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.
The numbness that attacked every part of him soon gave way to unparalled rage and fury. Determined strides caused the landscape beneath his hot boots to tear away in chunks. He didn't see the hill disappearing beneath him or the trees that became the horizon. All he saw was Vin's eyes seeking that last promise. He'd given his word and God help the bastard that took that away.
"Chris?"
Buck's head cocked to one side when he saw a six foot wall of wrath scorching the path in front of him. His eyes narrowed in confusion, for Larabee was without Tanner and heading for his horse.
"Chris, where's Vin?"
"Gone!" he managed through clenched teeth. The bitter taste of the act filled his mouth and nearly caused him to gag.
"Aw, hell," the big man slumped, his aching fingers pressed to the wounded youth's side. He knew how much of himself Chris Larabee had given with that vow. He couldn't imagine the pain the other man was consumed with, feeling that he'd broken his promise to his mortally stricken brother. "I'm sorry. I know how much you wanted to be there when he died..."
"No, not dead!" Chris spat, shoving his foot in the stirrup and turning long enough to nearly burn the eyes right out of Buck Wilmington's concerned face. "GONE! He's not there!"
"What do you mean, 'He's not there'?" Buck's shocked voice replied.
"Fuckin' bastard took him! I'm gonna kill him, Buck," he vowed, sending sparks of green fire to everything that his tormented gaze touched. "And anybody that gets in my way."
"Who took him?"
"Mason!" Chris snarled. "Had to be him. One set of hoof prints going downstream. He set them all up, lead them into a turkey shoot. Then he rides off with all the money, plus whatever they have hidden from the other robberies."
"Why? Can't be the bounty?" Buck frowned. "What's five hundred when you got what? Fifty, sixty thousand?"
"I don't know, but I'll ask him," Larabee promised. "Right before I slit his fuckin' balls off and shove 'em down his throat."
"Hold on a minute!" Buck saw the lean body swing in one fluid motion onto the mighty black horse. "You're not leaving!"
Chris turned his body, using the reins to steady the horse. Two sets of angry eyes met over the dust-filled air. Buck hadn't said 'can't' as if he were giving him a choice. He'd said 'not', no room for reasoning. He was giving him an order. That idea alone was nearly enough to make him laugh sarcastically. Nobody ordered Chris Larabee... nobody.
"Who the hell do you think you're ordering around?"
Buck thought carefully before answering. He knew he had to choose his words well or the black storm would ride off and face the consequences later. He didn't like doing this, not one bit. These were the hardest words he'd ever had to bestow on his oldest friend. He felt sweat pouring down his face and didn't have a free hand to swipe at it. He blinked as the beads ran into his eyes, but he didn't break that consuming gaze. He licked his dry lips and parted them, hoping his words would somehow break through that steel armor.
"Ride away then, Chris," he said so softly it surprised even himself. "But know this, it's their blood you won't ever be able to wash off your hands. If you cross that river instead of heading to Reading to get help, they'll both die. How many times has that man saved your life?" His eyes shifted to the ashen face of Nathan Jackson. "The kid needs you too..."
"I promised him..."
"Thanks, Chris!" Buck's angry voice didn't hide his own pent-up emotions. "You think I like playin' Solomon?"
Chris didn't reply. Instead, he took his eyes from the strong face of Buck Wilmington. He gazed at the river and the land beyond. Was Vin still alive? Was he calling for him? Were those anguished eyes crying out in silent agony? He took several short breaths; it seemed like his lungs couldn't get any air. He heard Vin's voice then and the jagged slashes inside of him felt like salt was poured on the open wounds.
"Ye'll stay 'til m'ride comes?"
"Word..." he whispered painfully, closing his eyes and shutting out those soul-shattering blue ones. "I'm sorry, cowboy."
"Chris?" Buck had to jar the shaken blond from the saddle. The agony masking the leader's face was enough to shred his own insides. But time wasn't on their side and he had no more to waste. "Chris, my hand's cramping."
"Huh?" Chris blinked and eyed Buck's hand, stained with sticky, red blood. He took his pained eyes to the pale, wet face of John Daniel Dunne. The slack features under a dark crop of unruly hair made the youth look even younger. "Christ, he's just a kid..."
Chris climbed down, dropped to his knees and pressed his hands to the wound. It was just a few inches above the hip. Neither man spoke and Chris watched as Buck rinsed his hands, wincing and flexing his fingers.
"I think it's slowin' down some," Chris finally found his voice. "Still inside?"
"Yeah." Buck moved his hand, resting his fingers on Nathan's neck. "Jesus... come on, Nate..." Finally, he found a weak pulse and slumped in relief.
"Get his coat off," Chris said, waiting for Buck to move closer. He tipped the younger man ever so slightly so that Wilmington could get the left shoulder and arm free. The tweed jacket slipped away. He watched Buck lift the crimson-stained shirt and cut it, yanking the tail from the back. In seconds, he had long strips laid on the ground. Then the blue eyes came up and met his.
"Hold 'im..."
"Yeah," Chris grunted, shifting his weight. He moved his hands, knelt up and forced them down hard on Dunne's shoulders. "Go." He grit his teeth when the youth bucked as the burning liquor hit his open wound. J.D. gave a short cry and his eyes jarred open briefly, wilding gazing about, lost in time before closing again. He kept his hold until he heard Buck's voice.
"Okay, I got it."
Chris sat back, took the bottle from Buck and took a swig before setting it down. He watched the tall man easing the tweed jacket over the now bandaged body. He took several hard breaths and his mind began putting a plan together. As if reading his thoughts, Buck spoke.
"The depot ain't far. They got a telegraph there. They can wire ahead... make the next train an express. It's a lot faster than using a wagon."
"Yeah," Chris agreed. "If we get them to the depot in Reading, put 'em on board and they push it, skipping all the stops..."
"They'd be at Fort McDaniels in a couple hours. They got a surgeon there. It's our only hope. You gotta ride like the wind, pard."
"I'll send a wagon back, wire home and have the clerk notify the Judge."
Buck nodded, hearing more between the words. Chris wasn't coming back; he was going on a blood hunt. Jeff Mason stuck his balls in a hornet's nest when he rode off with Vin Tanner. The tall man still couldn't figure out why. Why tote a dying man? What motive could he have? Was he luring Chris into a trap? Why go to all that trouble? He could have gunned him down just as easily. He had to have had Chris dead to rights when he went back to get Vin. It didn't make sense. Boots crunching gravel drew his head up.
"You forget something?" he asked the pensive blond.
"Yeah," Chris managed, extending his hand. He wanted the other man to know that he understood just how hard it had been for him to utter that order. Buck was right. Had he ridden off and these two men... two friends... brothers in arms... had they died, he'd never have been able to purge the stain. It took guts and he admired that.
"You know what that boy meant to me, Chris," Buck managed, seeing a mental image of Vin at the table in the Saloon.
The slim body slouched in a chair, floppy hat covering the eyes. That sly hand deftly stealing any food it could find. He saw that cocky grin from above the sign on the General Store where the Texan would hide and then pop up just as he was wooing a woman beneath it.
"Damn sorry-assed Texan..." Buck choked as the cold realization hit that his drawling friend might be dead as well as missing. He took the hand offered and felt that strong embrace. It coursed through him and gave him strength. "Watch your back, Chris Larabee," he offered with his whole heart. Then the man in black gave a nod, slipped back onto his steed and was gone.
Some clever writer would find a long string of adjectives to color his article. His words about this desert would captivate an audience back East. In the thick of cities like Boston, New York and Philadelphia, where tall buildings stood over a bulging populous, they would spell relief for the impoverished. They gave those souls a brief glimpse of just how wild and rugged this country was.
But he wasn't a writer and those words didn't mean a thing to him. As for the color, that lovely shade of currency, be it silver, gold or cash, was the only thing that spelled beautiful to him. He wanted his own empire and the successful string of robberies over the last few months would get him there.
He fingered the silver flask in his pocket and fished it out, scowling at the initials 'TJM'. He'd stolen it several years before and still got a rise when his old man brought it up. It was a gift from his own father and not replaceable. Every time he took a swig, he saw the older Mason's face glowering. He'd offered a reward for its return, but of course, none came. He'd even been properly sympathetic when his father's rage turned to loss. He'd taken it right from his jacket at a dinner at the governor's mansion in New York. It had been about eight years now. That was the first taste of the thrill, feeling that power that consumed him when he saw how devastated his father was.
His father, Thomas Jefferson Mason, got out of Harvard and never looked back. Like Midas, everything he touched turned to gold. He got a job in Indiana right out of college at a small bank. But that wasn't enough for the power hungry man. For ten years, he worked his way up the ladder until he was the president of the Midwest chain of First Union Bank. Then came the offer from the New York Stock Exchange. He went back East and by the time he turned forty five, he was a millionaire. He passed that laurel wreath to his only child, Jefferson Adams Mason.
Like his father, Jeff was power hungry. But unlike the older man, he wasn't willing to work for it. By the time he was twenty one, he was sick to death of being 'TJ's boy'. He had no identity of his own. His father was well known in New York, close friends with the mayor and governor both. Every financial circle knew his name and reputation. So once the war ended, even the medals the young hero wore couldn't compete with the gleam of the old man's name. He'd begun to despise his father and his name.
It started small. He began to invest in the stocks of his father's competitors. Twice, small companies that his father set his sights on, to buy, restructure and sell for a profit, fell through. The old man couldn't understand how this anonymous bidder won both printing houses at auctions. Jeff was contrite, vowing that 'we'll get them next time, dad', all the while counting his coins and adding to his growing wealth. So when the old man suggested buying a mine in Mexico and another in New Mexico, he'd jumped at the opportunity. He'd read about the West and knew from his corporate operations, how to find and hire the very best.
Cannon fodder.
That's what they started out to be. He had wired his father that the negotiations for the mine in Mexico would take months. In a matter of weeks, he'd negotiated a great price and spent his free time forming his gang. He did his research, reading the papers, train routes and keeping track of freight deliveries and pickups. Banks became easy targets, especially when the town had a mill or other endeavor that brought money into the fat safes. He found that he could live in Mexico like a king for very little money.
He found a large villa on the Pacific Ocean on a beautiful white sandy beach in Mexico. With the money he'd already compiled under his alias in New York and the money he'd get from the string of robberies, he could buy it and live the rest of his life there. Pretty women, good wine and a silver mine to keep him happy. So after the first robbery, his silver tongue convinced the gang to invest the money. By the time they were done, the dividend would triple. They'd all be filthy rich. Like lambs to the slaughter, they bought every word. He knew, of course, that when he got to fifty thousand, he'd have to kill them. The law was closing in and it was time to cut them loose.
But two things changed the outline that he'd drawn out. One was Andy Jensen, the doe-eyed kid whose angelic face and fast gun had become his right hand. He saw something of himself in the twenty-one year old and decided he was worth keeping. The second was riding into Paso Del Norte. What was supposed to be a dusty border town near the Rio Grande had turned into so much more. He'd heard about the seven peacekeepers that guarded the territory. This was 'their town' and nobody messed with it. That only got his blood fired up. Then he found out that Chris Larabee was the leader of the 'seven magnificos'. The game was never so sweet. His former close friend would become his most worthy adversary. So he planned and plotted, then sat back and watched the town burn.
A moan drew him back to reality.
He eyed the horse drinking by the river and then glanced at the body several feet away. The curled up fingers on the right hand began to move. Curious, the kidnapper moved closer. He watched the fine features twitch and the dried cracked lips part. The fact he was still alive was nothing short of a miracle. He pressed his hands on the vulnerable throat and applied a little pressure. He chuckled when the weak body moved and two eyes opened.
Vin stared up through what appeared to be a wall of water at a body. He saw a shot of tan above a bright green and gold blur. He couldn't breathe. He fought weakly, jaw working like a fish out of water. He heard the sharp laugh and his brows furrowed. Confusion rained down and the hand was taken from his throat. He gasped and tried to put the pieces together. His throbbing head didn't help. Throbbing head. Head wound.
Then it came back in jagged pieces but enough to give him the answer.
A fire in town. A figure in the dark. His own body taking pursuit. Confrontation on a rooftop and then waking by the river. Tied up, sick and hurting, he'd heard his own fate spelled out. Escape. Running. Falling. A shot and pain in his skull. Then a voice calling to him. A shock of blond hair and a lean body coming for him. Chris. Chris. Chris. More pain exploded in his chest. Water. Voices. Shots. Wait. More voice. Hands pulling at him. Chris. Chris. More images flew past of Buck, Nathan and J.D. Chris pledging to stand by him, not let him die alone. Buck's voice frantic and sharp. J.D and Nathan shot. Chris's hand on his face and the vow.
"W...o...r...d..." he gasped.
"Yes, very touching," Jeff replied, having witnessed the sickening scene from the brush nearby.
That's when he got the idea. It was more than revenge. He wanted Chris Larabee to pay for what had been done. He'd seen them bring Andy's bullet-ridden corpse back to the camp. He nearly exploded in rage when the youth's dead body was thrown to the ground and bound. He'd grown to love the boy like a younger brother. He was going to mold him, groom him and share the wealth with him. But that was stolen by Larabee's precious 'gang'. So when he'd watched the unadulterated agony on the blond's features as he held his dying friend, he knew what had to be done. He wanted Larabee to pay the hardest way he knew how.
The unknown.
By shooting two of the men bad enough to require immediate aid, he'd forced his former classmate to make the unthinkable choice. He'd deserted his dying comrade in his time of need. Having known Larabee since they were boys, he knew the mettle too well. Breaking his word to the dying man would eat away at him. But not knowing what happened to the long-haired man would break his spirit and crush him.
"Thirsty, Tanner?" he cooed, watching the blue eyes full of pain and confusion appeal to him. He capped his flask and put it away. He got the canteen lying nearby and uncorked it, pouring it quickly over the weak man's nose and mouth. He laughed again as the sputtering turned into coughing. The blue eyes went wide and panicked, unable to find air.
More pictures came to the broken body, filling his throbbing skull. The shots echoed nearby and he'd waited. Unable to move, too weak to do anything but breathe, he'd waited. His eyes slid shut until a harsh set of hands roughly rolled him over. He'd been gagged and carried to horse. The thoughts of the bounty on his head were his first guess. But that changed as they rode off. They were heading west, away from Texas. His seemingly paralyzed body sagged against his captor. He'd felt expensive cloth under his cheek and inhaled something almost floral. A flash of the gambler came to mind just as he'd passed out. Now, as the water ran away from his parched mouth, he focused on the laughing face. Reddish brown hair, icy blue eyes, expensive clothes...
"...Ma...son..."
"Good dog!" Jeff rewarded, tapping the wet cheek.
"Why?" Vin asked, his eyes fighting to stay awake.
"To make him suffer," Jeff spat out. "To break his heart into a million pieces. Don't you see?" His voice became almost childlike. "He has to pay. He took Andy away from me. He'll never find you. I'll see to that. He'll die by inches, haunted by your face and that ridiculous vow. He'll never know what happened to you. He'll be crippled for the rest of his life for breaking his precious vow."
"...kill ya... bas...tard..." Vin fought weakly, curling one fist and raising it. Nobody hurt Chris Larabee, not while he still drew a breath.
"Yes, my little blue-eyed terrier, there it is." He stroked the unmoving man's cheek, watching the hot eyes regarding him. "You're his Achilles heel. And that will be his final penance. He'll ride the rest of his days blaming himself."
"...don't... fuck...in... touch... m...me...e..."
"As much as I've enjoyed our little chat," he eyed the horse, now rested, "it's time to go. Don't get up, Tanner, allow me!" he growled, roughly grabbing the dirty collar, stained with mud and blood, and jerking the limp man up. He heard the sharp intake of air and the weak cry before those hot blue eyes fluttered and shut.
He rode hard, his goal driving the horse to push beyond the normal limits. With every passing mile, he saw Jensen's sweet face shot full of holes. Chris Larabee would pay in the most painful way possible.
The young private entered the large room, his dark eyes moving around the neat collection of tables and chairs. He saw the man slumped over, clothing still bearing the bloody remnants of what had transpired earlier. He moved quickly, setting the tray down on a table nearby. The tall man didn't seem to hear him. He was still in the same position on a hard chair staring into the fire.
"Sir?" He waited but the tall man with the weary face and sad eyes didn't move. "Sir, you have to eat. The Captain said to make sure. It's beef stew and biscuits and some cider. Sir?"
"Allow me, young man."
The twenty-year old, late of Kansas City, turned to see a slim man approaching. It wasn't so much the expensive clothes he wore but that the coat was bright red. A smile revealed a gold tooth and a set of jade eyes.
"Ezra P. Standish, at your service." He bowed slightly and moved closer, wincing at the six foot plus wreck of humanity that was collapsed in the chair. "You, sir, look like the wreck of the Hesperus."
"Ezra?" The sound of a familiar voice cut through the fog. He lifted his head and rubbed his eyes, squinting at the figure next to the soldier.
"I assure you, I am not a mirage. Furthermore, not eating won't solve anything. Young Mister Dunne and our good healer will need your care if they are to survive."
"How'd you get here?" Buck stammered, seeing the dark blue in the glass where sun and light blue had been. How many hours had gone by?
"The Biblical version notwithstanding," Ezra noted wryly, eyeing his pocket watch, "on the last train out of Reading."
"You rode in a freight car?"
"Mother would be appalled," Standish smiled at the confused features. "I've seen better faces on the newly dead." He gently tapped the shoulder, flinching at the maroon stains on the once clean shirt. "Young man, can you bring another bowl of..." He peered at the bowl.
"Stew."
"Yes, well, our versions of that might disagree," the conman noted, wrinkling his nose. "But when in Rome..."
"Yes, sir, anything else?"
"You'll advise me immediately if a telegraph comes through for myself or Mister Wilmington here?"
"Yes, sir... oh, the captain left a clean shirt but he won't move..."
"Thank you, young man," Standish nodded. "You'll have the surgeon meet us here when his job is completed?"
"Yes, sir..." the young man said, scurrying to the door.
"Come on, Buck," Ezra said softly, moving his hand under the other man's elbow. Wordlessly, the tall man consented, rising, then staggering slightly. "Sit down before you fall down. Eat!"
"It's been hours. They won't say much. At least they're not dead..." he mumbled, raking a shaky hand through his matted dark hair. He took several spoons of the stew without tasting it and lifted the pewter mug, draining the cider. Then he cast a woeful set of eyes on the southerner. "Longest fuckin' day of my life, Ezra."
He winced at that, missing the normally gregarious and often biting call of 'Ace'. Buck was the first to brand him with a nickname that meant something. Oh, he'd been called a long list of names in his time, but never from a friend and never one that meant so much. He was their wildcard, the one that didn't fit. Yet he was accepted and pressed into the bosom of this unlikely gathering of men.
"I came as soon as the wire arrived," Ezra finally spoke. "Mister MacTavish is guarding the town and has dispensed someone to retrieve our wayward preacher. I was told by the young man at the gate when I arrived that J.D.'s surgery went well."
"Yeah," Buck nodded. "Some kid came in and said they were finishing up. No details yet... and Nathan... it's bad, Ez. Something about an artery. They asked me... wanted me to give the okay to take his l... l...e...g..." He shoved the bowl away, hands shaking badly. "Christ... what should I have done?"
"Here." Ezra moved over and handed Buck his flask. "Steady man," he teased of the shaky hands that threatened to spill the liquor inside. "Your quick thinking undoubtedly saved both their lives. You delivered them to a surgeon and the rest is up to God. Even if the surgeon must make that decision, Nathan's skill lies in his mind and his hands. That won't change."
"I guess... but..." Buck shook his head as the door opened and three men entered. The young soldier who had previously spoken with them deposited a tray and left.
"Captain Harrison," the leader identified. "Major Charles Stillwater, one of the U.S. Army's finest surgeons."
"This is Ezra Standish, he's one of us," Buck spoke to the Captain whom he'd met earlier. His stomach threatened to toss back the stew when he saw traces of blood on the other man's shirt sleeves.
"I'm sorry, Mister Wilmington," the surgeon offered, seeing all the color drain from the exhausted man's face. "Usually I bathe and change after surgery. But I didn't have time... I tossed the smock away and washed quickly. They're both alive."
"Thank God," Buck sighed, then sought the white-haired doctor's eyes. "His leg?"
"Intact."
"God," Buck slumped, dropping his head, too overcome to continue. He pushed his fingers to his eyes and felt the moisture forming. Then he felt a hand on his neck and heard Ezra's voice.
"I want to thank both of you for all you've done. They're fine men... Mister Jackson is quite skilled in the healing arts as well."
"So I was told, and I admire that. They're both resting now, won't be awake until sometime tomorrow. Both have fevers and will require constant care. My wife is a skilled nurse, and she'll tend to them tonight. The younger man..."
"Mister Dunne," Ezra filled in. "John Daniel... J.D., our sheriff."
"Really?" The captain was surprised. "He's quite young."
"And very adept," Standish replied.
"The bullet nicked his intestinal wall. I had to cut part of it away and then reconnect. It also hit part of his liver, but so far, it looks like that won't be a problem. His two biggest challenges are the blood loss which was extensive, and the fact that until his intestine heals, he cannot have any solid food. But he's young and very strong. It will take a little while, but I'm confident he'll survive."
"And Mister Jackson?" Ezra pushed, hearing Buck's low sob at the good news for J.D. He kept his hand on Buck's back as the doctor continued.
"The superficial portion of his head wound was repaired, but until he wakes up, is able to speak and answer questions, we won't know if there was any damage done. His leg... and this is critical," he noted sharply, "must be immobilized. He cannot put any weight on it. I was able to repair the artery but it's delicate work. He won't be using that leg for some time. It has to heal properly."
"We'll see to it," Buck managed, bringing his face up.
"Son, you look like ten miles of bad road," the captain noted. "Did you eat?"
"Yeah," Buck nodded.
"Get a hot bath and some sleep. You'll be needed in the next few days," the doctor commented. "I'll be checking on them this evening and during the night."
"I want to see them," Buck announced.
"Okay," the surgeon agreed. "Right now, my wife and my assistant, Doctor Chambers, are cleaning them up. Wait about twenty minutes and come to the Infirmary. If you'd like, you can use the cots in there."
"Thanks, Doctor, for everything." Buck stood and pumped the man's hand. He sighed heavily as they left, taking his seat again.
"I'll send word to Mrs. Travis," Ezra noted, lifting his spoon to eat the stew that was brought in. "Maybe we'll get word from our missing comrades. I'm sure they're worried."
"Comrades?" Buck paused, eyebrows furrowed.
"Yes, our often ill-humored leader and his trusty drawling sidekick." He paused when Buck's face again lost its color and the dark blue eyes filled with a pain that the southerner found extremely disquieting. "What?"
"The wire... didn't you... get...?" Buck stammered.
"Yes," he pulled it out of his pocket. "Come immediately... ambush... J.D. and Nate down... Vin's gone with Chris after Mason."
"No... no..." Buck lamented, shaking his heavy head. The clerk got it wrong. It was 'and' not 'with'. His heart lurched. For a few hours, worrying on J.D and Nathan had taken his mind off the dark day.
"I'm not a mind-reader, Buck!" Ezra issued sharply, snapping the reeling man back to his senses. "What's amiss? Where are Chris and Vin?"
"We were ambushed, not far from Reading. Same gang that hit the town... they... they... shot..."
"Yes, I know, they gunned down our young sheriff and the good healer. You brought the wounded here and Chris and Vin left..."
"Chris sent the... a... wagon... back from the depot. He got them to... uh... uh..." Suddenly, Buck was exhausted as the mighty weight of the entire last few days collapsed on his broad shoulders. "...hold the train up the line. We... they... brought... them... into the train and... skipped... all... the stops."
"Yes, yes..." Ezra drilled. "And Chris and Vin..."
"Vin's dead!" Buck blurted, shoving his body away from the table. He pounded the walls, taking out his frustrations on the unfortunate wood.
"What?" Ezra repelled as if invisible bullets riddled his chest. "How? Where is he? Did you leave him out there?"
"Shut up, Ezra!" Buck hissed, turning around, eyes rimmed red from exhaustion, guilt and tears. "I didn't want to... he's gone. Don't you see? I made him choose... I sacrificed Vin for J.D. and Nathan..."
"You're not making any sense." Ezra crossed the room and shoved Buck down onto a chair. He drew up the closest one and handed the flask over as he sat down. He waited until Buck took two long draws. "Start at the beginning, when you left town in pursuit of the bandits."
So Buck took a deep breath and began. His rich voice wavered at times and his eyes filled with blue pools of sorrow, but he got it all out. By the time he finished, his voice was a mere shadow and he was utterly and totally spent. He sighed heavily and dropped his head, finally letting his grief out.
"I'm sorry, Slick... God...!"
"Shhh!" Ezra shifted, gripping the back of Buck's head.
He buried his own pain even though the sense of loss nearly smothered him. Vin, of all them, was the least likely for him to become so attached to. But despite their vast differences, there was something about the soft-spoken, drawling Texan that had drawn him in. Without even trying, the long-haired man had slipped inside his armor and those blue-eyes had completely disarmed him. He couldn't begin to imagine what state of mind Chris Larabee was in. He'd never seen two men more connected by blood, sweat and fate than Larabee and Tanner.
"Enough!" he barked. "Pull yourself together, man. Our fearless tracker would be appalled by you flogging yourself like this. I suggest a hot bath and a change of clothes. Then we will go and keep a vigil by our two wounded friends. They need you, Buck, so will Chris when he returns."
"If he returns," Buck croaked, pulling himself together. He saw the same light in Ezra's eyes, a shade of fear that they all knew wouldn't flicker out, not until Vin Tanner was found.
The black of the sky matched the pitched tone in his heart. Chris couldn't feel anymore. Numb to the core, he pushed forward until his horse could go no further. He slid from the saddle and made a small fire, warming his hands and sipping coffee. The bitter brew couldn't take the cold from his bones. Nothing could.
He'd found the tracks easily enough and followed them downriver. Then he lost the trail when it merged with a common road used by many. Dozens of prints melded together, criss-crossing in a bizarre pattern. Then the road grew broad as it met the rim of the canyon. He surveyed the land and the mountains and shook his blond head. What was Mason doing? Where was he going? Which way? And where was Vin Tanner?
So he pushed forward, deep into the canyon, following a trail that led west. He'd reasoned that if Mason did set his team up, he must have had a cabin or hideout hidden in the hills. The other towns he'd robbed formed a crooked line on the map. He decided to start there. He'd check every square mile around each of those towns. He'd check every hill and ditch. He'd hit every town, looking for that face and leave no rock unturned.
He tossed the coffee away and turned, finally letting his aching body hit the bedroll. Despite his exhaustion, sleep eluded him. He tossed and turned, his handsome features covered in sweat. Every space in his scattered dreams was riddled with a set of blue eyes. Twin beacons that burned into his soul, shattering it into pieces. Those blue eyes were crying out for him and that broken voice ripped him apart.
"...m'cold, Chris... ya there? Chris... where are ya�? Ya promised... s'cold... cold..."
"V...v...in...." he whispered, features twisted in torment as the image faded and exhaustion finally sent him into a dark void.
"Chris!"
He woke up, heart hammering so loudly it sounded like a drum. The awful dream left his weak body covered in sweat. But the inky blackness and awful cold in this dark place where he lay left him shaken to the bone. Was he dead? Was this hell? Then he felt a warmth spread through his groin as his bladder emptied.
"...ain't dead..." he reasoned. "...no call t'be pissin' in Hell."
Where was he then? Even with his eyes open, he saw nothing but pitch black. His head wasn't aching so much now and he thought hard. He recalled again the fire in town and the events by the river. He wondered if J.D. and Nathan were still alive. He took a deep breath, crying out as a pain hit his chest. But he could breathe a little better. Still the unnerving blackness had him rattled.
So he used his other senses. He smelled the damp, musty odor and his numbed fingers scraped against a hard, cold surface. He blinked when something wet hit his cheek. He moved his face so that the next drop hit his waiting tongue. Wet, musty, hard rock... .a cave. He was in a cave. Vague images returned of his boots being taken off and a sick laugh in the dark. Then the hand had gripped his throat, ripping his beloved medicine pouch from him. He tried to fight, even got a fist to form and bat at something soft and fleshy near him. But then Mason was gone, leaving him to die in this cold, dark prison.
God, he was cold! He began to shiver uncontrollably. Frustrated, fevered and in pain, the darkness only made his muddled mind fill with fear. He let his guard down and the Grim Reaper's fine fingers began to stroke him. From the time that bounty poster had been issued, he'd feared being strung up by a rope in the middle of some nameless Texas town. In his dreams, he'd see the townsfolk gather for the 'big show' and watch as the kids tossed apples at his swaying corpse.
But this, lying in the dark, alone and cold, was a far worse fate. Just as he began to surrender to the clever hands of the dark side, twin green beams of fire filled the cave. The phantom toll keeper shivered and scampered away from the green light. Vin gasped as his fevered brain rejoiced, basking in the warmth that those intense eyes brought. Then he heard Chris's voice, as solid and sure as if his friend had been next to him. He moved his face, feeling that warm breath on his cheek.
"Word!"
"W...w...w...or...d..." he vowed, making a fist and fighting back, smiling to himself as the Reaper's scythe bounced off the wall and the dark one was forced to flee.
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