Disclaimer: All characters from "The Magnificent Seven" series are the property of Trilogy Entertainment, the Mirisch Group, MGM Worldwide, and CBS. I have borrowed them for my own selfish pleasure but have returned them, slightly the worse for wear but generally intact. There is some violence, mainly gunplay (go figure, it's a western), and some mild cuss words.

Author's Note: This story was written prior to Nemesis. I had assumed that Chris believed the fire was merely an accident and that his guilt for not being there to save his wife and child was what drove him to be the man he is today. Of course, we all know better now. Yet, I wanted this story to be a companion piece to the show and not present a conflict to what will become Chris' base storyline in future episodes. So Duvall's character was not the murderer of his wife and child but merely a diversion that prevented Chris from saving his family from the true culprits. His guilt over his inability to save them is allieved in this story but his discovery of the truth concerning that night and his revenge on the true murderer still remains to be seen.

Four Corners had been quiet of late. Too quiet for Chris Larabee. He wasn't used to such things. It made him uncomfortable. It made him think of things he'd rather not, like the past, when life had been different from what it was today.

He tipped his chair harshly upright, its front legs slamming with shattering force onto the sidewalk. Frustrated by his musing, he rose abruptly and strode down the street, his spurs clicking rhythmically behind him. He had one errand to do this morning. He might as well get it done early.

It's time to move on, he thought. This waiting around for the Judge to recover was getting on his nerves. He had obliged the old man but he hadn't counted on the length of time it was going to take. After all, the Judge was an old man. He had been lucky to recover at all. But the worst thing was that the town was improving far faster than the Judge.

Maybe Mary Travis was right. Maybe all it needed was the announcement of hired guns and criminals avoided it for the most part. Sure, there had been trouble in the beginning, but it had slacked off considerably in the last couple of weeks.

Ezra Standish was complaining of the lack of ripe pickings in the saloon. In a town this size, people learned quickly that Ezra was a professional. It tended to make them a little skittish about sitting down at a gambling table with him. A gambler like Ezra never stayed long in one place. It wasn't prosperous, nor was it healthy.

The main thing keeping Buck Wilmington here was a flower named Blossom. Though Chris expected that Blossom's husband would eventually force Buck to depart Four Corners with much expediency one day.

And JD Dunne would be sure to follow the scoundrel when it happened. The kid was a leech. He had latched onto them that first day and had held on like a bearcat. Nothing deterred him. He was desperate to belong out west. Chris only hoped he'd live long enough to find his niche.

Now, Josiah Sanchez and Nathan Jackson were another story. They seemed to be taking root in this town. Nathan had a growing practice, while Josiah worked unceasingly on acquiring his own following at the mission. Such men had a different purpose in life than someone like Chris. He envied them slightly. They had a future.

Chris cursed, shoving the morbid thoughts away again. He paused by the mercantile store to light up a cheroot, his favored smoke of choice. He dragged on it heavily. Then he observed Vin stepping out of the store, a new box of cartridges in his hand. Vin grinned and nodded at Chris.

Chris pursed his lips around the cheroot, inclining his head towards Vin's purchase. "You expecting trouble or is that just wishful thinking?"

Vin slipped the box into his coat pocket. "I haven't had a wish come true in years, Chris. Besides, trouble always has a way of surprising you when you least expect it."

The owner of the store, Mr. Simms, suddenly came out. "Thought I heard your voice, Mr. Larabee." He handed a box of ammunition to the gunfighter. "They just came in. I put them on your tab."

Chris' grin almost turned sheepish as Vin's eyebrow arched humorously. Mr. Simms returned to his store and Chris pushed the cheroot to the other side of his mouth. "No harm in being prepared," he said evenly.

Vin laughed out loud and then leaned towards Chris. "Bull!" he told the man, observing the mirth in the gunfighter's green eyes. "You're being wishful."

Still chuckling, they moved down the street together, heading for the saloon. It was a bit early for whiskey, but coffee sounded good. Vin's eyes trailed off across the street towards the bank. He caught sight of movement down the alley beside it. A flick of a horse's tail at the far end. He put a hand on Chris' arm, signaling a halt. Chris obliged.

"The bank expecting a rear delivery this early in the morning?" Vin asked.

"Not that I was aware of," Chris replied tensely, his own nerves going on edge. He studied the area and then made a decision. "Get the others. I'll take a walk around back."

Chris and Vin parted. The gunfighter crossed the street diagonally while Vin beelined for the saloon, where some of the others most likely were already.

Chris went almost all the way to the end of town before he swung in behind the row of buildings. He eased himself carefully out around the corner in order to get a look at the possible situation. Eight horses were tied to a rail behind the bank. Surprisingly enough, there was no one with them. That was odd for a bank robbery. Usually there was someone left with the horses. Chris slipped quietly out and walked towards them, keeping close to the wall of buildings, his eyes darting around for slight movements in windows or on rooftops.

He approached the horses and reached out to touch the closest one in reassurance. It milled nervously, but remained quiet. He glanced up the stairs to the rear door of the bank, but it was closed. Chris walked down in front of the horses, only to come up short at the sight of a familiar saddle rig.

His face paled slightly and he drew in a sharp breath. He bent under the rail and ran his hand across the leather saddle. It was black with silver conchas embedded along its rim. Chris lifted the left stirrup flap and revealed initials burned into the ebony leather. P.D. Chris spat out his cheroot and spun back towards the door, a line of fury burning a path inside him.

His past had just rode into town.

He drew his sidearm and maneuvered to the stairs, consumed with walking straight into the bank, regardless of the odds, and finding the owner of that saddle.

Chris heard the rifle shot split the air just after the wood next to him shattered. It brought him back to his senses. He dove for cover behind some barrels set along the side of the bank. More bullets careened about, striking holes in Chris' vicinity, but none of them hit their true mark. He returned fire the minute he spied the sharpshooter across the way, near the only other landmark out here, the livery stable. Seconds later there was more shooting from inside the bank and then eight men poured out of the door.

Chris diverted his aim from the sharpshooter and laid down withering fire at the emerging outlaws. One went down as the rest returned fire, forcing Chris back behind his sanctuary. The men rushed to their horses in a desperate, mad scramble to escape.

Chris poked his head up and caught sight of the one man he thought he'd never see again. Ignoring the danger to himself he stood up, shouting, "DUVALL!" His gun took aim.

A huge, well-muscled man turned towards him, shock evident on the grizzled outlaw's bearded face. With a mere second of reaction time, Duvall ducked low over his horse's neck and Chris' bullet took out the man directly behind him.

Finally Chris' backup arrived as Vin and Buck ran down the alley alongside the bank, firing as they went. Another rider dropped. Then the horses were racing for open ground, and one's man laughter could be heard over the pounding hooves.

The bank's rear entrance opened again, and Chris whirled to cover it, but held his fire as Ezra emerged. Cursing, Chris jerked up his arm as Ezra raised his hands.

The fury in the gunfighter's eyes made Ezra's skin crawl. "They murdered a helpless bank teller before I could stop them," he announced. "But the currency is still accounted for. It seems they aren't adept at safecracking."

Chris turned to stare after the escaping outlaws, his jaw set tight, his mind dominated by a single thought.

Buck ran up to him, his own face full of shock. "Wasn't that . . . ?" He too had recognized the man.

Chris pushed past him roughly, running for the stable and his horse. "Yes," he snarled.

"Holy shit!" Buck exclaimed, staring after the fading cloud of dust. Vin glanced curiously for a second at Buck and then headed after Chris.

Within fifteen minutes the horses were saddled and the seven prepared to ride out after the outlaws. The entire time Chris Larabee said nothing, his face a mask of anger and tension. The rest of the men looked uneasily at each other. Buck kept looking at Chris and then back to the others, biting his lip.

"Chris," he finally said, his voice almost pleading. The gunfighter's eyes snapped to impale him with an icy stare. "They need to know," Buck implored almost meekly.

The others looked at Buck expectantly. Buck swallowed hard and then shook his head. "The man's name is Pierre Duvall and he's a low-down murdering scum. He escaped a hanging some years back." The others waited for more, for the real reason Chris was acting in such a hellbound manner, but Buck held back. It was up to Chris to tell them. He had learned that lesson already. He rubbed a hand absently along his throat, then shook his head and lamely answered, "Chris really, really hates him."

The others sighed in annoyance and then spurred their mounts to follow Chris before he did something rash.

Chris' muscles drew taut suddenly in accordance with his horse's as it's ears flicked forward abruptly. The stallion stopped on its own accord and stared off ahead and to the right. Chris strained his senses, listening for the slightest clue as to what had set the animal on edge.

He knew for a fact that it wasn't just imagination. After all these years together, they knew each other so well and had learned long ago to depend on the other's strengths. His horse had been on the trail as long as Chris had. It knew what was a danger and what was not.

Right now both of them knew that something dangerous walked these woods, and that the hunter could easily become the hunted. Chris' instincts told him that was exactly what had happened.

Duvall and his men had split up soon after their departure from town, forcing Chris and the rest to do likewise. Duvall was no fool. It wasn't long before he had split the group again, and Chris and Vin, once paired, had to separate also. Chris had been following Pierre Duvall for almost three hours now and with each passing minute Chris had shortened the distance between them, until they were barely an hour apart. Duvall was once a mountain man prior to becoming a bank robber, and therefore no fool in the woods. He had led Chris into his domain.

Patches of ice spotted the ground as Chris' clouded breath hung before him, a few seconds prior to blending into the cold mountain air. His agitation grew expansively by the minute. He glanced around him, not liking his position at all. The trees had only thinned out in an area to the left beside a steep, rocky hill. Chris looked down and his stomach twisted instinctively. Ravine was more accurate. Chris was being herded and he knew it. Duvall was leading him into an ambush and Chris' gut was screaming. It was time to get out of there.

Suddenly the sound of a hammer being quietly drawn back roared in his ears. It came from in front hidden in the trees. Chris jerked his horse's head around. There was no room in the woods to his right. The trees were too thick. Only one way was open to him. The hill.

The stallion seemed to know it, too. There was only a moment's hesitation as the horse gathered himself and leaped just as the gunshot rang out.

The tree next to Chris exploded, splinters sliced his neck and cheek. Then they were airborne, hanging there for what seemed like an eternity, when abruptly they dropped. Chris leaned back, putting most of his weight on the stallion's hindquarters and giving him balance. If he leaned forward while the horse went down the hill, it would not be able to hold Chris' weight.

The stallion shuddered as they landed. Chris felt as if his spine had just skewered his skull. The mighty beast braced himself as they started to slide down the steep grade, rock and debris racing beside them. Both of them threw all of their weight to the back. The horse was practically sitting on its rear haunches.

A fallen tree was directly in their path and Chris could feel his horse's muscles tighten in expectation of jumping it. They were sliding too fast to avoid it.

The stallion leaped over the tree, its body already preparing to brace for the impact of returning to the earth. Chris was thrown forward by the animal's jump and his hands pressed against its neck for a moment. He was in the process of leaning back again when suddenly his right shoulder exploded in red. The right side of his body went numb and he fell forward once again.

The stallion came down off balance, its neck dipping dangerously close to the ground. With all its strength, the horse tried to straighten up, but it was too late. It went down on one knee and then momentum took over as it fell to one side, pinning his rider's leg beneath its weight. Brushes and branches snapped under the two as they tumbled and fell, dirt and rocks flying up from their passage.

Dimly, the last thing Chris heard before the darkness swallowed him was the sound of victorious laughter, French laughter.

Sweet elation swept through Buck Wilmington as he rode into Four Corners a few hours before nightfall. He had never felt happier about seeing the dusty town. If there was one thing Buck hated, it was sleeping out on the open ground. Give him a warm bed any day, preferably with a female bed-warmer to go with it. He tugged on the reins of the horse he was leading and commented to its rider. "You are so lucky we got back in time."

Ezra and Buck had caught up to one of the robbers and succeeded in bringing him in alive.

Ezra swung out of his saddle and wrapped the reins around the post. "Do tell," he said to Buck. "I gather you have an appointment for this evening."

Buck laughed, dismounting. "I have an appointment every night."

They moved their prisoner into the jail, Ezra gesturing towards the new accommodations. The outlaw complied meekly.

"That does not surprise me," Ezra drawled at Buck. He turned the key and heard the resounding thunk of the cell lock slamming shut. He hung the key on a nail across the room.

Buck consulted his pocket watch and then slapped his hands together excitedly. "Minutes to spare."

Ezra raised an eyebrow and voiced a concern. "Being as we are the first back to town, I would assume that one of us should guard our refined guest." He bobbed his chin towards the cells.

"Well, Ezra I believe that you are the right man for that job." He clapped the gambler on the shoulder and prepared to leave only to be stopped by his friend's dry, southern response.

"Yes, you see I would be more than enthusiastic about spending a pleasant evening here in this delectable establishment, however . . ."

Sarcasm dripped from Ezra's words as Buck waited for the gambler to drop the other proverbial boot. " . . . I have been hired on at the saloon to run the gambling tables and so my other employer beckons this evening." He offered a twisted smile. "You on the other hand are not so gainfully employed."

Buck winced knowing that the insufferably smug dandy was right, but he was desperate. Blossom's husband was back in Yuma prison finally and it was Buck's first night with her in weeks. He gestured to their prisoner sitting sullenly in the dark cell. "Aw, whose gonna bother him in here? We'll just lock the door behind us."

Ezra shrugged. "Your call, my friend. You can explain the situation to our illustrious leader upon his return. I'm sure he'd find it fascinating, him being in such a fine mood this morning and being so especially understanding of late."

Buck frowned again. Damn it if Ezra wasn't right and Buck didn't like that one bit. Buck was already on Chris Larabee's bad side seeing as how he had told Mrs. Travis a little too much about the man's past. And then there was this morning's fiasco. In Buck's opinion, Chris had overreacted, way overreacted both times, but he didn't want to risk incurring the man's wrath again. He relented. "Fine!" he snapped in frustration. "I'll stay with the prisoner!"

Ezra grinned. "A wise decision, Mr. Wilmington." He headed out the door.

Buck called out after him. "If you see Blossom, tell her I'll be delayed!"

Ezra glanced over his shoulder back at Buck, a sly twinkle in his eye. "Oh, I will. Be rest assured that the fine lady will not want for company this evening."

"What!" Buck exploded, running for the door.

Just then the prisoner called out from his cell. "Hey, what about some dinner? I'm starving."

"Damn it!" he cursed throwing his hat to the floor. "My luck's not what it was, that's for sure."

Bright lights of pain flared behind his eyes as Chris lay there on the ground, not moving. That was the first sensation. He distantly became aware of smaller things. The sound of slow haggard breathing and finally the sharp stab of agony with each shallow breath.

He lay still, relishing the coolness of the earth, afraid to move away from its numbing comfort. He knew that there was more pain waiting as soon as he did. A part of his mind still couldn't believe he was alive. Something horrible had happened, but it hurt too much to grasp that elusive memory right now. It would come of its own accord eventually.

He heard a small wicker nearby and his mind snapped back with agonizing alacrity.

He remembered everything. The shot, the fall. Suddenly his body screamed in pain. His shoulder and right arm were useless, so he pushed himself up with his trembling left arm. His vision caved in and he fell back to the earth as sweat poured off his protesting body despite the cold. After several minutes of holding off unconsciousness he tried to rise once more, this time slower, resting his weight on his elbow. He looked around but his vision was not cooperating. Blurred shapes and shadows lingered. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut refusing to shake his throbbing head realizing that such an action would only cause more pain. Chris opened his eyes carefully and this time the world around him stumbled into focus.

His stallion was just off to the side, its head down and blowing hard occasionally. Dirt and blood spotted its sleek black coat. It was favoring its right foreleg. Bitterly Chris realized that if his horse was in that bad of shape, he was probably in much worse.

He began to take stock of his own injuries. He knew he had been shot in the back. To his relief, blood matted the front of his jacket so the bullet had found its way out. From the way his head spun and ached, he was sure it had impacted against something on the way down. His left leg was torn and bloody where it was pinned and dragged under his horse. He gingerly moved it and though the joints exploded with stabbing pain, he knew it wasn't broken. A small blessing. A very small one considering his other injuries.

"Damn," he hissed. The situation was not good.

How long was his next question. By the position of the sun only a couple of hours had passed. Long enough for Duvall to have killed him if he had thought Chris was still alive. The robber had most likely taken one look down the mountain and just assumed Chris was dead.

Just about, Chris thought. Duvall was long gone. Chris cursed again, this time loudly, startling his horse. He was more angry over letting Duvall get away than about his current predicament. A foolish gesture but one that took his mind off his own pain for a moment. His pistol was missing from its holster, probably laying on the hillside somewhere. It might as well have been in another state.

He had separated from Vin only a half a day prior and was supposed to meet back up with him later. Chris estimated that that time had come and gone. Vin's skill at tracking was exceptional so Chris had no doubt that Vin would find him eventually. He just had to stay alive long enough to give him a chance.

The distant sound of rushing water entered Chris' ears. Cold mountain water would certainly ease the monstrous headache that continually threatened to overwhelm Chris' rational thoughts. All he wanted to do was lie back down and slip into the pain free world of oblivion. A snap of anger surged through him. He'd be damned if he was gonna allow himself a moment of weakness. To do so would be death and he knew it.

He struggled to a sitting position, almost daring the pain to get worse. It obliged but Chris fought it as hard he had always fought life. It had never been kind to him; why the hell should it start now. He began to slowly drag himself towards the water. Just the thought of its cold, numbing nature drove him onward.

The stallion watched him go and when Chris disappeared through into the trees it followed just as slowly barely putting any weight down on its swollen leg but intent on not being left alone.

Chris barely heard his new shadow as he crawled the last few feet to the stream. Once there all effort seemed worth it as he sunk his throbbing head into the icy water. For a moment the pain intensified as thousands of pins and needles stabbed into his skull, but then gradually that too began to ease.

With his face half in the water Chris saturated his dry throat. A minute or two later, his thirst slackened, he lifted his head out feeling the rivers of excess water run down his neck and chest. He suppressed a shiver. He situated himself next to a nearby tree and slumped against it careful not to lean on his wound. He slowed his ragged breathing and watched his horse drinking warily beside him.

The stallion was the only link left to his past. He had turned his back on everything else long ago when Sarah and little Adam had died. A small shudder swept through him. He hadn't thought of his wife and son for a long time now. Maybe it was the pain or the loss of blood but he no longer had the strength to resist the flood of memories.

The flames of the fire rose up before him once again. He could feel the heat of it against his flesh as he stood outside their house watching as it consumed his only reason for living. In his mind he could hear them screaming from within though in reality there had been nothing but the crackling of wood and flame and his own anguished howl. But he had never stopped hearing their terrified cries for help. Help that had come far too late, all because of man named Pierre Duvall. Chris had never forgiven Duvall or himself for that verity.

Duvall may not have started the fire that murdered Chris' family, but he was as much to blame for preventing Chris from saving them. A day after Chris and Buck had hit Mexico, Duvall had been arrested and tried for murder but had escaped just before the hanging. At Buck's insistance they had joined the posse and tried to track him down but to no avail. When Chris had finally returned home, his life lay suddenly amongst the ashes, his wife and child paying the price for his absence.

It had been three years ago and he had spent so much of his life afterwards believing he would never find a reason to live again. He didn't deserve a second chance. He always found a reason to feel not good enough and it grew harder at the end of each day. He had longed for some distraction, some minute release to let him forget. So he had become an gunfighter, one that didn't care much about what happened to himself or to others.

Then one day something had changed him. Perhaps it was the thought that Sarah would have hated what he had become. Or maybe it was the sight of Mary Travis standing down a wagonful of drunken cowboys in an effort to save an ex-slave's life. Whatever it was it had brought him back from the brink. The town he now protected was his penance, a desperate last attempt to save his soul.

Too weary to stop them, more memories began to seep into his veins, snatches of scenes he had relegated to the dark corner of his mind that had always remained under tight lock and key. Trees and forests blurred and then blended into the only two people in the world he wanted to see. He could almost reach out and touch them. Sarah's face was slightly sad while little Adam's glowed with joy at his father. He felt weightless suddenly. Maybe he'd find some peace tonight in the arms of an angel.

His eyes slipped closed and Chris jerked awake. He couldn't sleep! He knew he would never wake up again if he did. He brought a trembling hand to his face. My god but how tempting it was, he thought, to be with Sarah and Adam finally, to feel her arms around me once more, to hear Adam's sweet laughter in my ears. His eyelids lowered and his head slumped, lost in the solace they offered. Then with a cry he wrenched himself hard awake again, terrified at how close he had come to giving in. He pulled himself out of his silent reverie. There was no comfort there.

He struggled to stand up, grateful for the pain, his swollen leg accepting his weight only grudgingly. He knew it wouldn't last long. He staggered towards his horse. It looked over at him but gratefully didn't shy away. Chris ran a hand over the horse's leg checking to see if it was broken. He almost sobbed with relief when it wasn't.

"Good boy," he whispered laying his forehead against its shoulder. Some of the gashes were deep but not life threatening unless they got infected. The horse had a better chance of surviving than he did. He reached for the bedroll that had amazingly remained attached behind the saddle. He was slipping into shock, his trembling an obvious sign. He eased himself away from the horse and limped slowly, agonizingly, back to the clearing wrapping the blanket around him as best he could with one hand.

Come on Vin, he murmured, where are you? Chris sagged against a tree at the edge of the clearing and slumped to his knees, crying out softly. He turned over easing his leg to a straight position. He tried to remain conscious but soon realized that it was a losing battle.

"Sarah, forgive me," was the last thing he whispered. Then the flames of the past engulfed him.

Vin dismounted and checked the trail again. The print was definitely Chris' horse. When Chris never showed at camp, Vin had gone off in search of him. Now it would be dark in less than two hours and he still hadn't found Chris. Vin looked up. He was almost at the apex of the mountain. He walked his horse the rest of the way up.

Where the hell was Chris? If he had found Duvall, Chris would have brought him to the camp. Wouldn't he? Vin remembered Chris' state of mind and enraged expression when they had separated. If Duvall had seen that face the outlaw might have turned himself into the local authorities rather than have Chris Larabee find him. But regardless, Chris' absence only meant that something had gone wrong. If he didn't find Chris soon the man would be on his own until morning.

The trees were tight here even near the top. He glanced over to the left and saw the steep slope cut down off the mountain and took care to keep him and his horse far enough away. Suddenly his eyes noticed the churned up ground up ahead. He knelt down to the earth and read her tell-tale signs. He looked over towards the cliff. "Jesus," he whispered, a sharp clear stab of apprehension piercing him. He stood quickly and ran to the edge.

Disbelief and fear flooded his senses. Chris' black stallion stood in the distant clearing but it wasn't moving well. Vin's eyes searched for Chris but didn't see him. He leaped back into his saddle and carefully turned the horse back down the way they had come. There had been another easier path down into the clearing a half mile back. He checked his timepiece. He didn't have much time before darkness descended on the mountain.

Nathan Jackson, Josiah Sanchez and JD Dunne rode into Four Corners just after sundown. The town was quiet except for the well lit, noisy saloon situated at the end of the street. The exhausted men led in two extra horses behind them both with riders, one sitting, one not.

Josiah took the reins of the dead man. "I'll deliver him to his final resting place," he told the others in his quiet almost dulcet, baritone voice.

Nathan nodded tiredly. It had been a long day. He noticed Buck's grey horse at the hitching rail near the sheriff's office. The glowing light emanating from the windows meant someone was inside. "Looks like Buck and Ezra had good luck tonight too. I'll add our man to the catch. Then I'm grabbing some sleep."

"Goodnight Nathan," Josiah offered moving off down the street with his silent companion.

JD leaped off his horse. "Doesn't anyone want to head for the saloon?"

Nathan eyed the enthusiastic young man wearily. He wondered briefly whether he had ever had that much unbounded energy in his own youth. It was so far in the past he couldn't even recall it. He had experienced too much of life apparently. "I'm sure they'll be someone in the saloon for you to talk to." He dismounted and moved to help his prisoner down off his horse.

JD frowned and then brightened as Buck burst from the jail, shouting, "Thank God almighty! You're here!"

Nathan's eyes narrowed with concern. "What's the matter? Trouble?"

"Hell, yeah! I'm late for an important appointment. You people are my salvation!" Buck glanced at JD. "Yo kid! I need you to handle a most serious job. Think you can manage that?"

JD's eyes widened at the prospect. Buck was actually gonna trust him with a real honest-to-goodness job! It was a miracle. "Sure! What do I have to do?" he inquired eagerly.

Nathan rolled his eyes at the kid's gullibility. Nathan knew Buck was just trying to get out of doing work. He led the prisoner past the two and into the jail so the man could join his fellow compatriot in crime.

Buck and JD came in right after, Buck's arm draped across the boy's shoulders. "Now we need to watch these hardened criminals till the Judge comes to town. We're taking shifts and mine is up so I'm passing the responsibility to you. Think you can handle it?"

"You bet!" JD shouted.

Just then, Mary Travis entered the jail, a heavy shawl wrapped around her against the growing chill in the air. "Did everyone make it back?" she asked, clearly concerned.

Nathan rubbed a hand deep into his burning eyes. "How about it, Buck?" he asked the scoundrel before he could dart out the door. "Answer Mrs. Travis' question."

Buck stopped but fidgeted as if he couldn't bear to be still. "Chris and Vin aren't back yet. I'm sure they'll be riding in with Duvall and his last two cohorts any time now."

His lips pursed with worry, Nathan regarded Buck. "Josiah caught sight of another set of hoofprints doubling back off the mountain, but we lost them in the darkness."

That perked Buck's interest. "Whose were they?"

"They weren't Chris or Vin's," Nathan stated dryly. Mary Travis' face tightened with further worry.

Buck considered the information and then grinned. "Chris is gonna be in a hell of a mood if Duvall gets away from him. I'd better enjoy myself while I can." He high tailed it down the sidewalk towards the saloon.

JD, ever on the lookout for some excitement, asked, "Do you think Duvall will head back to town to bust these guys out?" He gestured to the prisoners.

"I wouldn't rule anything out."

Mrs. Travis spoke up. "What about Mr. Larabee and Mr. Tanner? Shouldn't someone go look for them?"

Nathan's unease refused to wane but he shook his head. "We'd never find 'em now. We'll wait till sunup. Goodnight JD," he said walking out with Mrs. Travis. Suddenly he paused at the door and looked back at the kid. "I wouldn't do everything Buck tells you to do. You might live to regret it." JD only looked at him with wide-eyed disbelief. Buck was practically the kid's role model. Lord help him, Nathan thought. He bid Mrs. Travis a good evening and went to bed.

Mary Travis paused on the sidewalk gazing out into the darkness. Sometimes the town seemed an oasis compared to what waited folks outside this small slice of civilization. Though she remembered Mr. Larabee saying once that the town was almost too civilized for him. She wondered briefly what kind of life he was used to in order to make such a statement.

She had always hated being outdoors, being away from people. The countryside, though beautiful, was lonely and often deadly. Her late husband had loved it, of course, and so she had come to like it as well. But it had been a tragic decision. Death seemed to come too readily for people out here. It took a certain kind of individual to survive.

She hadn't thought of it before but she had come to respect all seven men who had willingly put their lives on the line for this town. The sudden thought of some of them dying in its defense struck her sharply. She silently prayed that the absent men would come home safely.