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.
Chris lit a cheroot and eyed the rising stars overhead. He sat down on a chair on the porch and leaned back, using his legs to push the rocking chair to and fro. The creak of the boards beneath the rocker was in a steady rhythm and he found some strange comfort in that sound. There were a few crickets busy in the brush and the moon overhead was brazen and full, showing a silver coat.
He took a drag on the tobacco stick and grimaced as the various aches in his bruised body protested even the slightest movement. Could be it was a long day. Could be he was getting too old to be collecting punches. Could be both.
A long day, longer than any he'd known in recent time. He squinted as the headache that had been on a slow simmer all day began to heat up. Not twelve hours ago he'd been following another dead end trail out of town. What if he hadn't stopped at that stream and encountered the old man? What if he'd denied his gut feeling that the man was hiding something? What if he'd ridden off and Vin hadn't woken up? What if Vin had died?
"...fuck it..." he hissed, deciding he was too tired to play this game.
"Yuh okay, son?"
"...been a long day..."
"And den some."
Moses handed the younger man a cup of coffee. The blond head dipped once in gratitude and the free hand disappeared down towards the side of the chair. A silver flask appeared. Moses shook his head when the liquor was offered. He watched as the gunslinger poured a shot into the hot brew. Twice he saw the silver glint of the night flash in those green eyes. They were studying him and seeking something.
"What yuh ponderin' on?"
"The cave."
"What 'bout it?"
"How I missed that bastard."
Moses shifted, taking his tall body from the porch rail and across the planks. He eyed the night sky, watching the silver glittering gems overhead. He knew by the viper-like hiss that came between the words that the young man had revenge on his mind. He thought again on that strange light that came into the room when the blond had touched his fallen friend. He eyed that sky again and spoke carefully.
"The Lord gives a gift, yuh best take it, son."
"The 'Lord'," Chris spat out, "gives and the 'Lord' takes away. I don't want any more gifts from Him."
"Yuh gonna choke on dat bitterness," Moses returned, seeing the features twist with rage.
"You don't know me, old man, don't you preach at me."
"I know 'bout that glint in yuhr eye. I carried it fuh a whole lotta years. Swallowed so much bitterness, it turned me cold inside." He sighed hard, thinking on that night in the cave. "I been runnin' fuh so long... no place t'call home, no family. That night, when I found da boy, I was runnin'. I thought he was dead...den his eyes opened. I left him, told myself he was gonna die, to mind m'own business. But..." He sipped his coffee and peeked in the window. The young man in the bed was sleeping peacefully, his features relaxed. Moses held out his hand and stared at his wrinkled brown fingers. He offered them over, recalling the profound moment.
"He thought I was an angel... comin' t'take him home. Den... he... he... grabbed m'finger. He was holdin' onta me... me... a damned no good slave. He trusted me... been a long time since anyone touched me like dat boy."
Chris nodded once, again wondering just how much Fate was stirring this pot of murky soup. What if the old man hadn't gone into the cave? What if he'd left Vin there? Too tired to joust with the churning waters inside, he concentrated on his cheroot and the spiked coffee instead. For a long time they remained silent, each pondering his own thoughts and what course lay ahead. Finally, the old man spoke.
"Yuh don't look like him..."
"So?"
"Well.. yuh said yuh was kin..." Moses paused. "Yuh got a family near here? Somebody worryin' on yuh?"
"I had a family." Chris ignored the last of the coffee and drank the liquor straight from the flask. "...once..." He toasted The Almighty, his voice biting with sarcasm. He was overwrought, worried about Vin and far beyond exhausted, too far gone past weary to care. "He took them away from me. That Lord you were spoutin' about. Some God He is..."
"I had me a family," Moses rose up and towered over the other man, "and I had tah watch dem get sold off, one by one." His lips curled up in rage; his features twisted into a dark mask. "Like dey was nothin'. I had tah hold m'woman while that animal took her babies away, one by one." His voice shook with anguished rage, glaring hard at the silent man who seemed far too pale in the moonlight. "Like dey was nothin'..."
Chris's face screwed up and he followed the large man who paced on the confining porch. The muscles beneath his old shirt rippled and both fists were curled into sizable clubs. Chris couldn't help but think that forty or fifty years ago, this man would have been a force. He sipped from the flask again as the old man turned and faced him. The age lines in the deep brown skin seemed to paint the mood that the voice blended. The worn brown eyes seemed to look right through him, giving him a chill.
"Yuh can walk free... go where ya please... yuh don't got no chains..." Moses warned. "I gots dem inside no matter how far I run... ey never leave. My woman, she was beautiful, never seen the like, she never lost faith," he recalled. "When Isaiah got took, he was our last child, she never cried again. She said she had no more salt t'waste. But I can't let it go. Sometimes I dream it again, see dem screamin' fuh me, from the back of da wagon. Beggin' me t'help... their father... their..."
Chris flinched in pain when Moses' voice broke and he stole off the porch, seeking comfort in the darkness that fell. He swallowed hard, not able to fathom the depth of the pain that the old man lived with. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't imagine seeing Adam tied up and taken away from him, sold like cattle. He'd have died tryin' to stop them.
Or would he?
Sara.
No, he wouldn't have left her behind; that would have been a worse pain to bear. Moses had a wife; he'd mentioned her. That was the reason he'd stayed. His voice was still full of love for her. He couldn't leave her, so his life had been a living Hell. How did a man find the guts to go on? His own flesh and blood taken from him�.over and over? Chris shivered then as an unfathomable coldness crossed over him.
"My God!" he choked, thinking on just how brave that woman had been, watching her children sold off one by one.
A tiny sound from inside drew him up sharply. He peered through the window and saw Vin's face twisted up. He entered the house and made his way to the bed. Vin's face appeared flushed and to his touch, the younger man seemed warmer than he should be. He poured fresh water into a basin by the sink and added some rubbing alcohol. Taking a fresh cloth, he went back to the bed. The tracker's skin was covered in a fine sheen of liquid and the pale brown brows were furrowed.
"Easy, Vin," he soothed, using the wrung out cloth to wipe the clinging fever from the fine features.
He drew the sheet back to Vin's waist and continued to wage war with the rising heat. As he worked, he thought on Moses' words on the porch. What of this 'gift'? Until Vin lay 'dying' in his arms by the river, he'd never given it a second thought. But those moments when he'd made his vow changed everything. As he'd ridden from town to town seeking the man who had broken his promise, it was that very 'gift' that drove him beyond exhaustion, pain and remorse. A blue-eyed drawling ghost who'd hounded his days and haunted his nights.
His job completed, Chris pulled the sheet up and poured some cool tea into a mug. It had fever fighters in it, the dark weed-like herbs he recognized all too well. He placed the mug on the table by the bed and leaned over the now peaceful features. He tapped the silent face, calling gently to his friend.
"Vin? Vin? You need to drink. I'm gonna give you some cold tea...Vin?" He paused when two blue eyes blinked up at him. For a moment, the face was a mask of confusion, then they saw him and a soft smile appeared. The eyes softened and a sigh snuck out. "I missed you too. Thirsty?"
The head dipped once and Chris moved behind him. He lifted him up and ignored the weak cry of pain. Once Vin was settled against his chest, he dipped the spoon in the mug and peered down over Vin's tangled hair. "Ready? Open up." The jaw dropped and the tongue came out. It hit hard then, that the frail body lying against him so totally and completely trusted him. Vin's life was resting on his shoulders.
His soul?
That was a much harder weight to gauge. The dark days that had enveloped him after Vin's 'death' were a place and time he did not want to revisit. But even though Vin wasn't dead, the light had yet to return. The fragile form he held was bound to him, in life or death. He took a steadying breath and snaked the spoon inside just as he'd seen the old man do. He pressed in the right spot and Vin swallowed. Somewhere between the third and forth spoons, it happened. The familiar fear began to grip his guts and squeeze. Vin was so weak and utterly dependant on him, physically, emotionally and otherwise, that it scared him.
The mug was empty and just in time, Vin's head lolled against his shoulder. He put the mug to the side but he didn't lower the sleeping man just yet. He moved his hand over the weak heart and pressed his fingers against the warm flesh. That touch, somehow coupled with the shallow warm breath that left Vin and danced across his hand, gave him strength.
Every journey started with one step, right? He nodded, answering his conscience and thought on the weak body in his arms. Vin was still in bad shape and if he did survive, it would be a long time before he was healed. How long was this road they were on? Where would the journey take them? Something beckoned from across the room. He gently eased Vin down and pulled the sheet up. He drew the tangled hair from Vin's face and tapped that rosy cheek.
"You done good, cowboy," he noted, then crossed the room.
It didn't take him long to find it for it was never far from his reach. It was a slim brown leather book. Upon its purchase, it had plain, unadorned, tan colored pages. Now, those same sheets were filled with words so beautiful, so very fine, it stole his breath. And not just any words, but the life song of the poet who was now fighting for his life. He took the chair next to Vin and flipped through the pages.
"I write them down, you know," he whispered, recalling that first poem, A Hero's Heart, that appeared in the paper. Once Vin found out just how much that poem meant to him, he'd shared more of those treasures when they were alone. "They bring me comfort, Vin. When I'm down, they take me to a place I thought I'd lost forever. I never told you, I should have, just how much... these pieces of your soul..."
He faltered then, his eyes moist and took a moment to compose himself. Then he opened the book and began to read. He read every poem, each word filling him with awe all over again. Finally, the last song was done. He watched the slightly parted lips drawing in breaths far too shallow. He saw the fever beads forming again and wondered on the path of that bullet. How was it Vin had survived? The bullet should have been fatal. He could imagine that Mason had been rough on Vin. Then there was the cold cave. He sighed hard, thinking on his near naked friend lying confused and alone in a dark cave. Moses' words came back, that Vin thought he was 'an angel coming to take him home'.
"Ye'll stay 'til m'ride comes?"
That drawled request wouldn't leave him alone. What had Vin thought about while lying in that cave dying? Had he known the word was broken? That the vow given with all his heart was shattered? Or had that promise sustained him? He felt the power of the poems in the small brown book burning his palm. He eyed the limp, pale body before him and stared hard. How did you measure a man's worth? Did a stronger force drive him into town that day he met those telltale eyes over a broom? Were their paths destined to cross, each finding something within that neither knew they'd sought? And what of the path alone? What if Vin died? He shivered then as a glimpse of that dark, cold place that he'd visited returned.
No.
It mattered not how long the journey would be until his friend was able to walk again, strong and healthy. He'd carry him on that road no matter how tired or worn. It was a weight he'd bear proudly. He gripped the book again and nodded. He'd fight for Vin until the infirmed body was strong enough to fight back. He had to; it was his own soul he was saving. For in the depths of those blue eyes was reflected the best of himself.
He moved the sheet to the side and found the limp hand. He gripped it, bent over the body and moved his mouth close to the silent soldier's ear.
"Stay."
The wind kicked up and swirled around him, sending dirt, stones, tree limbs and everything in its path into a dance through the air. He fought for every step, his eyes stinging with pain. Every part of him ached from the mere effort of pushing one foot in front of the other against the invincible force of Mother Nature. The sky was black, so much so, he couldn't see a thing. A sound drew his head up. The wind whipped frantically, sending his long hair swirling around him. It twisted and knotted, making a crude noose. He dropped to his knees, fighting the fierce wind and clawing at his neck. The sound intensified, horses' hooves drumming rhythmically and getting closer. The moon peeked shyly from behind a dark cloud, shedding a bit of light on the rider.
A black horse, a dark rider, pale gold hair.
Chris!
He rejoiced; his waning strength was roused. He lifted his hand to the rider, seeking shelter from the storm. Then a body rose up in front of him, blocking the path. A cruel grin split the evil man's face and the rope in his hand sent a chill through him. Before he could react, his hair was yanked back and his neck exposed. The noose was pulled tight, cutting off his air. Then the ground gave way and he felt himself begin to fall.
Chris heard the strange sound and shot out of the chair he'd been dozing in next to Vin. The Texan was struggling weakly, tossing his wet head from side to side. His mouth was open, creating that strange sound. It was almost as if... as if...
"SHIT!" Chris hissed, realizing Vin was choking. He slapped the wet cheek hard. "WAKE UP! COME ON, VIN, WAKE UP!"
He tried, he really tried, but he couldn't. It hurt too much. Someone or something was hitting his head with an axe. He'd never felt so sick. Yet the hand tapping his face and the harsh voice were insistent.
After what seemed like forever, two blue eyes peeled open. Chris got the wet cloth and wiped the damp face, worried when no sign of recognition appeared. Then the mouth began to work and suck air like a fish out of water. The eyes began to dart frantically and when he pulled the damp sheet back, he saw the right hand fumbling and jerking.
Sick.
Sick.
Sick.
Chris?
Chris?
Please...
He gasped and blinked, unable to see clearly. Everything was blurry and distorted. His stomach was on fire and sending eruptions up his throat. That brought a convulsive action that caused a ripping tear in his chest. Fire and pain exploded in both his head and back. So much so, it forced tears from his eyes. Why couldn't he just die and be done with it?
"Hold on, Vin." Chris moved quickly, gently lifting and turning the younger man. He held the cloth under Vin's mouth but only a little liquid came out. Mostly, it was dry heaves, painful wracking motions that tore through the injured chest and lung area. He offered the best painkiller he knew. He held on and moved his lips close to the tortured man's ear.
"Ride it out, Vin, I gotcha. I'm not letting go."
Somewhere in the Hell he was lost in, that brought relief. Satan's workers dropped their pitchforks and fled. Gradually, the flames that had started in his chest and in his head died down. He didn't know where he was or how long he'd been here. But he did know whose arms guided him through the storm. He moved to find Chris Larabee, his anchor.
Please?
Please?
Please, Chris....?
Make it go away.
Please?
"Hey," Chris ordered, grabbing the floundering hand with his own. He dropped the cloth and cupped the square chin, commanding the full attention of the lost soul. "Jesus, you're shaking like a virgin on her wedding night. Calm down," he directed, trying to reach the darting eyes. The short breaths were more frantic than usual and the trembling body hadn't slowed. "Bad dream?"
Bad.
Bad.
Bad.
Vin decided he wouldn't sleep again. Not if it meant going through that. It had been so real. If only Chris would drop his hand, he could try to rip the rope from his neck. He still felt the coarse fiber eating into his skin.
Cold.
Thirsty.
Wet.
Aw, hell.
Damn.
"What?" Chris saw a flush appear that was not fever. His nose told him what caused it and he rolled his eyes. "For Christ's sake, Vin, it's only a little piss. I ain't got time for your tantrum." He eyed the clean linens and realized Moses had not yet returned. He'd have to do this on his own. He flashed back to his stint during the war in a Union hospital.
"Vin, I need to move the bed a little. I won't hurt you, okay?" He saw the eyes dart to the left to where the window was. "Yeah, that's where we're goin'. Hold on." He inched it over, trying not to cause any more stress. Finally, it was done and he took the quilt from the corner and rolled it, placing it against the window sill. "Okay, Vin, I'm gonna lean you against the window. Then I'll take the wet sheet off and roll a clean one under, okay?" The matted head dipped and he didn't waste time.
Vin was too sick to care about Chris cleaning him up. His chest hurt and his head throbbed and it hurt to breathe. His stomach was twisting and turning, making just breathing an effort. His back was burning and even Chris's gentle touch caused pain. He gasped weakly when something warm and soapy eased down his back.
"Bath time, cowboy," Chris addressed, glad to see that the wound in his back was not red or festering. But the raw marks on Vin's back and buttocks were painful to look at. He reasoned somehow it was from lying on the stiff sheet too long. Must feel like burn, same color. He eyed the medicine cabinet and completed the bath. "Sorry, Vin, that must hurt like a bitch. Hold on..." He crossed the room and got some ointment that the label stated was for burns. He rubbed a bit on each of the red marks and heard Vin sigh deeply. "Good booze, huh?"
"...unh... unh..."
"Vin?" Chris capped the bottle and moved, watching the lips part. He bent lower, trying to capture the tiny sounds. "How about we leave you on your side for awhile, okay?" he updated, drawing a clean sheet over the bathed man.
"...urt... urt... pees... ris..."
"Aw, hell, Vin, I'm sorry, but it's gonna hurt worse if I roll you back."
"...ter... waw...ter..."
"Yeah." He scooted quickly, getting the water into the mug and a spoon. It took some work but he got Vin three quarters up and against him and slowly got the water inside. He put the cup down and noticed the haggard breathing had lessened. "That better?" The damp head nodded. "Okay, you rest easy, Vin, I got your back." He felt the long sigh of relief as the warm breath tickled his arm. As he carefully laid his injured friend back down, he saw the pale lips moving and bent down, thinking the weak man was speaking. "What?"
"...pray... him... thank..." Vin whispered, fighting hard to get each word out. Lord, it hurt to talk. He fumbled badly, moving his hand until he hit Chris. "...yer... here..." Shaking badly, he dug down deep inside, found what he sought and summoned the strength for one more, just one. "...wa... wah... word..."
Chris saw the tear slip away and that hit him hard. He swallowed painfully as Vin's simple declaration filled him. Again, he was strongly reminded of just how fragile his friend was and how hard the road ahead would be. Despite the trembling and the horrid breathing, the body still fought hard.
"Go to sleep," he directed, but the head shook negatively.
"...bad..."
"Nightmare?" Chris quizzed. "Not on my watch. Sleep!"
The pain and fever won out and the troubled man slept. But the best medicine was that faith that held him. As long as those green lights led him, he could and would find his path home.
It was almost dawn when Moses returned. He'd walked for miles, every step thrusting out a little more of the bitterness. He'd slept for awhile by the river. He hoped the cool breeze would chase away the fire inside. It wouldn't help him now and this young man needed his head clear. He eyed the blond guardian whose head rested on the table next to the patient.
"Yup," he sighed of the bond. "...them boys is kin, sure 'nuf."
He walked over and shook the dark blue shirt.
"Son? Chris?"
"Vin?" Chris sat up too fast and then regretted it, rubbing his stiff neck. "Shit..."
"I'm gonna fix some coffee and breakfast in a little while. Why don't yuh finish up over dere?" He nodded to the bedroll on the bedroom floor in the other room. He saw a flicker of hesitation before the younger man stood and leaned over the patient.
"His backside was raw. I thought leavin' him on his side would help."
"Looks like it did. I'm gonna check on his dressing. Then I'll roll 'im back. I'm gonna need yuh later, so yuh best get some sleep."
"Yeah," Chris stated distractedly. "After breakfast, I'm heading to town. I need to send a wire. You need anything?"
"Don't know yet... we'll check the supplies 'fore yuh leave." Moses watched the unsteady figure swaying. "Go on now, I don't got time fuh two sick ones."
By the time Moses had the coffee started and was making pancake batter, the blond guardian was sound asleep. Frowning, he left the bowl of batter and picked up a blanket. He put it over the sleeping man, then picked up the clean dressings and more of the cream. He eased the sheet down and gently took the bandages off the injured man.
"Good, dat's good," he noted of the incision. It was not as red as it had been. He cleaned it and put a loose dressing on it. Then his dark eyes creased with concern at the raw marks that the other man spoke of. He gently dabbed the cream onto the red marks, singing an old song.
He's back.
He's here.
He's right here.
That feels so good....so good.
Don't stop.
No.
No.
No.
"...urts... no... don't..."
"Hey now!" Moses lifted the damp head, drawing the tangled hair back and turned the pillow over. "�'bout time yuh woke up. How 'bout a drink?"
He was half asleep and viewing the world through blurry eyes. He forced his eyes open and the light filtering through caused the pain to kick up. Everything was blurry and everything hurt. Hurt more than anything he'd ever felt. Even his breath hurt. He blinked and coughed painfully, gripping the strong hand. Dark skin, deep voice, gentle touch. A name formed and he gave the hand a weak squeeze. His raspy voice was full of gratitude and surprise.
"Nate?... thank God. I had a dream... yuh got shot. Yer here..."
"Nate?" Moses shook his head and picked up the mug of water sitting by the table. There was no mistaking the trembling young man's emotive voice. Whoever 'Nate' was, other than being a man of color, he meant something to this young man. "Yuh needs water."
"�'kay..." Vin's hand flopped badly; he was too weak to reach the cup. He scowled and hissed, then heard a deep laugh.
"Yuh settle down, boy, Old Mose'll take care of yuh."
Mose?
As the strong hand lifted his head, he thought on that voice. Flitting images filled his thick mind. A dark place, a cold place, a place of death. Too cold, like a grave. Then a voice singing and a hand touching him. As the mug touched his lips, he puzzled over the picture. Another face appeared, not Nathan's. An old man with kind dark eyes and a healing touch.
"Angel!" Vin blurted, his chest heaving from the effort of drinking. He was still gasping when the old man bent closer.
"Son, I told yuh, I ain't no angel. I'm just Old Mose. I found yuh lyin' in a cave near'bouts. Thought yuh was dead. But...well, I brung yuh here to the doc's house. He took a bullet outta yuhr lung." Moses paused, watching the slim man's chest rise and fall and the blue eyes cloud up as the information was processed. "He had another family to tend, left me here. Then yuhr friend came..." He saw the clouds disappear and worry reappear. The blue eyes zoned in on the body on the floor in the other room.
"Chris?"
"Just wore out, been tendin' to yuh all night. I got some broth. Yuh up fuhr it?"
"Yeah," Vin nodded, resting his eyes until the wonderful aroma of chicken broth assaulted him.
"I'm gonna lift yuh and tuck yuh against m'chest. All yuh gotta do is open yuhr mouth and swallow. Ready?"
Vin nodded, saving his strength for the task of eating. He hissed and then cried out in pain as his body was lifted. Pain so intense it stole his air and caused tears to fall. He curled up his fist, needing something to drive it away. God, it hurt, more than anything he'd ever felt. Like a thousand hot needles were stabbing his back. Then a large dark hand moved over his pale one. That hand remained in place through the unending waves of pain.
"I know it hurts yuh, boy," Moses soothed. "Old Mose has yuh, yuh rest easy. When yuhr ready, we'll start."
Ready? He was ready. He realized that the strong chest he rested upon was more than flesh and bone. As he ate, slowly accepting each wonderful spoonful and gasping for air between bites, more images came back. That same strong voice, singing to him when he was lost. Two strong hands guiding him, holding him, tending to him like family. Finally, the mug was empty and after a sip of cold cider spiked with medicine, he was laid back down. He bit his lip and concentrated hard, needing to thank this man. The old man had moved around the bed, pulling the sheet down and washing Vin's chest with warm, soapy water. He was humming a song as he worked, unaware of the wavering hand that moved.
"Huh?" Moses had just replaced the rag in the water when a tiny tickle danced on his hand. He saw the effort outlined on the damp, creased face.
"Thanks... angel..." Vin managed, panting and gasping.
"I told yuh, I ain't..."
"...are..." Vin insisted, wrapping his fingers around the other man's. "�know 'bout angels. Protectors... cradle ya in their wings. Strong... good heart..." Vin coughed, clenching his eyes as the pain overwhelmed him. It was too much to bear even for a Tanner. The rippling agony drove the tears out of his rolling eyes. He sighed once and went limp. He didn't see the raw emotion on the old man's face. He didn't feel that aged hand wiping the tears of pain away. He didn't sense that hand resting against his cheek after the blanket was drawn up. He heard the song though. It rocked him gently in his slumber as the ebb and flow of the angel's wings carried him again.
"I'm gettin' soft," Moses gasped, the emotive blue eyes having totally undone him. It had been a long time since someone showed him this much trust and respect. The boy looked right at him, even up. He didn't look down on him or judge him. "Yuh rest easy, boy, Old Mose is watchin' yuh."
The gambler's cool green eyes slid across the room, appraising the man before him. Slim, average height, well dressed and easy on the eyes. He nodded, crossed the room and addressed the fancy dressed man.
"You, sir, are a handsome devil," he nodded to the image in the mirror. Then he saw the traces of fatigue in the jade eyes and scowled. "You're also a fool. Gallivanting from town to town..." He sighed hard, then saw a ghost appear in the reflection. Another slim man with mischievous blue eyes and an easy drawl. Someone who'd slid past his defenses with little effort. Suddenly, his weariness didn't seem to matter quite so much. "Mister Tanner," he vowed. "I'll find him, rest assured," he noted of Chris Larabee.
After breakfast, he went to the Post and Telegraph and eyed the map on the wall. There were only two more towns until he hit the border. Mexico? Would Chris go that far? Would Mason? He doubted it. Unfortunately, Jeff Mason could be a hundred miles in the opposite direction by now. Would Chris ever give up the quest?
"Stupid question,..." he muttered, turning back to the clerk. "I need to send a wire to Fort McDaniels."
After giving his next two stops, he mounted up on Deuce and took to the road. He eyed the blue sky overhead and wondered on the somber leader of their group. Was Larabee riding under these same sunny skies or under a murky dark cloud of bitterness and revenge? What if Vin and Mason never turned up? How would that broken promise affect the somber blond? His thoughts drifted as he rode on, heading for Miner's Well.
"Can I help you, sir?" James Patterson, the young clerk at the Post and Telegraph Office eyed the hard man across the counter. The unshaven face was a perfect match for the gravel in the worn voice.
"Wire up?" Chris asked.
"No, sir, lines are still down. It's gonna be awhile."
"Dammit!" Chris hissed, pushing his hat back and scrubbing his face with his hand. He eyed the full mail bags that were lying nearby and thought on that. "Couriers here?"
"They're gettin' some grub. Over at Mattie's. Pete Tilley and Jack Springer. They'll head out in an hour or so. Why?"
"Paper?"
"Sure," James nodded to a pile of paper nearby. "Help yourself."
Chris turned and found the paper and a pencil. He wrote out a note, took an envelope from the pile, sealed the letter and quietly left the room. He eyed the dusty street, looking past the citizens strolling by and the men loading wagons beside the freight office. His eyes hit a sign bearing the name he sought. His long strides took him down the street and across to the caf�. He peered through the window, eliminated the folks who weren't the men he sought and zoned in on two figures eating alone by the far wall. He entered the room and made his way to the table. He didn't miss the fast flicker of fear that both men had when they saw him.
"Mornin'," he offered.
"Somethin' we can do for you, pal?" Pete asked.
"You headed to Mineral Springs?"
"It's on our route. Three, maybe four days ahead, give or take. Why?"
"I need to get a message to Judge Travis. He should be there for a trial. It's a very important message." Chris dropped a five dollar silver piece on the table. "Can you deliver it for me?"
"Judge Travis?" Jack nodded. "I know him. I've delivered papers to him before. What's your business with him?"
"I work for him," Chris replied, sliding the envelope across the table. "This is urgent, very urgent. I'll be checking with him later," he threatened. "I'm sure he'll be very generous when he receives this message."
"I like generous," Pete agreed. "We'll get it to him, Mister... Mister..."
"Larabee," Chris replied, nodded and left the room.
"Just a little more," Josiah coached, holding the spoon out.
"Preacher, yuh don't move that hand, I'm gonna bust it!"
J.D. eyed the cranky healer from across the room and snickered at his terse reply. The last couple of days of rest along with excellent care by Josiah and Buck had seen improvements in their patients. Most noticeable was Nathan's frustration at his weakness and total immobility. His constant sniping and Josiah's dry, unflappable stance brightened what were otherwise long days. All J.D. did was eat and sleep.
"Somethin' funny, J.D?" Nathan barked.
"I've heard rabid dogs more social," Dunne sent back. "You best be on better behavior, Nathan, it's almost time for your bath."
"Bath?" Nathan snarled, slapping at Josiah's hand. "I don't need no more damn soup. Seems a waste of time. All it does it come out the other end. I want real food!"
"I know you're not talking to me in that tone of voice." Josiah put the bowl down and smiled evilly, rising and towering over the ornery ex-Union man. "The boy's right, brother, it's time for you to bathe." Then he paused and leveled a serious smoky-eyed departing remark. "You don't want to get on my bad side."
"I ain't gonna forget this, Josiah!" Nathan yelled after the departing figure. "Mark it down, you'll be gettin' Ipecac syrup on yuhr pancakes. Dammit!" He pounded the sheet. The headache that never left only added to his discomfort. He heard the chuckling again and turned his face. "Yuhr on my list, J.D."
"You're all talk," Dunne predicted with a yawn. "Keep it down, will you? I'm gonna take a nap."
"Huh!" Nathan settled back, envisioning the day when he would walk again. if he walked again. He hadn't voiced his fears to anyone but he was worried. The surgeon was very nice and had talked to him at length about the repair work on his leg. Keeping it immobile for at least four weeks was critical. Despite the fact that the doctor stated the pulse to his foot was very good, indicating that the repairs worked, Nate was worried. He slid his hand over the bulky wooden splint that encased his leg from hip to ankle.
J.D. saw the anger melt and the fear take over. He hitched himself up on his elbows and eyed his friend carefully.
"Nathan, you're gonna walk again, that doctor said so. It's okay to be scared."
"I ain't..." he started then stopped, forcing the words between clenched teeth. "I hate this..."
"I know," Dunne agreed. "But it's been a week already. Only three more. Once you get that splint off..."
"Yeah," Nathan sighed dejectedly, then closed his eyes.
Josiah wandered around the fort until he found Buck Wilmington. He knew the normally boisterous, outgoing man had his light dimmed a bit. He was about to turn back, to get the basins for Nathan's bath, when he spotted a forlorn profile. He walked to the edge of the fort where the sentry usually stood and climbed up. The other man was scanning the horizon, his handsome face reflecting the gold and roses of the departing day.
"Troubles, brother?"
"I'll tell you," a weary Wilmington replied, rubbing his neck. "Havin' a family is a pain in the ass."
Josiah laughed and stood next to Buck, taking in the quiet sunset.
"You need to eat, Buck. I'm gonna give Nathan his bath and then I'll meet you in the mess. You can't go on like this." He paused, not liking the strain and shadows on the otherwise handsome face. "You get sick and that won't help J.D. or Nathan." He paused. "Or Chris."
That did it. The head shot up and the dark blue eyes flashed. They lingered on his smoky ones for a moment and then went back to the horizon. He knew how deeply Buck ached for Chris Larabee and how frustrated he was that he couldn't help him. Buck's heart was larger than most and right now, it was bleeding all over the place. He rested his large hand on the downcast shoulder and gave a good tug.
"It's been four days," Buck fretted of the last wire from the missing blond. "I don't like it."
"Could be a lot of reasons for that, Buck. The lines go out all the time, you know that. Maybe he's between towns, can't get to a wire."
"Maybe he caught up to Mason and he's hurt..." Buck worried. "�or worse. I need to find him, Josiah. I owe that to Vin. I made my own vow..." His voice trailed off as he recalled that cold moment when he'd held the dying tracker in his arms. "When Vin died, a part of Chris died too. That boy won't sleep easy if I don't keep Chris in the light. He needs to know...to understand," he corrected, rubbing his weary eyes, "that the best part of Vin is still here." He tapped his chest. "That won't ever leave. I need to see his eyes, to make sure the light's still shining."
"Vin's light?"
"Yeah," Buck nodded. "Damn ornery tracker." His voice quivered and he felt hi s eyes burning.
"Boy sure had a way of gettin' under your skin," Josiah smiled, eyeing the heavens above. "I'll bet he's keepin' St. Peter busy."
"Aw, hell," Buck mimicked the raspy drawl of the Texan, "�iffen ain't t'much trouble, Lord..."
He swallowed hard as the handsome bounty hunter's face appeared in his mind's eye. Vin Tanner had given Chris Larabee something so special, so rare, it defied logic. Long ago he'd given up trying to figure it out. All he knew was that Chris had been blessed. That in those bottomless blue eyes and hiding under that stubbled face on the whisper of that soft drawl was a shimmering jewel. That undying light that had found its way deep inside Chris Larabee needed to be kept alive. He raised his eyes to the sky and sought out the spirit of the lean Texan. He tapped his own chest once, reaffirming his vow. He found a smile then, his first true one in days, when he felt Vin Tanner's reply in the soft breeze that kissed his face.
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