Setting: OW
His eyes never left the window. He'd lost track of the time and had studied every crack in the white paint on the sill and frame. The faded yellow cotton curtain barely moved and the air was close. He saw Mary in the distance, coming with his lunch tray. He clenched his eyes shut and gripped the sheets, trying to cope. The scenes played over and over in his head, from seeing himself tossing Vin over a saddle, hearing the raspy voice calling to him from a battered face in the hellhole in Fanning, the desert... he sucked in a painful gulp of air as that trek scorched his brain. Then the finale, the blurry face before him that was led away in chains... to a noose. The gallows made an unwelcomed appearance, but why shouldn't they? After all, he felt like the carpenter.
He sighed and felt his chest tighten again, that it should come to this. Happier memories played loud and clear and gave him a real pain. The angry scowl that seemed custom made for Chris Larabee, the mischievous blue eyes of the prankster, the bemused look and one or two words that could silence a Standish diatribe in it's tracks, seeing J.D. and Vin horsing around in the water, the eagle eye that never missed it's mark in a gunbattle, the keen mind that could find and track an impossible trail and that smile.
When he woke up earlier, he thought at first it was a bad dream. He'd been covered in sweat and frantic. But one glance around the room and the burning sight of the empty cot drove a stake in heart. He didn't remember falling on the floor, just Mary's face in front of him. That's when he knew... her eyes answered his silent cry. As she helped him back into bed and spoke in soft, velvet tones, the only thing he could think of was the deafening vacuum in space, where the soft drawl of 'Bucklin' belonged.
The clerk at Hanscom's Mechantile look up with little interest when the prison wagon rode by. Langston was the closest town to Bendix Prison and several times weekly, a wagon rolled in. He watched until it came to a halt in front of the sheriff's office. One guard drove the wagon, the other two rode on horseback.
The sheriff pushed his chair back and rose, when the door opened. He picked up the ring of keys.and opened both cells in the back of the building. He greeted the the guards as the first of the quartet of prisoners was ushered in.
"Evenin' Sheriff," the lead guard greeted, shoving the men in front of him. "Get in there!"
"Mac, we're gonna need you help with the other two," Jake hollered from the doorway, prompting the sheriff to go outside. Hank remained by the vacant cell, his gun trained on the entryway.
"Is that catchin'?" the sheriff inquired, spitting a large wad of tobacco juice in the gutter.
"No," the leader replied, lifting the first unconscious man upright. "This one's Tanner, he come through the desert a few days back, he's just wore out. The other's Quinn, a kid that took one in the gut at a stage coach robbery," he grunted, handing Tanner's sweaty body to the sheriff and Jake. He waited a few minutes until Jake returned, before moving the other man.
"Here you go, Mac," Hank said, handing the sheriff a group of folded papers. "That's their papers. The prison wagon will be in the morning to pick them up."
"You boy's staying over?" the sheriff asked.
"Nope. We'll get a bite then we gotta turn back. Got a full day ahead tomorrow. Thanks, see you in a few days."
The sheriff watched from the doorway as the wagon pulled away and returned to his prisoners. He left food and water for the four men in each cell. The older two, who looked haggard, hot and heavy, were sitting up quietly eating. The younger two were still out cold. He entered the cell and checked the youngest. The departing guards had taken all the manacles away and the pair were free of the chains. The boy was barely breathing and burning with fever. He lifted the shirt and spotted the filthy bandages around the boy's gut.
"Poor devil won't see another sunrise," he predicted and moved to the other cot. This young man was coughing and wheezing, but not in peril of dying. He helped him to sit up and two blue slits appeared. He handed one of the two canteens he'd brought in earlier to the injured man, who drank slowly. He saw the eyes blinking and trying to focus, between bouts of coughing.
"This is Langston, I'm Sheriff MacKenzie and Bendix will send someone over in the morning to pick you up." He stood and pointed to the tray. "You best eat up, I'll bring more water later."
Vin didn't move until after he left. He saw the kid shivering violently on the cot next to him. Grabbing onto the bars, he stood up and sucked his breath in as the room began to spin. It took several minutes, but he managed to stagger over and flop on the edge of the cot. The smell coming from the kid's wound was horrible. Vin had seen enough fatal wounds to know this boy wasn't going to live. He managed to use some of the canteen water to wipe the boy's face, and was surprised when the kid's eyes opened.
"Ya take it easy, now." Vin lifted his head and helped him to drink. The face turned away after just a sip.
"...s'cold... so cold... cold..."
The voice was so weak Vin nearly didn't hear him. He eyed the tattered, thin shirt the boy wore, and his own heavier one, a newer issue. He unbuttoned the boys old shirt and took his own off. Several minutes later, out of breath and chest aching from the effort, the exchange was complete. He pulled the paper-thin blanket from his cot and covered the boy up. He shuffled painfully to his own bunk and ate his meager dinner. After draining the canteen, he laid back and let exhaustion claim him.
Isaac Washington was old, he'd stopped counting a long time ago. The bright white hair stood like cotton over his dark, withered face. He'd been here so many years, he forgot sometimes about the other place, the read world. Oh, he got to town once in awhile, but being outside of the confines of the place he knew as home, scared the old man a bit. Seventy-five... eighty... he shrugged, he didn't know how many years since he was born. He paused and leaned on the shovel, tapping the soft dirt over the new grave.
His childhood in Georgia seemed far away, as did the endless days in the fields picking cotton and the harsh nights and brutal beatings. But that changed when he'd run off... during a violent storm. He never looked back, he was a young man then and found trouble waiting at every bend. He worked the riverboats awhile, he loved the Mississippi River and the powerful current that ran under his feet. But then he met a woman... and his troubles got worse. He was young and foolish and let his heart rule his head. She lured him off the river and they found themselves in Texas. He got a job working on a ranch as a cook. She not only took the money he'd saved, but the money from the cashbox that the foreman used to pay the hands. Nobody believed him, of course, and he ended up in Bendix. He didn't how many years ago that was. He stayed in the clinic all the time now, helping the doctor to patch up the prisoners.
"Po' young fella... somebody's son..." he mourned, bowing his head and saying a prayer.
"Isaac?"
"Yes suh?" He turned and saw Dr. Burke approaching. Doctor, he shook his head sorrowfully. He didn't believe that man was ever a healer. The old brown eyes had seen too many prisoners die at his botched attempts at surgery and healing. When he was sober, he was barely competant, and that was rare. Isaac didn't miss the flask sliding into the coat jacket, or the uneven gait as he grew closer.
"Who is that boy in the clinic?" he slurred, having just woken up after a long night of drinking.
"He's new, come this mornin', Suh, he's got a fever and..."
"Who's that?" The doctor slurred, leaning on the old slave's shoulder to read the name on the cross.
Issac eyed the black lettering on the wooden cross and paused. One thing he'd learned on the riverboats was his numbers and letters, enough to get by anyhow.
"He come this mornin' too... but he's too bad off... fever took 'im. I'll be right in... soon as I say a word over him."
The doctor read the crooked letters spelling the dead prisoner's name. "What he'd do?"
" Don't matter none now... he's at the Lord's table." Isaac answered gruffly, handing the doctor a slip of paper. "Dexter brung this with the two of 'em. Yuh need..."
"Don't get so uppity, Isaac," The drunk roared, "you remember your place. I know my job... I'll sign it and get it to the warden." He squinted trying to read the guard's report. "Murderer... hah... he won't be breakin' bread with the Lord. He'll be eatin' fire..."
Isaac left the scowl on his face until the bigot left. He rested both hands on the cross and read the name again. "Lawd, help this boy find a place at yuh table. He's lost and needs yuh light. Amen. " He stood and gripped the cross for a minute and eyed the crooked letters. "God Keep Yuh, Vin Tanner."
Exhausted but hopeful, Colt was whistling when he eased off his horse. He grimaced and stretched, rubbing his aching back. He ambled into the clinic and saw two heads spin to look at him. Both were veiled, and housing dispair. The tune died in his throat when he saw the empty cot. His eyes tore around the room, and he stepped in and closed the door.
"Where's Tanner?"
"He's gone," Will stood and took the old bandages with him.
"Jesus," Colt rocked back, rubbing a hand through his hair. "When? He wasn't that bad off when I left Sunday morning."
"He was still breathin' when they took him," Will relayed, getting another confused look.
"Mary?" Colt inquired, moving to her side. He saw the indelible traces of sadness in the pretty face and the eyes were red-rimmed and hollowed in pain. The pretty widow was sitting next to the marshal, who was sleeping. "How's he doing?"
"The same. He's suffered quite a blow. Tanner and him worked together back in Four Corners. They were friends. He's blaming himself for that boy being taken out of here."
"Taken away? When? By whose authority?" Colt was steaming and his ruddy face reflected his anger.
"A judge," she replaced Wilmington's limp hand on the sheet covering him and stood. "The same one you talked to. The prison wagon came yesterday morning to pick him up. How could he? I mean after what he read... he had to see that boy was no killer. Even if he had doubts, saving the marshal should have earned him a reprieve. He should have had a chance to speak his peace, clear his name. He was framed, you know."
"Bendix prison?" he fumed, all to famliar with the deadly means of transport and the distance, "He wasn't strong enough for a ride in that meat wagon.
Dammit, I'm gonna shoot Eddie," He slammed his fist into the wall, "Then I'm gonna wire that prison and tell them..."
"Might as well spit into the wind," Mary hissed, releasing her wrath.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Colt caught up to her by the door and spun her around. He saw the tears streaming down her face and his mouth fell open.
"Mary, what's wrong?"
"Not here," she choked and nodded with her head.
He followed her outside and down the street, to a quiet bench on the south side of the church. She slid her hand into her apron pocket and withdrew a slip of paper. She handed it to him and wiped her eyes, now dull and void.
"This came a couple hours ago from the sheriff in Langton. Eddie wired this morning, he was going to ride out there tomorrow, once you got back." Her voice wavered and the tears fell again. Try as she might, those blue eyes and that soft drawl had a firm grip on her heart. She rested her face against his broad shoulder and welcomed the strong arms. She heard the catch in his voice, as he read the telegram.
"Tanner dead... fever... judge and territorial office notified."
"Son-of-a-bitch!" Colt swore, still seeing the marshal's fevered eyes in the desert. He remembered all too well the frantic gaze and the promise he made.
"Christ, I promised that marshal I'd keep that boy safe." He sat down hard on the bench and dropped his head into his hands. "My God, Mary, what have I done?"
"You're human Colt, not God. You tried... did your best. You damn near ran a horse into the ground to find that Judge. It's on his conscience, not yours." Mary gripped both sides of his face and stroked the bronzed cheek. "You're a credit to that badge... you know how I feel... " she said huskily, wanting to take the pain from his eyes.
He covered her hand with his own and kissed it tenderly. Finally, he rose and eyed the clinic. "He doesn't know, doe he?" he asked of the critically ill patient.
"No... he's been asking." Mary pushed the hair from her face and eyed the boarding house. "I can barely look in his eyes. Will and I talked about it and we agreed that he's too frail. If he finds out that boy died, after what he did... well, it could push him over. He's barely fighting now... " Her voice trailed off and she took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, "I won't lose him too!" She said defiantely, fire in her eyes.
"You quite a woman, Mrs. McGuinness," he said thickly, drawing her close and kissing her in the shadows of the building.
"...and you're still a sweet-talking devil Sheriff Haskill," she replied, resting her hand against his face. "Dinner's at six, don't be late. You look awful and I don't need another body in that clinic. You get some rest. I'm gonna get Buck Wilmington back on his feet and damn the devil if he tries to stop me."
Vin's chest exploded and he turned over, hitching himself up on his elbow. He wiped his mouth against his sleeve and rubbed his watery eyes. He slumped back onto a bed and wondered on the strange room through blurry eyes. His pounding head seemed to be keeping time with his chest and leg. He absentmindedly rubbed the leg and winced. A dark face suddenly appeared in front of his line of vision.
"Nate?" he croaked, feeling a hand lifting his head. The water went down easy and he sighed in brief contentment.
"That fever's got yuh addled a bit Son, m'names Isaac Washington. I got some broth... " he suggested, as he pulled the confused young man upright. He pushed him back gently and patted the soggy shirt as he left.
"Isaac..." Vin frowned and shook the cobwebs from his head, as he eyed the empty cots in the room. Where was Buck?
"Here yuh go, Quinn," Isaac sat on the chair next to the bed and held out a spoon.
"Quinn?" Vin protested as the spoon slid in his mouth. The broth was good and he took several more spoons, before he noticed the bars on the window.
"Jail?"
"Yeah, Son, they brung yuh in this mornin'," he managed to get the last of the broth in the weak prisoner and returned to the stove, pouring some herb tea. He grabbed a biscuit and made his way back to the bed. "Yuh been lost in a fever, the poor other boy didn't make it... Tanner," he shook his head sorrowfully, "I buried 'im out back. Here yuh go, Jamie, this tea is gonna help that mess in yuh chest get movin' along."
Vin's brows creased as his muddled head put the missing pieces together. He nibbled on the buttermilk biscuit and sipped the bitter tea, as the mystery began to clear up. Tanner was dead; his fingers rubbed the pocket where the numbers were on his shirt. He recalled the guard assigning him a number and switching shirts with the sick kid. So Vin Tanner was officially dead, he shivered as the thought ran through his head.
"I got some water cookin', them chills 'ill go away after we clean yuh up some."
"Huh?" Vin blinked and saw the wrinkled face crease.
"I wuz sayin'... a bath will do wonders... yuh want another biscuit?"
"No... thanks... Isaac." he stammered, his mind reeling. What name did he use? What was this kid arrested for? Hell, he might just be buying time for another noose. His hand crept to his throat and he winced.
"Yuh throat sore too? I got a poultice..."
"Not sore... just swallowed wrong... thanks." Vin nodded, his heavy eyes darting.
"Here, yuh eat all of that, yuh need to get some strength back." Isaac set down a plate with two biscuits with preserves on them. He poured some more water onto the bitter black tea leaves in the prisoner's cup. "Yuh look a little a worn... I found some balm in yuh pocket, for that sunburn. Spit it out, Boy..." He addressed the confused stare.
"I can't remember much... Why can't I remember?" Vin frowned, nibbling on the sweet treat and sipping his tea.
"Well, it says here," he lifted the ledger with the guard's notes. "Yuh name's Jamie Quinn and yuh robbed a stage coach. Judge'll be by next month sometime to set yuh time."
A robbery? Vin's heart quickened, that wasn't a hanging offense unless someone got killed. But the notes would have said robbery and murder, wouldn't it? Jamie Quinn, he rolled the name over in his head and eyed the barred window. He thought briefly on the boy who died too young and was resting in a grave bearing the Tanner name. Hope flittered overhead and he snatched it, as Isaac came over with a basin of sudsy water.
He didn't remember falling asleep, but years of experience had given him a strong inner alarm. His eyes shot open and the bright light caused him to blink. Something was wrong, very wrong. He turned away and covered his eyes, until they got used to the light. He coughed more from the reeking smell than from the congestion in his lungs. He was dizzy and disoriented and trying hard to focus. The foul stench of liquor and vomit lingered close, causing him to gag. A hand turned his face with force and he pulled back, tensing up. He didn't have to see to know it wasn't the old man, Isaac. The ruddy complexion and bleary eyes gave him pause, but the silver glint of the knife made his heart beat rapidly. It was then his elbow hit a hard surface. This wasn't a bed... it was a table.
"Get the hell away..." Vin repelled, gaging at the awful smell, "Yer drunk..."
"I'm Dr. Burke," the heavy breather managed, swaying, "and you keep a civil tongue, Leonard." he backhanded the protesting patient hard and secured his wrists. He saw the matted head rising and shoved it hard against the table.
"Leonard?" Vin choked, trying to break free of the arm on his face. Suddenly, he felt the unmistakeable smoothness of leather across his throat. He suddenly realized that the same strap that bound his throat to the surface, also bound his hips, wrists and ankles. His eyes widened in horror and his mouth went dry as the doctor staggered and nearly fell on him. Vin swallowed hard and felt the bile rising, as his eyes took in the filthy knife. By the looks of it, blood, puss and God knows what else, from every other poor prisoner who ended up here, was clinging to the rusty blade.
"Ya ain't stickin' me with that thing..." Vin gasped, the leather cutting into his voice box. Before he could argue further, a filthy gag was shoved in his mouth.
"I warned you Leonard," the drunk leered, leaning in and patting the anxious face, "...don't you worry. I'm gonna take that bullet out of your belly.
We'll have you on your feet and back to your outfit in no time. Those damn bluebellies..."
Vin's eyes were working overtime, darting frantically as they absorbed the disoriented man's words and followed the filthy knife as it hovered over his chest. The wavering hand moved his shirt aside and scowled at the bandages protecting the broken ribs.
"Hmmm...." Burke slobbered, "...we'll have to cut them away..." he paused and laid the knife on Vin's bandaged chest. The frantic breathing of the unwilling participant in the mad doctor's scheme, made the instrument waver in time with the patient's heart.
"No..." Vin muffled against the rancid gag. The son-of-a-bitch was lost in time, back in the war... and ready to gut him like a fish. Then the body moved away and Vin relaxed against the restraints. He felt sweat pouring off his face and running down onto the cot. Several minutes went by and he got his breathing under control. The extra efforts and small fight had his chest flaring painfully. He cursed inwardly as the body lurched forward, holding a brown bottle and a soggy cloth. The acrid smell identified the narcotic and Vin shook his head.
"Now, now, Leonard," Burke held Vin's forehead hard and used his free hand to cover the frantic boy's nose. "It's only chloroform, Private Leonard, just relax and breath... when you wake up, the bullet will be out of your belly."
Vin struggled and fought but his air gave out and the drug invaded him by force. His mind whirled and then everything went black.
Mary tossed the basin of bath water outside and picked up the bowl of custard. Her patient was propped up and she frowned at the flush on his cheeks. The wayward infection had a good hold on him and his fever spiked again during the night. He'd been very restless and wore his weak body out fighting in his sleep. She sat down and placed the sweet pudding on a wooden tray with short legs that was resting over his lap. She saw his closed eyes twitching and frowned.
"Come on Son, I don't have all day," she barked, tapping his face, "Get those blues open and look at me."
Buck's heavy head was nestled comfortably in a soft, cool pillow. He was semi-awake during the bath and it felt good to be clean and not drenched in sweat. The soft linen shirt felt good too and her voice was tinged with concern. Her voice... he let his mind wander and recall how that strong voice pulled him out of the storm so many times over the last few days. He head ached and he didn't want to open his eyes, but the hand on his face was persistant. He pried his eyes open and saw the pretty face, the gray hair being the only signs of aging.
"Hey, Mary..." he whispered, wincing inwardly at the scratchy voice.
"Morning Handsome," she cooed, brushing a stray lock of hair from his eyes, "How you feelin' Marshal?"
"It's just Buck," he sighed, his eyes darting to the empty cot where missing friend should be. "Any word on Vin?"
She managed to get broth into him, while she thought on the answer. He was weak and his lungs were loaded with congestion. She spooned a dollop of custard into his mouth and lifted a mug of cold cider.
"No, the sheriff is going to ride over to Bendix today," she relayed, knowing it was only partially true. Colt wanted to see the grave and check the records with the Warden. His main goal was to find the Judge, as far as he was concerned, his job wasn't done. Vin Tanner might be dead, but Colt intended to keep his promise and clear the boy's name. "I'm sure he'll have news by the weekend."
Buck shook his head, his stomach was already churning. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Vin being dragged away in chains. He knew the others would be here soon, but would it be too late? What if the Vin got sentenced after he arrived? What if the hanging took place before the sheriff could stop them? Every time he thought of what he'd done, his shame and guilt were harbored by anger. Why didn't Vin leave when he had the chance? How could he look them in the eye after what he'd done.
"Damn sorry-assed tracker..."
"How's that?" Mary cocked her head and prodded the pale lips. "Now look! I told you already, you can't win. This food's going in you, one way or another. You can't help that boy if you don't get better. He was a fighter; how about you showing your grit?"
"The Rangers need a woman like you..." Buck coughed and grabbed onto her hand as a horrid pain shot through his gut. He bent forward and held on until the parade of wet coughing came to a halt. He was left gasping and hissing as the white-hot flames shot through him. He felt her arms around him and resting against her, gulping for air. "Sorry..."
"Don't be," Mary teased, rubbing his back and waiting for the heavy breathing to level out, "... been awhile since I held onto a handsome man in bed..." She smiled at the weak laughter erupting from the injured man. Finally, she eased him back and raised an eyebrow, holding the spoon.
"That husband of yours..." Buck noted, taking the custard and a long sip of cider, "...was damn lucky."
"You play your cards right, Handsome, and you may be number two," she teased, and was rewarded with the weakest of a Wilmington winning smile. She got the rest of the soup in him and drank in his soft laughter. Finally, the heavy eyes slid shut and she eased a pillow out, lowering him. She moved the tray and unbuttoned the cotton shirt. She bathed his face, neck and chest with cool water and alchohol, and frowned at the heavy, forced breathing. She was about to make some herbal tea, when the door opened and a menacing cloud in black filled the frame. His eyes narrowed and he glared at her before crossing the room. The stormy green eyes rested on her for a moment, before cascading around the room. She didn't miss the emotive light when they hit the slumbering patient.
Chris wasn't sure if the feeling that just hit him was relief or worry. He'd seen worse bodies and most were being measured by the undertaker. The horrid breathing and waxy face with slashes of scarlett were unsettling. But he was alive... and that felt damn good.
"Buck!" Chris cried out and reached out his arm, only to find himself smacked in the chest. His anger flashed, buoyed by riding nearly all night. "Look Lady, we've been ridin' all night and I'm in no mood to be sociable. I'm Chris Larabee and I'm going to see Buck Wilmington."
"I don't care if you're the King of Spain." Mary drilled sternly, glaring right back, "Don't raise your voice to me. He's exhausted and needs his rest. Turn them fires down, Son, you're not scaring me," she warned of the deadly green eyes.
"Look Ma'am..." Chris gritted, eyes flashing, only to be cut off by a firm hand and steely voice.
"No, you look! It's Mrs. McGuiness and I don't intend to repeat myself." She hissed and forced him backwards, to the door. "That boy's hovering at death's door and I won't have a bunch of dirty, smelly visitors tossing dust all over him. Out! now!" she commanded, watching the green eyes narrow and the mouth form a grim line.
For several pregnant seconds, there was a deadly silence, then Mary craned her head as a snicker arose. "Something funny, Son?" she asked a boy with black hair and large hazel eyes.
"No Ma'am... "J.D. chuckled, "You sound just like Nathan."
"Shut up, J.D., " Nathan shoved the youth sideways and pushed past the livid Larabee. "You'll have to excuse us, Mrs. McGuinness," Nate offered with his hand, "We're rode hard from Four Corners for Buck and Vin. I'm Nathan Jackson, that's J.D.Dunne and Ezra Standish," he paused as they nodded, "This here's Josiah Sanchez..."
"The preacher?" She nodded, recalling the telegram. She listened silently as the dark skinned man with soulful eyes made the introductions. "You're the healer," She studied his face and saw the nod, "Vin told me about you... all of you..." she eyed the group and bit her lip.
"Vin?" Chris hissed, eyeing the empty room. "Where is he?" His eyes narrowed when the strong woman's eyes flinched and she dropped her head briefly. He felt her hand on his arm and something about the deep blue gaze made him move. They left the clinic and she hustled them into the sheriff's office. Eddie was behind the desk and jumped up when the group entered.
"Mary?"
"Eddie, these are the marshal's friends from Four Corners... you remember the wire?" she waited and saw the head bob. "Go find Colt for me?"
"About Vin, Ma'am?" Nate moved closer, like Chris, not liking the grim look he saw.
"I'm sorry," she sighed, eyeing them all, but zoning in on the blond with the intense eyes. "He's gone."
"Gone where?" Josiah asked, eyes creasing in suspicion.
Mary rubbed her fingers over her eyes and sighed deeply. Chris didn't need to hear the words, that small motion spoke loud and clear. He slumped and bit his lower lip, kicking the leg of the desk. "Damn..." he said softly, dropping his head and fisting both hands.
"You can't mean he's dead?" J.D. choked, suddenly catching on. "But the wire said they were both in the clinic..."
"They were, Son," Mary spoke up, "He was a fighter, damn near died on me that first night." She paused and rested a hand on Chris Larabee's arm. He flinched but didn't pull back. She winced at the burning pain in his eyes, when the damp, blond head finally rose. "He was either calling out for you with a soft whisper, or cursing at you with his face screwed up," she shook her head and saw Chris's lips turn up. "Couldn't figure it... " she shook her head, then continued, "Colt and Eddie found them outside town. That boy was totin' the marshal on his back... with a travois..."
"God..." Nathan hissed, thinking of the impossible situation.
"I cursed and hollered and got his dander up, and he fought back. He was making good progess, until that meat wagon took him away."
"A prison wagon?" Ezra mused.
"The marshal told us what happened and Colt, he's the sheriff, he rode all the way to Crystal City to meet the circuit judge." She handed Josiah, who was closest, a folder, "It's all there, the marshal's testimony, what Eddie and Colt saw and the newspaper article telling how that boy saved the marshal's life. Colt promised the marshal he'd protect Tanner..." she sighed, "...and he tried his best, I want you all to realize that. He damn near killed himself and that horse getting to the Judge in time..."
"But?" Ezra prodded, eyeing the wall of ice that had become Chris Larabee.
"But that Judge not only told Colt he'd protect Tanner, he even wrote it down and signed it. Then he stabbed us in the back. Tuesday morning the prison wagon came, with orders from the same Judge to transport Tanner to Bendix to be executed on Friday."
"Friday isn't until tomorrow!" J.D. exclaimed, "We still got time. Did you wire them and tell them... Did..."
"J.D." Nate held his hand up, seeing the last painful piece of the puzzle dangling from the pretty woman's lips.
"We got a wire yesterday," She handed it to Nate, "I'm sorry. I tried to stop them... that boy was way too sick to be carted for ten hours in that meat wagon."
"Fever took 'im." Nate said simply, handing Josiah the telegram. "You didn't tell Buck," Nate asked, his healing instincts honing sharply.
"No, me and Will, he's the doctor here," she paused, "We decided not to, he was near death himself and when they took Tanner out in chains," she bit her lip and her voice cracked, 'Then Buck... he... he screamed... it was a Godawful sound... went right to my bones..." She broke away and walked to the window, clasping her arms around her waist. Finally she turned back to the stunned group, "You see, until that moment the boy was a stranger to him, sort of... but something happened... Tanner wanted to say goodbye..." She sighed, "Just as the wagon was ready to pull out, the marshal screamed... but he called him Vin, not Tanner."
"His memory came back," Nate sighed, rubbing his neck, "Vin musta done that... he knew Buck would fight for him, if he remembered."
"I think a visit to this legal reptile is in order," Ezra said with disdain. "...and a visit is just what I had in mind," Colt said, entering the room, "I intend to have a word with that lyin' sac of shit."
"Colt!" Mary warned, but he brushed her aside.
"He lied to me, Mary." His bitter voice and flinty eyes chilled the room. "He promised me he'd protect that boy. I gave the marshal my word... I gave Tanner my word and now he's dead. That Judge is gonna be sorry he fucked with Colt Haskill."
Chris turned his lips up and nodded slightly with approval. He shifted, trying to find a position that didn't cause his heart to ache so. For a few sweet days, Vin was alive again and he had his soul back, but now he felt the coldness seep inside again. Vin was gone, but his name wouldn't be muddied.
"I want this bastard."
They all turned as Chris finally spoke. His eyes drilled into the clear ones of the Salt Flats lawman who nodded in silent agreement.
"Is Buck gonna live?" Chris asked Mary who took a deep breath and shrugged.
"It's a coin toss," she fretted, "He was doing a little better, but his fever spike overnight. He's so weak and he used all his energy fighting already. He's struggling hard, but I think it's because of Vin. If he finds out..."
"Then we won't tell him, not until he's stronger," Chris decided, then turned his attention to the irate lawman. "Where did this judge slither off to?"
"I haven't been able to find out. He's disappeared," the sheriff was disgusted, "Why am I not surprised?"
"...and just who is the paragon of integrity?" Ezra inquired, scanning the newspaper account painfully.
"Uh... Judge Spencer..." Colt started.
"...fuckin' Hazzard," Chris finished, punching the wall hard enought to send everything hanging on it all over the floor." This was followed by several hisses and a contorted face.
"I take it you've had the pleasure?" Ezra cocked his head, stood next to Chris and handed him the folder.
"Not yet," Chris vowed, flexing his fist, "But I'm gonna make a big impression."
"Who is he, Chris?" J.D. asked.
"He's the bastard who framed Vin." The blond responded, eyes a livid green.
"But Vin said Eli Joe...." J.D. tried.
"Eli Joe was hired by Hazzard. From a distance, he could pass for Vin. He even wore a hide coat the day he murdered that farmer," Chris recalled, sitting on the edge of the desk and reading the paperwork compiled by Colt and the newspaper. He bit his lip when he saw the drawing of Vin pulling Buck.
"What's the Judge's angle?" Josiah asked.
"The land." Chris said distractedly, flipping the paper over and reading the rest of the information.
"Kincaid wouldn't sell and it was a sweet piece, one that the railroad wanted." He finished reading and handed the folder to J.D., as he temper flared, "Shit..." the leader smashed his fist again.
"You can't break his face if you bust that hand," Nate warned. "What's the plan, Chris?"
"Until we find out where Hazzard is," he paused and eyed the clinic. "Me, Nate and J.D. will stay here, until Buck's through the worst of it. I won't leave him. Josiah and Ezra, I'd like you to ride out to Bendix. You check and make sure..." he bit off the reply and walked outside without finishing.
"Not today," Colt interjected, looking at the exhaustion painted on all five faces. "It's a full day's ride out there and you're beat. You get some grub, get some rest and stop by the clinic later. Seeing you may be the best medicine for him right now," he said of Buck Wilmington.
Mary followed the somber man in black outside and rested a hand on his slumped shoulder. Her mind flew back in time to Tanner's delirium. Other than Buck, the one name he called out to was this somber man of incredible will. One look at the pain in the handsome face before her answered the lingering question. She felt the rest behind her and turned back.
"You get over to the boarding house and get some breakfast. I got my hands full with the marsh... with Buck and don't need any more bodies in there." She turned to Chris and saw this wincing and gripping his swollen wrist. "Hmpph... you men are a hard-headed lot. Come on, we'll soak that in cold water and rewrap it."
"Ma'am..." J.D. stepped forward and held out his hand. "For what you did... for Vin and Buck... thank you."
"Your welcome, Son." She took his hand and eyed the group, "After you eat and get cleaned up, you can have a short visit with him. Go on now," she urged.
The clean clinic was quiet and Chris's mind was far away, although his eyes were trained on the shallow breather before him. His thoughts went to the words in the report he'd read earlier. A sharply written piece about two men who entered the desert as a lawman and a bounty, but were transformed by circumstances stroked by a finer hand. As he watched Buck's face, he wondered about those harsh days. How being that close to death in such a barren place changes a man. Would whatever they shared in those long hours change Buck?
"Damn, Cowboy, sometimes ya think t'much!"
"Vin..." he sighed and used his free hand to rub his weary face. Losing the Texan a second time was much more painful. To have that glimmer of hope danging before his eyes, suddenly explode in his face, was agonizing. Most of all, his gut was torn up at the thought of Vin dying alone. He thought on the fever that claimed his friend. What if he was calling out to them? What if the chains had taken the last fight from him? What if... he jerked slightly as the door slammed.
She watched Chris carefully as he sat next to Buck's bed. His hand was in a basin of cold water and he was hunched forward, studying every feature on Wilmington's slack face. The only visible sign of emotion was the rippling waves in the water, where his trembling hand was resting. She sat a tray down on the empty chair next to him and resting a hand on his slumped shoulder.
"How about I wrap that for you?" she asked and watched the head dip slightly.
She gently lifted the injured hand from the water and dried it off, before wrapping securly. She moved the water away and pointed to the tray. "You need to eat," she offered, "I know it's not a t-bone..."
"It'll do," Chris grunted, picking up the sandwich and taking a bite. He watched as the widow bathed Buck with skilled hands, while speaking to him the whole time. The voice was firm, but the tone was full of care and concern. He could easily see how she dragged Vin back from the hounds of hell that grabbed him. Finally, she pulled the sheet up and sat on the edge of the bed, facing him.
"You two go back a long way?" she inquired on a hunch she felt.
"Yeah... twelve years or so..." Chris paused, took a sip of coffee and rested his eyes on his oldest friend. "They don't come any better."
"To have friends ride in looking as worn as your five did," she smiled a little, "well that says a lot about him." She saw his eyes glance at the empty cot and the sandy brows crease in pain. "I'm sorry, Mr. Larabee... he got to me, that one..."
"It's Chris," the blond disarmed easily, studying her hurt eyes, "Mr. Lababee's back in Indiana with my mother." He paused and saw her eyes shimmer briefly, before she shook off the emotional flow and squared her shoulders. He took her hand and gave a small squeeze, waiting for her eyes to clear, "... the eyes, huh?" he quizzed gently of Vin's telltale windows. He saw her bit her lip and nod and mirrored her motion. "Yeah... I know..."
The tender moment was broken when the dark head moved. She saw the blond man's features soften as the morning light illuminated his predicament. The awful, agony in his eyes reflected what painful truth his soul was bearing. She rested her hands on the back of his tense shoulders and gave a good squeeze, sensing he needed to be alone.
"I'll be outside," she offered and departed.
The thick river of mud he was stuck in moved again. Buck turned his head, sensing something was different. It was the smell that caused him to stir. Mary was either cinnamon and coffee or lilac. This was a male smell, pungent and sweaty. His eyes peeled open and he saw black denim knees and followed the line. The pale face was blurry, but the black shirt, blond hair and green eyes were a salvation. He sucked in a painful breath of exclamation and his wavering hand grabbed air, until the other's latched on.
"Chris..."
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