his hand almost lovingly over that door, then dropped it to his side. And, feeling much older than his years, he turned away and went slowly back to his own room, ignoring the bottle he'd brought up to help him through this night.

What right had he to the comfort of forgetfulness when there could be no such comfort for Vin?

=======

He was up and out of his room before dawn, floating like a ghost through the darkness that still lay over the town. He hadn't gone back to sleep after the dream, hadn't been able to. He'd stayed in the room until the walls had begun closing in on him, until he'd had to come outside to breathe.

Damn noose was drawin' tight again...

He absently raised a hand to his throat and slipped his fingers under the collar of his shirt, needing reassurance that the rope was no longer there. He shuddered at the memory of its weight dropping over him, nearly choked as he felt the noose closing about him. Throat constricted, breath came in short, ragged, futile gasps, and he clawed frantically at the top buttons of his shirt, desperately needing air and not getting nearly enough.

A button popped, a second slid through its hole, the shirt parted and he sagged against the jail wall, closing his eyes and pulling in great draughts of blessed air, his whole body racked by violent tremors. The early morning air was cool, yet, even so, sweat beaded on his upper lip, soaked into the fringe of hair across his forehead and at his temples, and his heart hammered against his ribs like the hooves of a runaway horse.

"No!"

He shoved himself away from the wall with a soft, hoarse cry and resumed his silent and solitary prowl through town. The first vague hint of dawn was beginning to show in the east, a pale, illusory lightening of the deep indigo sky that mocked him with its promise. Dawn had always meant hope; another night survived, a new day coming, and bringing with it one more chance. One more chance to put to right the mistakes of the past, to redeem the sins of the past and reclaim his future. A new day, a clean start, a fresh chance to clear his name.

But not today.

And not ever.

Dead. All dead; Eli Joe, his hope. Both killed by the single blast of a friend's gun.

He stopped, looked up, and found himself standing before the telegraph office. Looked up further, saw a body falling from the roof. A corpse.

Again, he heard the heavy thud of his last hope hitting the ground and the final echoes of the gunshot that had killed it.

But when had Vin Tanner ever gotten what he wanted?

He turned away and resumed his walking, ghosting through shadows, a shadow himself. Didn't know where he was going, didn't care. Wasn't like it really mattered. Couldn't go back; all he had waiting for him was a noose. Couldn't go forward; that'd just be running, and, Lord God, he was tired of running. Nothing to go back to, nothing to go forward to; he was well and truly stuck. Mired so deep in blood he had and hadn't shed that he'd never be free again.

Never be able to fly again.

Caught fast in the rope he could feel clear through to his soul, unable to summon the strength or the will to spread his wings, he lifted his head, raised desolate eyes to the vast expanse of the indigo sky...

And near wept for the loss of his fields of blue.

=======

Keeping to the shadows, dressed once again in the unrelieved black he'd begun to put off over the past few months, Larabee followed and kept watch over the solitary figure roaming restlessly around town, knowing that, just now, Vin did not have it in him to watch over himself. And figuring he owed the man this much, at least.

He'd not allowed himself to sleep, all too conscious of the terrible vulnerability of the friend who should have been but was not sleeping in the next room. Instead, burdened by his guilt and weighed down by heavy responsibility, he'd ignored the lure of the whiskey bottle he'd brought up and passed the night in careful vigilance, leaving his door slightly ajar so he could hear should he be needed.

He'd heard when Tanner had crept from his room, with darkness still full upon the town. And, giving the man time to get downstairs and out the boardinghouse door, he'd followed, leaving off his spurs. Tanner had the hearing of an owl.

So now here he was, watching from the shadows as Vin Tanner, a man who was never lost, wandered helplessly about and tried to figure out where he was, and where the hell he was going. Chris could see it in his face each time he caught a glimpse of that pale, haunted mask, yet even more he could feel it. More than Eli Joe had died yesterday; some part of Tanner had, as well.

And Larabee had killed it.

He'd lost count of the number of times he'd gone through those horrible moments in his mind, seeing again and again the flash of a blade descending toward Vin in a killing stroke, hearing again and again the thunder of the gun that had leapt into his own hand. And watching again and again as Eli Joe toppled off that roof, taking Vin's chance at clearing his name with him into death.

Had there been another way? Some way of saving Vin without killing the one man who could clear him?

No.

He knew it with everything that was in him, with every instinct he'd honed over the years to save his own life. It had been Vin or Eli Joe; one or the other had to die. And there was no way in hell Chris could have stood by and let Vin die.

Except now Vin was in hell, and he'd put him there.

But it had to be better than putting him in a grave.

Didn't it?

He sighed and leaned back against the wall of the general store. It had to be. A man could find his way out of hell; he'd done it himself. Wasn't any way out of the grave.

He turned his head, searched for Vin again, and found him. As he watched, the tracker lifted his head and raised his face to the sky, seemed to search it for... what? Some sign of hope? A means of escape? The light breeze stirred Tanner's long hair and the fringes of his coat, and, for a single, breathless moment, Larabee was struck by the image of a hawk about to take wing. The power of it hit with a startling force, pulling him upright and tearing a long, hard gasp from him. He stared, waiting for his friend to launch himself into the sky...

And fell back against the wall with a soft groan as the moment shattered. An expression of unspeakable pain crossed Tanner's face and he tore his gaze from the sky, as if unable to bear the sight of it. His head bowed, his whole body slumped, and he seemed to shrink into himself.

The hawk was gone and only the lost man remained, shackled to the earth by pain.

Chris watched him make his way down the street and felt his heart clench at the sight. Gone was the tracker's lithe, fluid grace, his light and easy step, his flowing motion. He walked with a slow and leaden gait, as if having to force himself along, as if he were helplessly mired. Taking longer than Larabee could ever remember him doing, he made his way to the livery, settling upon the only means of escape that remained to him.

Not knowing what he would do, what he would say, Larabee went after him, his chest tight with fear and sorrow. He didn't want Vin to go, but wouldn't make him stay; needed to look into his eyes, but dreaded what he would see there. Hoped Vin would ask him to come along, but knew he wouldn't.

Knew Tanner had reached that state where he simply couldn't abide another's nearness.

When he reached the livery, Vin was tacking Peso and, for once in his life, the big gelding was standing quietly and letting the tracker work without ever once showing his temper. Sensitive to his rider's every mood, the ornery horse knew, too, that Tanner didn't have a single defense left to him, and seemed oddly content to do nothing to add to the man's troubles.

He also seemed to have appointed himself Vin's protector, and abruptly raised his head and flicked his ears, snorting and shifting on his hind legs when he sensed another's entry into the stable. At that, Tanner dropped the saddle he was holding and whirled, drawing his mare's leg in a smooth, instinctive motion. Coming around, he raised the sawed-off and aimed it unerringly at...

"Chris?" he rasped in breathless surprise, wide eyes going wider still as they took in the dark shadow that was his friend. "Lord God, Larabee, ya lookin' ta get yerself killed?"

Chris heard the slight tremor in that hoarse voice, saw the wholly uncharacteristic unsteadiness of the hands holding the gun, and was shocked to realize that he'd not only startled the tracker, but had actually frightened him. And nothing frightened Vin Tanner.

"Sorry, pard," he said quietly, willing himself to relax and wishing Vin would do the same. Tanner still held his gun on him, and it was about the most unnerving sight Larabee had ever beheld. "Didn't mean to sneak up on ya. Hell," he forced a slight grin, "I didn't even know that was possible."

"Didn't hear ya," Vin admitted. "Reckon I'm still a mite off." He saw Larabee arch a brow, and exhaled sharply when he realized he was still aiming his gun squarely at his friend's chest. "Sorry," he breathed, lowering the mare's leg. Expressions of chagrin and shame chased across his face, and a dark flush crept into his cheeks as he finally holstered the weapon. "Don't know what I'm doin'."

Chris went slowly forward, studying the younger man worriedly and seeing plainly the toll all this had taken on him. Two nights without sleep - one spent in the hated confines of a cell - had left him pale and drawn, with circles as dark as bruises beneath his eyes. Those eyes flicked nervously about, unable to settle for long on any one thing, and, rather than adopting his usual loose-limbed slouch, he held himself with a painful stiffness. All at once, Chris remembered the beating he'd endured at Yates's hands after his attempted escape, and knew yesterday's fight on the rooftops with Eli Joe had to have worsened those injuries.

"Maybe you oughtta stay close to town," he suggested quietly, "until you get that figured out."

Vin shook his head a bit too wildly, his unsettled gaze still flitting to the shadows filling the stable. His throat and chest were painfully tight and his whole skin seemed to itch and burn, as if he now wore every nerve on the outside. "Cain't," he said hoarsely. "Need... I don't know. Some air, some room..." He swallowed hard and licked his lips, then dragged his raw and haunted gaze back to Larabee. "I don't know. Jist know I cain't breathe."

Chris nodded slowly. He could hear Vin's breathlessness in his strained voice, could see it in the too-fast working of his chest, and knew nothing could hold the man in town when he was in such a state. Knew someone would get hurt, maybe killed, if he even tried.

"Goin' far?"

The question brought Tanner up short. He'd given no thought to where he was going, hadn't been able to think past the going itself. Wasn't like it mattered, though. Couldn't go back, couldn't go forward. Whatever future he might have had was being eaten alive by his past.

"Vin?" Chris prompted softly, worriedly, not at all used to seeing the tracker so scattered. So lost. Tanner always knew where he was going, had a damn compass in his head that kept him fixed on a steady path through even the rockiest terrain. He might stray from that path occasionally, or stumble and lose sight of it temporarily, but he always righted himself and returned to it, never once losing sight of where he wanted to go.

Until now.

He tried to see through Tanner's eyes, tried to think as Vin might, and flinched from the hopelessness that assailed him. In all the time that he'd known him, Vin had only really wanted one thing, had only really held to one purpose. Lifting the taint from his name. Going back to Tascosa and righting the wrong that had been done him. And every path he'd walked had led straight back to that.

But now Eli Joe's dead body lay across that path, an obstacle that not even Vin Tanner could find his way around.

"Jesus, Vin, I'm sorry," he whispered, the cold weight of what he'd done descending upon him once again.

"Did what ya had to," Tanner answered resignedly. "Cain't fault ya fer savin' my life."

Chris raised his head sharply and narrowed his eyes. "Can't you?" he asked harshly, wanting, needing, Tanner to get angry at him. "Even if I cost you your only chance of clearin' your name?"

Vin fixed desolate eyes on Larabee, too exhausted to give the man what he needed. "Don't reckon me dyin' woulda cleared it, neither."

Fury ripped through Chris at those quiet, unemotional words, and he lunged at Tanner, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him violently. "Goddamn it, Vin, is that all you can say?" he hissed, his green eyes burning. "Don't you know what this means? Don't you understand? The man who framed you is dead, Tanner! The only man who can clear your name of that goddamn murder charge is in his grave, and I put him there!"

"Let go a' me!" Vin spat, tearing himself out of Larabee's iron grasp. All at once, the fear and frustration that had been churning within him for days came boiling to the surface and he snapped. With a harsh, wordless cry of fury, he lashed out instinctively and slammed a hard fist into Larabee's jaw, snapping the gunfighter's head back and sending him staggering. Before he could fall, though, Vin grabbed his shirt and jerked Chris to him, staring at him through blazing eyes. "Goddamn you!" he snarled through clenched teeth, blue eyes glittering with more pain than one man should have borne. "Jist how fuckin' stupid do ya think I am? Shit, yeah, I understand what it means!" he shouted hoarsely, shoving Larabee violently from him. "It means that bastard won!" His voice broke and he dropped to his knees, burying his face in shaking hands.

Chris stumbled backwards and fell, stunned by Vin's violent outburst. Then, shaking his head to clear it and absently rubbing his aching jaw, he pulled himself upright. "Goddamn it, Tanner-" The angry words died on his lips and another shock jolted through him at the sight of the younger man.

Vin's hands still covered his face and his whole body slumped, was shaking as if from hard sobs. Not a sound escaped him, though, and, to Chris, that terrible, agony-laden silence was worse than any sound could be.

"Jesus!" Forgetting his aching jaw, he went at once to Tanner and dropped to his knees beside him, then reached out and laid an unsteady hand gently on one shaking shoulder. "I'm sorry-"

"Don't!" he whispered tightly, his voice a ragged rasp.

"Vin-"

"Don't!" He thrust himself to his feet and turned away, fighting desperately to bring his raging emotions under some semblance of control. But he had no strength for that, and, feeling hideously exposed and vulnerable, he stepped away from Larabee and went back to saddling Peso, needing some occupation in which to lose himself.

Chris pulled himself to his feet and turned to watch his friend, easily able to feel the pain that poured from the bowed and beaten figure and knowing he had caused it. "I'm sorry," he said again, unable to stop the words. "If I could-"

"I said 'don't,' 'n I meant it," Vin warned in a low, savage voice, pulling hard at straps and cinches to make sure his saddle was secure. "Ya cain't fix this. Nobody can fix this. Best ya jist leave it be." He grabbed Peso's reins and, without ever looking back, led the big horse toward the livery door.

"Your rifle," Chris called after him, not certain whether Tanner remembered he didn't have it with him.

Vin hadn't, and closed his eyes at the reminder of his own dangerously unfocused mind. "I'll stop at my wagon and get it." He started forward again, then stopped briefly at the door. "I'll be out near Eagle Butte," he said, a decision made. "Don't know how long I'll be gone."

He left then and Chris watched him go, then sank slowly to the straw-covered floor and buried his face in his hands.

=======

He left town and set out across the desert at a slow trot, his hat pulled low over his eyes to shield them from the rising sun. Another day was unfolding, the earth turning unstoppably beneath him, time refusing to pay heed to his pain. Light glowed on the horizon and bled over the tops of mountains, would soon be spilling over the land. Yet where once he would have welcomed it, would have stopped and watched its coming with the breathless awe the sight always inspired in him, now he simply reached up and pulled his hat further down still, having no desire to see it.

What use to look upon light when all in him had gone dark?

He headed Peso toward Eagle Butte, not knowing why he had given that as his destination, but now grateful he had. As always when hurt or hunted, his instincts drove him to seek the high ground, to find some inaccessible lair where he could hole up and lick his wounds, or where he could simply hide from whatever - whoever - threatened him. And he needed - Lord God, how he needed! - to be up in those rocks now, to be close to the sky.

Maybe up there he'd remember how to fly...

He paid no heed to the countryside as he rode, couldn't bear to look at it anymore than he could the light. In his time here, he'd come to love this land deeply, had found something in the harsh deserts and rugged mountains that spoke to the wildness in his own soul. Now, though, it struck him as unbearably alien, even hostile. Where was the acre upon acre of bluebonnets, the vast sea of blue that stretched into eternity? Where were the bright crimson patches of paintbrush, the yellow tickseed blossoms? Like everything else, they were gone from him, and he felt their absence as a deep, aching emptiness in his heart.

Gone. Lord, it was all gone, and he didn't have a hope of ever getting it back.

A harsh gasp tore from him and he spurred Peso sharply to a gallop, his eyes stinging and streaming. Up. He had to go up, had to get away from this flat, barren ground that wasn't and never would be home, had to climb away from this burned earth and toward the sky...

Needed to find a place so high that he could see Texas from it.

=======

Chris remained in the livery long after Vin had gone, unable to leave, unable to face either the prospect of a new day or watching folks going about their business, their lives, as if nothing had happened. Unable to face the knowledge that time and life were going on when, by all rights, both should have stopped and paid heed to the fact that one man was dead, another was dying inside, and he was responsible for both.

Didn't any of that deserve notice?

He sat back against the door of Peso's empty stall, his gaze riveted to the doors through which Vin had gone. He didn't know why he watched them; Vin wasn't coming back. Not anytime soon, anyway. Maybe not ever-

His mind slammed shut against that thought the moment it arose. Vin was gone, yes, but he wasn't gone. That would require planning, preparation, thought, and God knew all those things were far beyond Vin's capabilities at the moment.

Hell, he hadn't even known he didn't have his rifle.

Cold fear gripped Larabee at that memory. He'd known the events of the past few days had deeply shaken Vin, but he'd never realized they'd left the tracker too lost to look after himself. Tanner had always had the strongest, sharpest survival instincts of anyone he'd ever known. But now, like so much else, they simply lay in shattered ruins in the dust.

One more casualty of Larabee's gun.

But, goddamn it, he hadn't had a choice! A harsh, wrenching groan tore from him as his soul twisted in agony. Jesus, he could still see that knife slashing toward Vin, deadly in its intent. And he could still feel the hideous, sick terror that had gripped him as he'd faced the very real possibility of seeing one more person he cared about snatched from him by death. And he couldn't have borne that, couldn't have borne having to bury Vin as he'd buried Sarah and Adam.

But could he bear being the killer of Vin's hopes and dreams?

He stared at the doors through which Vin had gone. Through which Vin had walked. Alive. Eli Joe was dead, but Vin was alive.

Oh, hell, yeah. He could bear anything, anything, so long as Vin was alive.

=======

By late afternoon he was safely on Eagle Butte, perched high amid the rocky crags that towered over and about him like some ancient stone fortress. Below him, the ground reached and rolled into brown infinity, distant and no longer threatening. Above him, the sky stretched like a vast blue canopy, empty, open and inviting.

Yet still he huddled in the protection of the rocks, desperately in need of their strength and solidness when he had none of his own. And, to his own shame, afraid. Afraid to leave these shadows, afraid to step into the light, afraid that, as in his dream, the brightness and beauty of the day and the lure of the sky would be too much and he would give in to his powerful need to soar.

And afraid that, in trying to fly, he'd only fall.

Lord God, when had this fear become such a part of him? When had he learned to shun the light and seek the shadows and slink close to the earth when such had always been so alien to his nature? When had he allowed the sure knowledge of who and what he was to slip so far from him that he feared he'd never get it back? When had he, so skilled a tracker, so completely lost sight of the trail he'd once followed with such certainty?

Maybe when he'd crossed that fine line that separated the hunter from the hunted? Or maybe when he'd allowed those who hunted him to strip him of all that had ever guided and grounded him in his life.

He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out the beaded buckskin pouch he kept there. The bag Chanu had given him he still wore around his neck, tucked under his shirt, a treasured gift, but not true medicine. The true medicine he kept hidden away, secreted from all eyes but his own; not even Chris knew about it. He closed long fingers tightly about the pouch and clutched it to his heart, bowing his head in reverence.

Or maybe in regret.

Long moments passed, and he breathed deeply, slowly, trying to still himself, trying to clear his muddied mind. He hadn't eaten since yesterday morning, just before Yates had hauled him away for his hanging, and hadn't slept since before the false marshall had cornered him at his wagon. He was hungry and exhausted, and he ached deeply from the beating at the jail and his fight across the rooftops. Yet he knew with instinctive certainty that neither food nor sleep nor a ceasing of the pain would restore all that he'd lost.

He just wasn't sure that his medicine, his true medicine, would either.

Nonetheless, he opened the pouch and gently shook its contents into one hand, gazing down at them with a longing that hurt far deeper than the injuries done to his body. Time was, their power, their puha, would have gone straight through him, filling all the empty spaces, lighting all the dark places, bringing peace and purpose to his questioning mind. Now, though, they were as empty as he, their power drained by his shameful disregard of it.

Too long. Too long he'd gone without drawing from this power, too long he'd gone without remembering who and what he truly was. And too far he'd wandered from the path that once had seemed so clear.

Far away. Oh, Lord, how had he gotten so far away from himself?

He stared down at the objects in his hand, trying desperately to feel the tug of their puha at his soul. A feather from a hawk's wing, a token of his ability - and his need - to fly free, to soar high above the tangled pathways of the earth and seek his own true, straight way. A hawk's beak and talon, signs that he was, and was always to be, the hunter, swift, instinctive and sure, yet ever mindful that the hunt was a means of survival, never to be undertaken for lesser reasons. Dark, dry grains of dirt, taken from the graves of his parents and grandfather so that he would always remember the land from which he'd sprung, and the lives of those whose bodies had gone back to the earth, a powerful reminder that when he stood upon that ground he did not stand alone, but stood with all those who'd gone before. Their flesh and their blood were part of him, and part of the ground in which they rested, and so joined him to that earth, as well. It was a circle; a sacred circle.

And he'd broken it.

Tears filled his eyes and fell into his hand, wetting the dry dirt there. He'd always gone back to that place, those graves, had always knelt by them with one hand on his heart and the other sunk into the earth, feeling the power of that joining within him. Long after the farm had been lost to him, taken back by bankers who'd never lifted one finger to work it yet claimed it as theirs, he'd gone back and gone back to those graves. No matter how far away he wandered, no matter how long away he spent, the power and the pull of that land had throbbed steady and strong within him, eventually calling him back that he might always remember how deeply entwined they were.

This time, though, he'd been too long away, gone too far away. He'd let himself forget the faces and voices of his loved ones, the feel and smell of the earth where they rested. He'd lost all that, and lost himself along with it.

He'd stopped hunting for survival, taken it up for money, and had in turn become the hunted. Then he'd had to run, and in his constant running had forgotten how to fly. And in running, he'd gone too far from the land that had formed him to go back, couldn't go back lest he be caught...

And hanged...

Oh, God, Lord God, how had he ever gotten so far away from where he needed to be?

=======

Chris spurred Pony toward Eagle Butte, startled - and appalled - by the ease with which he picked up and followed Vin's trail. The tracker seemed to have made absolutely no effort to cover his tracks, as if it never occurred to him that someone might come after him.

Or as if he just didn't care...

Chris shook off that thought with an effort, refusing to believe that Vin would purposely court death. No matter how badly he was hurting, no matter how deeply he despaired, it just wasn't in Tanner's nature to give up. He'd spent too much of his life fighting, and by now the instinct to go on fighting was so deeply ingrained in him that he wouldn't know how to stop if he wanted to.

And Chris desperately hoped he didn't want to now.

He shoved that thought away, too, and turned his mind instead to trying to figure out what he would say to Vin when he joined him. He knew Tanner wasn't expecting him to come, likely didn't want him to come. Vin wasn't thinking just now, was simply reacting, and, wild and solitary creature that he was, his first reaction when hurt or confused was always to go off on his own and hide from the world that seemed so intent on doing him harm while he tried to find the strength once more to fight. But Chris figured he'd already spent enough, too much, of his life hurting alone, fighting alone. And it wasn't in his nature to allow that to go on any longer. Somewhere in the fights and the silences and the times of simply being that they'd shared, Vin Tanner, as relentless as water wearing away stone, had become part of Chris Larabee, who'd never wanted another living soul to creep into places already claimed by the dead. And Larabee had already lost enough of himself in this life to let one more part - maybe the better and most important part - go without a struggle.

Tanner probably didn't want him there right now, but that was too goddamn bad. Vin was gonna get him, and he'd just have to learn to live with it.

Shouldn't be too hard for a man who'd already learned how to live with so much else.

He sighed and spurred Pony to an even faster pace, seeing Eagle Butte looming in the distance above the desert floor. Wild, rugged, remote. Lonely. Like the man hiding up there now. Broken in so many places, weathered and worn by time and the elements, battered and scarred by cataclysmic upheavals in nature and the earth, yet still standing, still towering, stubbornly enduring all the destructive forces unleashed against it and maintaining a fierce, stark beauty...

God, was it any wonder Vin loved it so?

Yet there was one vast, deep difference between Vin and the butte. It stood alone, rising in majestic, defiant solitude from the land, absolute in its isolation. Maybe Vin had once been that way, maybe he thought of himself that way still, but he was wrong. He wasn't alone anymore, hadn't been alone since that day he'd looked across a dusty street and snared another's gaze with his own. Something in the two men had been joined at that moment, and could never be made separate again.

Vin might think he was as alone as that butte, but Chris Larabee was gonna show him just how badly mistaken he was.

=======

He sat cross-legged in the center of the small space he'd chosen, a hollow worn into the rugged rockface by centuries of wind and sand and water, not nearly deep or high enough to warrant being called a cave, but sufficient for his intent. With treacherously unsteady hands he carefully arranged the branches, bark and leaves he'd gathered into the makings of a small fire. Then he carefully dribbled water from his canteen over them, wetting them just enough that they'd smolder rather than burn outright. What he wanted was smoke, not fire.

Finally satisfied with his preparations, he went outside and stripped to the waist, removing even his hat, boots and socks, and laid his discarded garments on an outcropping of rocks. He took off his gunbelt, too, and set it upon his clothes, knowing it would be of no help to him here. Then, as ready as he would ever be, he slipped inside again and settled himself cross-legged on the ground by the small nest of nest of branches. He drew a slow, deep breath and gathered himself, not daring to think on how many sacred tenets of either of the two cultures he drifted between he was breaking here today.

It wasn't anything near a true sweat lodge, but, as someone who'd strayed so badly from his path, he wasn't sure he was entitled to more. Felt more than a little guilty at having allowed himself even this much, as if he were trespassing on ground he no longer held any claim to. Had forsaken all claim to. And it certainly wasn't a church, was far removed from, and likely even an insult to, those formal houses of worship that so many folks insisted were the only places where God could be found. He didn't think he had any right to seek comfort in any of them, either.

But, Lord, he needed help, needed some way to see where he'd gone so badly wrong, where he'd lost the path, and this was the surest way of seeing he'd ever known. So, not knowing what else to do, and having little enough hope that this would work, he reached out and picked up the lucifer he'd set out earlier, again seeing just how badly his hand shook. Unable to stop the prayers he'd learned at his mother's knee and in his times among the People from rising and mingling in his mind, but again not daring to give any of them voice, he struck the lucifer against a stone, watched it flare to life, and dropped it onto the bed of tinder. A small hiss sounded, the damp leaves and bark caught, and smoke rose in a pungent cloud. As it swirled about him and filled the hollow, he closed his eyes and leaned into it, using his hands to wave it more fully over himself.

Sage. The scent of cleansing, of healing. He breathed ever more deeply, taking it into himself and letting it fill his mind. He let all thought go, freed his mind to rise with and upon the smoke, cast it out upon the wind to seek what had been lost.

He sat motionless, stilled inside and out, his long fingers curved loosely about the beaded medicine pouch cradled in his palm. He'd left the one Chanu had given him outside with his clothing so there would be no conflict, no confusion, so that whatever Spirit - if any - came to him would not be put off by the lingering presence of another. He'd had only one small sip of water and no food, had already seen to his bodily functions. He was empty now, empty and still, a vessel waiting to be filled.

Sage-scented smoke rolled over him in waves, entering his nose, his mouth, the pores of his skin, breathed in, breathed out, until it was his breath, carried to and through every part of him by his pulsing blood. He felt that pulse now, felt it in his head, his chest, his fingertips and toes, felt its steadiness and quiet power and timed his breathing to it. Then the smoke was heavier than he was, and he began to rise upon it, lifted his arms...

And began to fly.

He pushed himself aloft with a wild, harsh cry, pumping his wings furiously, straining to rise ever higher. Straining. Lord, since when did he have to strain to fly? But he had to now, and only gradually did he come to understand why.

Tired. God, he was so tired, his body heavy with it, aching from weariness and wounds. He needed strength, needed to heal, needed to go back to the place where he'd always found strength and healing before. With an effort, he wheeled in the sky and started toward the only place he'd ever known as home, picturing the fields of blue in his mind and remembering the scent and feel of the rich, dark earth.

Maybe that place was no longer his, but it would always be him.

As he flew, he heard voices whispering to him, calling to him, and felt his heart lurch in recognition. His mother's soft, sweet voice, before her final illness had stolen it from her, and his grandpa's deeper one, as dark and rich as the land he'd worked. Those voices stirred something in him, awakened remembrances he'd long since thought dead, and he joined his to them, loosing another cry.

He could see it then, the place he'd sought, the small, rough double log cabin with the dog-run between the two halves, its sagging porch and steeply-pitched roof, and the chimney of hand-made brick. No smoke came from the chimney, but he hadn't expected it to. Those who whispered to him were no longer in the house, but in the earth just beyond it. Seeing the graves beneath the sprawling live oak, he cried out again and flew toward them.

All at once, though, he was caught, snared, and his body jerked violently, then began plummeting toward the earth. As he fell, rope coiled about his neck and pulled, choking the breath and life from him. Panic erupted within him and he fought wildly against the noose, but only managed to pull it tighter.

He was falling, strangling, hanging...

He looked down in terror and saw a corpse tangled in the other end of the rope, hands clutching at it even in death. He struggled again and again to break free, but couldn't, and realized to his horror that he was being hanged by a dead man.

Shit, yeah, I understand what it means! he heard his own voice shouting. It means that bastard won!

He couldn't breathe, couldn't fly, was caught helplessly in the rope and falling ever faster to the earth. He heard his mother and grandfather calling to him, but he couldn't answer. Desperately he tried to flap his wings, but the feathers were heavy and stiff with blood - God, so much blood! - and simply wouldn't catch the air. Then the corpse began to laugh, and he knew that he had lost.

Despair rolled through him in black, crushing waves, and a wrenching sob broke from him. He didn't want to die, Lord God, he wanted to live, but he couldn't fight anymore. He was tired, too tired, and couldn't breathe, couldn't fight, couldn't fly. Couldn't do anything but fall. And hang. And die...

The dark, powerful shadow came streaking out of nowhere, uttering a savage scream and diving at him. Fresh terror assailed him and he fought to flee this newest threat, but there was no need. The larger bird was hurling itself not at him, but at the rope that bound him. Strong talons gripped it, a sharp beak snapped shut upon it, and suddenly he was free, the rope cut and the noose loosening enough for him to breathe.

Now frantic to escape, he pumped his wings and launched himself aloft, but was too weak and too tired to maintain the effort. Yet even as he started to falter, the larger bird turned and swept toward him, its powerful wings beating with ease and creating currents upon which he could glide. Then the dark form was above him, offering him refuge, and he hid himself in its shadow, suddenly feeling a safety and security he'd not known in far too long. Sheltered beneath those broad wings, floating on the drafts they created for him, he allowed himself to rest, and studied his protector.

An eagle. A sleek golden eagle, its dark body crowned by a head marked by blond feathers that glinted brightly in the sun, its broad chest bearing hailstone markings. Power that had nothing to do with strength radiated from the large bird, yet, for all its apparent menace, it was a power that promised only security, safety, to the exhausted, battered hawk seeking refuge beneath those great dark wings.

He recognized him then, the man he'd know in any guise, the soul as familiar to him as his own. Yet, as with so many other things of late, this knowledge came to him too late. Maybe, maybe if he hadn't spent so much strength fighting alone...

But he had, and no "maybes" could change that. Too exhausted now to hold them up, he simply let his wings drop, closing his eyes and never seeing the large, dark shape streaking after him as he plummeted toward the ground.

=======

"Vin!"

Larabee rushed forward, his heart in his throat, as he saw the figure lying motionless on the cave floor, much too near the fire for comfort. Ducking into the small, low-ceilinged space and throwing himself to his knees at Tanner's side, he snatched the unconscious man into his arms and held him close, terrified by his pallor.

"Jesus, Vin, don't do this to me!" he spat, clutching the younger man tightly and sweeping the tangled mass of sweat-damp hair off his ashen face with shaking fingers. "C'mon, Tanner, wake up! Goddamn it, Vin, wake up!"

Vin moaned softly, but did not awaken. Terrified, Chris shoved a hand to his throat and exhaled sharply in relief at the feel of his pulse. Faster than it should have been, but strong. His skin was cool, clammy with sweat, and Larabee swallowed hard past the knot that had formed in his throat.

Likely he was just exhausted. And probably hadn't eaten or had nearly enough to drink, either...

"Jesus, Tanner," he rasped, his voice strained and unsteady, "you're gonna be the death of me yet!"

He laid Vin back down gently onto the hard-packed ground and struggled to his feet, his legs still shaking, then kicked apart the fire, angrily stomping out its flames. When he was certain it no longer posed a threat to the unconscious tracker, he made his way outside to where he'd found Peso and left Pony. Off-loading and untacking his gelding quickly, he apologized for not taking the time to rub him down, then grabbed his bedroll. Muttering hoarsely, furiously, all the while, he stalked to another recess in the rockface where Tanner had stowed his gear and, noting that the spot was well shaded from the fierce afternoon sun by an over-hanging ledge, unfastened and spread the tracker's bedroll.

"Goddamn sage," he groused as he pulled aside the cut-down buffalo robe that was a standard part of Tanner's 'roll, still able to smell the heavy smoke that had filled the small cave. "It's no wonder you passed out!"

With that done, he went back to Vin and managed to get the unconscious man upright, half-dragging and half-carrying him to his blankets. Once there, he carefully lowered Vin down upon them and covered him with the buff robe, again noticing his terrible pallor and feeling another wrench of almost sickening fear at his gut.

God, what if he hadn't come after all?

He shook his head sharply to clear it, refusing to think along those lines. He was here, and that was all that mattered.

He went back to his gear, got his canteen and saddlebags, and returned to Vin. Settling himself once more beside him, he opened a saddlebag and dug in it for the strips of bandages Nathan always insisted they carry. Pulling out one, he wet it with water from the canteen and gently bathed Vin's face and throat.

"C'mon, pard," he urged quietly, "wake up. I need to know you're all right."

After several minutes, Vin's head began moving slowly against the blanket, and his eyelids flickered. A soft, breathless moan escaped him, and his right hand lifted slightly under the robe.

"That's it," Chris encouraged. "Come on, Tanner, lemme see your eyes."

Slowly, slowly, the eyelids pulled back, revealing two hazy slits of blue. Vin's head turned, the slits of blue found the face looming above him, and a slight frown pulled downward at the corners of his mouth. This time he managed to free his arm from the robe and lifted it, and immediately his hand was taken in a strong, warm grip that brought a faint sigh from him.

"Chris," he breathed, his eyes closing again.

"Oh, no, ya don't," Larabee snarled, squeezing hard at Vin's hand. "You come back here. Damn it, Tanner, look at me!"

Vin forced his eyes open and stared up in confusion, not understanding Chris's apparent anger; in fact, not understanding what the man was doing up here at all. "You followin' me?" he whispered.

"Yeah. And a damn good thing I did, too," Chris snapped. "Hell, Vin, ya passed out! What if you'd fallen in the fire? You could've-" His throat tightened abruptly, choking off the words, and he had to try again. "You could've been killed," he finished hoarsely.

Vin frowned more deeply still, trying to make his sluggish mind work, then sat up slowly. A sudden wave of vertigo hit him and he reeled dizzily, but was immediately steadied by two strong hands at his shoulders. Once again he was carefully lowered to the blankets and remembered the eagle in his dream appearing from out of nowhere.

"Not likely," he sighed.

A puzzled frown knotted Larabee's brows and twisted his mouth at Tanner's words, and at the certainty behind them. "You're just damn lucky I came after ya," he growled.

Vin swallowed and shook his head weakly, then forced his eyes open. The normally bright depths were dulled by exhaustion. "Ain't luck," he murmured, his soft voice made even raspier than usual by weariness. "'S jist," he lifted his hand and waved it tiredly, "how it is."

"Yeah, well," Chris said shortly, "'how it is' is that you scared the shit outta me! Takin' off on your own when your mind's so clouded you didn't even know you didn't have your rifle, leavin' a trail a blind man could follow, and then hidin' yourself in a cave and breathin' in sage 'til ya passed out and damn near fell inta the fire. That's how it is, Vin, and if Yates hadn't already done it, I'd beat the shit outta you right now! What the hell were you thinkin'?"

Vin struggled to sit up, grimacing and groaning softly as he felt the heaviness of fatigue and the ache of that beating throughout his body. "Wasn't thinkin' too much of anything," he sighed. "Not real clear, anyways." He winced and bowed his head, running an unsteady hand through his tangled hair. "Reckon ol' Eli's got me twisted up somethin' good." He shook his head slowly. "Even dead, the bastard's still messin' up my life."

Chris looked away abruptly, his jaws clenching tightly, as a spasm of pain went through him. But, knowing his pain couldn't possibly be anything like Tanner's, he turned his eyes back to his friend and sighed. "I know ya don't wanta hear this," he said quietly, his green eyes dark with feeling, "but I'm sorry I had to kill him. Not sorry I did it, because I did it to save you, but I am sorry I had to. If there'd been any other way-"

"But there weren't," Vin said hoarsely. "Hell, Chris, I know that. It's jist..." He swallowed hard and looked away from Larabee, staring into the distance. "Y' know why I came up here?" he asked softly.

Chris could think of a number of reasons, but instinctively knew that none of them applied this time. "Tell me."

Vin sighed heavily and scooted around on the blanket until he was facing east. "Texas is thataway," he breathed, his blue eyes fixed intently on the horizon. "Figgered if I could jist find a place high enough, mebbe I could see it." Unbearable sorrow darkened his face and he abruptly bowed his head, closing his eyes tightly. "Likely it's the only way I'm gonna see it from now on," he whispered, his voice breaking.

"Shit," Chris breathed, only now starting to realize the true depth of Tanner's loss. Not just his name, but his home, the place where he'd been born and raised, the place that had shaped him into the man he was now. "God, Vin, I'm sorry."

"Ya keep sayin' that," Tanner said with mild irritation.

Larabee arched a golden brow. "I keep sayin' it because I mean it," he answered harshly.

Vin sighed and bowed his head, again feeling his weariness like a leaden weight within him. "Naw, that ain't... I mean... Aw, hell!" he rasped in frustration, rubbing a hand over his face. "Forget it."

"No." Chris moved to face Vin, positioning himself right in front of the tracker. "Talk to me, pard," he urged softly, determined to see this through. "I don't care how long it takes. I got nowhere else to be, and I ain't leavin' until I know what's goin' on inside that head of yours."

Vin didn't want to talk, but knew he didn't have a choice. Larabee was every bit as stubborn as he was and would sit here until hell froze if he had to. Once more, he ran a hand through his hair, searching his mind for the words that fit his feelings.

"I jist," he began haltingly, his voice thick and unsteady, "I jist don't know... how I got... so far away."

Chris waited for more, knowing patience was the first requirement for any conversation with Vin Tanner. But when it seemed no more was coming, he asked quietly, "Far away from where?"

Vin exhaled sharply and waved his hand in a gesture of helplessness. "From... from where... Hell, from where I'm s'posed ta be! I mean... shit... I'm a tracker!" he said suddenly, sharply, anger flaring within him. "So how the hell did I lose my own trail? I tried, Lord God, how I tried! But I cain't..." He turned his eyes back to the horizon and searched it intently, frowning and shaking his head in pain and confusion when no answer presented itself. "Why the hell cain't I find where I went so wrong?"

Chris tried to follow the disjointed words, but only grew more confused. He and Vin had always had an innate understanding of each other, but, at the moment, that understanding completely eluded him. "I don't get it," he finally admitted. "Vin," he leaned forward, trying to catch that wild, unsettled gaze, "look at me, pard, and talk to me." He reached out and laid a hand on Tanner's shoulder, gripping it with a steady, and steadying, pressure until that wide and wounded blue gaze turned slowly back toward him. "What makes you think you've gone wrong?"

Anger, blind and unreasoning, ripped through Vin in a hard, hot wave at that. He knocked Larabee's hand from his shoulder and shot to his feet in a single lithe motion. He walked away a few steps, then turned sharply and stared down at Chris through blue eyes glittering with fury. "How the hell can ya ask that?" he spat, his lean frame trembling from the force of his emotion. "Goddamn it, Larabee, I got men huntin' me fer money! I got a town waitin' ta string me up, got my face on wanted posters all over the fuckin' territory, I gotta slink like a scared dawg in 'n outta ever' goddamn town I go to and keep my eyes open ever' minute of ever' goddamn day, and you ask me what makes me think I gone wrong? Jesus fuckin' Christ, Chris, where the hell have I gone right?"

Chris stood up slowly, carefully, not wanting to startle Vin in his present mood. The tracker didn't have his mare's leg, but he still had his knife, and Larabee had seen him use it too often not to be wary of it. "First off," he said in a low, even voice, keeping his body and stance relaxed, "none of that is your fault. You're innocent-"

"I took in a dead man fer a bounty-"

"You didn't kill him-"

"But I might as well have!" Vin cried harshly, his pain running rampant through him. "Eli Joe killed him ta set me up, killed him jist ta get me off his trail. An innocent man is dead because a' me! Now tell me that ain't my fault!"

"That ain't your fault," Chris said obligingly, as calm as Vin was agitated. "You got no control over what others do. Eli Joe is... was... a murderin' bastard who killed just for the sport of killin'." Steady green eyes bored into Tanner's frantic blue ones. "You wanta take responsibility for Jess Kincaid? Fine. Are you also gonna take responsibility for all the folks Eli killed after he set you up and got you off his trail? Because if you're guilty of one, you're guilty of all. If he hadn't set you up, if he hadn't killed Kincaid, if you had caught him and taken him in, they might all still be alive." He stared unwaveringly at Tanner, watching the tracker flinch as each word landed on him like a blow. "Do you really wanta take all that blood onto your soul?"

Vin stared at him in shocked disbelief, then, his exhaustion again winning out, sank slowly back to the ground, crossing his legs and burying his face in his hands. "Lord, no," he whispered miserably, his whole body bowed in pain. "Reckon I got enough there as it is."

Chris went to him and sat down across from him again, his knees just inches from Vin's. "What does that mean?" he asked, determined to lance the wound festering inside his friend and release the poison. "What blood have you got on your soul?"

Vin exhaled unsteadily and lifted his head, raising a pale face heavenward. "Lord, what blood ain't I got on my soul?" he groaned in torment. "I turned ta killin' fer money, Chris. I always been good at huntin' and trackin', but I never... I only used ta do it ta stay alive, or ta help folks... But then th' Army an' the railroads... they was offerin' good money fer buff meat, and, Lord, I was tired of bein' hungry! Part a' me knew why they wanted the buffs dead, what it'd do ta the tribes... But another part said there's so many that it couldn't do no real harm... Only... only..." His voice broke and a tear rolled down his cheek. "Only there ain't so many no more," he whispered. "And the tribes are givin' up their freedom and goin' on reservations 'cause they're hungry..." He wiped at the tear impatiently and scowled bitterly at Chris. "But I reckon that's all right, ain't it?" he snarled. "I mean, so long as I ain't hungry no more, then don't nothin' else matter!"

Chris tried to think of an answer, but couldn't. He had no idea what it was like to be so hungry that he had to weigh a people's survival against his own, had no idea what it was like to know such hardship that slaughtering buffalo seemed like an attractive alternative. And, God, to be as young as Vin had to have been then and be forced to make such choices...

There couldn't possibly be anyone in the world who had an answer for that.

"Then, when I saw how thin the herds was gettin'," Vin went on, refusing to spare himself any pain, "I turned ta huntin' men. Fer money. Didn't know whether they was guilty or innocent, didn't care. Weren't none a' my concern. All's I knew was there was a poster on 'em and money waitin' fer me when I took 'em back. Buffs are big, but they're stupid," he said calmly, staring at Chris through eyes dull with regret and exhaustion. "Ain't no real challenge huntin' 'em, 'cept not bein' killed by Indians. If ya want a hunt that's got some challenge to it, ya oughtta try huntin' men. Ain't no creature trickier or more dangerous when he's cornered." His eyes narrowed to slits, and his lips pulled back from his teeth in a wolfish snarl. "But I've always been real good at what I do."

Chris shivered at the tone that had crept into Vin's voice - soft, but infinitely deadly - and found it difficult to reconcile the cold-blooded hunter with the tired and hurting young man before him. And he wondered yet again how he could truly know so little about a man he seemed to know better than himself, and care so little about not knowing.

"Reckon mebbe that's where I went wrong," Vin sighed, wiping a hand over his eyes and then running it through his hair. "Huntin' and killin' fer money... Reckon it was only a matter of time b'fore the Spirits turned it back on me. Man I was huntin' set the hunters on me. Fine line 'tween hunter and hunted, 'n I done stepped across it."

"You didn't step," Chris countered quietly. "You were pushed. By a piece of trash only lookin' to save his own miserable skin." He sighed heavily and shrugged helplessly. "I can't tell ya that what you've done is right or wrong, Vin," he breathed. "Hell, I got a hard enough time tryin' to balance my own scales without takin' on yours as well. I'm no preacher, and I for damn sure ain't God. I got no right to judge you. But I will tell ya this." He raised his gaze to Vin's and searched it intently. "We've all got our ghosts," he said softly. "We've all got sins and regrets on our souls. I'm not sure you can get through this life without 'em. But havin' 'em on your soul doesn't mean you have to let 'em become a stone around your neck. You don't deserve what's happenin' to you, Vin!" he said firmly. "You don't deserve bein' wanted, you don't deserve bein' hunted, and you sure as hell don't deserve bein' hanged. And I promise you, pard, I promise you, I will never let that happen!"

"I don't want ya doin' nothin' stupid, Larabee!" he protested hoarsely, knowing the man's words were not empty promises. "I ain't worth it-"

"You don't think goin' up against a cemetery full of drunk and blood-thirsty cowboys ta save a man you don't even know from hangin' wasn't stupid?" Chris asked coldly. "How about tryin' ta defend an Indian village with more women and kids than guns against a Confederate regiment and a cannon for a whole five dollars? Or how about signin' on ta protect a town you got no ties to when you'd be better off goin' back ta Texas ta clear your name? You think that ain't stupid?" he demanded, his voice rising with every charge. "You don't want me ta do anything stupid, Tanner? Fine. I'll stop when you do!"

Vin got to his feet again and walked away, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He stopped several yards from Chris and stood with his back to the man, his head bowed, his shoulders slumping. It's not the same! he wanted to protest, and in his heart he was certain it wasn't.

But he was equally certain that Larabee wouldn't agree.

Chris stared at the silent, dejected tracker, and ached for him. The livid bruises from the beating at the jail were vividly apparent across Tanner's naked shoulders and back, even worse than the ones that marred his chest and stomach. And scattered among the bruises were countless scars - some recent, but most long gone white with age - that attested to the hard life the man had known. He knew that those scars, some of them from wounds that had to have been almost deadly serious, also attested to Tanner's toughness and incredible will to survive. Just now, though, all he saw was a young man exhausted, battered, stripped of everything he'd ever held dear, including hope, vulnerable and lost as he'd never thought Vin Tanner could be.

Again the words I'm sorry rose to his tongue, but this time he bit them back, hating how completely inadequate they were. And suspecting that if he said them one more time, Vin might actually kill him.

Still, Larabee didn't have to say the words for Tanner to hear them. "Ain't yer fault," he rasped tiredly, never turning around, never raising his head. "Hell, I reckon it's a damn wonder somebody didn't kill that bastard long b'fore you did. 'Sides, ain't like there was ever any guarantee he'da told the truth even if we'da found a way ta cart his sorry ass back ta Tascosa." He shrugged heavily. "Ain't like there was ever a guarantee they'da b'lieved him if he did. Likely they wouldn'ta held off hangin' me long enough ta listen."

Chris winced deeply and bowed his head, knowing that, in his mind, Vin was already resigning himself to what had happened, was already finding a way to convince himself it was done and didn't matter. Larabee didn't know which hurt him more - the fact that Tanner had to do this, or the fact that he clearly had so much experience doing it.

Just how much of himself had the man had to let go over the years simply to survive?

"I ain't thanked ya yet," Vin said in that same flat voice.

Chris's head jerked up as the words startled him. "Thanked me?" he repeated in bewilderment. "For what?"

Vin raised his head and turned slowly back to face him. "Fer what ya done."

Chris stared at him as if he'd lost his mind. "I killed the one man who could clear you-"

"Not that," Vin rasped, waving a hand in dismissal. "Yates." He saw that Chris still didn't quite understand and tried to force his tired mind to put thoughts together. "When... when he took me, an'... Ya didn't know, but ya come anyways..." The magnitude of it defeated him then, and he heaved a weary sigh and shrugged. "Thanks."

Again Chris found himself picking through Tanner's words and trying to puzzle out their meaning. Goddamn Texan was gonna make a tracker of him yet! After several moments though, understanding dawned and he shot a look of mingled horror and anger at his friend.

"Shit, Vin, you didn't think I was just gonna let him ride off with you without doin' anything, did you?" he asked sharply. "Weren't you listenin' in the jail when I said I wasn't gonna let you hang? Didn't you believe me?"

"I's listenin'," Vin said quietly.

"But?"

Vin sighed again and bowed his head in frustration, wishing Chris would just let this go and knowing that he wouldn't. Folks accused him of bein' stubborn, but that goddamn gunfighter could give lessons in it! He grimaced and scrubbed a hand over his face, wondering just when the hell Chris Larabee had gotten so damn talkative.

"Well?" Chris prompted, determined to drag this out one word at a time if he had to.

Vin lifted his head and scowled at Larabee. "I's listenin'," he said again, his voice hard and rough. "'N I heard ya. But I've heard words like that a time 'r two before, heard folks tellin' me they wasn't gonna let this 'r that happen ta me... 'N damn if it ain't been a blame lie ever' time! So I reckon I jist figgered..." His voice lost its heat and began to waver as those green eyes bored into him. "Seems I kinda come t' expect... Why the hell should you be any differ'nt?' he demanded hoarsely, stalking angrily toward the seated gunman, his blue eyes filled with confusion. "Fer all you knew, Yates was a federal marshall! Why the hell would ya take him on fer the likes a' me?"

A thousand answers sprang immediately to Chris's mind. Instead, in a low, calm voice, he asked a single question. "Wouldn't you do it for me?"

Vin stopped abruptly and reeled as if he'd been hit, or shot, and gaped dazedly at Chris. Then a wild, almost hysterical laugh tore from him. "Hell, yeah! But I got nothin' ta lose!" He thumped his naked chest with a shaking hand. "I'm already wanted, remember? What would they do ta me? Hang me?" The laugh ended on a choked sob and he dropped to the ground, crossing his legs tightly and burying his face in his hands.

Chris watched the younger man through compassionate eyes for long moments, wondering how they'd all missed seeing for so long just how deep Vin's anguish at what had been done to him, taken from him, ran. Then he began to speak. "For all I knew," he said quietly, evenly, "Yates was a federal marshall. But he was a federal marshall takin' you away ta hang for somethin' you didn't do, and there was no way I was gonna let that happen. Because I did have somethin' ta lose. And I'd be goddamned if I was gonna lose it."

"You'da hanged, too-"

"I kinda hoped ta stop it before it got that far. Look at me," Chris directed quietly. "C'mon, Vin, look at me." He waited until the shaggy head rose and the hands dropped away from Tanner's face, waited for the bleary blue eyes to focus on his. "I wasn't lyin' in the jail. I'da gone all the way ta Tascosa if I had to. And the only way they'da gotten you to the gallows was through me."

Vin only stared at him, was incapable of anything more. He had no words for a statement like that, couldn't even begin to answer it. The pledge Chris had made - and, knowing Larabee, he knew it was nothing less - was completely outside the realm of his experience. He'd had folks say they didn't want to see him hang, had folks say they hoped it never happened, but he'd never once had anyone pledge to make sure it didn't, and offer their own lives as surety.

Chris saw the wonder creeping into Tanner's shocked face and hated everyone who'd ever had any part in convincing him that no one considered his life worth such a risk. Such a promise. How in the hell did a man get through life thinking, believing, there was no one, no one, who would stand with him? Hell, who would stand for him?

Vin continued to stare at Chris in numb and silent amazement. He remembered JD rushing into the street, rifle in hand, ready to gun down Yates and whoever else to set him free, remembered the hard rush of sick horror that had swamped him at the sight. But even as he'd been appalled, and touched, by the kid's foolhardiness, he'd also known that the rest of the boys would step in and pull JD out of harm's way, not wanting to see their youngest get himself killed for him. For nothing.

Or so he'd thought...

"They knew, didn't they?" he whispered, frowning thoughtfully at Chris as the truth slowly pulled itself together in his exhausted mind. "The boys... they knew... you was comin' after me... 'At's why they didn't do nothin'."

Chris wasn't exactly sure what Vin meant, but answered anyway. "We had a plan, yeah. We figured Yates would spot us easy if we all came tearin' after ya." One corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile. "As Ezra pointed out, subtlety ain't exactly our forte." That won a weak smile from Vin, and Chris was deeply relieved to see it. "We figured it'd be easier, and less obvious, for one man - me - ta trail ya, make sure he treated ya right. Then," he shrugged, "if it looked like I was gonna need help, I was s'posed ta stop somewhere and send a wire callin' in the cavalry."

"JD coulda got killed 'cause a' me," Vin breathed, frowning again.

"No," Chris countered, "JD coulda got killed because of the way he feels about ya. Because he didn't wanta see a friend of his taken away and hanged for a crime he didn't commit. Because he figured maybe you were worth fightin' for. Maybe even worth dyin' for."

"Glad Josiah stopped him," Vin sighed, lifting tired eyes to the sky. "I couldn'ta stood it if he'da died." He shivered hard. "Couldn'ta stood havin' his blood on my soul, too."

"Wouldn'ta been on yours, Vin," Chris said in a low, gentle voice. "Woulda been on Yates's, and on Eli Joe's. Just like Jess Kincaid's." He saw Vin shiver again and knew the events of the past few days were quickly taking their toll; the man was holding on by a thread. "You need ta get dressed, pard. If you get sick on my watch, Nathan'll have my hide."

"'M all right-"

"Yeah, you look it. C'mon," he rose to his feet, then held a hand down for Tanner, "you get dressed, then we'll see if we can't scare up somethin' to eat and let you get some rest." He eyed his friend's pale and haggard appearance. "I don't reckon you've had enough of either lately."

Vin looked quizzically at the hand held out toward him, as if not certain at first what he was supposed to do with it. Then, prompted more by instinct than by understanding, he simply reached up and closed his long fingers about Larabee's forearm, feeling an unexpected - and much needed - sense of comfort when Chris's hand wrapped about his arm.

Strange how little he'd ever cared for another's touch before, yet how much he needed it now...

Chris pulled Vin to his feet, then held and steadied him when he reeled. Only when he was sure the tracker would not fall did he release him. "You go sit down on your bedroll," he ordered, his firm voice allowing for no argument. "I'll bring your clothes to ya, then see to the horses."

"Watch that Peso don't bite," Vin warned absently, shuffling toward his bedding as if he were an old man, never noticing the hand that hovered only inches from his elbow.

"You hear a shot, you'll know he tried," Chris answered, smoothly taking Vin's arm when he stumbled, supporting him for a couple of steps and then releasing him, never breaking stride himself, as if keeping Tanner on his feet were the most natural thing in the world.

Which, he suddenly realized, it was.

Once at the bedroll, Vin sank down upon it without so much as a grumble of protest, which worried Chris no end. But, saying nothing, he walked over to the rocks where Tanner had left his boots, clothes and gun and cast a side glance into the small cave where he'd found the man unconscious, scowling deeply and shaking his head as he gathered up the clothing.

Damn fool Texan...

When he returned to Vin, the tracker had his knees pulled up to his chest and his head resting on the arms he'd folded atop them. Tanner's hair spilled down in a disordered, uncombed mess, and his lean frame shook as if from an icy chill. Larabee sighed.

All right. He'd get a fire going and then see to the horses.

"Vin?" he called quietly, kneeling before Tanner and setting his boots and gunbelt down beside him. He held out the tracker's shirts and jacket to him, but got no response. "C'mon, pard, get dressed," he urged gently. "You'll feel a lot warmer."

Vin raised his head slowly and studied the items held before him as if he'd never seen them before, blinking owlishly. Then recognition dawned and he reached out, taking his clothes with noticeably unsteady hands.

Chris watched for long moments, almost able to see him puzzling out what he was supposed to do with the garments and feeling a sharp twinge of anger that Tanner had ridden out of town with his brain so near shutting down. Goddamn it, what if a bounty hunter had found him here instead of a friend? Or any one of the outlaws who haunted this country?

Why the hell couldn't the man just stop runnin' and rest?

He stayed and watched long enough to see Vin draw the faded, dirty undershirt over his head and get his arms through the sleeves, then turned on his heel and walked away as Tanner began pulling on his tan and brown striped shirt.

At least he'd had the sense to wear clothes that would let him fade into his surroundings...

As he scrabbled over the rocks and through the brush gathering firewood, he managed to startle a covey of quail from their cover. Lightning reflexes kicked in and he dropped what wood he'd collected, drawing his gun and downing three of the birds with one shot each. Supper was taken care of. He holstered his gun, picked up the wood, retrieved the quail and returned to Vin, feeling immensely better for having killed something.

"Better not've shot m' horse," Vin drawled.

"Not yet," Chris assured him. "But I'm sure his time's comin'." He searched the ground for a suitable spot downwind from Tanner and squatted, setting the dead birds aside and laying the wood for the fire. No sense having the man breathe in any more smoke than he already had. "Supper's gonna be plain, but I figure it's all you're up for."

Vin screwed up his mouth and nose and shook his head. "Don't matter none. Ain't hungry."

"Don't matter none. You're eatin'." There was no give at all in Larabee's voice. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a lucifer, struck it on a nearby rock and dropped it onto the small pile of tinder he'd laid. The blaze caught, and he fed a few small, dry twigs into it until flames began licking through the nest of larger sticks he'd arranged over the tinder. He nodded in grim satisfaction as the smoke blew exactly where he'd wanted it to.

It was nice that some things worked out...

He stayed a bit longer with the fire and nursed it carefully, adding just the right sizes of wood at the right time. There were few things that irritated him more than having to build a fire twice. When he was satisfied with it, he glanced down at the birds, then over at the horses and back to the birds, trying to decide where to start. The horses needed care, but he still had to build a spit for the quail...

"You g'on, see t' the horses," Vin said quietly. "I ain't quite up ta wrasslin' Peso, but I reckon I c'n take on a few dead birds without too much trouble."

Chris sighed heavily and scowled, not at all sure he liked the thought of Tanner handling a knife in his present state. The boys wouldn't be at all pleased if he brought Vin back missing a hand. Of course, they wouldn't be real happy if he brought him back with Peso's hoofprints all over his insides, either.

They definitely had to teach the man to stop runnin'.

"Just remember," he finally said, "Nathan ain't here and it's all I can do ta sew on a button. So whatever ya cut off stays off, ya got that?"

Vin stared at him, too tired even to scowl. "I's dressin' game b'fore I wore britches," he said in a flat, gravelly voice. "I c'n use a knife in m' sleep."

"Good," Chris grunted, rising to his feet, "because I figure that's exactly what you'll be doin'." He cast a last appraising look over Vin, liking neither his pallor nor the unsteadiness of his hands, and liking even less the air of loss, and of being lost, that hung about him. Hurting deeply for his friend, and frustrated by his own inability to help him, he shook his head and walked away without saying another word.

It was gonna be a long damn night.