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.
As he made his way back up the sidewalk to join the fight to save the town, Larabee hoped his words convinced the worried woman. Because they didn't convince him. He was still lingering on the tracker's whereabouts when J.D. appeared.
"How'd it go?"
"Good! I got ten men loading two more wagons. If we need more water, Harry says we can use the pump behind the hotel. We'll take the empty ones back to the hotel for refills."
"You may have just saved this town, J.D. Could be I might make a suggestion at the next town meeting. How's renaming the town Dunneville sound?" Chris grinned.
"Awful!" the beaming youth replied, finding a cocky grin. "Anyhow, I asked Mary and Daniella to take a head count, just in case anybody is missing. I checked with Jimmy, Diablo was in the livery. He's safe," he noted of Vin's fine black horse. "I'll look for him, Chris... I'll find him!"
"Thanks, John Daniel!" The leader caught his breath between coughs and gripped the kid's forearm. It was a gesture usually reserved for Tanner and the younger man knew it. But tonight, in the midst of this chaotic storm, the kid showed his true colors. The leader was grateful.
J.D. kept that glow all the way up the street. But when he came to the freight office, his face dropped. He ran through the entryway after spotting broken glass. Then he saw the safe.
"It was planned..." He turned back, seeking his friends. Then his heart sank and he thought of their missing man. Had Vin stumbled upon them? He ran back into the building, his heart stopping with every crate he checked. When the last one didn't reveal Tanner's dead body, he allowed himself a moment to be relieved. Then he took his legs to the door to find Chris Larabee.
"It's working!" Buck enthused, clapping Chris's back. "Right man for the job! Looks like I'm rubbing off on that kid," he exuded, then saw the green eyes, like a honed hawk, searching the street, the rooftops and the road out of town.
"He's not here, Chris. Most likely he took off for the hills. He was pretty shook up..."
"He wouldn't run over some bad dream..." Larabee denied, not telling Buck of the nagging fear that was growing in his gut.
"He had other reasons," Wilmington stated, thinking on Vin's uncanny ability to read a man. Was he right about Jeff Mason?
"What's that mean?" Chris asked sharply, seeing something he didn't like in Buck's eyes. "What aren't you telling me?"
"Later," Buck turned away. "Let's get this done. The wind is kicking up. We can't afford for one ember to hit the other side."
"Fine," Chris argued. "You can talk and work at the same time. What's eatin' Vin?"
Before Buck could reply, a sharp cry split the night, causing both men's heads to turn.
"Chris! Chris! We've been robbed!" J.D. coughed, dropping to his knees and gasping for air.
"Robbed?" Buck grabbed a bucket of water and knelt down. "Get a drink. Catch your breath."
"Robbed how?" Chris demanded, watching J.D.'s breathing ease a bit. Just as he started to speak, he wiped a hand over his sweating face.
"The freight office. We were set up."
"Dammit!" Buck hissed, pounding his fist into his open palm. "While we were busy down here..."
"They cleaned the safe out." Dunne shook his head. "It was full... had to be close to ten thousand. They had a busy week."
"Fuck!" Larabee whirled and kicked the post next to him.
"I checked... all... the boxes..." J.D. paled under the soot on his face. "I was afraid maybe Vin caught them and..." He bit if off and shook his head. "Thank God... he wasn't there..."
Buck gripped the back of the youth's neck and sighed. Then he looked at the storm brewing in Larabee's eyes.
"Your call, Chris."
Larabee walked a few feet away, pulling the kerchief down to take a swig of water. He doused his face with it, feeling the heat of the flames. He scrubbed a hand over his face, then eyed the men and women of the town. The large barrels of water were drowning the troublesome fire. They were winning the war. The flames were dying down and it would soon be contained.
"Damn, Ace!" Buck managed a weak smile. "You look as green as your eyes."
"You look awful, Ezra," J.D agreed as the gambler staggered towards them.
"Thank you," he spat back. "Any sign of our elusive tracker?"
"No," J.D. answered. "The fire wasn't an accident. The freight office was robbed."
"The take?" Standish inquired.
"About ten grand near as we can figure. Clem will have to check his records. Did you tell him?" Buck asked Dunne who shook his head.
"Chris?" Buck moved away from J.D. and approached the brooding male.
"Yeah... gimme a minute, Buck..." Chris saw the middle-aged owner of the freight office and waved him over. He spoke privately to him for a moment and then shook his hand. Then Mary stopped and spoke to him briefly. He nodded and bit his lower lip in pain. He stepped into the street and hopped up on top of a wagon. He eyed the sky, just beginning to go from black to dark blue. He eyed the soot-covered faces of the townspeople and shifted his weight, resting one boot on the edge of the side of the wagon.
"I need your attention!" he called out, waiting for the faces to turn towards him. "I want to thank you all for working so well together. You all know what can happen when a fire gets out of control. Wind shifts and we lose the building or worse. You did good."
"What's caught in yer throat, lad," a voice called out, "besides the smoke?"
Chris sighed and raked a hand through his short hair. He caught the eye of the speaker, a man he knew and respected. The Scotsman was a rancher outside town, raising a brood of fine sons. He served on the town council and always offered his support to the peacekeepers.
"MacTavish," he nodded, acknowledging the question. "We've been robbed. While we were fighting the fire, the freight office was robbed. They got away clean." He put his hands up when the murmuring started.
"The black-hearted devils!" Craig MacTavish fisted the air.
"It looks like they set the fire as a ruse," Larabee noted, then his face wore a dark shadow. It outweighed the smoke residue on his features. "Mary says we're all accounted for, except Gus and Vin."
"Gus isn't missing..." Ted Frankson, the blacksmith stepped forward. "He's inside... well, what's left. I saw him when we split up and began pouring water in the east side of the building.
"You sure?" J.D. asked, fearing for his missing friend.
"Too big for Tanner... it's Gus..." Frankson noted of the large, charred body.
"Thanks, Ted." Chris slumped a bit, then turned when the wagon moved. A hand landed on his shoulder. He tensed up initially, then relaxed as the familiar brogue hit his ear.
"We'll handle this, won't we?" MacTavish eyed the men in the town who readily agreed. Both Larabee and the tall, well built Scotsman were forces to be reckoned with. "We'll clean up the mess. Ye've a job tah do, don't ye then?" Craig gripped the hand offered and read the pain in the green eyes. Like the others, he knew just how much Tanner meant to the leader. "Ye find them devils..." He paused, gripping the shoulder harder, "and ye bring the lad home, do ye hear?"
"Thanks, Craig," Chris nodded before jumping down. He made his way to the trio waiting for him on the boardwalk. Mary joined them, giving his hand a fast squeeze. "Okay, Ezra, you and Mary wire the Judge, then the rest of the towns in the county."
"It had to be that gang..." Buck thought aloud. "Somebody started the fire... one or two at the safe..."
"A lookout or two..." J.D. noted, then his eyes found the roofs. "You don't think..."
"Check it out!" Chris drilled, knowing that Tanner often slept up top.
"So, it's a likely possibility that if it was those creeping vermin," Ezra paused, wheezing, "they planned this well, which means..."
"They had an escape route planned," Mary finished. "Maybe more than one. Five men riding hard out of town would be easy to track."
"But one or two would be harder," Chris agreed. "Wire the depots and rail stations. Sun will be up in an hour." He eyed Buck and J.D. "Get cleaned up and packed. We leave in a half an hour."
"After you eat," Mary added. "You'll ride better on a full stomach. You need to check out the freight office anyway and it's on your way out of town. I'll meet you there and have food ready. Harry told his help to start cooking. All these people will be hungry. I'll make a few platters up for you."
"Speaking of the hotel," Buck eyed the widow. "Are you sure everybody was accounted for?"
"Except Gus and Vin." She pulled out her notes. "Yes... all the guests were either in their rooms or fighting the fire. Why?"
"Jeff Mason?"
"Buck, what are you saying?" Chris got defensive, moving closer.
"You asked me earlier why Vin was upset..." he replied honestly. "He met your friend in the saloon?"
"Yeah, and...?"
"He didn't trust him. He said his eyes weren't right. You know when Vin's gut starts talkin'..."
"Look, Jeff and me had some fun at Vin's expense!" the leader fired back, his hackles rising. "He got sore and maybe took off. That's no reason to accuse Jeff of being involved in this!"
"Did you say Mason, Buck?" Mary scanned her list. "I don't have anyone here by that name. This is from the register."
"I was in his room!" Chris dictated, a flutter of something he liked was born in his gut. "He's got to be there."
"Look for yourself." She handed the list over.
"What the hell?" Chris read the name. "Edward Dillon?" He frowned, eyeing the newswoman. "You spoke with him?"
"Let me think... yes, I did. He was ill. He came to the door and opened it a crack."
"But you didn't see him?" Buck guessed.
"No, it was too dark..." she replied. "And I'll bet he was already dressed and ready to ride. He probably figured by the time we got to checking back, he'd be long gone. I'm gonna get that food ready. I'll see you in a half-hour." She nodded to the weary men and left.
"Dillon... Dillon...?" Wilmington mused. "Why is that name familiar?"
"He's the bank manager at the bank in Eagle Bend that got robbed," J.D. offered, returning to the group.
"That's rich!" Ezra scoffed of the bold statement.
"Ballsy fuckers, aren't they?" Buck muttered, then met the pained eyes of the leader. "I'm sorry, Chris."
"He's not there," J.D. updated of not finding the missing tracker.
"Thirty minutes," Larabee managed in a low growl, then stalked off.
"Chris..." Buck started out, but Ezra caught his arm. "Let him go, Buck. If Mister Tanner's uncanny instincts are proved right again and this Mason is involved..."
"You think he caught them in the act?" J.D. asked.
"No, they'd have left him here," Standish pondered. "Unless he was previously upset as you suggested," he eyed the worried face of Buck Wilmington, "and was outside of town already. It might be he was riding back and saw them flee. Perhaps he took off after them."
"Maybe..." Buck sighed, rubbing the base of his aching back. "I sure hope so. Because if we find Vin hurt or worse and Jeff Mason is involved..." he paused, his mind's eye drawing up past episodes of Larabee's wrath, "Chris'll break him in half with his bare hands."
Reading, the tiny depot where they were to catch the train in a couple of hours, was just over the next rise. It was normally a water stop. Not many passengers boarded there. This was one of the reasons Jeff Mason, their leader, selected it. Jensen reined in his horse and slid off, heading to the river. Dousing his golden locks and taking several long gulps, he turned back as his partner approached. His blue eyes slid to the third horse, stolen on their way out of town. The body hadn't moved.
"He's covered in puke," Max said, dropping down to get a drink. "We do it here. We can get washed up, shave and change."
"Just a couple of law abiding citizens," the youth agreed. "Okay, I packed some biscuits, ham and fruit and there's a couple tins of peaches. We can eat first."
"Okay," Max nodded, rose and eyed the prisoner. His fingers twitched, caressing the knife strapped to his belt.
"Get him down," Jensen assessed, untying the burlap bag of food. "I'm gonna double check the train schedule. I'll be back in ten minutes."
"It looks like you'll die like the rabid dog you are," Max grunted, recalling their first meeting. He cut the ropes securing the body over the saddle and grabbed the back of the bloodied collar on the tan shirt. He yanked hard, tumbling the prisoner into a dusty heap at his feet.
Their voices drew him out. Despite the overwhelming dizziness and nausea he suffered from, the injured man pressed onward. The foul taste of bile in his mouth gagged him and he struggled to overcome it. He pushed hard through the thick mud marring his senses. He furrowed his brow, listening as two male voices were heard. From what he could hear, one was leaving for awhile and the other was ordered to get dressed.
Breathing was difficult; his chest ached. What was wrong? Why was he so sick? Why was his head pounding? He peeled his eyes open but everything was very blurry. He heard splashing and fought hard again to peel his eyes open. The blurry brown and blue melded into a picture in his brain of the landscape.
Water.
New daylight.
Pain.
Prisoner.
Then another word intruded into his aching skull — Fire!
Snatches of imagery surrounded him. The livery... smoke... choking... the roof... a kid... then nothing. What happened? Why wasn't he left on the roof? Before he could think further, two words pierced through the fog. Two words that made him act... two important words... two words his life depended on.
"...kill... Tanner..."
He tried to move. He screamed inwardly, berating himself. Run, roll, get up, move, crawl, get up... but he remained on his side, breathing in dust. The sound of a horse forced his burning eyes open wider. Leaving. The horse was riding away. In a distorted image, he saw the other man at the water's edge. His back was turned. He seemed taller than anyone Vin had ever seen and the ground was tilting up and down, making the odd figure appear to be on the deck of a turbulent ship.
"...shit... eyes... fucked... up..." he panted. Where did the other man go? Was he coming back? He eyed the man at the river again, but the severe motion was making him sick. He had no time to think. The order to 'kill Tanner' was too vivid. With one gone, he had to try and escape. He eyed the trees just ahead. How far? His blurry eyes and confused mind couldn't figure it out. Taking several steadying breaths, he rolled and rocked until he tossed himself on his knees. The whole world began to tilt and twirl.
"Oh God... Oh God...!" he hissed, trying to figure out where the real ground was. He took one look back at the figure by the river and watched it disappear under the water. He had to go now. So he said a silent prayer and shoved himself forward as hard as he could.
"Anything yet?" Buck called ahead, watching as J.D. reappeared.
They'd ridden hard and fast, making up for lost time. J.D. took the lead, scouting out in advance. The younger man had learned quickly riding with Vin Tanner and was out ahead of them, picking up the trail.
"They ain't far," J.D. panted. "Fresh horse shit, a wad of wet tobacco and some vomit. They can't be crossing here," he noted of the river.
"There's nothing in that direction..." Buck frowned.
"Reading," Chris said. "They're heading for the railhead."
"Not with Vin..." Buck noted in an ominous tone as the hurricane in black reined his horse in and took off.
If the ground hadn't been moving up and down and sideways, his rubber legs would have had an easier time. His bound hands made it almost impossible to keep his balance. The rolling ground caused him to stumble. He was almost clear. The trees were right there.
"... no... no...!" he rasped as the ground disappeared and he fell.
He began to roll over and over, his uneven equilibrium not warning him he'd reached a hill. Rocks tore at his face and neck as he plummeted until he hit water.
"...git... up... 'er yer ... dead... git... up... Tanner...!" he urged himself, forcing his disagreeable body to work. He got to his knees and used the rock next to him to shove off but fell hard, face first into the river. He rolled onto his side, sputtering and coughing, tossing up water. He shoved off again, wary of the current dragging him towards the area where he'd last seen the other man. He was no longer in the water but Vin's blurry eyes saw him moving by a group of rocks and trees. He couldn't see what the outlaw was doing and didn't know if he was coming after him.
Desperate, sick, dizzy and confused, he eyed the hill and it was still moving. How high? How far? He couldn't climb up without his hands. He turned to the other side of the river. How deep? His bound hands made swimming impossible. Float? He'd have to. He shoved off on his feet, took a deep breath and positioned himself.
Chris spotted the horses first, ahead in the distance. He urged his mount onward until he was quite a bit closer. Then he reined in, dismounted, tethered the animal to a tree and pulled his rifle out. He jogged to the clearing at the top of the hill and eyed the ground below.
Water. Rocks. A pile of clothes.
He saw a wet figure struggling in the current downstream. The bright scarf on the man's neck caught his eye. Then the man fell and got back up, turning sideways to look back at the makeshift camp. Chris's left hand fished into his breast pocket, taking out Vin's spyglass. J.D. had thought of that, getting it from the tracker's coat that was left behind in the wagon.
A face. Not just any face, Vin Tanner's. The fine features were clearly disoriented. His hands were tied and he was swaying badly. The blue eyes were bruised and confused. How did Vin escape? Where were the others? He put the glass back in his pocket when something from his side vision drew his eyes. Just as he spotted movement in the brush far below and to the left, it happened.
Time stood still.
The air seemed to crush his chest.
The sound came just a split second before Vin's head snapped back, the cracking noise so familiar to him. It echoed in his brain, the harsh whine of a bullet splitting the air. A bullet that found its mark. Vin Tanner's head.
"Vin!" Larabee screamed, whipped the rifle up and blew the head off the man who'd fired the shot.
"Buck... Buck, he shot Vin in the head...!"
"Yeah, kid, I saw..." Buck lamented, jumping from his horse and running to catch up with Chris who was trying to get down the steep incline.
"Hey, he moved... he's not dead!" J.D. exuded, watching Vin's head pop up from the water only to flop down again.
"Vin!... get your head up... Vin, you'll drown... Vin... !" Chris screamed, watching Tanner's body bob in the water. Then it moved, the face came up and the body followed, weaving badly on its knees. "Goddammit, Vin...!" he sighed in a mixture of anxiety, fear and gratitude.
Somebody was calling him but he couldn't focus. He was sick and his head was exploding in pain. Waves of confusion washed over him. He didn't know where he was or why he was wet. The only thing he knew was that he hurt... bad. Then for a few seconds, the world righted. There was a figure close by, skittering down rocks and calling to him. It was a man with blond hair; a lean body in black pants. He gasped in a fluttering mixture of surprise and relief.
"Chr... chr...is...?" he whispered, heart soaring. His best friend was here. He wasn't alone. He was safe. Chris found him. Chris found him. Chris. The name was driven from him when something hard hit him from behind. His eyes widened in shock, as his body jerked once and fell forward.
"Nooooo!" Chris screamed, pulling the Colt from his holster and firing.
Buck and J.D. fired too, into the area behind some trees where the shot came from. There was no return fire and they kept running.
The lone rider stopped, his keen ears hearing several gunshots nearby. Close enough to town to mean trouble. This road, the very one he rode on, was often used by the ranchers in the area as well as the freight operators picking up deliveries from the train. More often than not one of the peacekeepers rode with them, especially if there was valuable cargo being hauled.
Sensing one of his friends might be in trouble, Nathan Jackson urged his horse forward. He wished now he had been able to convince Josiah Sanchez to return home with him. But the older man needed to 'cleanse his soul'. So Kojay invited him to remain for several days, and the eldest of the seven decided to do just that. Now he was glad he'd decided to leave the village early.
"Come on, boy..." the ex-medic urged his horse, riding swiftly to the pass.
"He's dead!" J.D. rose from the bullet riddled body. "He's just a kid..."
"He was a kid." Buck shook his head, eyeing the unblinking blue eyes of a fair-haired youth. "You got anything?"
"Maybe." J.D. fished through the pockets of the dead man's shirt. He eyed the folded paper and handed it to Buck.
"Reading," the rogue nodded, eyeing the train schedule. "Chris was right."
"Look at this!" J.D. called out from the side of the dead man's horse. "It's a map of town. It's got the freight office marked..."
"...there's the fire," Buck tapped the building drawn. His keen glance didn't miss the other marks on the map, indicating the rest of the gang's placement. "So we got two dead... where are the others? If this is the same gang, three are missing. Anything else?"
"Soap, a razor, jerky." He fished around. "The usual stuff... wait...!" He peeled out a small black journal the size of a deck of cards. He scanned the first few pages. "They're all here... the other towns, the dates, the times..."
"Is Mason in there?"
"No... no names..."
"Let's get him back with the other one." He lifted the body and dropped it over the horse. He saw a strange look on Dunne's face. "What?"
"He's dead isn't he, Buck?" J.D. whispered painfully, swallowing hard.
"I don't know, kid," the veteran answered, his gut telling him yes. "But I guess we'll find out." He gave the downcast shoulder a pat. "Come on..."
"Vin?... Vin?..." Chris jumped into the water, grabbed the floating body and dragged him onto the bank. "Fuckin' animals..." he vented, cutting the cords that bound the unconscious man's wrists. Then he examined Vin's back, spotting the hole on the upper left side. Fingering the telltale spot where the heart would be, Chris felt as if he were drowning on dry land. He couldn't breathe. His hands were shaking so badly that they danced across Tanner's back like the broken wings of a desperate bird. Gently, he rolled his best friend over, eyes and trembling fingers trying to find an exit wound.
There was none.
He slumped, his eyes closed for a moment as his heart sank. He swallowed hard and lifted his shaky hand to the tracker's neck, quickly being covered in blood.
"Come on... come on..." he urged desperately, seeking, no needing to find a pulse. "Dammit, Vin, don't you die on me."
Nothing. No movement of life beneath his fingers. Fear exploded inside, unleashing a cold and wild beast with jagged teeth. The demon ripped through his body, shredding his guts, tearing up his heart and exposing his naked soul. He gripped Vin's jaw hard, shaking the crimson covered face in a frantic rage.
"Open your fuckin' eyes and look at me!"
Denial turned to anger which in turn became a series of rat-like creatures that gnawed away at what little was left of him. He opened his mouth and greedily sucked air. He moved his hand, gently stroked the Texan's face that was now covered in blood. His reddened fingers, wet and sticky with the last of Tanner's life force, gingerly touched the long hair. The gunman felt like someone had taken a jagged knife and ripped him from his balls to his neck. The thought was so brutal, he couldn't even begin to fathom it. Chris went numb then, shutting out the rest of the world. He lifted the limp body, pressed it against his chest and jammed his eyes shut.
The world went away.
There was no sound. There was no pain. There was nothing.
Vin Tanner was dead.
A few miles away, two riders were splitting the wind. Gravel, dirt and dust sprayed behind the pounding hooves of the animals they rode. A fork in the road ahead caused both to rein their sweating mounts in.
The stocky man was behind and took a swig from his canteen while his partner rode ahead. The ruddy face was sweating and he used his kerchief to wipe the excess moisture away. He watched the slim man ease from his horse and examine the left trail first. It ran along the river. He capped his water holder as the scar-faced man approached him, leading his horse.
"The only tracks are rimming the river," Dutch Walters updated the pudgy gang member he rode with. He took a long swig from his own canteen and then frowned, eyeing the sun burning in the new morning. "This feel funny to you? I mean Mason never made a mistake before, let alone one this big."
"Maybe he didn't know," Curly Hoover replied. "Could be the stage changed the routes in the last couple days."
"Yeah, maybe, but I don't like it. I'm gonna tell him so..."
The two had arrived at the stage depot, as part of the plan to divide and conquer. They were to arrive at the meeting place by stage, the other two by train and Mason would meet them later. They'd arrived at the depot only to find it empty. There were no stage stops listed there for two more days. So they'd ridden like the wind, making up lost time, in hopes of catching the train at Reading.
"We're not gonna make it." Hoover pulled out his watch from inside his vest pocket. "It's almost nine now."
"They ship freight more than once a day," Dutch said, climbing back on his horse. "We can..."
Walter's words were cut off by the sound of gunfire ahead. Both men exchanged a worried glance and swung into action.
"Sounds like they ran into trouble..." Curly called out, following this partner's lead.
Buck and J.D. both paused at the top of the steep hill that led down to the river. Buck sighed heavily, took his hat off and walked a little closer. His handsome features twisted painfully, strongly etched with sorrow.
"Oh God..."
"Buck, is he... dead...?" J.D. choked, not willing yet to view whatever caused his best friend's face to become a mask of mourning.
The mustached face turned halfway, the utter grief telling the youth what words couldn't. J.D. turned away, not ready to face the inevitable. He tethered his own horse and took the one with the corpse on it across to a clearing.
"Kid?"
J.D. paused, took his hat off and swiped the sweat from his brow. He pushed Buck's voice away and tried to cut a path of reason through the awful numbness spreading through him. How could Vin Tanner be dead? His dark brows furrowed over the angry tears forming in his eyes. The unwelcome sound of the tracker's soft laughter invaded his brain. He shook his head and balled both hands into fists.
"Don't..." he warned the easy drawl that lingered. It was followed by the image of the trickster's hand sliding across the table only the day before, stealing Ezra's food. The smile that greeted him from the rooftop each morning, when he stood by the door of the sheriff's office, assaulted him next.
"Mornin', Kid..."
"Vin?" he whispered, swallowing a lump in his throat.
"Hey."
Buck tapped the back of the struggling younger man and moved his hand, gripping the back of the dark-haired youth's neck. Most of the time, J.D. Dunne wasn't as green as he was at this moment. He wasn't just a young man wearing a star; he was one of the Seven. The older man was damn proud of the 'kid'. But today, for the first time, John Daniel Dunne looked every one of his tender young years.
Green.
The unwelcome stench of the death of a friend assaulted him for the first time. There would be no pacing outside Nathan's clinic, needling the ornery Texan who hated to be confined. There would be no more call of 'hey y'all' and that beat up buckskin coat ambling into the saloon. As the two youngest of them, Tanner and Dunne had formed a unique bond. Many mornings outside town, they could be heard whooping and celebrating the joy of riding full out, kissing the wind. Since banding together on that fateful day in an Indian Village, the seven unlikely heroes had become more than peacekeepers. Now, they'd lost one of their own.
It hurt.
He wanted to take away the pain that glimmered with new tears in J.D.'s eyes. He saw the lower lip tremble as the struggling lawman fought hard to wrangle his wayward emotions. He wanted to say it would get better in time. That awful pain would subside and life would go on. He sighed hard, trying to remember how it was to be that young and have someone so precious stolen so suddenly.
"Let it out, kid..."
"No!" J.D. shook off the arm of comfort and swiped away the tears. "I got a job to do. Two dead here means three more out there!" he pointed to the landscape. "I'm gonna... I have to... I..."
The anger inside him couldn't overcome his shaken center of gravity. The air was too thick. The ground was too hard. Buck was too close. He didn't want comfort. He didn't want any soft words. He wanted Vin back. The tidal wave built inside, forcing more water from his eyes and causing his small frame to tremble.
"Dammit, J.D., listen to me!" Buck tried, watching the face flashing in anger. "I know it hurts. My gut's bustin' in half too. He was one of us... maybe the best of us," the rogue theorized of the poet's heart he'd been honored to view all too briefly. A man who'd lived through hardship and brutality, a killer by trade with a soul as old as time. "But he's gone..."
"The hell with him!" J.D. snarled, his eyes darting like a fevered rat. "To hell with you too. Just stay away from..."
"Stop it!" Buck demanded, his long legs taking him across to where the younger man was flexing the muscles in his arms into hard knots. He grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around. "I know how you feel. I've been there... Hell, kid, we all have. It's nothing you can prepare for, the knife that rips your gut apart. But denying it ain't gonna make it change. He's dead, J.D... it happens that way. This ain't Boston, it's untamed and wild out here. We all take the same risks he did every day. It could have been any one of us..."
"I got a job to do," J.D. said flatly, his wild eyes now dulled by the numbing pain. "I'm gonna scout ahead, see if those tracks lead anywhere."
"You're gonna stay right here. If they are out there, you getting your fool head shot off won't change anything."
"I'm wearing this star, you're not!" Dunne vented, shoving Buck hard.
"I'm gettin' too old for this shit," Wilmington sighed, shook his dark head and offered himself over. He knew the kid needed something or someone to hit. All that rage inside, the hurt and anger had to come out. He followed the walking powder keg to his horse.
J.D. had one leg in the stirrup when he felt a strong arm pull him back. He turned and lashed out, using his balled fist like a lightning bolt. He followed up with several more, his hot tears adding a score to the short play. Finally, spent and out of breath, he dropped to his knees, hugging his chest and rocking slowly.
"Vin...!"
Buck swiped the blood from his lip, rolled over and stood up. He winced at the broken call of the Texan's name and placed both hands on the shaken man's shoulders.
"I'm sorry, J.D."
"See to Chris," Dunne gasped. "Go on, Buck, he needs you. I'll be okay."
"Okay, sheriff," Buck lauded quietly, gripping the torn up youth's chin firmly and gracing him with a proud smile. "He's still here," he tapped the area of J.D.'s heart. "He'll always ride with us. You keep him there, okay?"
"Yeah..." J.D. choked, then watched Buck make the longest walk of his life.
It never got any easier. Could be as he got older, it hurt more. He'd buried friends before. He'd seen so many cut down in front of his eyes, especially in the war. But nothing felt like this. It was surreal. He sighed heavily, his broken breath lifting the blood-coated brown hair under his chin. He pulled Vin closer, wincing as the warmth that still lingered in the fallen man's body touched his skin. He moved his hand then, rubbing the back of Vin's neck. He wanted to keep that warmth as long as possible. His eyes burned with unspent tears, bravely wavering on anguished lids. He almost chuckled then, hearing the ornery tracker cursing him.
"Dammit, Larabee, quit pettin' me, I ain't no fuckin' dog!"
"Shut... up... V...V...Vin..." he managed, embracing the limp form. "V...in..." he whispered painfully, raising his wet eyes to the sky. "Why?" he demanded. "Why him? Why now? Why'd you do this to me?" he seethed of the hollow hole in his chest where his heart had been.
Cold.
He shivered as an unwelcome flow of ice replaced the blood inside him. But he continued his vigil, his empty eyes watching his soul escape, bleeding into the ground with Tanner's spent blood. He began to pant then, felt the icy hands of Death reaching in to take his precious cargo.
"Get the fuck away!" he warned the Grim Reaper. "You... ca... can't... have... h...im!"
Buck stopped dead in his tracks, just a few feet from where Chris Larabee knelt in the dirt by the banks of the river. In his arms, pressed against his chest, was the limp body of Vin Tanner. The angle at which the leader held onto the fallen man obscured the face. Vin's red, sticky hair covered his slack features, preventing Buck from seeing the chiseled profile. His pained eyes saw the left hand instead. Four slim fingers, reddened and uncurled, lay unmoving on the wet, stone-colored pants. Water from the river still clung to them. He thought on those fingers and how adept the skilled Texan had been at using them.
The rifle.
Buck hadn't ever seen anyone who used a rifle as fine as Vin Tanner. He could hit just about anything moving or stationary from incredible distances. How many nights had he watched those fingers cleaning and polishing that gun? How many times had that sure fire precision saved their hides? They'd gotten lazy that way. Running and firing without question, knowing the blue-eyed eagle was guarding their backs.
The prankster.
He smiled then, thinking on that hand sliding effortlessly across the table and snatching food. The devilish blue eyes would be hidden under that damned floppy hat. He figured the Texas rat had yet to pay for a meal. But he got away it. Half the fun was that half-assed, raspy drawled explanation. Especially when directed at Ezra. Vin, with little difficultly, had left the smooth-talking gambler speechless and incredulous at times.
The harmonica.
He couldn't play worth a damn. Sounded like a damn animal dying and crying out for its mama. But he did anyway. To torture them most likely. Sometimes though, blowing air in that beat up mouth organ had its reasons. Like when trouble came to town. Seven men often had seven opinions on how to handle the situation. Just in the middle of the heated discussion, that awful sound would start. Josiah would scowl, Nathan would groan, Ezra would wince and shake his head, and J.D. would sigh and roll his eyes. Chris would level a death-glare at the would-be mouth harpist and the words would come out, short, tense and hot.
"Put that fuckin' thing away before I shove it up your ass!"
Buck laughed softly then, recalling all too well those wide eyes, bluer than a summer sky, harboring mock hurt.
"I think m'feelin's is hurt... Bucklin, check fer blood."
They'd laugh then and watch Larabee and Tanner exchange a silent series of thoughts. Vin knew just how to break the tension. Chris was grateful and a nod and a shot of whiskey sliding across the table would be the payment.
But sometimes, that damned bounty hunter would blow on that harmonica and the haunted look in his eyes would break your heart. The old, beat up mouth organ was all he had of his father. Sometimes, in the dusky time when the sun was setting and night had not yet arrived, the wind would carry an old memory. They'd hear it then, that mournful sound that lingered too heavy in the air. Nobody silenced him then as the slim fingers caressed that piece for all it was worth, needing to feel his father's hand again.
The grip.
He'd lost count of how many times he'd seen it. Often without the ruination of words. Two arms shot out, locking onto the other's forearm. It was a gesture Larabee and Tanner reserved only for each other. Buck knew just how much that grip meant. There were few men that Chris Larabee would trust his back to. And only one he'd allowed to invade his soul. That grip was the lifeline. It was the melding of souls, the sharing of pain and the silent exultation of brotherhood. No matter how many times he saw them do it, it always made his chest swell.
But now the grip was broken, lost forever. No more would that same light shine from Larabee's eyes. He'd go on; he was not a defeatist. He'd given his word to the judge to protect the town, the people, their backs. That wouldn't change; he was a man of his word. But the easy smile that formed naturally whenever Vin Tanner's dry humor was born was lost forever. A part of him, the best part maybe, was lying limp and lifeless, cradled against the vacant spot where the gunslinger's heart should be. When Vin Tanner died, he took a piece of Chris Larabee with him.
Buck slid his hand into his pocket and withdrew the bottle he'd brought down with him. He pulled the cork and took a swig.
"You look like shit, Vin..."
His familiar greeting to the often bruised, damaged and scraggly Texan was offered one last time. But instead of the snappy comeback, riding on a sharp drawl, there was nothing. The breeze lifted a few strands of the long hair and he closed his eyes, reaching for that refrain.
"Fuck yer sorry ass t'hell and back, Bucklin!"
He held the bottle down, using the neck of it to offer it. Chris's right hand shot out, then the lips curled angrily around the glass, nearly raping what was left of the contents in one unnaturally long swig. Some of the liquid comfort spilled out, running down his chest. The empty was thrust back up at him. He took it, corked it and tried to find words of comfort. But none came. What could he say? What magic words would take that awful agony from Chris Larabee's face?
"Chris..." he tried, reaching down with his right hand. "God...!" he whispered painfully when his oldest friend moved away, using his back and leg to shield him, or anyone, from taking his Tanner away. That was bad enough, but the awful sound that followed, an unholy cry from the depths of a dark place only visited once before, caused him to crush his own eyes shut. "Okay..." he offered, deciding to give the grief stricken blond more time. Just as he backed away a foot or so, J.D.'s voice split the air.
"Buck! Rider comin'!"
"Shit!" the rogue hissed, spinning back around. "Three of them bastards are still out there." He spotted the spyglass jammed into the top of Chris's gray shirt and grabbed it, running up the short steep hill. "Where?"
"There!" Dunne called back from where he stood on the path they'd ridden earlier.
Wilmington ran over, stopping next to the youth and put the glass to his eye. He saw the horse first and his tension left. Long legs in dark pants, a brown coat and a familiar brown face.
"It's Nathan!"
Still maintaining his death grip on Vin Tanner, Chris turned his face toward the area where Buck disappeared. He waited, squinting his burning eyes and cocking his head to listen.
"Buck?" he called out. "What's goin' on?"
"It's okay, Chris," Buck ran back to the top of the small hill. "It's Nate!"
"Great!" the leader scoffed, his lips twisted into a cold feral grin. "He's too fuckin' late..."
Someone was talking. Someone was here. He was warm and safe. His face was pressed against a damp shirt. Through his crushed ear, he heard a heart beating. Someone was holding him. Pain exploded through the numb blanket he was wrapped in. His head felt like it had a hatchet buried in the side of it. Queasiness followed, using brute force to cause his stomach to fire up. God, he hurt! Someone was holding him. Someone... someone... who... who... someone. Through the damp chest wall his face was pressed against, he was able to inhale. That distinct combination gave him his answer.
Tobacco. Sweat. Whiskey.
They danced around the voice, blending and invading his nostrils. His heart quickening, he moved his fingers. He took another breath, inwardly rejoicing at the stench.
Someone was cradling him, keeping him safe.
Strong arms protected him.
Not just anyone... someone.
Someone with a name. The pale lips parted, fighting the damp cotton. It was a brief war.
Unable to open his eyes or move, he used what little energy he could find and forced that name out.
"Chris?"
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