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.
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. 3
For a long agonizing scattering of seconds, Chris Larabee braced himself. But instead of the burning pain of a bullet, he felt nothing. Releasing a pent up breath, he gasped and then jerked back when the body of a lethal cottonmouth snake fell over his shoulder. He rolled sideways, tossing the offensive reptile away from him. There was no head; it was shot clean off. He rubbed his neck at the spot by his jugular where the fangs would have sunk in, killing him. Shaken and dumbfounded, he jerked again, then his eyes darted left and right. Then the full gravity of what transpired hit him, like a spray of bullets from a Gattling gun, ripping him apart.
"Aw, Christ, no..." His gut twisted when he realized what Tanner had done - and what he had done in return. All he saw was the raggedy pants and bare feet. The rest of the body was upside down over a rock. It took him a couple of minutes to pull his courage together and approach. Twice his trembling hand went out to pull the dead man up and twice they failed. He saw the near empty bottle of whiskey beside the bandages and took a swig of courage. Then he inhaled, bent over and set his hand to the neck through the jungle of blood-matted hair.
"Thank God..." his ragged breath released at the feel of a pulse. He eased the wounded man up and frowned when blood poured down his face.
"You're nothing but fuckin' trouble, you know that?" his shaky voice addressed as he gently moved the unconscious man. Settling him back on the bedroll, he used fresh water to wipe away the blood.
There was a deep gash behind and above his left ear. Chris cleaned it with water, soap and whiskey. He kept a rag pressed tight until the bleeding finally stopped. Then he cleaned it again and bandaged it. He eyed the slack hand and felt his insides quivering. He nearly willed the pale, calloused hand to rise again and clasp his forearm. But it remained limp and unmoving, the slender fingers uncurled. He lifted that arm and held it for a moment, wondering at the surge of emotion it brought him. Then he gently gripped that forearm and spoke to the night.
"I'm sorry," he addressed the slack features before placing the arm on the bandaged chest and covering it up.
Morning came and his horse was packed and ready to go. Tanner's breathing wasn't right and his fever wasn't coming down fast enough. The head wound was bad and he needed a doctor. Chris would have to make a litter. He rode a mile or so back to where he'd seen a fallen tree. He gathered several long branches to tie in an 'A' shape with rope. Then he found smaller, stronger branches to lay across it. His materials gathered, he sat on a rock and began to cut the lengths of rope.
It was dark, but somehow he knew that wasn't right. The temperature was cool but warming. That meant it was early morning. He squinted again, drawing in several jagged breaths. He moved his head and cried out when an axe was slammed into his tender skull. His arm seemed to be weighed down and he fumbled badly, then felt bandages. His muddled brain was thick with hot mud and he couldn't remember anything. He must have been injured, bandaged himself and stopped to rest. Breathing heavily, he remained still for several moments before sitting up.
That was a mistake.
He rolled sideways onto his knees and vomited heavily. Pain raced across his back and his right leg was on fire. The pain in his head left him seeing a wall of fiery red; shimmering pitchforks shot through his eyes and temple.
"What the hell happened?"
His fumbling fingers found the canteen, and he rinsed his face before taking a drink. He spotted his mare's leg and shoved it in his loose pants. His keen fingers roamed until he felt the time worn buckskin coat. He slipped it on, crying out as invisible knives slashed at his right leg and across his back. He squinted again, spotting his horse tethered nearby. He needed help. He needed a doctor. The fact he could only see shadows and not sunlight scared him. He was a veteran of enough head injuries to know it could be dangerous. Failing eyesight in this rough part of the territory was suicide. He gazed at the blurry river and then the mountains. He knew where he was and stumbled to his horse. Three times his bare foot tried to find the stirrup. Three times he failed, connecting only with the hard earth.
"....shit... fuckin'... can't... dammit..." he muttered, trying to combat a wall of nausea, excruciating pain in his head and the fire in his leg and back. Finally, on the sixth try, flesh hit leather and he slumped over the horse, gripping the reins for dear life. He urged the steed forward, found the road and began his trek.
With one final tug to secure the makeshift traveling bed, Chris Larabee stood up. Finally, he was done and ready to head back. He attached the bed to his horse and made the trip back to the river. His eyes widened at the same time the curse left his lips and he shot off his horse.
"Dammit!"
He kicked the empty bedroll, then saw the uneven footprints leading to where the horse had been tethered. Tanner couldn't have gotten far. Hell, the fact he could get on the horse was admirable. Chris untied the travois which would slow him down. After cleaning up the camp, he then followed the tracks.
"Whoa... whoa!" Josiah Sanchez pulled the team to a halt.
He was taking supplies to the place outside town where he was purging his soul. With every rock lifted and placed precariously onto the next, he let the hot sun scorch him. The strong hands had taken too many lives. He'd lost his path, let the devil tempt him and now he was trying to find the road to salvation. This place in the desert, where his church would be, was where that trip started.
"Looks like we have a lost lamb," he addressed the sky. "When I asked you for a sign, I wasn't expecting this."
He eased off the wagon and approached the slow moving horse whose injured rider was bare-chested under a homemade hide coat. He halted the horse, patting the neck and noted it wasn't sweating too much.
"You with me, son?" he asked the swaying figure whose fingers were curled around the reins. There were slits where eyes should be and fever burned into the pale face. He squinted and recognized the smell rising from the naked thigh peeking through the tattered pants. He gently pulled the fabric away and felt the hot, angry flesh around a muddy bandage. That slight pressure was enough to rouse the rider.
Pain exploded through the fire in his leg. He tried to cry out, but his mouth was too dry. It was still dark but someone was near. He squinted, trying to see the face. It was a large man, and he heard a deep voice but couldn't make out the words. Then he saw the cross. It was handmade and hanging on a leather string over the broad chest.
"Padre..." Vin croaked, before toppling off the horse.
"You need fixin', son." Josiah caught the young man easily, taking him to the wagon. He pushed some of the unruly long hair away and the hot forehead confirmed his fears. "I know just the healing hands to help you. Nathan, I hope you're home. You've got a customer."
He made a soft pile in the back of the wagon and moved the unconscious traveler onto it. He frowned at the fever, gathering his large skin full of water. He pulled the top off and began wiping the face, chest and neck. The blue slits appeared again, totally lost and mired in confusion.
"The Lord works in mysterious ways, son." He held the head up and tipped the edge of the water spout to the thirsty man. "He brought us together. To every thing there is a season and a time for every purpose under heaven..." he quoted Ecclesiastes. He saw the hand fumble and rise, trying to touch him. He smiled, took the hand and held it firmly.
"You rest easy, son, help is not far away. And don't you go dying on me. Nathan wouldn't like that. What's your name?"
Vin wanted to say his name. He parted his lips and tried, but no words came. Just a series of grunts. The pain in his leg and head ruled out all attempts at speaking. He wanted to say thank you. The deep voice was comforting. He heard the words from the Bible and they stayed with him as he drifted back to sleep.
A reason... a time to a purpose.
"You're welcome." Josiah smiled at the emotive blue eyes, then they fluttered shut. He patted the fevered cheek and pulled a blanket over the young man. He returned to the horse, tying it to the back of his wagon. He was unaware that his actions were being viewed.
From a high spot on the ridge overlooking the stretch of road, Chris Larabee waited. He'd seen the wagon from a distance. He secured his horse, found a high spot and crouched in the covering of rocks. He saw the cross swaying on the large man's chest. He saw the Bible on the buckboard seat and then the tender way the man cared for Tanner. He heard the deep voice, reciting passages from that Bible. The man appeared to be about fifty with graying hair.
"Preacher?" he wondered, then watched the man carefully. He stayed in the shadows as the gentle giant examined the injured man.
Chris kept his gun trained on the large man the whole time. He was annoyed at the sinking feeling in his gut. Isn't this what he wanted? Tanner would be taken care of. The gunslinger liked keeping his own company. He didn't need those damn blue eyes burning into him. He couldn't afford to expose himself. He'd built up quite a reputation over the last three years. Staying in the shadows kept him alive. He sat back, pushed his hat up with the tip of his gun and wondered about the last several days. He'd encountered strangers before. What power did this young man possess? Why couldn't he escape those damn blue eyes? He was so lost in thought he didn't notice the deep voice had stopped. He sat up again, watching as the wagon left.
He returned to his horse and headed the other way without looking back. With every mile, he pushed the bright eyes, so blue and trusting, from his mind. He shook his arm, trying to rid himself of the feel of that trusting hand snagging his forearm. Three days later, at sundown, he rode into Devil's Corner, a rough mining town. He was having dinner, hoping that the food would fill the gnawing hole left by the blue-eyed Texan. He overheard a name and his head jerked.
"I miss that Buck, he sure knew how treat a lady."
"He was good," her companion agreed, recalling the all night romp they'd shared. "Good looking, good hands... great kisser.."
"Excuse me?" Chris tossed a coin on the table, spinning it between the two blondes. "This man, can you describe him?"
"Depends," the older one eyed the handsome man. "Could be his face would get clearer over a ride." She ran her hand over the tight butt in the black jeans.
"I'm not in the mood." Chris pulled out another coin but held it, snagging her wrist. "Talk."
"Tall, taller than you, heavier too. Dark hair, mustache... Good looking, great smile, a real charmer."
"Great name," her partner sighed. "He could buck with the best of them."
"Buck?" Chris held the coin out. "His name?"
"Buck Wilmington..." She winced. "Hey, you're hurting me."
He released her wrist and dropped the coin into her cleavage, making a deep deposit. "Where's he headed?"
"I can't recall," she sighed, standing and pressing.
"I can," the other one pushed her chest out and waited.
"Jesus," Chris rolled his eyes, holding the coin. "Well?"
"Up river... a wild little town near the border... Paso Del Norte..."
"Hey... don't be in such a hurry..." the older one frowned as the man in black left, the doors swinging in his wake.
The darkness began to fade, the deep black shimmering into shades of gray and blue. He struggled through the thick mud, eager to breathe again. The sweet sound came back. It was soothing and restful. A rich, deep cascade of song draped over his tortured flesh. It seemed to cut through the fiery world he was lost in. The blue changed to violet and then white. He blinked and tried to speak but only strange sounds came out. He wanted to find the source of that calm in his storm.
"How is he, Mr. Jackson?" She entered the clinic and smiled at the soulful man's voice.
"Weak as a kitten, Miz Travis," the tall, dark-skinned healer replied, ending the hymn. He stood and stretched, resting a large brown hand on the pale patient's cheek. "Bustin' that fever last night wore him clean out. He didn't have enough weight on him tah begin with. He needs rest, good food and some sunlight tah put some color back."
"How's his leg?" She walked over, frowning as the handsome young man tossed his head.
"Better. The inflammation went down and them stitches are good."
Nathan scooted past her with a poultice and eased the man's head to the side.
"It still looks awful," she grimaced at the head wound.
"I seen worse," the ex-Union man replied as he liberally spread the healing compound before turning the head back.
"He's young... younger than I thought."
"In years maybe, but he's lived a long time," the wise man said, having seen the scars on the healing body.
"So he'll be okay?"
"Right as rain..." Nathan pulled the blanket down and rolled the young man on his side, inspecting the back wound. "Much better..."
"...bug..." Vin croaked, his spinning mind responding to the first thing his blurry eyes saw. A black bug was crawling through a crack in the wall.
"Well, this ain't San Francisco, son, so we learn tah live with it." He eased the panting patient back and smiled down at the startled blue eyes. "Welcome back, I'm Nathan Jackson. I been tendin' tah yuh. This is Miz Mary Travis, she runs the paper in town. She..."
"...naked..." His confused mind was still reeling, the room was rocking, his stomach was churning, and his head was about to fall off. But he was naked as the day he was born with a pretty blond woman a few feet away.
"I started tah tell yuh," he chuckled at the flush rising quickly on the embarrassed patient. "She's been helping me with yuh."
"You have no secrets," she tried to tease him, but the saucer-like eyes led to a bobbing Adam's apple. She took his hand and smiled, sitting on the bed. "It's been quite some time since I caused someone to blush. It's very quaint."
"...quaint..." Vin groaned, trembling uneasily. "...that's me... Ma'am... could ya move some... yer t'close..."
"Oh," she hid a smile as Nathan chuckled. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you. I'll be back later with some soup and bread, Mr. . . ?"
"Tan...ner... Vin..." he managed, jerking and convulsing.
"Are you swallowing vomit?" She recognized the signs. "Don't do that!"
Nathan saw the panic in those eyes and smiled, getting the bucket.
"Miz Travis, he's waitin' for yuh tah leave."
"Why? Because I'm a woman? Of all the stupid..." She saw him flush again and turn away. With a final pat to the slender hand, she left.
"Jest in time," Vin clenched before his stomach erupted. "Hell..."
"It's only water," Nathan eyed the meager contents. He dumped the bucket and returned with hot peppermint tea. "Here." He sat the young man up, noting the hard grip on his arm. "That head's gonna hurt for awhile. Yuh need tah stay put..."
"Where am I?" Vin asked, taking the mug and sipping the tea. "'S'good..."
"Peppermint's good for upset stomachs. This here is Paso Del Norte, in New Mexico. We're not far from the Mexican border. A friend o'mine found yuh on a road runnin' near the river about a day's ride from here. Someone beat on yuh and creased yuhr head. How do yuh feel?"
"Like a wet cat that's been shot full o'holes and fried in a pan..." He winced and rubbed his leg. His head ached and felt like it was full of hot sand. "How long?"
"Three days ago." Nathan returned with a cold mug of water which quickly disappeared. "Yuh had a bad fever from that leg. Wound wasn't deep but jagged and badly infected. I cleaned it out and stitched it. Yuh stay off of it for a few more days. How's yuh back?"
"...s'okay..." Vin moved, then hissed. "mebbe not..."
"Yuh got a couple new lashes back there..." He saw the flush of shame again and covered the other man's hand. "Get that head up and listen tah me. I got marks on me and I know how it feels. That's nuthin' t'be ashamed'o. Wasn't yuhr fault. Dogs hang their heads, people don't."
"Thanks, Mr. Jackson," Vin said sincerely, moved by the strong man's words. He flipped his hand and offered the open palm, glad when it was accepted. That's when he saw his wrist and frowned, touching the lines.
"They was bad infected too... someone hurt yuh..." He eyed the blank stare and fear shimmering in the sky depths. "Yuh cain't recall?"
"Nuthin'," Vin lifted his head as another pillow raised him up. "Thanks, Mr. Jac.."
"It's Nathan, and yuhr welcome. What's the last thing yuh do recall?"
"Uh..." Vin placed a hand over his throbbing eyes which the new day was prodding with a fork. "Curtain..."
"Sure," he moved, lowering the cloth and giving the room shade.
"Thanks." He blinked and held the empty mug out. This time, cold apple cider was placed in his hand. "I was in Silver Hill... at... a... bar..."
"Uh-huh," the healer nodded, the staggered tone and flitting eyes causing him to realize that the memories were flashes. "Alone?"
"'Course," Vin said automatically. "I ride alone."
"Maybe yuh had trouble... got followed..."
"Foster!" Vin blurted, seeing the scared face.
"Who?"
"Feller I shoulda kilt in Texas. Murderin' bastard... he seen me... he was there..." He got agitated and sat up, grabbing for anything when the room flew past.
"Easy now..." Nathan forced the weak, tangled limbs back onto the bed. He saw a spark of blue fire in the wide eyes and recognized a short temper. "Yuh best use that fire inside tah get well. Whoever done this tah yuh is long gone."
"...gun... gonna hunt down that fuckin' maggot-eatin'..." Vin warned, wiggling to get free. "...ya best move... don't wanna... hurt ya..."
That brought a deep laugh and Nathan didn't hide it.
"Son, yuh cain't even find yuhr feet." He stood up, letting his six foot five frame tower over the bed. He raised a single eyebrow and waited. "I'm bigger and stronger... and I got yuhr pants."
"Aw, hell," Vin slumped, defeated. Then the pain exploded in his head again and he curled up sideways, body twitching. He felt the strong hands lift him and hold his head as cider and tea came back up. "...m'sorry... causin' this... mess..."
"This ain't no mess, Vin," Nathan soothed, wiping the residue and getting some water into the weak man. "When it starts shootin' out the other end, then we got us a mess..." That brought a small smile and the blue eyes softened, meeting his briefly, before they slid shut.
Over the next several days, his patient got stronger. As his strength returned, the quiet talks they shared grew. But Nathan knew he was worried about his memory loss. The young patient would stare into space, rubbing his head and straining to see into the foggy gathering spot where memories should be. Mary came at lunch and he seemed at ease with her too, but they both noticed his despondent mood. Nathan came back one day to find the young man limping around the room wearing only old longjohns.
"Where's m'pants?"
"Yuh ain't got any," Nathan shoved him down into a chair. "...and yuh won't 'til I say so..." he issued sternly, watching the little color drain from the face. "It ain't time fuh ya tuh go out onta th'porch," he noted of the daily sit in the sun outside. "Where was yuh headed?" He saw a flush appear and the head dip. "I thought we cleared that up... get that head up..."
"...got no money..."
"So?"
"Don't take charity."
The tall, dark healer almost laughed at the sullen tone and child-like pout. He bit back a smile and decided that was one more thing he liked about this man.
"Well now, this might be yuhr lucky day. As long as yuh don't mind honest work..."
"I can do anythin'... jest point the way..." Vin eyed the soulful brown eyes of the strong man. He liked Nathan Jackson.
"Virgil Watson has a store down the street. His clerk quit last week. It ain't much, stockin' shelves and sweepin'..."
"It'll do," Vin decided. He needed to heal and needed money. "How long 'afore I can start?"
"I'll talk to Virgil. Maybe starting tomorrow, yuh can do half days, until them afternoon headaches stop."
"Thanks, Doc!" Vin stood too quickly and swayed.
"Head wounds is tricky. I told yuh tah stay put." He led the dizzy body back to bed. "...and I ain't a doctor."
"Ya put this sorry-assed Texan back t'gether... s'good enuf fer me. There's a whole lotta quacks out there with sheepskins on their wall. Don't mean a damn thing. They don't got no heart... yer a good man and a fine doctor." He held out his hand and waited, then smiled at the genuine pride he saw on the smooth brown face.
"Thank you, Vin Tanner," Nathan returned, gripping the hand hard.
"Miz Travis?" Vin ducked his head in the door of the Clarion and waited.
"Come on back, Vin, I just took blueberry muffins from the oven."
"Aw, hell..." Vin reeled when the wonderful aroma hit his nose. "That's okay, ma'am, I best stay here..."
She put two muffins in a sack along with some cookies. The newcomer had a sweet tooth and had her and Gloria Potter wrapped around his finger. One look at those blue eyes and that soft drawl of 'Mornin' Ma'am' and Gloria had been lost. Vin's pockets usually had chocolate drops or peppermint sticks in them. But he wouldn't come into the back of the shop; he worried about her reputation. She loved to tease him just to see that blush.
"Look at you!" she appraised, watching the winning smile build. "New clothes..." She eyed the shirt, suspenders and light pants.
"I done some fixin' fer Virgil, chairs and his water pump. I traded fer 'em. Ya like 'em?"
"Very much!" She smiled, giving the sack to him. He had an ease about him that didn't come with most men who were rough and wild. She knew he wasn't a saint; he had too many scars and that funny gun. But inside was a gentle spirit; she sensed that. She saw him early, at dawn, high on the rooftop, watching the sun rise. He had such a serene look on his face, almost angelic.
"Ya keep this up and I'm likely t'grow outta m'new pants," he teased with a smile. "Thanks Miz..."
"Mary," she patted his hand. "And thank you. Those gears in my printing machine have been acting up for weeks."
"My pleasure," he nodded, then licked his lips. "It's about them fellas... the trailherders..."
"I know, I'm worried too. I wired the county seat, but they said the sheriff ..."
"Hah," Vin scowled, shaking his head. "Good fer nuthin' no account, spineless..."
"You are a good judge of character, Vin," she noted. "I'll speak with the sheriff again later today. He wasn't in this morning."
"I best get back then... porch needs sweepin'." He winced and rubbed his temple. Truth was, as much as he liked Mary and Nathan, he felt hemmed in. But he needed to work a couple of weeks to pay Nathan back. The healer would put up a fuss, but Vin would insist.
"Maybe you should rest?" She knew about the headaches that still plagued him and frowned at the pain rimming the sky eyes.
"Nah, I'll be okay... they ain't s'bad... thanks, though. Been some time since anybody gave a damn 'bout me."
"I give a damn..." She tipped the chin and rubbed his cheek, causing a rush of color.
"Ya done that on purpose!" he accused with a charming smile.
"Guilty as charged." She held the door and watched him go.
He'd ridden in late the night before. He saw the big gray in the livery and asked the kid working the stall about the owner. He knew that horse as well as his own. Hell, he'd ridden next to it for over ten years.
"Big fella named Wilmington," the youth said. "He's a good tipper. Smooth , ya know..."
"Yeah, I know." Chris got a room at the hotel and found out where Buck was registered, but the room was empty. Not that he was surprised. Unless his friend had changed, he was in bed with something soft and curvy. The next morning, Larabee decided to head for the saloon and have a drink. Then all hell broke loose.
Between the drunken mob, the sheriff leaving and the struggling bound Negro, Chris forgot about finding Buck. Then his eyes swept across the street and he saw a young clerk at the store. Through the hazy blue smoke of the cheroot, his eyes widened slightly.
"I'll be damned..." he muttered, letting out a sigh of relief. He'd wondered about Tanner and if he survived. Hopefully, that guilt that kept nagging at him would go away now. The kid was all right. But what the hell he was doing sweeping a porch was a mystery.
Vin froze, broom in hand, when the loud-mouthed gang swept down the street. The intense headache slowed down his reactions. His heart began to pound when he saw Nathan, tied and headed for a lynching. Mary tried to stop them and he heard the slurs. He heard Nathan argue with them, insisting that he wasn't a doctor.
"The hell ya ain't..." he hissed. More importantly, Nathan was a decent human being and a friend.
Vin entered the store and grabbed a new rifle from the rack, cocking and loading it over the owner's complaints. He was outnumbered and outgunned and he didn't care. People like Nathan were rare and he'd be damned if he'd let them kill him without a fight. Looking up before he stepped into the street, he saw a fair-haired stranger dressed from head to toe in black. The dark duster flapped in the breeze and a cheroot sat snug between clenched lips. But it was the eyes that held him, an intense cool green that burned right through him, scorching his soul. He got a hot wave of tingling from head to toe and couldn't deny the fire in his gut. He knew this man... who was no stranger. His gut screamed that. But how?
"So you know... but you don't know why." Chris thought, easily reading the startled blue stare. No matter, he'd stand by him. There were those Texas guts again... standing up to a lynch mob, outgunned. They nodded once and walked down the street, in perfect harmony. He eyed the right leg that had been so badly inflamed. Tanner's side glance caught him staring.
"Buffalo hunter?" he managed, recalling the tools he'd seen in the younger man's saddle bags back by the river.
Two brave men entered the cemetery, outnumbered and outgunned, but bound by faith and a strong intangible force. They fought side by side, taking down the opposition and saving an innocent man's life. They'd leave as brothers, drawn together by an invisible bond and stroked by the fine hand of Fate.
The bright sunlight warming the blond gunslinger's handsome face was interrupted when a burly body clad only in longjohns sailed through the air. The man in black never moved, remaining a fixture against the side of the hotel. His lips barely moved, issuing a long overdue greeting.
"Afternoon, Buck."
The dark-haired man's handsome face broke into an easy smile and his eyes lit up. He leapt to his feet, a genuine warmth filling his barely clad chest. The taste of the bosomy blonde he'd shared a bed with still clung to his lips as they parted under an attractive mustache.
"Chris... Chris, you old war dog, you!" he hooted, pulling his pants on and making his way over to the lean blond. He eyed the somber figure and smiled harder. His oldest friend looked good. The lethal green eyes were clear; the light hair was short and groomed and the face clean shaven. He leapt onto the boardwalk, embracing his long lost pard. "Good to see you, buddy!"
The slight hint of a smile was the only tiding he bore, but it was good to see Buck grinning and breathing. He looked good; hell, he looked great. Never handsomer, boldly standing half-naked under a woman's window, reeking of perfume and hot sex. Some things never changed. He didn't flinch when the strong arms gripped him.
"Easy, big fella, folks'll talk."
He drank in the musical sound of Buck Wilmington's contagious laughter and realized just how much he'd missed the gregarious man. Handsome, carefree and witty, with a wicked sense of humor and a hearty laugh, Buck Wilmington was the kind of friend every man needed. Good with a gun, brave, true and loyal to a fault, a trait which nearly got him killed.
"Got a job. You interested?" he inquired.
"How much does it pay?" Buck cocked his head.
"Five dollars."
"A day?" He hoped, then saw the blond head shake negative. "A week?"
"I know it ain't much," Chris offered.
"How are the odds?"
"...three... four to one..."
"It's our kind of fight," Buck nodded, the ghosts of past brawls looming near warmly. "How'd you know I was here?"
"I make it my business to know who's in town. Live longer that way."
Buck was about to reply when a young man with long brown hair and cautious blue eyes appeared at Chris Larabee's elbow. Having not seen his old friend in more than a couple years, he wondered about the new face.
"He with you?" He saw Larabee's head dip once. "Is there going to be ladies where we're going?"
"I imagine so." Larabee's grin wiggled.
"I imagine I'm in..." Buck decided, always eager for new conquests.
Josiah Sanchez, son of a missionary and a former priest with a heavy soul, paused as the dust cloud announced visitors. He shielded his eyes with his hand and narrowed his field of vision. He wondered about his decision to seek out his destiny. He saw this rubble of a church and decided to stop. Now, he was toiling away, trying to dig through the muck that mired his soul. He sighed, eyed the riders and went back to work.
"Truly my soul awaits upon God." He gritted his teeth, quoting Psalms 62:1, "from him comes my salvation."
Vin paused behind the other riders, watching Nathan talk to the preacher. He'd been in to visit before the healer discharged him. He denied the call of 'preacher' when his hand was offered in thanks. But Vin knew different. Those strong hands had cradled him and led him to safety. The glint of that cross on his neck was a beacon in his dark storm. Josiah's voice drew him back.
"Hell, I've already been there."
The Texan frowned, wondering about that and about Nathan's statement that 'he'd killed a lot of men once'. Who among them didn't have a ghost lurking in the shadows? He sighed, pushed his hat back and followed the others back to town The afternoon sun was preying on him and twice he saw the dark-skinned healer's eyes flick back. He put on an irritated face and shot his blues right back which only made the taller man laugh. But deep down inside, it felt good to have somebody worry about him.
They were riding past the saloon when a shot rang out. Curious, they went inside. They were among the witnesses watching a smooth-talking conman, whose voice bespoke the South, work a ruse. Vin eyed the scarlet coat, dapper tie and expensive clothes. He recognized the style, a gambler's clothes. He was about thirty, pale eyes and chestnut brown hair. The tiny gun up his sleeve flicked over the irate hands who'd been conned.
"Nice shot, pard."
"Dreadful," Ezra Standish, ever the gentlemen and conman extraordinaire replied. "I was aiming to kill him," he kept his gun moving, watching the angry losers grow angrier, "but the mirror was cracked."
The play continued with the gambler and Chris Larabee exchanging words. He hid a grin when the blond picked up on the trick. The drawling laugh came next at the five dollar offer. Then his smile faded when the jade green eyes of the Southerner raked over Nathan Jackson.
"Would he be riding with us?"
Chris nodded and the trickster's disdain went airborne.
"Not interested."
"Reckon ya should be leavin' town anyway," Tanner added, biting back his disgust.
Ezra eyed the slim man in the hide coat at the end of the bar. He saw the contempt rising in the sky eyes. The young man was defending the Negro. His green eyes then went to the angry mob. There was, after all, safety in numbers.
"I'll sleep on it."
Chris smiled then as Vin Tanner's wry comment brought a curl to his lips. He eased his gaze to the profile of the conman.
"Meet us at the livery at dawn," he offered. "If you live that long."
The drawling gambler left, Nathan turned away, and Chris and Buck spoke in low voices at the other end of the bar. Vin sighed wearily as the long day took its toll. He motioned for the bartender to refill his glass and caught the reflection of Buck Wilmington and Chris Larabee in the mirror. The two older men's profiles created a sudden pain in his temple. He bit back a cry and rubbed the spot, averting his gaze. Twice he rubbed his eyes as the loud noisy bar, the smoke and the dense air fueled his headache. It had been building since the desert ride to see the preacher. Now, it was way into the danger zone, screaming hot. The edges of his vision were laced with red and the voices of the men in the room seemed to grow louder. The combination of body odor and smoke was smothering him. He tossed back a shot of whiskey and gripped the bar, feeling his knees give a little. Not here. He'd get back to the little room Virgil Watson offered behind the store. It wasn't much, but it had a cot and a roof. He nodded to Larabee, running his fingers along the side of his hat. The blond nodded back, then resumed his chat with the dark-haired man.
The sly Texan didn't get far.
Nathan saw the paleness under the sun flushed cheeks. He saw the pain-rimmed blue eyes and his keen ears heard that subtle intake of breath. He followed the quiet man out of the bar, his long strides catching up to the now staggering figure. He grabbed the buckskin clad elbow just as the other man's knees buckled a bit.
"'m okay, Nate," Vin tried, and saw a single brown eyebrow rise in challenge. That caused his own to scowl. "Yer the one who outta be restin' up somewheres. Hell, ya damn near got planted," he noted of the near lynching. "Idda been pissed off but good..."
"That makes two of us." Nate steered the visibly pained man to the steps leading to the clinic.
"...don't need no motherin'... was doin' fine... can find m'own bed..."
"Yuh hush up and get inside before yuh fall down. Yuh been ailin' since we left Josiah's and yuh ain't supposed tah push. I warned yuh about that head..."
"It ain't s'bad..." He settled down onto the cot, grateful for the cool, dark room.. He saw the healer's hand reaching for an all too familiar gray piece of pottery. "Aw, hell... don't need no more cat piss."
"Yuh got a long day tomorrow, eight hours at least in that hot sun. Yuh wanna keel over... fall offa yuhr horse in front of the others? Or puke all over yuhrself?" He saw the slim man's shoulders slump in defeat and the floppy hat get tossed in disgust on the floor. The damp, shaggy head leaned back, resting against the wall. He quietly made the herbal tea, dousing it good with laudanum. By the time he made his way to the ailing man's side, Vin's lips were clenched white. Nathan tapped the knee and a hand shot out, grasping the tin mug.
Vin kept his eyes closed; it helped keep the nausea down. These bad headaches make his stomach twirl. He took several loud breaths, trying to quell the spell and felt a hand on his shoulder.
"...sorry..."
"Yuh ain't done nuthin' yet..." Nate grinned at the apologetic tone.
"...keep it fer later... case the cat piss comes flyin' back..."
"Okay." Nathan waited quietly until the mug was drained. He took the cup and waited as the Texan eased his body out and curled sideways. He watched until the pain-furrowed brows went slack and the fisted hands uncurled. The strong dose added to the ride in the sun would keep the young man sleeping until morning. He'd need that rest; they all would.
Chris washed his face and hands, dried them and combed his hair. It was almost eight p.m. and he was hungry. He walked across his room, cast his eyes on the street below and rubbed his growling stomach. He put his holster and hat on and went to find some dinner.
He got an empty table in the back of the dining room and ordered a beer. He took his hat off, resting it on the empty chair next to him. His mind traveled to the next day and their mission. Twenty men against a handful of strangers. He took a sip of the ale and wondered if any of them would ride back into this dusty town. His gaze caught a tall, black man striding by. The soulful brown eyes peeked into the window and he jerked his head.
"Had supper?" Chris asked when Nathan Jackson appeared at his table.
"Not yet..." He eyed the lingering gazes of some of the diners as hushed whispers began. A loud scraping sound brought the empty chair next to the gunslinger out and opened in invitation. It silenced the naysayers who eyed the man in black with new eyes. He saw the fingers flex and take the hat, leaving the seat empty. He nodded, caught that strong gaze and sat down. Men like Chris Larabee were rare and he felt honored to have him stand by him.
"Evenin'," Chris said loudly, answering the small minds. They got the message and averted their eyes. He caught the waitress's eye and nodded to his friend. She didn't waste any time.
"Steak, rare. Fried potatoes and a bottle of whiskey."
"I'll have the same. Toss some butter and whiskey in the pan... makes good drippings," Nathan requested.
"You okay?" Chris saw a lingering element on the other man's face he couldn't identify.
"Yeah... just tired I guess." He sighed heavily. "...been a helluva day..." He rubbed his throat, recalling the brush with death. "Never did get to thank yuh proper... I'm grateful..." He saw the blond head dip once as the waitress returned with two glasses and a bottle of whiskey.
"Your friend, Josiah, is quite a character," Larabee noted, pouring them each a shot.
"That he is," Nate agreed. "I was plannin' on takin' him a plate of food and havin' a talk with him. We could use him, but I don't wanna leave Vin that long in case..."
Chris didn't hear the end of the sentence; it faded into a blurry bunch of nouns and verbs. Vin? His eyes flitted and he realized he hadn't seen the young man in hours. He assumed the Texan had been taking care of business. If the healer was watching him, something was wrong. He saw the sprawled legs over the rock and felt his stomach drop. He didn't hear Nathan calling him. He jerked when a hand touched his arm.
"Chris? Yuh okay? Yuh didn't hear me..."
"Sorry..." He blinked into focus as the food was presented. The sizzling meat smelled wonderful, the tiny potatoes were crisp and minced onions rode with them. But he couldn't lift his hand to get the fork.
Nathan dug in, enjoying the tender meat. He paused, chewed and swallowed, frowning at the somber face. The hands never moved to pick up a utensil.
"Chris?"
"Huh?" He blinked, saw the puzzled brown eyes and sighed. "Sorry..." He picked up a fork and knife, cutting off a section of meat and eating it. He took some potatoes, two more shots of whiskey and more steak. "What's wrong with Vin?" He tried to be casual, keeping his eyes on the plate.
"Somebody damn near beat him tah death. Josiah found him beginnin' of last week, slumped over his horse out in the desert. He had a nasty cut on his leg... infected, plus a bad crease in his head ... real deep."
"He seems okay now," Chris defended, swallowing a clump of food without tasting it. All he saw was Tanner's legs on the rock and the hot metal of the Colt burning in his own hand.
"Head wounds is real tricky." Nathan cut another piece of meat and ate it. "He didn't wake up for about three days. He can be fine and then them headaches start, usually in the afternoon when the sun is strong. Sometimes he gets to tossin' his stomach... and he's passed out on occasion."
"But he'll be okay, right?"
Nathan mistook the gunslinger's concern for the upcoming trip to the Seminole village and reassured him.
"He's a stubborn cuss, but he's not dumb. He knows he's got a long day ahead. I warned him about that long ride and double dosed him with laudanum. He'll sleep through until morning, most likely." He ordered some coffee and pie and saw the green eyes harden. Once again, he misread that fear. "I'll ride close tah him." Still, the face remained locked in stone. "Chris, it's a nasty wound. It's gonna take time..."
"How long?" Chris interrupted, trying to sound nonchalant.
"I'm no doctor... weeks maybe... to heal right." He sipped his coffee and stabbed at the apple pie.
"But he'll be okay?"
"I ain't no fortune teller either. I can't see tomorrow or next week. I seen lots of head wounds in the war. Some heal... some don't. I just don't know."
Chris pushed the plate away, the aftershock of his damage to the young Texan causing his dinner to sour. He'd have to tell him eventually. It was nagging in his gut. But what if that news turned the handsome sharpshooter's face the other way? He liked Tanner and hoped they'd ride together for awhile. He sighed, eyed the dark-skinned healer and spoke.
"How long you gonna be?"
"Josiah's?" Nate frowned and calculated. "I'd be back by midnight..."
"Go and convince him. I'll sit with Tanner."
"Yuh sure?"
"Said so."
Nathan watched the silver coins dance on the table and reached for his own pocket. A hand came down on his shoulder, ceasing movement.
"Next time," Chris issued about the dinner check. With that, he picked up the whiskey bottle and left the room.
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