Setting: OW
Disclaimer: The following is a work of fanfiction based on the CBS television series, The Magnificent Seven. It is in no way intended to infringe on the copyrights of CBS, MGM, The Trilogy Entertainment Group, The Mirisch Corp., or anyone else who may have legal rights to the characters, settings or song references. I don't own the characters. This story is strictly for entertainment. No monetary gain will be made from anything contained in this story.
NOTE 1: I want to thank the kind, generous and understanding editor, aka KET, for effortlessly going through this with her red pen. Thanks Pard, you got no idea how relieved I am to have my' assets' covered. I am very very grateful, KET, thanks a million.
This story is set before the seven meet.
The scent of sage hung heavy in the air as the setting sun set fire to the pine trees dotting the mountains. In an hour or so, a brilliant field of stars would decorate the night sky. The desert siren would sing, sending a cool breeze through the town.
Despite its position as the state capitol, the youthful city's streets were alive with rough and rowdy men. They spilled from saloons and dancehalls creating havoc. Blades, bullets and brawn provided the entertainment for the ruthless, restless men who worked on the railroad or in the silver mines or those passing through who were looking for trouble.
He walked up Root Street and turned the corner onto Beverly Drive, seemingly unaffected by the bodies and blood spilling nearby. The shrill whistles of the policeman arriving didn't cause his features to stir. He paused at the gate, eyeing the older residents with reverence. Then he crossed into the Lone Mountain Cemetery and made his way to the newest resident.
Sighing heavily, his pain quickly turned to anger. His fist gripped the serpent's head on the tip of the black walnut cane nearly crushing it. He laid the flowers at the foot of the simple stone before bowing his head. The sound of a twig snapping drew his head up. His hand went to the Colt strapped to his hips.
"No need fer that."
He turned, squinting in disbelief at the young man before him. Twenty-five perhaps, wearing buckskins with his long hair hidden under a slouch hat. But the eyes were keen and older than his years. They were a shade of blue that could turn deadly. The young man didn't turn away as most did when they met him. He squared his shoulders and didn't blink, keeping his eyes locked. That tenacity brought a derisive smile.
"I heard ya was lookin' fer me..."
He eyed the sawed off shotgun hidden under the long coat and aimed right at him. He took out a solid silver flask and offered it, but the young man declined. He took a long draw and turned back to the grave. He eyed the deserted graveyard and frowned, causing the newcomer to chuckle softly.
"Lost 'im 'bout four days back. I keep m'own company, stay alive that way."
"You're much too young to be so cynical."
The scruffy man's eyes drew together briefly, then he scoffed, tossing his head. That made the older man smile. He wasn't sure what the word meant but understood how it was used. He might not be book smart, but he was world wise and that was much more important.
"Did Mr. Eliason discuss the reason for your hire?"
"...said ya was lookin' fer someone..."
"I seek information on the whereabouts of a man who..." His anger flushed again, causing his blood to boil and the cane to tremble in his fist.
"He gimme the information back at the border... I got all I need." He spit a wad of tobacco juice in the dirt and studied the rage on the other man's face. "Ya fixin' on killin' this feller?"
"My arrangement with him is not of your concern. You job, your ONLY job is to locate him. For that you will be paid well. Overpaid, if necessary. You're to provide reports of your whereabouts..."
"Mighty big country, might take awhile."
He nodded at the visitor's words, resting his hand on the smooth rounded surface of the new stone. His eyes fell on every etched letter; his anger boiled nearly searing the granite beneath his fingers.
"I am a patient man, Mr. Tanner." He turned back, to face the man who wore a very dangerous face. That youth was no mask for the killer's eyes that held it. "I want him alive, that is very important. Is that understood?"
"I ain't promisin' that," the bounty-hunter spit another wad of tobacco and shifted. "This girl and me," he patted the sawed-off shotgun that rested comfortably against his slim hip, "go way back. I'll find him, but I'll use 'er if m'back's t'the wall."
"Fair enough," he nodded. "Your reputation precedes you. I was told you are a fair man and the best tracker this side of the Mississippi. Mr. Eliason was to give you the first half of the payment. The rest will be paid upon confirmation of my quarry. However, since you have eluded him, I will reimburse you. My house is just..."
"I'll be at the saloon." Vin tipped his hat and disappeared into the darkness. He disposed of the remaining chaw and washed his face and hands at the pump beside the Warm Springs Hotel. He found the Red Garter easy enough; the painting of a near-naked girl was displayed on the side of the brick building. He wrinkled his nose in distaste as the unwelcome scent of the city greeted him. He preferred the mountains, wide open spaces and fresh air. He slid inside and took a back table in a dark corner. He ordered a bowl of stew and a bottle of beer. He finished his meal and ordered another beer.
"Well honey, you are the best lookin' thing that I've laid eyes on in quite some time." The waitress set the bottle down and bent over the handsome traveler. She slid her hand into his crotch making her invite known.
Vin cocked his head and eyed the ample bosom that was now pressed into his face. She was prettier than most he'd seen. He accepted the kiss and the well-tuned fingers awoke an urge inside. It had been several weeks since he'd had a woman. Been almost as long since he'd had a bath. He itched in more places than he could count. He pulled away from the second kiss and slipped a coin down her low cut corset.
"Reckon I could use a bath," he issued in a low voice.
"Well now, ain't that a coincidence? I happen to be very..." she nipped his neck... "talented with a scrub brush. Room six, first floor, third door..." She felt his fingers shifting and they pulled free of her bosom. "Take me about a half hour to get that tub ready..."
Vin nodded and watched her sway her hips as she gave him a seductive smile. Her red hair was drawn up over the not so young face. He took a swig of his beer and winced at the noise from the saloon. Between the smoke, the smell and the bad piano player, suddenly that money seemed more than fair. He saw his benefactor appear in the doorway and motion to him. He drained his beer and walked outside, drawing his mare's leg.
"You'll find that I am a generous man, Mr. Tanner. If you remain loyal to me and deliver this merchandise, that amount will be doubled. But I warn you, if you turn on me, you'll suffer..."
Vin took the small leather pouch and undid the drawstring. By his eye, it was close to a hundred dollars. Most of his life, he'd ridden alone, trusting only his instincts. They were gnawing at him now, telling him he was missing a piece of this puzzle. He scratched his stubbled chin and swiped a grimy hand across his red and tired eyes. He'd ridden long and hard for over a week to get here.
"Why ya huntin' him?"
"As I stated, that is not part of your agreement."
"I ain't agreed t'nuthin' yet..." Vin tossed the bag in his hand. "Man's worth this many eagles must have ya riled up but good."
"He has," the white teeth bared and the knuckles tensed over the serpent's head on the cane, "unleashed the hounds of Hell..."
"He kilt one o'yer kin and yer lookin' t'even things up?" Vin guessed, seeing the unbridled rage in the dark eyes. He judged the man to be about fifty or so; the clothes suggested he was very wealthy. The silver-streaked brown hair was expertly groomed. But there was a coldness in his eyes that was unsettling.
"He made the worst mistake of his sorry life that day..." His muscles trembled as he struggled to get his anger under control.
"If there was witnesses, the law wouldda took care o'him. Musta been a gunfight..er..somethin' else that..."
"I am not going to pursue this any further," the irate man interrupted. "My reasons are more than valid. If you do not want this assignment, I'll send Mr. Eliason to Mexico again. There were other candidates..."
"Don't git yer drawers in a bunch," Vin pacified. "I'll be in touch."
"Regular reports... when the time comes, Mr. Eliason will find you and pay you."
Later, while two talented hands scrubbed the filth, grime and dirt from his well-honed body, he pondered. While she shampooed his head and then brushed it with a silver brush, he wondered about the man he was hired to find. He poured a shot of whiskey and sat on the bed while she knelt behind him, massaging his back. He thought on the man who paid him. It was time to go fishing.
"Rough crowd in these parts..." He flinched slightly when she pressed him back and began to work.
"I like rough..." she persisted, kissing him.
"Seen a feller pass by the saloon." He tossed the bait, turning sideways and easing on top of her. "Dressed real fancy... carryin' a funny lookin' cane. He sure stuck out... weren't t'smart... some of them animals is likely t'rob him..."
"No one will touch him..." she sighed, feeling him and shuddering. "They'd be dead by dawn. That's not just any dandy, that's Bennett Atherton Gladstone, he's loaded."
"...helluva name..." Vin grunted, his muscles straining.
"...used to live in a fancy house in town," she raked his back, "...moved out into the desert... after his son... died... three... months ago... he's a recluse... now..."
"Kilt?"
"Yeah, gunned down... his only child." She slapped his backside under the sheet. "You talk too much, Tex, let's ride 'em, cowboy..."
While his hired man was enjoying the pleasures of the flesh, Bennett Atherton Gladstone was again by his son's grave. He stroked the stone lovingly while sipping from his silver flask.
"He'll pay, Anthony, and it won't be quick." His maniacal eyes shone. "He'll suffer in agony... by body and thirst... alone... where no one will hear his screams. Soon, son, very soon..."
It was nearly sundown and the sky was painted with shades of deep pinks, purples and blues. He opened the small window, letting air into the stagnant room. The strong scent of maleness combined with tobacco, booze and a chamber pot was overpowering. He felt a breeze kick up and play across his hot skin. His eyes raked across the scruffy town, the name of which he didn't even know. They were all the same; nameless and faceless black holes into which he could disappear for at least a little while. A small scattering of buildings on the other side of the street needed paint and repair work, but the one collection of faded white letters caught his eye. He gripped the nearly empty bottle of Redeye and tipped it there.
"Saloon."
That is what his world had become since the black day three years ago when he'd ridden home to find his entire life reduced to a pile of charred timber and flesh. He felt his throat gag then; the acrid smell was one he still couldn't escape. The ghastly vision of his wife and child's cindered remains would live with him forever.
He eyed the sky again, briefly seeing her beautiful face in those rosy shades. She loved sunset and often they'd sit on the porch and just enjoy the splendor. The constant ache in him to have her in his arms again was overpowering. But the spears that thrust through his hide and skewered his soul had lanced him into his life within the shadows. That was where he was now comfortable. In the dark, hidden with the others who were eluding the painful reality that came with the light of a garish sun. Somehow, haunting the dark between dusk and dawn made his guilt dim.
Guilt.
He took a swig from the bottle and thought on several things. The culpability that came with every waking minute and rendered his food tasteless. The avoidance of mirrors that now reflected a gaunt, sallow stranger where a man should be. The silent screams he woke up to, covered in his own sweat, when the brutal nightmares returned. The disgusted look on the face of the doctor he'd left Buck Wilmington's body with.
Buck.
He drained the bottle and tossed it away, enjoying the clink as it hit the others. He scrubbed a hand across his grimy face that was covered by a light beard. His hair should be blond, but it was a greasy shade between dirt and mud. It was like the rest of his world where nothing mattered. He didn't feel anymore.
Which brought him back to Buck Wilmington.
He moved from the window, his dirty hands wandering over his thinner body. Buck tried, better than anyone could, to reason with him. He pulled him out of dozens of saloons and gunfights when his drunken challenges often left a body lying in the street. He'd bail him out of jail, clean him up and then the 'reasoning' time would come. But always the night would come and embrace him, his dark lover and the only one who understood his pain.
Buck.
He'd last seen the oldest friend he had lying on a pallet in a doctor's office in some nameless town in New Mexico. He didn't even remember how it started. What he did remember was waking up covered in blood... not his blood. He panicked briefly, knowing Buck had been with him. He searched and found his bleeding body, barely alive. He took him to the nearest town, left all the money he had and rode away.
He eyed the wrinkled pile of clothes on the floor and frowned. He had nothing clean left. He tossed some water on his pants, rubbing the stains away. He picked up the least offensive shirt, a dark green one that smelled ripe. He turned it inside out and scrubbed the neck and armpits with a sliver of Pears soap and some water. He hung it near the window and waited. Soon blackness would paint the sky and caress him. He would feel the need rise and seek out Jack Daniels and his friends.
He eased his lean body on the bed and thought on Buck. He was a good man, better than most. Honest, fair and intelligent. Great with woman, they adored him. Good in a gunfight, loyal to a fault. Handsome, charming and the kind of friend most men never have. He'd been lucky for over ten years and thrown it all away. He hadn't seen him in close to three years now... and for the last six months, he'd been looking.
From the day that he'd read a blurb in the newspaper about a bank robbery in Texas, he'd been glad to find out that the sheriff was his missing friend. Buck had pinned on a badge a year ago, and he'd been trying to catch up with him ever since. He rode to Texas but was told Wilmington wasn't a sheriff anymore. The deputy said he heard Buck was in Arizona, working near the border. So that's what brought him on this mission, skirting the border towns. He wanted to make amends.
He drifted for awhile, until the seductive Moon kissed him, luring him to his comfort zone. He pulled on the pants and damp shirt, before strapping on his gunbelt. The flat black hat came next and he tugged his boots on. Then he made his way to the saloon. Most folks were ending their day; his was just starting.
Vin Tanner eyed the dusty sign outside town and sighed. He was tired, hot and hungry. He gave the horse's neck a rub and followed the arrow. The man he sought was nearby. He'd been just a hair behind him for weeks now. He hadn't kept much of the money. He rented a wagon, filled it with food and supplies for the Kiowa, his adopted family. It would see them through a harsh winter. He eyed the saloon and left his horse outside. He took a lazy tour of the town, including the hotel, dining room and sheriff's office, but had no luck. There was no sign of the man he sought. He approached two scantily clad saloon girls in front of the establishment and tipped his hat.
"Evenin'."
"It sure is, honey," a pock-faced blond ran her hands up his shirt. Her friend, a plain but well built brunette sidled up to him as well, playing with his hair. He fisted his hands in an urge to pull away.
"What can we do for you, sugar?"
"Business quiet?" Vin asked, ducking from a kiss.
"Too quiet... you're the first stranger we've seen in over a week. A girl has needs..." The blond ran her hand over his thigh.
"Lots of needs," her partner was fascinated with his hair. "Me and Tuley do a nice duet... give you a night you won't forget."
"Mebbe later," Vin pulled back, wincing slightly. "Think I'll scare off some trail dust first." He nodded and entered the saloon. His eyes ran over the dozen or so men inside, but not the one he sought. He would ride onto the next town. No new strangers in over a week, meant his prey most likely skipped this small town. He put a coin on the bar and waited.
"Hey, Tiny, looks like yah got a customer."
Tiny Harris, the owner and bartender turned his large body from the end of the bar. Bald and beefy, he could end most fights with a single swing of his mighty fist. Six inches over six feet and close to two hundred and fifty pounds, he was a menacing giant. He ran his eyes over the newcomer, not missing the distinctive clothing and long hair. His eyes zoned in on the hide pouch on his belt, a handmade Indian design. He moved his body slowly, hoping to intimidate the smaller man.
"Chili and a beer," Vin grunted, his eyes skirting to the four men at the end of the bar who'd been talking to the barkeep. He flinched inwardly, recognizing one from Texas. Sam Foster was a cutthroat he'd run into many times. Tall, dark and mean, he used a knife brutally and skillfully. He'd sell his own mother for a piece of silver. He knew from the leering gaze that met his eyes that the other man knew his secret. He broke the look when the coin came back at him.
Chris paused in the doorway, then eased his body through the batwings. He'd watched the young man enter and found an empty table in the corner, partially hidden by the stairway. He pulled his hat down lower and watched the show.
"I don't serve your kind," Tiny leaned over, greasy fingers playing on the delicate beadwork on the pouch, "Breed." He flinched slightly when a skilled hand put enough pressure on the soft side of his wrist to cause pain. He moved back.
"Ya make that mistake again and ye'll be pissin' through a hole instead of that chicken dick yer hidin' 'tween them marbles."
"You got more balls than brains, boy," the blond gunslinger muttered and grinned, shaking his head. A waitress appeared with a bottle and a bowl of chili. He nodded, slid a coin across to her and declined her offer. He pulled the cork out with his teeth and took a long draw as the show continued.
"Hey, Tiny, looks like yer purty, little friend needs a lesson in manners."
Vin eyed the man to Foster's right and dismissed him. Small and weasely, he'd turn tail at the first sign of trouble. The other two were mean looking, silent and listening to Sam whisper to them. He felt his blood run cold and suddenly felt all alone.
"He won't be purty for long," Tiny warned, flexing his fist. "Take your Injun lovin' ass and get out of my saloon." He loomed over the smaller man. "Go find a polecat to plug... your kind is used to vermin crawlin' in your drawers."
Chris flinched when the slim body beneath the baggy buckskin coat flexed. He couldn't see the man's face, only a glimpse of his profile. But he knew the eyes were hot and saw the leader of the group of four at the end smile. Then he saw a nasty hombre next to the man draw a gun under the table. How his own gun came out so quick startled him. He didn't know this hide-coated stranger; he owed him nothing. He leveled a cool green gaze at the trio, shaking his head slightly. His gun was trained on the tall man's chest. He was about his age, but taller, beefier and had a nasty scar on his face.
"Chili and a beer," Vin persisted, not daring to back down in front of Foster. He slid the coin over and heard the others laughing.
"You never learn, do you, Tanner?" Sam Foster sneered, then drilled the bounty hunter with a cold stare. "This isn't El Paso, you misbegotten whelp. You're a long way from home."
"Learnt good enuf t'give ya that pretty scar," Vin tossed back and saw the other man glaring. "Ya come near me again, Foster, and I'll cut yer yella balls off and try t'fit 'em up yer ass."
Chris nearly choked on his whiskey and chuckled, shaking his head. There was something about this cocky Texan that he liked. Hell, he couldn't remember the last time he took anybody's back in a fight. His grip remained taut and he watched the bartender scoop out a dish of chili. He sat it in front of the dusty bounty hunter.
"Here," Tiny pushed the bowl across, then drew up and spit a large wad into it. "Enjoy your dinner." No sooner had the words left his mouth than he was wearing the chili. His fist shot out automatically, sending the long-haired man to the floor. He picked up a club and walked around the corner. He was intending on finishing off the dazed man when it was shot from his hands. He looked to the corner where a haggard looking man stood. Larabee. He knew the face and the name, as well as the reputation. The dirty blond head shook and a sneer appeared as the gun wavered, then trained on his groin.
Foster recognized the stranger too, now that he stood. He was quick, but he wasn't a match for Chris Larabee. He put a restraining hand on Palmer to his right.
"Holster it, you'll be dead before you get the hammer back. Tanner isn't with him. We'll wait and follow him out of town."
Chris didn't like their whispering and kept his stance in the shadows. He kept the Colt drawn for several minutes until the young man on the floor rolled over, moaned, opened his eyes and shook his head. He watched as he climbed to his knees, rubbed his jaw, then stood and staggered, clutching at the bar. He saw a wad of blood spit onto the floor. Then the bold man squared his shoulders again. Chris wore a cocky half-grin, as the coin was once again shoved across the counter. Satisfied that his presence equalized things, he slipped back under the eave of the stairs out of view.
"Ch...ili... " Vin winced, his head spinning and his jaw was throbbing. "... beer..."
He ate hurriedly, needing to fill his growling stomach and chase the shakes away. His skull was pounding from the harsh blow to his jaw and from where his head hit the floor. He downed two beers and wondered why Foster backed down. With a final scorching glance to Foster, he left, eager to put as many miles between him and Foster as possible.
Chris rose and went to the window, watching the long-haired man climb on his horse. A sleek black animal with a white blaze, whose spirit seemed to match his master's. Man and beast headed west, out of town and into the night. The blond patted his gut, wondering about the disappointment lingering there.
By the time he went past the halfway point of the bottle, Chris had an itch to scratch. He watched as Foster and his crew left and then went to the window once more. Mounting up, Foster led his men to the east. Chris felt a snag of satisfaction, something that had been missing for quite some time. He caught the eye of the two saloon girls, bored and playing cards. He nodded once, took his bottle up the stairs and waited.
"We're going the wrong way," Palmer protested.
"We'll double back over the river and catch him. I don't want Larabee on my ass."
"You said he wasn't with Larabee."
"He wasn't, but that gun was real enough. Come on," Foster turned his horse and signaled the two men lagging behind. "Vin Tanner owes me," he stroked his scar, "and I intend to collect."
Three days later, Chris Larabee woke up and vomited. As he crawled across the floor, he caught sight of an animal in the cracked glass in the broken mirror. His hand went to his hip, looking for his gun. Then he realized that he was that animal and that sickened him even more. Gasping for breath, shaking from too much booze and no food and stinking worse than a corpse, he leaned against the wall. He raked a hand through his greasy hair and saw sunken dark rims where eyes should be. Ten pounds gone where firm flesh should be. As sick as the sorry sight made him, he didn't turn away. Then, through the stench of body waste and vomit, a strong scent of lavender. The aroma was so sharp it drew his head and took his breath away. His heart began to pound and he began to tremble violently. He eyed the room where he sat alone, but realized it was not empty. He wrapped his arms around his chest and rocked, trying to chase the shakes away. His eyes went to the mirror and he threw the bottle at it, smashing the small piece that was left.
"I'm sorry."
His hoarse voice hit every wall, but she turned away. Her face was screwed up in revulsion and her beautiful eyes were disgraced. He'd shamed her and that hurt worse than any pain he could imagine.
"Sarah..." he whispered, reaching a hand out, but she was gone. The room reeked with his foul stench again. He reached for the bottle, but then stopped. No, no more. He would take the shame from her eyes. He rose on shaky legs and vomited again. Then he gathered the filthy clothes and packed.
Two hours later, he eyed the reflection in the mirror at the mercantile and nodded in satisfaction. A hot bath and trip to the barber had taken the beard away and returned his hair to its short, blond state. The eyes were clearing and the new clothes and black duster gave him a new start. Underneath the new cloak, were a new black shirt and pants. Two more shirts, a pair of pants and clean long johns were rolled in his bedroll. He bought coffee, sugar, tins of fruit and beans and other supplies. He paid the clerk, tipped his hat and eased onto the dusty street. After two bowls of chicken stew and several biscuits, he packed some sandwiches and headed for the livery. He sat on his horse, eyeing his choices and fate took over, sending him on the road to his destiny.
"Get up, dog!" Curtis Palmer kicked the battered man and frowned when the body didn't move.
"Dammit, Curt, you hit him too hard," Donny Higgins complained, rolling the unconscious man over on his back. His hands were bound in front of him with a tight cord and he was naked to the waist. The pants were covered in mud and blood. The bruised, swollen face was starting to change colors, from blues and purples to dark green. Most of the damage was on the chest and two gashes on his legs. He'd fought hard, killed Willie, but then Willie wasn't good for much anyway. Sam wanted him alive, so they'd used their fists and a rifle butt to render him unconscious. That was three nights ago on a lonely stretch of the road. He looked up when Sam arrived back in the camp.
"How much longer we gonna do this?" Curtis asked, "You said he's wanted. Let's just take him back to Texas."
"Not yet." Sam climbed down from his horse, squatted over the battered body and laughed. He grabbed the long hair and pulled the unresisting man up harshly to his knees. "Get me a rope..."
He tied the new rope between the bound wrists, then pulled it taut over a tree limb, hauling Tanner up cruelly by his arms. He eyed the dirty feet of the prisoner and stomped on one hard, his spurs cutting into the flesh. That brought the fevered eyes half open. "Wake up, you murderin' dog. It's time to play."
Through the hot fire of his tortured body, he tried to focus on the strange faces. They were distorted, longer than normal and the voices were deep and muffled. He blinked twice and felt a pain in his foot. His ribs were on fire and his right leg throbbed. But his head hurt the worst and he just wanted to sleep. He couldn't remember where he was or how he'd gotten here. The only thing he knew was pain and the constant flurry of fists to his body. He slid his eyes shut and then felt cold water tossed onto his face, jarring him.
"I said wake up!" Foster growled, tossing away the empty coffee pot, which had been filled with water. The clouded blue eyes tried to focus and he smiled, then moved past the swaying body. "Lower!" he nodded, and Palmer worked the rope until Tanner was on his knees, his head lolling. He cupped the fevered chin and squeezed it hard.
"Party time!" He patted the cheek and disappeared, going to his horse and drawing out a whip.
"Whoa!"
Chris slowed his pace and under the full moon spotted a familiar horse by the river. He eased off his own and jogged over, feeling the gelding's cool flesh. His eyes didn't lie; he recognized the horse, the buckskin coat draped on it and the distinctive gun on the ground.
"Where is he, boy, huh?" he questioned, eyeing the full saddle and gear. The mare's leg was lying nearby and he picked it up. He ran his hand over it, thinking of it's cocky owner. Then he slid it back into the scabbard. He touched the cold ashes of the camp fire and frowned. He sighed, raked a hand over his damp hair and grimaced. A small nagging voice told him to ride away. He eyed the horse again and swore, climbing back on his own mount. He saw faint tracks nearby and followed.
"You should have ridden the other way," he answered the nagging in his gut.
His journey was brief, only a few miles. The distinct sound of a whip hitting flesh caused the rider to halt, cocking his head. The agonizing cry brought the blond man's face up sharply. He reined the horse and turned back, heading for a thick group of trees. He heard the whip and another cry and urged the horse on until he saw the agony locked face of the Texan.
An unparalleled wall of fire rose in him, engulfing him and causing his teeth to bare. He eased off his mount and took out his rifle, creeping slowly towards the group. Then the whip lashed out again, locking around the bound man's throat. The blue eyes bulged and the jaw worked frantically, seeking air. They laughed and that was their last mistake. Chris grit his teeth, sighted down the rifle and aimed for the rope, one shot freeing the prisoner who fell to the ground. He saw the shaggy head move, freeing the tension of the whip. He heard a ragged series of coughs, laid down the rifle, in favor of his colt, and went to work.
The first shot caught Foster high, sending him backwards and over a short group of rocks.
"What the hell!" Curtis managed, before a bullet split his forehead.
"Who..." was all Donny got out before a bullet took his ear off. He rolled and ducked, trying to fire back. The second bullet went through his throat. He gurgled blood and staggered a few feet, before falling dead.
Foster guessed as soon as the rope was severed who it was. Larabee or not, he was in no position to fight. He took off, vaulting onto his horse and into the night, while the legendary gunman killed the others. He was no match for this man, not while he was bleeding so heavily. He'd heal and then get hold of Vin Tanner again, taking out Larabee if he interfered.
Chris kept hidden, then heard the disappearing hooves. He shook his head in disgust. Tanner was right; Foster was yellow. He checked both bodies and then dropped to the fallen man's side, holstering his weapon.
"Jesus..." he flinched, eyeing the custom made whip clinging to the young man's neck. It had a wooden handle, scored in silver. He unwrapped the remainder of the whip and tossed it aside. Then he cut the tight cord that bound the raw, bleeding wrists. He rubbed them, trying to restore circulation. That caused a small moan from the battered man.
"Sorry..." he sighed, then ran an expert hand along the ribcage. "Cracked a few..." He turned him on his side and flinched at two red oozing welts near his waist. "Deep, but could be worse..." He ran his hands over the arms and legs. "Nothing broke... but..." He cut the tattered, maroon stained pants from the right leg, ankle to thigh, and saw several cuts, two deep and infected. "Fuckin' animals..."
His gaze lingered on the fevered face, then skimmed over the mottled bruises. That time line told him that they'd taken him the night they left the saloon. They'd been torturing him for days. Chris spotted a canteen a few feet away and picked it up. He lifted the slim man, balancing him against his knee.
"Here," he ran the canteen over the parched lips, but got no reply. "GODDAMMIT!" he cursed, angry at his volatile emotions. He didn't know this man. He owed him nothing. Yet there was guilt worming its way through his jangled gut.
A loud bellow caused Vin to jump. He blinked and squinted, trying to see but only saw blurry trees. His jaw worked, trying to speak. He cried out then, raising his hand to this throat, which hurt like hell.
"Don't touch it." Chris winced at the raspy squeaks and pushed the hand away, eyeing the bruises and welts forming on the tender neck. "Here, water... drink..." He tried again, but the dazed man was confused and shaking with fever.
"Drink, Tanner!" he ordered sternly, then sighed as the body jumped and the jaw worked, sucking greedily. "Easy, these are new clothes and I don't want your puke all over 'em. Tanner?" He cocked his head when the shaggy one lolled against his knee.
Chris sighed, eyeing the terrain. He didn't know where the next town was, but it wasn't close. He thought of the river and the other camp he'd found. He eased the young man down and then checked Foster's camp. He took the money from the dead, for the unconscious man. He'd earned it. The saddle bags didn't have much. He took the string of skinned rabbits and two bottles of whiskey. Then he took the only clean shirt he found from one of the bedrolls. Tanner would need bandages. After securing the new supplies, he hauled the body up and slung him over his shoulder. With a little difficulty, he settled the stuperous man on his horse and then climbed up. The slim man woke, confused and began to fight. Chris held him firm with his left hand, then scolded him.
"Cut it out, Tanner, I'm on your side."
Vin didn't know why he trusted the voice, but he did. His instincts told him so and they'd never failed him. Now, even though he was lost in a world of pain and fever, he trusted his instincts - and the unknown man who had rescued him. He sagged then, letting his aching body fall into the soft, black void.
After getting the injured man settled on his bedroll, Chris started a fire. He used the coffee pot for boiling water and the new bar of Pears soap. He gently cleaned the marred body; cleaning blood and dirt from the legs, arms and chest. The cut to the right thigh was ugly. He used a boiled knife doused in whiskey to open it and a hot cloth to take out most of the pus, ignoring the cries of pain. He used soap, water and then whiskey before bandaging. He did the back last, rolling the body over and again using soap, water and whiskey. He wrapped a loose bandage about the slender torso, then turned him back. Chris ignored the small, weak cries of pain that cut into him. He eased a cloth over the face, wiping grime and filth away.
He rubbed the cleaned wrist wounds with whiskey and wrapped them in the cut shirt strips. The eyes opened then, bright with fever and a startling shade of blue. He saw so much there, it scared him. Pride, intelligence, courage... so many things he admired. His hand held the back of the man's neck as he tipped a mug of cold water to the thirsted lips. The eyes followed him and he flinched again. They were confused and lost; they were depending solely on him.
Vin eyed the unfamiliar camp and the blurry image. He felt hands on him, warm water bathing his tortured flesh and then a strong hand lifting his head. He couldn't see... and couldn't remember anything. Where was he? All he knew was that it was cold. He shivered so hard his teeth chattered. The other's voice came back and Vin managed to speak in a hoarse, small voice.
"Shit," Chris froze, hearing the strange Indian dialect. "I don't understand," he pressed, then saw the bandaged hand rise and touch his face. He pulled back from the trembling fingers, not liking the intense feeling in his gut.
"Dammit, don't look at me..." he warned, trying to free the lock those eyes had on him. The hand wavered again and fell against his arm. Frowning, he moved his own hand and the other grabbed hold, weakly locking onto his forearm. He mimicked the gesture and saw a crooked smile on the fevered face. He didn't understand the words, but he knew the meaning.
"You're welcome." He got more water into the shivering body and gently eased him down, then pulled a second blanket on him, his new black duster.
The next two days passed in much the same manner. Other than leaving the sick man briefly to bury the corpses so scavengers didn't find them, Chris remained by his side. He noticed the whip was gone and saw blood on the ground. Foster must have come back. The sun didn't come out much and the overcast days matched his mood. The longer he remained, the harder it was going to be to leave. The fever persisted, but the bruises faded. The man was younger than he first thought. The trust in those lost blue eyes unnerved him.
The temperature dropped, anncounced it was sunset again. Scratching his chin, he rose and poured some rabbit meat and broth into a cup. He eased Tanner up against his knee and spooned the mix in. He had deciphered some of the Indian words for pain, water and thank you. The eyes fluttered shut and he eased the man down, put another cold cloth on the forehead and sighed. He made coffee with the spare pot and sipped it, dunking a stale cracker.
Food.
His train of thought was interrupted when the fevered man began to thrash, lost in confusion.
"Shit." Chris jogged over and squatted, resting a single hand on the damp, hot chest. "STOP IT!"
Vin's eyes flew open when the voice came back. His hammering heart began to slow down. He thought he was alone. But the man wasn't gone. He hadn't left. Then he got mad, angry at his feelings and tried to get up. He heard a laugh and cursed again, when his weak motions were halted.
"...don't wanna... kill... ya..." he panted, blinking at a very blurry face. "...best... ya... back... off..." He wiggled in vain, "...fuckin' move..."
"Shut that mouth, Tanner," Chris warned, warming up to the angry face. "Listen to me!" He lowered his voice and the two eyes trained on him, searching and seeking. "I'm going to get some food. I'll be back, okay? Comprende'?"
Food.
Vin's hand went to his stomach and the empty hole in it. He nodded and laid back, shivering and then hot. He felt the blanket come up and mumbled, then pushed it off. This was repeated twice before the voice came back and hand hit his chest.
"...leave me... fuck... alone..."
"Don't piss me off, Tanner, leave the fuckin' blanket alone."
Chris saw a brief fire in the blue eyes, then the hand came up and tapped at his forearm. "Dammit!" he swore, repeating the gesture that seemed to give the younger man peace. Sure enough, the eyes shut. "What the hell's wrong with me?" he muttered, climbing on his horse. "You're going soft, Larabee," he accused, eyeing the trusting soul, bandaged and sleeping. "I should have ridden the other way."
Tanner didn't rouse for dinner and that worried him. Come morning, he'd have to find a doctor. He ate his dinner and sighed wearily, eyeing the whiskey. He hadn't had a drop since he'd left town. The smell of it while he cleansed the Texan's wounds soured his stomach. But now, he needed a little, to tame his jagged nerves.
He poured a shot in his coffee and eyed the liquid. He was exhausted, getting little sleep over the last three days. He checked his patient, wiped the fevered body down again and frowned when the water was refused. He worried about the one leg wound which was red and hot to the touch. He covered him up and moved directly across from the sleeping man, propping his weary body against a rock. He tipped his head back as a breeze rose up. He never meant to fall asleep.
The dream came back, vivid and in full color. Foster's knife stabbed his leg again and it burned. He twisted and turned, seeking to escape the brutal treatment. Then Foster laughed and shoved another hot knife in his leg. He sat up, gasping and shivering.
It was dark, crickets and night creatures sang nearby. His fever fogged eyes searched the darkness. Where was he? Where was that voice? Where was the strong stranger? He eyed his mare's leg and crawled painfully over to it, his hands shaking so badly that he nearly shot his own foot. He stood and staggered backwards when he spotted danger a few feet away.
Years of experience made the lean gunman a light sleeper. He heard footsteps and his eyes and hands moved at the same time. He saw the mare's leg coming right at him and reacted on instinct.
"No!" he screamed, bringing up the Colt as two shots rang out.
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