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 moon kept him company as he rode along, singing softly and enjoying the light breeze. His dark eyes rose to the black sky and he paused to admire the bright stars beckoning overhead.
"Sho' is pretty..."
It wasn't long before he reached his destination. He climbed down from his horse, gave her neck a gentle rub and ambled inside. His hands felt along the wall until they came across the torch. He paused to light it, then made his way down the passage. He picked up the song again, his deep voice echoing through the caverns.
It was getting harder to stay awake. Where was Chris? How long before he came? He furrowed his brows and thought as best as his muddled, fevered brain would allow. How long had he been in here? Hours? Days? He sighed weakly and shivered, unable to keep warm. The warmth of his urine was long gone leaving him cold and wet. Despite his best efforts, his eyes slid shut. His breathe caught for a moment and one fist curled up. Fear stabbed at him... would these be his last moments on earth? If he closed his eyes, would he open them again? His soul trembled as the green eyes that had kept him company in the dark abyss faded away.
"...m'sorry... Chrisssss...."
"Swing low, sweet char...riot.
Comin' fuh tah carry me home.
Swi-ing low, sweet char...riot.
Comin' fuh tah carry me home.
I looked ova Jordan and what did I see...
comin' fuh tah carry me home.
A band o'angels comin' aftuh me...
comin' fuh tah carry me home... "
Voices?
From the black mud he was quickly sinking in, he fought back. He couldn't open his eyes but he pushed with what little reserve he had to remain awake. There was something else in this dark place with him.
Singing.
He thought on the words and they stayed with him. Angels and that river Josiah talked about. Someone was coming to take him 'home'. Who? An angel? A peace came over him then as he realized that the decision was made. He didn't have to fight anymore. An angel was here to carry him home. Isn't that what Josiah preached? That when you died, your soul went 'home to the Lord'? The voice was getting louder, the singing stronger. He moved ever so weakly to listen as pain shot through his head. That puzzled him, drawing his brows together. How could he feel pain if he was dead?
The singing came to an abrupt halt. He exhaled once and remained very still. The angel would know what to do. He was so cold. He hoped the touch of the angel would take the cold and pain away.
"What yuh doin' in here, boy? Ain't nobody suppose tah be in dis place," he gasped, his aged features a mask of surprise. He set the torch in the slot over the young man's head and squatted down. One massive brown hand moved over the pale boy's nose and then the lips that were slightly parted.
"Oh Lawd, yuh's dead."
He eyed the bloody hairline under a filthy bandage and then cast a sorrowful gaze at the bare feet and barely clothed body.
"Some devil robbed yuh?"
He shook his bald head, his large frame hunched in dismay. "I'm sorry, boy. Ain't right that yuh died alone," he lamented, studying the fine features on the young man's face before resting a hand on the cold cheek.
"Lord, it's me, Moses Jefferson. I knows yuhr busy, but dis boy was done wrong. If yuh would... please help him find his way tah yuh. He had him a Mama who give him life. Somebody done took dat away from 'im. He's cold... Lord... hold 'im in yuhr hands... keep 'im warm on his way home."
He inhaled sharply when two blue slits appeared. As if touching a flame, he pulled his hand away. He was still reeling in shock when something as light as a feather touched his hand.
Through the fever and haze of pain, he heard those words. Then the angel touched him and his fear went away. He wasn't alone. The angel was here to take him home. He furrowed his brows, having heard the angel mention his mother. Was she here too?
"...M...a......ma... he..re...?"
"Yuh supposed tah be dead!" Moses gasped, rubbing his hand where the boy had touched it. In the sixty plus years he'd been on this earth, he'd never experienced anything like this. He stood and moved back, twisting the brim of his floppy hat and shaking his head. The bluish lips cracked open again, calling out.
"Dat ain't right. He's lookin' fuh his mama..."
Vin heard the deep voice and painfully turned his head a bit, crying out. Through what seemed to be a waterfall in front of his fevered line of vision, he saw the angel. The strong body rose high; to the weak fevered man, he seemed to be ten feet tall. With all the effort he could summon, he peeled his eyes open and parted his dry lips. He tried to move his hand but couldn't tell if it worked. He thought hard, trying to recall the story Josiah told him about heaven.
"...Gab..riel...?"
"Huh?" Moses backed up again, wincing as two of the wounded man's fingers wiggled. The blue eyes were bright with fever and pleading with him. The lips were moving again but he couldn't hear.
He shook his head and turned away. From as far back as he could remember, the men with blue eyes and pale skin had done nothing but hurt him. His earliest memory was that of being ripped from a woman's arms. He later learned from his older brother that the screaming woman in his dreams was their mother. They were taken from her and sold at an auction. So he learned young, with every lash of the whip, to hate the pale faces. He rebelled at every turn, seeking to escape. But his size and strength made him a prize catch. He was six inches over six feet and close to two hundred and fifty pounds.
His Maisie was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. He'd loved her deeply and the only time he ever really felt free was at night in her arms. Like his own mother's grief, he had to be strong for her when their first born was sold at the age of five. One by one, his babies, the fruits of their joyous union, were taken from them. Robert Taylor, the master of the plantation, was mean to the core. His own children even felt the force of his wrath. As the years went by, Moses learned to keep his simmering rage under control, for his woman's sake. He was afraid that brute would hurt her.
Then the war came and the Yankee soldiers invaded the town, taking everything and burning what they didn't steal. As the plantation burned, he felt no vengeance inside, only a cold emptiness. He took Maisie and left, hoping they could find happiness up north.
But that was not meant to be. They had no money and nowhere to go. They lived hand to mouth, hunting what he could to feed them. She wasn't well and the winter was hard. He tried to find a doctor, but all those Bible-thumping pretenders turned them away. When he buried the only woman he'd ever loved, his heart went into the dirt as well. He'd stopped trusting a long time ago, too many years to count.
So he kept moving, never staying in one place very long. Living off the land and keeping to the shadows. That worked well until six weeks ago when he'd become ill. He'd been living by the river in this very cave where he'd crafted odd bits of wood into crude furniture. He didn't remember passing out on the riverbank. But three days later, he came to in a small cottage. A kind face with pink cheeks and a tuft of white hair greeted him. Doctor Thomas Murdoch had saved his life and never asked for more than a handshake. He was one of the few good white men Moses had ever met. And the only one he'd ever come to trust. A weak cry of pain snapped his mind back to the present.
He shook off those lost blue eyes and kept moving. He didn't need that kind of trouble. That's all the folks around here would have to see. A large ex-slave hauling a wounded white boy to town. His old eyes had seen too many of his family and friends hung by those short-sighted white folks.
"No, suh," he trumpeted, sitting down on a crate and picking up a bottle of whiskey. He took a long draw and nodded his head. "Old Mose don't need that kind o'trouble."
"...there... Gabe...ri...al... time... go...?"
"He'll be dead soon 'nuf," the slave noted, trying to convince himself when the weak voice echoed through the cave's tunnels.
"....cold... s'cold... pl...e...e..z...e..."
"Go 'way... go 'way..." he canted, rocking slightly and then scowling as a new voice entered his mind. "Don't start on me, woman!" he warned, hearing his Maisie's voice. Dead close to seven years, he still heard her whispers in the wind and felt her touch in the still of the night. She'd be sassin' him good now if she could see him.
"...there..."
"It ain't none of m'business, Maisie, yuh knows dat. Boy's time is comin'. I cain't help him none."
"Wa...ter... Mister... Gab..riel...?"
"I'm goin', woman! I'm goin', quit shoutin' at me!" he growled, taking his canteen and retracing his steps.
"Buck?" Ezra whispered, shaking the sorrowful man's shoulder. "Buck, wake up. You can't sleep like that."
"Huh?" Buck squinted in the near darkness. He saw the low light from the lamp on the table between the two beds and blinked. "Kid?"
"He's sleeping, they both are. As well you should be. You heard what the doctor said. Those fevers will require work. You becoming sick is not an option. I have only two hands and I have no intention of playing nursemaid to both our wounded comrades."
"Huh?" Buck croaked, catching about every third word of Ezra's speech.
"Get across the room and onto your cot. The sun will be up in a few hours and you'll need all your strength."
Buck stood, wincing as the harsh payment for sleeping in a wooden chair hit his lower back. He eyed the wet face of J.D. Dunne and sighed hard. He moved to get the cloth nearby and poured fresh water in a bowl. Wringing the cloth out, he wiped the youth's face, neck and chest.
"Jesus, he looks about sixteen." He turned towards the other bed where Ezra was lifting Nathan's head and holding a mug. "Is he awake?"
"Shhh!" Standish warned. "Not fully. He can hear, he's too weak to open his eyes. But he's drinking. That's enough for now," he whispered, placing the mug down and turning the wet pillow before resting the fevered man's head. Then he turned to face the exhausted rogue. "Sleep. It serves no purpose to have both of us stumbling about in the dark confines of this place."
Buck nodded, yawned, took a drink of water and then found the nearest empty cot. Through eyes slitted from worry, exhaustion and a headache, he watched the gambler move between the two beds, doing careful inspections before sitting down. He found a smile then as the silver flask appeared from beneath the scarlet coat.
"Ezra?"
"I sincerely hope you're talking in your sleep."
"You're a fraud."
Ezra peered into the darkness across the room, almost seeing the handsome man's face splitting into a grin. He took a sip of peach brandy and let the warmth burn a path down into his belly. He tucked the flask away and took out a book of sonnets.
"Goodnight, Mister Wilmington."
"Pa?" Buck called out softly. "Is he here? What's he look like?"
Buck heard the soft laughter then and saw a glint of gold tooth. He let that warm sound lull him into a deep sleep
Moses cursed all the way back down that tunnel. He was still angry and full of vinegar when he knelt down. Even when he lifted the boy's head and tipped the canteen, he was angry.
Then something happened.
"...sorry..."
The broken weak voice coupled with those lost blue eyes and the water trickling down the fevered man's chin squelched his anger. He felt the young man trembling and frowned. The boy's chest was rising and falling too fast. The weak hisses of air were too rapid.
"Hold on, boy..."
He moved his large body around, gently lifted the wounded man up and heard the shivering soul gasp audibly. His dark eyes saw the bloody hole in the middle of the back. Glancing quickly, he noted no marks on the front of the undershirt. The breathing became a little better and the long lashes fluttered over the confused eyes. He sat down, resting the helpless man against his chest and shrugged his jacket off. He moved the cloth around in front so the boy would have warmth from his body surrounding him.
"Dat bettah, boy?"
The matted head nodded. From his position several inches above that head, he saw the angry wound. Then a long contented sigh slipped past the bluish lips and the smaller man snuggled back.
"...thanks..."
The trust that came on that small rasp stabbed him hard. How long had it been since anyone trusted him? This boy was utterly and totally giving himself over. He wrapped his long arms around the shivering frame and felt his own warmth invading the cold, wounded white boy. Then from under the crude blanket, two weak fingers moved, seeking comfort in his hour of need. The shaking fingers managed to hold onto his index finger and it was if a fire shot through his entire body. This young stranger, so frail and weak, was depending on him. He felt the trickle of warm breath on his forearm and moved one hand to the icy brow.
"Here, boy, open yuh mouth... slow now... dat's good... Old Mose has yuh..." He slowly tipped the canteen and drop by drop, got water to trickle inside. He heard the small moan that only came when sated thirst is quenched.
Vin wasn't sure where he was. This wasn't heaven. He didn't think so anyhow. He still had too much pain, but he was safe and getting warmer. The angel was strong and he felt that strength invade him. Maybe he wasn't ready to go? Or maybe he wasn't going? The long line of corpses he'd sent ahead loomed in his fevered brain. Then it hit him hard. How many times had he joked about it with Chris?
"Go t'hell, Lar'bee."
"Thought we was going together cowboy?"
"...Hell... no... can't be... angel?"
"Angel?" Moses repeated, trying to figure out the desperate voice.
"Gab..ri..el..." Vin whispered, fevered eyes rolling and trying to focus. "J'siah said... said... so... preacher..."
"I ain't no angel, boy. I ain't nobody. Yuh hear? I ain't no damn angel!" Then he realized what the confused young man thought. He held on tighter and tried to reassure him. "Son, this ain't Hell. This here's New Mexico. Yuhr in a cave. Yuh hear? Yuh ain't dead."
Not dead?
Those two words swirled through his brain which was consumed by the fires of a fever. His weakened heart was beating wildly and his breathing intensified. Through the waterfall in front of his eyes, he saw a light flickering on the cave wall. He smiled then, trying to move his hand.
They were back.
Scorching a hole in his hide and sending the fire of life back into him. He felt renewed and fought hard. He kept his eyes fixed on them and heard the call. He inhaled it, digested it and made sure it wouldn't leave. Even as his eyes closed, the mighty power that those green beacons held remained.
"W...o...r..d..." he sighed and let his eyes flutter shut.
"Word?" Moses repeated. "Fever's got yuhr brain addled, boy."
He sighed hard and weighed his options. He couldn't go to town; he feared his neck being stretched on a rope. He was a runaway slave, a stranger, and they were white, like the wounded boy. What if the boy never woke up? There would be no way to prove his story. He sighed again and heard her voice.
"Alright, woman... yuh never could resist a stray."
He eased his body up and gently laid the boy down. He lowered the torch closer to the floor so the flames would give him some warmth. Twice, he made trips to the back of the cave to bring blankets. Once the wounded young man was covered and secure, he squatted down, turning the now flushed cheeks. The heat burned into his hand.
"Yuh hear me boy," he ordered, watching the sandy brows twitch. "I'm goin' fuhr the wagon. I'll be back. Yuh ain't gonna die alone... yuh hear?"
He heard. He heard. He nodded and heard it again.
"You won't die alone, Vin, I promise."
He saw the blond man as clear as day, saw those lips move, and it came out. He caught it and held on, too weak to repeat. So silently he sent back the refrain. He wasn't gonna die; he was gonna fight. He saw the blond dip his head once, the eyes catching the vow and keeping it.
"Word"
The new dawn was breaking when he arrived in town. He hadn't slept much and his face was sporting a corpse-like hue. He scratched his stubbled chin and squinted up the small street. Only a few people were stirring this early in the morning. Could be a good thing since he was sure his appearance could cause a minor stampede. The grime covering his skin was itching something fierce and he smelled like a rabid polecat. From under the brim of his hat, he eyed the hotel. Right next to it was a smaller building with a white sign bearing the word 'Bath' in bright red letters. His eyes drifted again, carefully scrutinizing every building, alley and rooftop. Satisfied, he arrived at the livery and tossed a silver coin at the wiry man by the door.
"When's the telegraph open?" he asked, taking his saddlebags and rifle.
"Not for three more hours."
He sighed hard, rubbed his tired eyes and then scratched his head. Three hours never seemed so long. Three hours until he found out if J.D. and Nathan were still alive. He felt a pang of guilt stab at his lean abdomen. In the long hours spent yesterday chasing Mason, he'd put the two men out of his mind.
He noted the two lone horses inside the livery and took a closer look. He tried to recall the horses of the men they tangled with. Neither of these horses looked familiar.
"Somethin' I can help you with?"
"Any strangers come through yesterday?"
"Nope. You're the first in a couple weeks."
His shoulders slumped a bit and he shifted the bags. Mason wasn't here, no reason to stay. He'd get a bath, shave and eat. He'd take a nap, send a wire to Buck and one to town. Then he'd keep moving. He wondered where Mason was headed. Was Vin still alive? Where was Mason? Why had he taken the wounded man? Had Vin crossed paths with him before?
He sighed heavily and thought of the large amount of land in any direction that the fleeing coward could be hiding in. He headed back towards the street just as the other man spoke.
"Didn't catch your name."
"No, you didn't," Chris replied, tugging his hat down and crossing the street.
By the time Moses arrived back at Doctor Murdoch's house, the sun was up. He reined the horse in, eased his large body down and leaned over the back of the wagon. His young charge was so still it was as if he was a corpse. He placed his hand over the slightly parted lips and felt a tiny breath.
"Good boy... yuh hold on..."
He ducked down into the doorway and entered the tidy house. He recalled the doctor mentioning he would be out of town for awhile. Moses knew he couldn't just ride into a strange town with a wounded white boy. His mind was scarred by too many lynchings. He made his way to the back and was dismayed when he saw that the doctor's bed was covered with medical books, journals and dozens of heavy boxes. He'd forgotten he helped the doctor move some of his things from town.
Sighing, he eyed the long wooden table in the kitchen. He grabbed some clean sheets and a pillow from the large hope chest under the physician's window and laid them out. Then he went to the wagon, dropped the back down and slowly pulled the wide board out. Just as the injured man's waist appeared, he halted, carefully lifting him and carrying him into the house.
"There yuh go..." he spoke softly, gently easing the fevered man down. He took off the filthy undershirt and dirty bandage around the head. Then he made several trips outside, filling buckets and pouring water into the sink and two pots. He warmed some of the water over the stove and poured it into a basin. Then he got out the soap and lathered up a soft cloth. Ever so gently, he washed the blood and dirt from the young man. He knew the brown bottle on the top shelf was the medicine the doctor put on cuts. He dabbed some on the nasty head wound and the pale face twitched in distress.
"I knows dat stings..." he comforted, patting the warm shoulder. "Yuh got a nasty crease... fever's comin' up..." he noted, pulling the sheet up to the fevered man's neck.
He walked to the window over the sink and looked outside. What should he do? He didn't want to leave the boy, but the doctor wouldn't be back for a few more days. The road to Willow was far too rough for the wagon or the injured man. He didn't know the folks in town; he only knew the name because the doctor had his office there and spoke of it.
Strangers.
He absentmindedly rubbed his neck, feeling a rope choking him. Then he touched his hand, still feeling the feather light brush of the dying man's fingers. He tried to shrug it off but it lingered. Two lost eyes, bright with fever and confusion, the scratchy whisper and that total trust thrust in him.
"Best I kept ridin'," he muttered. "...mindin' m'own." He stepped outside onto the porch and eyed the new sky. One face entered his mind, one that still took his breath away. "Woman, I need t'hear yuh..." he pleaded. "Boy needs help..." He paused then, thinking on how very close to Mexico he was. If only he'd gone after he got well. A gentle breeze kicked up then, surrounding him and embracing him. He nodded, his old eyes lingering on the horizon. "Yeah, I hear yuh, woman..."
He went back inside and shuffled over to the makeshift bed, pausing to pick up a wet cloth. He wiped the boy's face again and his neck and chest as well. He picked up the limp hand, recalling how much faith was in those fingers that found his hand in the dark.
"Angel," he scoffed, creasing his forehead, still hearing that weak voice. "Yuh hold on, boy, I'm fetchin' a doctor for yuh."
He pulled the blanket up and walked to the door. He paused on the porch and knelt down, holding his hat over his heart. He cast his soulful dark eyes to the sky and caught a ray of sun cresting a puffy white cloud.
"Lawd, dis here is Old Mose. I ain't da best man yuh put here on this green earth, but I ain't the worst neither. Dat boy inside, he's in a bad way. If yuh could put yuhr hand on 'im, keep 'im warm 'til I get back with the doctor..." He paused, nodded and dropped his head. "Help me find the strength, Lawd." For he was still full of fear and felt that rope on his neck, the sting of the whip on his back and the hateful stares from pale eyes.
"Moses? What's wrong?"
He was so startled at first he dared not move. His breath caught inside, sending his massive chest into an uneven rhythm. He dared not look for fear it was all in his head. He kept his eyes fixed on the white boards on the front porch. Then a hand touched his shoulder and he jumped a bit, his breath crashing out loudly.
"Moses?"
It was then that Moses felt the power of prayer and moreover, the touch of God's hand as it retreated from the sunny porch. He raised his eyes to that ray of sun and nodded, feeling a grace wash over him.
"Thank yuh..."
With that he stood and followed the homeowner, Doctor Thomas Murdoch, into the house.
"Buck?"
"Hey!"
The womanizer's dark head came up and the chair made a Godawful racket when he flew out of it and leaned over the bed. Two hazel eyes, or rather slivers of hazel, were trying to find his face. He moved a hand, wiping the dark black bangs off the youth's forehead. Damn, the kid looked about sixteen. He swallowed hard, took the limp hand that was near his own and found a smile.
"You look like hell, kid."
"...bet...ter... than... you..."
"Yeah, well, it was a long night. The doc took a bullet out of you. It did a little damage inside, but you'll be fine. You need to rest and eat good and drink and..."
"...hap...pen...ed...?"
"You remember us leaving town, huntin' them bastards that robbed the freight office?" Buck inquired, then moved to get the feverish youth a mug of water. He saw the damp head nod and eased it up. "Here, just a little now. Good... that's good, J.D." he coached as the water slowly disappeared. He turned the pillow to the dry side before gently easing the wounded man's head down.
Through the haze of pain and the mud that the fever left in his sluggish mind, the young sheriff thought back. He closed his eyes and felt Buck wipe his face again; the man was worse than an old nanny. He recalled the race from town and then gunshots. He saw Vin Tanner's body draped in Chris Larabee's arms and a look so icy in the pale green eyes that it chilled him.
"Vin's dead!" he blurted, shoving his heavy lids up. "Buck?"
"I don't know, kid," he admitted. "You and Nathan got shot. Me and Chris tossed some lead with the bastards that did it. Time we got finished..." He paused, scratched his stubbled face and sighed hard. "Vin was gone."
"Oh, God... he's dead... I'm sorry... Chris?"
"No, no," Buck interrupted. "That ain't what I meant. I meant. . . well, he might be dead. He was gone, missing, not there. We think Mason took him. Chris got help and then took off after them."
"Nathan?" J.D. moved his head painfully and saw a still dark form across the room.
"He's in bad shape, damn near died on the table. One creased his head, the other hit his thigh. Damn doctor wanted to take his leg off..." He saw the startled face and shook his head. "No, it's still there."
J.D.'s eyes saw something bright red and moving. He squinted and saw a face. His voice came out in a wayward, high-pitched squeal.
"Ez....ra...?"
"Why is that everyone's reaction? You would think I had grown the proverbial second head." The Southerner paused. "Mister Dunne, welcome back to the land of the living."
"So...rr..y..." J.D. managed, eyeing Nathan's ashen face. "Nate?"
"Nothing yet, but the doctor said it may be some time. He's breathing better," Standish replied.
"Good," J.D exhaled loudly.
"Get some sleep, kid, that's an order!" Buck teased, ruffling the dark hair.
"Buck? Favor?"
"Anything, kid," the concerned man replied, leaning closer. Two flame colored slashes set on the pale damp skin only made the hazel eyes seem brighter.
"...find a bathtub... you stink..."
"Shut up, Ezra!" Buck retorted to the laughing conman. "That's the thanks I get, sacrificing my beauty sleep..." He pulled the blanket up over the sleeping Dunne.
"Now there's a real loss," Ezra quipped, moving his body to the chair between the beds. "Our young lawman brings up a valid point. If you are to remain anywhere near the living today, you need to cleanse and purge."
"Purge?" Buck drew his body up and eyed his clothes. "Well... I guess I am a bit ripe."
"Just a tad." Standish wrinkled his nose. "The doctor and his assistant will be over in about a half hour. That should be enough time for you to become something resembling a human again. I'll meet you in the dining hall."
"The mess," Buck corrected, leaning over Nathan's bed. He moved his hand, touching the dark, wet skin of the proud man's cheek. "Dammit, Nathan..."
"Go on, Buck," Ezra said quietly, hearing that awful ragged pain in the tall man's voice. He doubted if anyone had a heart as big as Wilmington's or suffered so deeply when a friend was hurt.
"Yeah." Buck sighed hard and took his numb and weary body out into the sunlight. He paused, eyeing the horizon and wondered how and where Chris was.
It was just past noon when Chris rode out of town. The hot bath, shave, a large breakfast and a good nap had done wonders. By outward appearances, he looked much better. But inside, the large ragged hole was growing colder by the minute. Then there was the itch in his hands, one that wouldn't be quelled until he wrapped them around Jeff Mason's neck.
While waiting for a reply to his telegraph, he'd drawn a crude map of the towns that dotted the landscape on either side of the river. Whatever Mason's goal was, Chris doubted he'd have toted a wounded man very far. It would slow him down. If he made good time, he could hit two towns and a mining camp before sundown.
The reply from Buck made his ride easier. J.D. was alert and talking, expected to make a full recovery. Nathan was still unconscious, but that was normal given the severity of his head wound. . Both men were weak and fighting fevers. The gunslinger was glad Ezra had arrived so quickly. He would keep tabs on Buck. Josiah was heading out of town and would be at the Fort by sundown.
He paused on the rim of a canyon, eyed the rippling heat on the horizon. He took his wide brimmed hat off and hoisted the canteen. He took a good swig and pulled a red bandana from his pocket. He doused it and wiped his face with it. He considered it a moment, running his fingers over the cloth. He could still see that dopey grin Vin wore whenever he tied the damn thing around his neck.
Was his best friend still alive? Hope was waning faster with every hour. Vin had been so weak when he'd last seen him, over twenty fours ago. How could he have survived? What if he woke up and Mason tortured him? Chris's gut turned to ice water as a grisly picture of those blue eyes screaming silently in agony ripped through him.
One hour, one day, one week, one month, it mattered not. He'd ride until he found Vin Tanner, no matter what condition he was in. Even if it only meant bringing his body home to bury it underneath that damned tree. Then he'd hunt down Jeff Mason and make a tobacco pouch out of his balls.
"Word!" he whispered on the wind, tapping his fist to his heart.
The old man left the river, putting the basket in the wagon. His nerves were bad. He'd paced all that he could and rocked in the damn chair for what seemed like forever. Finally, he decided to go fishing. He eased his frame back on the seat of the wagon and headed back towards the doctor's house.
At first, the doctor had been dead set against it. He'd argued that the boy was too weak, that he'd never survive the surgery. But Moses stood his ground and stated his case. He'd asked the Lord for an answer and got it. The doctor wasn't due back just yet; he'd arrived unexpectedly early. Wasn't that the answer from above? Bringing the skilled hand right to where it was needed. The boy would surely die without the doctor's help; there wasn't anything to lose. The old man stood firm, still feeling those fingers on his own and hearing the broken call of 'Angel.'
Hours.
He'd thought it'd be done by now. The doctor had spent an awful long time examining the boy and then boiling his instruments. Murdoch had warned him it would be a long afternoon, that the surgery would be tedious due to the location of the bullet. So Moses paced and rocked, then he took his old bones to the river to fish. He hoped when he got back that he'd find the boy alive and over the operation.
"Remarkable..."
Thomas Murdoch was astounded by the young man whose back was opened before him. By all that science and medicine dictated, this wounded man shouldn't be alive. Yet here he was, breathing and holding his own under very grave circumstances. Lying flat on his belly, his pale face tipped to the side with a wisp of a breath emerging from between the slightly parted lips, he was clinging hard and fighting for life. The wire-and-metal mask filled with cotton-saturated ether lay just close enough to the slack mouth to keep his patient sleeping soundly.
The surgery had been extremely delicate and he'd used his experience, keen eye and steady hand to track the probable path of the bullet. Slowly and with pinpoint precision, he'd cut through the layers of skin and muscle, expecting to find the bullet lodged somewhere near the heart. So far, he'd repaired several small bleeders and noted the broken rib. But no bullet. He peered inside the exposed area and then scanned the paper above the young man's head. He'd drawn several diagrams of where the bullet could have gone.
"I'll be damned!" He squinted, delicately pulling tissue aside. "It moved... by God, it moved." He withdrew the bullet from where it ended up inside the left lung cavity. He dropped it in a metal pan and glanced briefly at his young charge. "You, my friend, must have God's grace. A miracle... truly a miracle!"
"Whoa... whoa..."
The weary doctor looked up as the wagon pulled in. He waved to the large dark-skinned man whose eyes were wide and anxious. Murdoch doused his face and head with water, then scrubbed his hands ,wrists and arms, ridding himself of the blood.
"Hand me a towel?"
"He be livin'?"
"He is!"
"Praise God... " Moses jumped down, grabbed a white cotton towel from the porch rail.
"Thank you." The doctor dried off and then picked up the mug hanging on a hook near the pump. He took several drinks of water and gave the worried man's shoulder a tug. "He's alive, by God, he's alive. You were right, Moses. I believe God spoke to you this morning. You saved that boy's life."
"No suh, yuhr the one who cut dat bullet out..."
"Faith, Moses, was just as responsible. You had faith in me and that young man in there. Remarkable. That bullet should have killed him. The path clearly dictated a wound to the heart. But it wasn't there... it was lodged just inside his lung cavity, probably deflected by his rib."
"He gonna live?"
"I don't know, but he's got a much better chance than he had before you found him. I hope you caught plenty of fish, I'm hungry!" He paused to let the worried man in the door. "I'll need your help. I left him on that board you carried him in on. If you can just lift it and hold him for a few moments, I'll take those bloody sheets away, give the table a fast rinse and put clean linens down.
"Yuh take yuhr time," Moses offered, leaning down and putting his hand near the pale man's parted lips. "Dat's good boy... keep breathin'..."
Moses lifted the board as if it held an infant. He held it steady, allowing the doctor to get rid of the soiled linens. He kept that strong grip as the blood and gore were washed away. Then the thin mattress from the bed was placed on the table and two clean sheets over it.
"Okay, gently now... then we'll ease the board away... good...." the doctor pronounced as the limp body was at last resting on the makeshift bed.
While the doctor went to change his clothes in the small bedroom at the back of the house, the old man stood vigil. He lifted the limp hand and let his large, calloused fingers rub the pale ones. He eyed the fine features on the young man, now covered by a fine sheen of fever.
"Yuh fight, boy... Old Mose ain't gonna let yuh die now..."
Vin never heard the doctor's words. He never felt the pinching and pulling as those skilled hands repaired the internal damage to his body. He didn't see the weary but exhilarated smile the physician wore. He couldn't smell the metallic odor of his own blood that had pooled beneath him. He floated in a dark, murky ocean. While his body was torn, limp and helpless, his soul was guided through the uncertain waves by a single powerful pledge. Four letters wrapped in faith, unbound and carried by green eyes and a soft whisper.
Word!
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