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.
It was all a blur and with every swallow of liquid courage, the lines became more difficult to discern.
Hunter or hunted?
He tossed down another shot of redeye and rolled the glass between his thumb and forefinger. Another town with no answers. Another set of strangers seeking solace in a saloon. Another scratch on his map. With that stroke of lead, another mark on his soul. For every mile he rode on this journey through Hell, his world got smaller and darker. Soon there would be no sun at all, just the black of the unforgiving night.
Through the haze of smoke and regrets in the dusty haven on the border, he examined his mission. The predator, sleek and mean, seeking an elusive prey. The moment he knelt in disbelief on the spot where Vin Tanner should have been by that river, he'd unleashed the hounds of Hell. With every mile he stalked Jeff Mason, the hollowness inside him grew. Only when under the hot flesh of his fingers, he felt the last of that bastard's life leave his excuse for a body, would his mission be completed.
Hunter or hunted?
He tossed another shot back and screwed his face up as the ghost appeared again. He moved with the same grace and agility as he'd done when he was flesh and bone. That raspy voice echoed in his head, every minute of every endless day. Every time he passed a window, he saw that chiseled face and stubbled square chin. Every time he looked in the mirror, seeking an answer to the icy grip that Fate had on his insides, it was a set of cerulean eyes that looked back.
"Word, cowboy?"
Damn him.
He hadn't asked for this. He was doing fine riding solo, going from town to town. Then across a dusty street over the drunken shouts of a lynch mob, he'd gained his soul back. One glance was all it took. He'd never questioned it; there was no reason to. Vin Tanner caught his soul that day and held it still.
Damn him.
He eyed his hands and still felt that weak grip of the dying man's hand. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake it. Those icy fingers were gripping his guts, twisting them in knots as that vow echoed again and again, making his life a living Hell. Did he die in pain? Did Mason torture him? Were those blue eyes, filled with pain, seeking his to hold onto? Did that hand that so trustingly latched onto his when that vow was forged fall onto the cold ground seeking him still when the end came? Was his name the last word that left the cold lips as the Grim Reaper lowered it's scythe?
"You won't die alone, Vin... die alone... die... alone... word... WORD... die... alone... die... die... die..."
"SHUT UP!"
He seethed, stood up and hurled the bottle across the room at the buckskinned ghost with haunted blue eyes that appeared in the mirror where his image should be. That hand reached out again...seeking that promise made. The demon inside began to dance again, shrieking and poking holes with a white hot pitch fork.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!"
"Hey Mister, you mind keepin' that mouth of yours shut?"
Chris turned slowly, venom dripping in a narrow string from his sneering lower lip. His hand played on the pearl trim of the iron on his hip. His chest heaved in slow painful draws of breath. His eyes, cold and deadly, burned a path of ice across the room. The fingers danced again, itching to whip around the Colt and bring her out.
"Why don't you make me?"
"Jesus, Bubba, what the hell's wrong with you?" Earl Parker felt his bladder quivering as the six foot snake unfurled and exposed his fangs. He slid from his chair and put a tentative hand on his brother's arm.
"Bubba?" Chris mocked, his lips turning into a feral grin. He eyed the hairy belly hanging below the massive man's shirt. An uneven beard spread sparsely over the double chins and only a handful of teeth inside the offensive hole. Beady eyes peered back at him under a mop of greasy hair.
"Bubba? Take after your mother, 'Bubba'? She a fat sow with a hairy belly and three teeth too?"
"No!" Earl moved in front of his huge brother. "He's drunk...we can't afford to get locked up again. Come on, Bub..."
"Shut up, Earl!"
With one meaty paw, Bubba lifted his annoying brother and hurled him through the next table. Then he launched himself at the stranger.
Normally, Chris Larabee had cat-like reflexes, but he was drunk. His gait was sluggish and his actions slowed down a bit. Although he ducked, his inebriated state caused him to sway badly and spin as the saloon floor seemed to move like the deck on a storm-tossed ship. Something hard hit him between the shoulder blades and he went to his knees.
"Ugh."
Bubba towered over the stranger, placing one log-like leg on either side of the slimmer man's hips. He grabbed the back of the dank blond hair and rammed the face hard into a chair seat. Blood shot out just as a piston-like fist shot backward, hitting him hard in the groin.
Chris spit out the blood from where his tooth went through his lip and turned, gripping the legs of the chair. He brought it up as he rose, hitting the mountain in the side of the head and chest. The giant blinked at him and unleashed a fist of his own which caught Chris in the eye.
"Ya fight like a girl, Lar'bee."
"SHUT UP!" Chris ordered, confusing his opponent long enough for the lethal blond to unleash a powerful right to the throat.
He whipped his body around and continued to pummel the man until a bottle hit the back of his head. On his knees, dizzy and unable to stop the swirling room from flying around, he didn't have time to defend against the brute lifting him and sending him through the doors.
"That's it, Bubba!" Earl dropped the end of the broken bottle. "We can go out the side before the sheriff gets here. Come on..."
The battered man coughed and rolled onto his back, then onto his side and finally his hands and knees. Just ahead was a hitching post. He crawled towards it, enough to get himself onto his feet. He managed to stagger a few steps and his legs gave way again.
"Señor? Señor?"
"Huh?"
>From the edge of the alley where he was on his hands and knees, he couldn't see the face. The voice was low and decidedly feminine. He saw a plump thigh and a black lacy garter peeking through a worn robe.
"Señor?"
Somehow, she got him on his feet. He lurched, sending them both into the wall. His chest landed against two very large and soft breasts.
"Come... my room... it is close..."
Maria Perez didn't know much English; she didn't need it in her profession. Often, when the midnight hour drew close and the better looking gringos were already busy with the younger, prettier girls, she'd find the odd drunk who wasn't as picky. She'd seen this one fly through the doors from her window and couldn't believe her luck. It was a long time since she had been this lucky. Underneath the swollen eye, split lip and bruised face was a lean body.
Chris managed to nod, staggering sideways towards the small group of stairs. Somehow, he got up them and inside the small room. He fell hard into a chair, swiping at the blood running from his mouth. Through slitted eyes in the dim light of the small lamp, he saw her pouring water in a basin. She took a needle and thread and stuck it in the material of her robe. It hung open, exposing the somewhat flabby body.
Maria tied her robe and moved across the room. She washed the injured man's face and gently pushed back his hair. As she wiped the blood away, she felt his hands move under her robe and a calloused thumb introduced itself to her very willing bud. She pulled the needle loose and pressed his head backward. She ran the needle over the flame in the lamp and then blew on it to cool it. After several moments, she was ready.
"Keep still... it only needs a few stitches," she warned him.
The tiny tweaks of pain got his dulled senses to come back to life. He nodded when the ample body pulled away. He looked at her face for the first time. Long dark hair fell to her shoulders. She had dark eyes that had seen more than their share of wear and tear. They looked back at him without revulsion or pity or even fear; instead, there was loneliness. He mulled that over, his own body and soul so very cold. She wasn't a pretty girl; actually, she wasn't even a girl. The lines around her mouth and eyes told him she had a few years on him. Still, the hand that touched his cheek was warm and the sad eyes too hard to turn away from.
"You got a bottle?"
"Sí."
She crossed the room, reached up into her closet and took down a half empty bottle of tequila. As she pulled the cork out with her teeth, she felt his lean body press against her from behind and those strong hands rub her thighs. She turned around to offer the bottle and he kissed her hard, his hands cupping her backside and pulling her close. She felt the heat rising and groaned as she began to melt.
Chris paused long enough to take the bottle and a long swig of liquor. He fell back onto the bed, took another swig and lifted his right leg. She knelt down and pulled each boot off. Then he lay back as the deft fingers unbuttoned his pants. He growled and twisted their bodies, pinning her to the bed. The demon inside woke up then, clawing desperately to get out of the hell that the blue-eyed Texan had locked him in.
Hot.
Lord, but it was hot. Hotter than anything he'd ever experienced. He gazed at the black sky and tried to find the moon. All around him, the water was on fire. Red and orange flames leapt and danced, vying for his attention. The heat was so intense, it took his breath away. He felt sure the moisture running down his face was his skin melting. The wall of fire was expanding, rising and creeping closer like a giant tiger. He began to swim, for what destination he knew not. He paused as the flames exploded all around him and his wide eyes darted with fear. Suddenly, a thought so horrid occurred, it took away the little air he had left. A sickening feeling overwhelmed him when he realized where he was.
Hell.
Desperately, he thrashed in the boiling water. The searing flames seemed to melt the skin from his bones and he screamed as his chin hit the scalding liquid. His last thought as he succumbed to the bile from Satan's belly was an unconscious one. The one word that leapt from his heart as he sank under the flames was his last shred of hope.
"CHRIS!"
"Doc... Doctuh...?"
"Moses?"
Thomas Murdoch sat up from the quilted mat he'd placed on the floor where his bed should be and eyed the large black man.
"Sumthin's wrong with dat boy...he's burnin' up and tossin'..."
"Okay, get some cool water..."
By the time Moses got back, the physician had opened a bottle of rubbing alcohol. He poured it into the basin and nodded for the other man to pour the water there. He made his way to the bed in the middle of the room and placed the basin on the small table next to it. He drew the sheet down to the young man's waist.
"Get two cloths from the pile I made in the other room. We need to get this fever down."
He wiped the fevered man's face and saw the twitches and heard tiny sounds. Not quite a cry or grunt, a weak signal that his patient was in distress. As they worked, he noticed Moses dark eyes never left the stranger's face. A thought then occurred.
"Talk to him, Moses, he heard you before in the cave."
"Talk?" He paused, then wrung out the cloth. He placed it across the hot skin on the slim neck and rested one large hand against the entire side of the stricken man's face. He pushed the wet tendrils of hair away and saw the frantic eyes darting under the closed lids.
"Yuh calm down now, boy. Old Moses and the Doc is right here with yuh. Yuh hear me, son? Yuh got no call tah fuss like dat."
"Good, look, he's turning towards you," the doctor encouraged, seeing the wet face move.
"I gots no more words..." he paused, eyed the sky through the window and heard her voice. He nodded in agreement. "Thank yuh, woman... dat might work, sure 'nuf." He kept stroking the wet hair and began to sing.
By the time the last verse of Amazing Grace died down, the basin was empty and the patient was resting again. He was cooler and his distress had fled. Doctor Murdoch paused at the sink, washing his hands. He smiled then, watching Moses settle into a chair much too small and stiff for him and keeping his one dark hand engulfed around the limp pale one. He hoped that if this young man survived, he'd realize just how lucky he was to find such a guardian angel. He poured some water in a mug and made his way back.
"Let's try to coax some water into him. Lift him up very gently, Moses. Talk to him, tell him he needs to drink."
"Okay." The tall man stood, reluctantly taking his hand from the damp one. He saw the pale brown brows knit in confusion as he lifted his fragile cargo.
"It's okay, boy, I's right here. Yuh needs tah drink. Come on now, open yuhr mouth."
Vin spun around in the cool black sea, his mind whirling in confusion. The fire was gone and the water was warm, not hot. But the singing ended. He couldn't find the angel. A mighty angel had carried him from the flames, taking his frail body under its strong wings. The messenger sang a beautiful song that lulled him to sleep. He couldn't find it now but he knew it was near. He was so thirsty. He heard the angel's call then and completely relaxed. He obeyed, opening his lips.
"Good boy, dat's it..."
"He's much too weak to drink from the cup. Whenever possible, we'll get water, cider, herbal tea and broth into him using a spoon like this." Murdoch placed the spoon in the center of the opened mouth and pressed down. The swallowing occurred instinctively and the water disappeared.
"Well, I'll be..." Moses amazed.
"I'd like you to try it, Moses. I have to go town tomorrow and I will be gone for some time. You'll be taking care of him."
"Okay." He shifted his precious burden, moving behind the table so that the wounded man rested against his broad chest. Then he used his right hand to dip and lift the spoon. "It's Old Mose, boy, yuh open up now. I gots water fuhr yuh."
"Excellent," the physician commended when the mug was empty. "You can put him down now, Moses. I'll sit with him for awhile. You need to rest."
"Yuh sleep now, boy. Old Mose is right here. I ain't leavin' yuh."
He gently laid his charge down and tapped the pale cheek, then gave the limp hand a squeeze before departing for the mat in the corner.
It was that quiet time just as Dawn appeared wearing a spectacular rose and blue gown. Gold shimmered from her eyes, showering the sleepy town below. She extended her fingers through the glass panes and stroked the face of the handsome man in the chair. He sighed hard and groaned, yawning and trying to open his eyes.
"Mmmmm..."
"Mornin'."
Buck blinked and squinted up at something tall and grayish. He rubbed his eyes and saw the cause of his moan. Steam rose from the mug just inches from his face. The wonderful aroma of rich strong coffee assaulted him again. He sat up, took the mug and blinked again.
"Josiah?"
"None other." The preacher gave Buck's shoulder a tug. "You look awful."
"Thanks!" Buck toasted with the tin mug, sipping the hot contents slowly. "When'd you get here?"
"A few hours ago. I've been visiting with Nathan."
"He wake up?"
"Not yet, but he's been moaning and twitching. His breathing's good. What's the word on his leg?"
"The doctor said if he don't move it, he's got a shot but he won't be walking for awhile. That is if he wakes up..."
"Hey, don't you give up on Nathan..."
"It's been two days..." Buck stood, walked to the window and watched the soldiers starting to appear in various parts of the fort.
"How's J.D.?"
"Weak, fevered... but at least he's talking. He ate some broth last night and it stayed down."
"How are you, Brother Buck?"
Buck sighed hard, raked a hand through his disheveled dark hair and scratched his chin. "I'd feel better if I knew how Chris was."
Josiah had been bending over their youngest, adjusting the blankets, and heard the worry in the rogue's tone. He eased his body down in the vacated chair and considered that thought. Knowing how much Vin had meant to Chris, he doubted if there was a hole deep enough for Jeff Mason to crawl into. But at what cost? What would the loss of Vin Tanner mean to Chris Larabee? How would that void be filled? Could it be filled?
"Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen," the would-be minister quoted of Hebrews: 11:1.
"You buying or selling?" Buck chased back, sipping the coffee and turning back towards the preacher.
"Maybe a little of both." Josiah saw something in Buck's eyes that puzzled him. "You gonna get rid of that burr you're cartin' around?"
Buck leaned against the window frame and eyed the young soldiers scurrying by. Some looked younger than J.D. He wondered how many would live to see their next birthday. Too many young men in a rush for adventure came west to join the Calvary. Chasing Indians and taming the West was a colorful picture to most kids from back East. He shook his head and felt Josiah's smoky eyes bearing on him.
"Chris gave Vin his word, that he wouldn't die alone."
"He couldn't have known that Mason was gonna take Vin and neither could you."
"I made him choose...when Nate went down. He left Vin to..." Buck kicked the post by his foot and furrowed his brows.
"Oh, I see." Sanchez shifted his gaze to where Nathan Jackson was lying. "So Vin's life is more important than Nathan's?"
"No, of course not!"
"Then where is the cause for your trouble? If Chris didn't leave Vin, Nathan�.and JD�. could be dead now."
"You make it sound so simple, it's not." Buck walked to the door, opened it halfway to let air in. The morning breeze caught him and lifted his hair a bit. "You weren't there, preacher. You didn't hear how that boy's voice caught when he asked Chris...and Chris gave his word."
"Ye'll stay with me 'til m'ride comes?"
Suddenly, the confines of the room seemed to crowd the tall man. He needed air and sky over his head. Knowing J.D. and Nathan were in good hands, he placed the cup on the nearest table and exited, shutting the door on Josiah's sermon. He knew the older man meant well, but he wasn't the one who'd heard Vin Tanner's final plea.
"Buck ... wait..." Josiah winced as the door shut. He cast his eyes upwards, lifted his homemade cross and fingered it. "Stay with him...he's worth the extra effort."
"FUCK!"
>From the painful netherworld between sober and hung over, the lean body stumbled blindly. In an effort to diminish the piercing light from the window that was tearing his eyes out, he'd stubbed his toe twice. The paper thin curtains did nothing to shield the abrasive sun from battering his already aching body. Barely adjusting to the sun that dared to confront him, he spotted a pitcher on the table across the room. He drank two full mugs of water, but that did little to quench his thirst. He spotted an empty whiskey bottle on the floor and had no recollection of it or how he'd gotten to this small room.
He splashed water on his face and walked a few feet away to where an old towel lay. Drying his face, he spotted his naked reflection in the mirror across the room. He walked closer, tipping his head to inspect the damage. His left eye was purple and black and his lip had been stitched. But the shadows that lingered there were reflections of the demon within.
Hunter or Hunted?
He shoved his legs inside his pants and buttoned them up. He found his shirt and tossed it over his left shoulder. He looped his gunbelt over his bronzed shoulder and put his hat on. Picking up his boots, he eyed the street below. The sign next door, spelling out the twenty-five cent bath, was just the place he needed to think.
He walked back over to the bed and paused. His throbbing gaze caught the bruises and bite marks covering a slightly pudgy, dark haired woman's chest and neck. A brief flash of a rough ride and that same bottle being consumed rose up. He pulled out two extra coins and put them on the bedside table. He double-checked the room and left, eager to leave another town behind.
The bathhouse was empty and while he waited for the Oriental man to fill the tub, he pulled out his map. Despite the fact he'd covered far more ground than almost humanly possible, with every mile his heart grew harder and colder. Endless miles to nameless towns bearing soft bodies for sale and cheap liquor. Hardly a fitting epitaph for a man whose brutal death had torn his heart to shreds and crushed his soul.
He barely gave the old man a nod as he walked to the tub. He eased his aching body into the hot water and picked up the soap and a harsh brush. He scrubbed hard, taking the filth, grime and sticky residue away. With every scrape of the hard brush, the confusing dilemma echoed in his tortured mind.
Hunter or Hunted?
Like a man possessed, his only thought every waking moment was to hunt down Jeff Mason and kill him. He wouldn't use a gun or a knife, he decided, bringing his lathered hands up before his burning eyes. He flexed the soapy fingers and felt the power surge that filled him as those fingers would close around Mason's throat, choking the life from him. Then his hands fell back into the water as the ghost hovered. Just on the edge of his reality, with every breath he took, Vin Tanner's ghost haunted him. When his quest was done and the prey crushed, would the hunter that stalked him depart?
"WORD."
"Goddammit, Vin!"
He slapped the water, hurled the brush across the room and banged the side of the tub. They never left him. Whether rutting with a cheap prostitute, riding hard across the desert, falling into a bottle of redeye or tossing in a disturbed sleep, those damned blue eyes haunted him. The very essence of everything that Vin Tanner had been enveloped him at all times. The loss was overwhelming. He laid his aching head back onto the rim of the tub and drew his knee up. He closed his eyes as that trusting hand came towards him again.
Word?"
"I'm sorry, Vin," he whispered as the thorns lanced his chest drawing beads of blood unseen.
Moses placed the mug of herbal tea down and gently lifted the weak young man. The long hair had been washed and now was clean but damp. The head eased onto his strong shoulder and he tapped the pale cheek. The brows twitched but the eyes didn't open.
"Come on, boy, I gots some tea for yuh. Doc says yuh needs tah drink it... come on, now..."
He watched carefully as the fine features grimaced. For the last few hours, the unconscious man had begun to respond to his voice. The sandy brows would draw together and the face would puzzle up whenever he lifted him and spoke to him. Lastly, the lips would part and he would slowly and carefully spoon tea, broth or water into the slack mouth.
"I ain't gots all day, boy. Yuh open dat mouth fuhr Old Mose. Yuh knows I won't hurt yuh," he soothed, nudging the lips with the spoon.
>From deep within the dark maze that had become his world, Vin Tanner pressed hard. The voice was back and the strong wall held him again. Although he was lost, he wasn't alone. But he didn't know where he was or what was wrong with him. He couldn't speak or move, but he knew that voice, so rich and strong it sent waves of hope coursing through his frail body. The voice spoke again and he parted his lips and waited. There it was! God, it tasted good. He stuck his tongue out again, desperate for more.
"Hey, now!" Moses chuckled at the scowl his young friend wore. The lolling tongue was impatient. "Don't rush Old Mose...Yuh'll end up spittin' it back. There now... easy... boy..." He placed the spoon in the center of the tongue and pressed down gently, just as the doctor had instructed. "Sure 'nuf!" he praised, when once again the weak man's body reacted and accepted nourishment.
Soon the whole mug was gone. Moses carefully eased his charge down and brushed the stray lock of hair from his cheek. He looked so young and vulnerable. He rested a hand on the slight rose that colored the young man's cheek. That fever just wouldn't die off. The doctor had warned him about that.
"Yuh done good, son," he soothed, patting that cheek and eyeing the water pump. "Yuh rest now. How 'bout a song?"
He filled the basin with water, combining it with rubbing alcohol just as Doctor Murdoch used. As he moved back to the makeshift bed, he began to sing. He pulled the sheet down to the stilled man's waist and gently bathed that fever, never missing a note.
"I know that song."
A tall man with graying hair and smoky eyes was on a ladder. Vin watched as his strong hands put mortar and stone together, rebuilding a church. As he worked, he began to sing Amazing Grace. Vin was below, carrying stones and mixing more mortar. He smiled and let the words to the hymn invade him. It felt good, adding to the warm sun that smiled down and the soft breeze in the air.
"Yuh likes dat, huh?" Moses paused, watching the pale lips form into a smile as a soft sigh slipped through the parted lips. He found his own smile, tenderly bathing the fevered face. "No... no..." he chuckled when the cloth was snagged by the waiting mouth. "Dat ain't fuhr yuh tah drink. Give it back..."
He took the rag back, completed his task and moved again, getting a cold mug of cider. This time, he lifted the head only, placed the cup next to the young man's neck and brought the spoon up. One nudge and the mouth opened; five minutes later, the mug was empty.
"Yuhr gonna wear Old Mose out, yuh know dat?"
He sat down then in the chair next to the table and wondered how the doctor was making out. Doctor Murdoch had gone to town to get them supplies. It wasn't a long trip, but the physician was also checking in at his office and running other errands. He was expected back by supper. As Moses mulled over his day, a feather light touch brushed the side of his finger.
"Huh?"
He watched in amazement as the weak hand moved a fraction, trying to find him. He eyed the face and saw distress on the features that were covered in a fine sheen of sweat. He sat up, taking that hand and using his free one to cup the boy's chin.
"Hey, now, no call fuhr dat. Old Mose ain't left yuh. I be right here, son. Yuh take it easy. Yuh got scared..." He thought a moment and recalled that the night before, when the fever spiked, that same song seemed to soothe the lost soul. "Yuh wants Old Mose tah sing?" He stroked the blushed cheek and sat back, keeping the limp hand in his strong one.
"Thank God."
Vin sighed and let his whole body relax as the song came back. He didn't know why the deep soothing tones gave him such peace. He didn't need that question answered. It was so hot here in this awful place and he just wanted to go home.
Home?
Where was home? Where was he? He tossed his head, trying to find air and maybe his answer. Then the angel came back, bringing a cool rain. He sighed and let himself go, his hand locked onto the angel's wing and his eyes trained ahead in the dark, waiting for the green lights to return. He didn't know what they were but he knew he needed to see them to survive.
The wagon was loaded with two weeks worth of supplies. Stacked high with the medicine, bandages and other things from his office were food, grain, flour and dry goods of every sort. Three large containers of chicken soup from the boarding house, along with a smoked ham, some pies, muffins and cheese were also packed inside.
But the heaviest item of the load rested in his breast pocket. He'd just completed tying down the tarp over the wagon earlier when a clerk from the Post and Telegraph ran up the street calling his name. He'd scanned the lines on the yellow paper and his heart had sunk. The timing couldn't have been worse. Before he could think anymore on his decision, his attention was drawn to a lone figure approaching on a horse. Both man and beast were wearing black as if riding from Hell itself. Wary of his heavy load and the potential for robbery, he moved his hand to the rifle.
"Evenin'."
He nodded once but didn't relax his grip. The eyes that looked down at him from the horse were an icy shade of green. He knew by the cut of the man he was a gunslinger. His eyes glanced briefly at the pearl-handled Colt strapped to the lean thigh.
"No cause for that," Chris addressed. "Town ahead?"
"Willow, about an hour, maybe less."
"Telegraph?"
"Went down just as I left, trouble down the line."
"Dammit!"
Chris rubbed his eyes, sighed hard and slumped heavily over the pommel. He'd hoped to get a wire to the Fort to check on J.D. and Nathan. After this town, the next one was a hard push, over a day's ride through desert terrain. He didn't even know if they were still alive.
"I believe that the trouble is west of town. Perhaps if you ride northeast to Danning Fork, you can use the one there at the railhead."
"How far?" Chris asked, hope rising again.
"Seven miles, give or take."
"Thanks." Chris paused, eyeing the road the man had journeyed from.
"Glad to help," Doctor Murdoch nodded, then watched as the blond man rode off.
Moses was stirring the stew when the physician arrived. He set the pot to one side and moved across the room, taking a heavy box from the other man.
"How's our patient?"
"Doin' bettah...a little. I got some tea, cider and broth in 'im. He passed a little water, I cleaned him up. He's been sleepin' good, no tossin'."
"That's good, Moses." The doctor was pleased with the patient's pulse and respirations. Given the serious condition he was in, the young man was tenaciously clinging to life.
By the time the former slave had brought the last of the packages inside, he noticed the worried face across the room. He saw a yellow paper in the doctor's hands and wondered on it.
"Sumthin' wrong?"
"I'm afraid so. You remember the Keanes? I might have told you about them. They run an orphanage about ten miles from here."
"Big house on dah river... trees all around it?"
"Yes, that's the place. They're very good people, kind people, they have children there that are hard to place for various reasons. It seems John and some of the children have come down with a fever. Normally, Doctor Marshall from Andalusia would handle it, he's much closer. But he's in Colorado on family business. I'm sorry, Moses, I have to go. The wire said the babies are very ill."
"But... I cain't takes care of him by m'self. I don't know how. What if dat fever comes?"
"The bullet's out, Moses. I've done all I can for now. The rest is up to that young man and God. I've seen you with him, he hears you, not me. You're the one that's been feeding him, bathing him and changing him. Just keep that up. I'll show you where all the medicine is. Use your judgment, if he begins to get stronger, increase his food. Once he wakes up, it'll be easier. I'll be back as soon as I can."
Twenty minutes later, he was gone and Moses went outside and eyed the twilight sky. He caught hold of the brightest star and began to pray. He needed this boy to live and he didn't understand why. He only knew he wanted to hear that voice again, the soft drawl that called out to him in that cave.
"Don't let him die, Lawd. I need yuh tah help me. Dat boy's life is right here..." He held out his hands. "Don't let me drop 'im..."
Chris rode out of Willow, his mind only half at ease. On one hand, the news that Nathan was improving and J.D. getting better was a load off of his mind. Both men were expected to live. On the other hand, Willow was another dead end. Now, he had a long hot ride ahead of him through unforgiving terrain. He had an extra canteen and turned his horse towards the river to refill both.
He'd just capped the second canteen and was about to leave when he heard a sharp cry. He turned to see an elderly dark-skinned man with several bunches of plants in his hands. Chris's keen eyes recognized two of them, having seen Nathan collecting them. He didn't know the names but knew they were for fever and infection.
"I ain't huntin' you, old man," he grunted, returning to his horse.
"Yuh sure as hell is huntin' sumthin'," Moses replied, not missing the lean body, precise movement and the pearl handled Colt riding low on one hip. "Yuh ain't out here tah fish."
"I make it a practice to mind my own business," Larabee returned. "You'd be well advised to do the same. You alone?" His mind was playing out all kinds of scenarios, seeing those medicinal herbs. He saw the dark head nod once. "You come across any strangers hereabouts?"
There was something about the way the question came out that had a cold lump settling inside of Moses. He thought on his stricken and silent friend who was left to die alone in a cave. Somebody had robbed him and shot him. His eyes went to that Colt again before looking at the menacing eyes. Deadly eyes...a killer's eyes.
"No, seen nobody. I's jest passin' through, I keeps m'own company."
Chris nodded once, went to his horse and swung up in one fluid motion.
"Yuh lookin' t'kill this man...the one yuhs huntin'..."
"I got business with him," Chris replied, turning away.
"What kind o'business?" Moses asked, fearing for his young charge's life. He worried now that the man would get to the doctor's house on that horse faster than he could walk back. He didn't regret the trip for the bark and other things. The boy needed it for his tea, to fight that fever.
"The kind you don't want to know about, old man," Larabee warned and left.
Moses tied up his bundles and started back, twice checking behind him to ensure he wasn't being followed. He was on the porch when the distinctive sound of a hammer pulling back on a gun halted him.
"Who you hidin' inside that house, old man?"
Chris kept the gun on the man, his eyes having already taken in the discarded bloody bandages on the porch and the drying linens with signs of an injured person still clinging to them. Something he hadn't thought of occurred to him then. What if in that hail of bullets that felled J.D. and Nathan, Mason was wounded? That all this time he'd been housed up being taken care of? He'd known at the river the old man was lying.
"Yuh best move along." Moses turned, standing up and casting his full large frame in defiance. He wasn't going to let anyone near his young friend, so helpless and lost. Especially the man who might have robbed and shot him. "There's nuthin' fuhr yuh in dis place."
"I got an itch to scratch," Chris warned, already feeling Jeff Mason's throat under his fingers. He raised the gun again. "I'll take you down if I have to."
Moses feared for his friend now, knowing that the unknown boy's life was placed in his hands. If he let this killer get by, the young man's blood would stain his hands forever. He felt that weak tug again, in the cave when that hand latched onto his and the weak voice called him 'angel'. No, he wouldn't let this killer take his friend. He stared hard at the icy eyes, a shade just past deadly and made his mind up.
"Ride on... leave me be..."
Chris stepped closer, nearly deafened by Vin's call echoing in every chamber of his head.
...word... word... word... die alone... die... CHRIS... I need ya... word...die... word... CHRIS... He lifted the weapon and fingered the trigger, aiming it dead center into the broad chest.
"Move, old man, or I'll do it for you."
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