A/N: Here it is at last! I promised in September at the completion of "Unexpected" to write up a piece for the other six members of the group to detail their experiences leading up to their arrival in Four Corners and it only took me until now to get the thing done. (Fall is a very busy time in college admissions!)

So here's the deal: If you want to read about Chris and Mary's paths to the pilot episode, check out "Unexpected." To read about the other six members of the seven, you're in the right place. We're starting out with Vin and will continue until we run out. (And by "we," I mean me – but you knew that.) And don't sue me during any course of this story because I have nothing you want and that includes ownership of the Magnificent 7. If you like what you're reading, though, let me know!

Human behavior has often defied the best laid plans. David Tichenor

One month at the most. He didn't plan to stay in the miserable town of Four Corners for any longer than he had to and he figured it would take three to four weeks maximum in order to earn enough money to continue on to Tuscosa and clear his name. He'd let it go too long and a man could only carry that weight with him so far before it was bound to break his back – and his spirit along the way.

Of course, staying tied to one place doing a job you hated could do the same thing. He remembered a guy he'd known once – a tracker and buffalo hunter, like him – who told the story of a herd of mustangs he'd seen captured to be sold and trained as cavalry remounts. On the day the officers had shown up to take the herd, this tracker swore he'd seen three horses drop dead on the spot.

"They seen the future," he'd said in a hazy, far off tone. "They seen it and they figured death was a sight better than giving up their freedom. Load was too heavy to bear."

Still, he didn't figure that working in a hardware store pushing a broom had ever broken a man's spirit (or killed anyone) if performed in small amounts, but just in case that old mountain man had been right, Vin Tanner figured he should shoot for the short side of a month. Better safe than sorry and all that.

Besides, the only reason he'd ended up here – of all places - was that the reward money from his last bounty had run out one town over and his supply of beef jerky, hard tack, and other necessities had had the audacity to follow suit shortly thereafter. And, since a man couldn't eat his freedom for breakfast without feeling hungry an hour after, he found himself in windblown Four Corners, broom in hand as he tried hard not to scowl in dismay at customers or (more importantly) his employer, a tall, bespectacled man whose muscles and reflexes were soft from years of comfort and routine and whose brain had become a wealth of dollars and cents and not much else.

If being like that man was the future that came attached to broom pushing, Vin thought he'd best keep his tenure as a shop hand to a minimum - otherwise the route those horses took might begin to look more and more appealing.

The apron around his waist and the feel of the smooth broom handle slowly wearing a callous into the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger were torture, as was the sensation of his usually catlike reflexes slowing down as he spent more of his days cooped up inside instead of on the trail. All were unfamiliar and unwelcome sensations for a man used to living by his own schedule and his own code. He'd been places, seen things, and had skills with a gun and with his tracker's sensibilities that most men would envy – and if it weren't for the fact that none of those things were paying for his supplies at the moment, he'd still be on the trail. But jobs paid hard cash and Vin was broke. It was as simple as that and he liked things simple.

Now if only getting to Tuscosa and clearing his name could turn out as easy – then wouldn't life be grand? After all, how could he continue to pay the bills as a bounty hunter if he had to go around with a five hundred dollar price tag on his own head? Irony wasn't anything remotely as simple as Vin liked and he'd decided on the day that Eli Joe set him up that irony was just as much the enemy as the wily outlaw.

"Stupid," he muttered under his breath, lost in his own thoughts as he reached under a nearby bench with the broom, chasing a stray clump of dried mud that had evaded his ministrations earlier. "Plum stupid."

A passing couple raised their eyebrows as though to question his low outburst and he gave a half-smile and indicated the dirt clod: "I just hate a dirty porch, don't you?"

The woman gave a high, nervous chuckle in return and the couple passed quickly, their actions indicating that his explanation hadn't helped.

Vin rolled his eyes and continued sweeping. Stupid, indeed. He couldn't pinpoint the exact circumstances that had put his life on this particular path, but he suspected that he may have gotten a little overconfident in his success as a bounty hunter and in his own abilities – which, in turn, had given Eli Joe an advantage that he'd decided to use.

And now Vin was stuck sweeping up another man's mess instead of taking care of his own.

Never forget you're a Tanner, his mother had told him before she passed. As a small child, he wasn't sure what exactly she meant - and even as a grown man he still couldn't define it in words - but he'd always held himself to a particularly high standard, one that he considered to be that of a Tanner. He hadn't foreseen this latest career path, but he figured a Tanner would put everything he could into it and not be ashamed. A Tanner would hold his head up high no matter what the circumstance.

Wouldn't he?

Wryly, Vin thought to himself that he didn't actually know the answer to that question, but he suspected that it was "yes." He hoped it was anyway – though even if it wasn't, he didn't have a better plan at the moment.

He continued to sweep in silence.

He'd heard a poem once – something about "The best laid plans of mice and men…" – and he'd always liked the easy, foreign sound of it. Words intrigued him, whether in English, or Spanish, or any of the native dialects he'd encountered in his travels and, even though he couldn't read or write, he had always enjoyed mulling them over in his head, letting the sounds wash his mind clean the way a good rinse in a river could cleanse the body. Still, that particular poem never really meant anything to him until that day when he had the broom in his hand. On that day, the words began flitting around his mind like a flock of persistent birds and he had no idea why.

The first gunshots fired into the air and the first drunken whoops of cowboys exiting the saloon caused the blood to quicken in his veins for the first time since he'd picked up a broom. Guns and whiskey weren't usually a friendly combination – particularly in a town like Four Corners, which Vin had found to be (in his short time as a resident) rather lawless. Sure there was a marshal and a deputy, but they were as likely to be found drinking in the saloon with the outlaws as they were arresting them for their crimes. (In fact, Vin had thought fleetingly that he might have seen a "Wanted" poster with the deputy's face on it a few towns back, but he couldn't be sure. Besides, a man with his very own "Wanted" poster couldn't very well be hypocritical in such a situation.)

The first thought in the lanky tracker's mind after he heard the shots was that the rowdy cowboys who had just come off the trail that morning had had the stupid audacity to tangle with the man in black who had ridden in a day prior, his face an unreadable mask and his expression deadly. The Texans been trouble when they'd first ridden in (he'd seen the way they'd acted in the store when they replenished their supplies) and their boss had been in a bad way – gangrene, it looked like - so he hadn't expected things to take a turn for the better. Experience told Vin that liquor, time on the trail, and sheer stupidity were a dangerous combination – and if the black-clad figure who had ensconced himself in the saloon before their arrival was as deadly and menacing as his face would suggest, they'd be dead on the floor before they knew what hit them and it would serve them right.

But it wasn't the man in black they were tangling with at all, Vin realized as one of the drunken crew members came riding around the corner at a hard gallop and another shot his pistol into the air in the middle of the street, his horse rearing and spinning on its hind legs. Innocent bystanders leapt for cover, panes of glass exploded into shards as stray bullets ricocheted through them, and Vin ducked into the hardware store to avoid the melee – but not before he'd seen that the mob had grabbed hold of Nathan Jackson, the black man who served as the town's sole source of medical care, and were dragging him to the town cemetery with clear intent to lynch him.

Yup, liquor and stupidity were no doubt the leading cause of death in Four Corners – for both the guilty and the innocent it seemed.

Yet it wasn't that sight of Nathan being dragged down the stairs and tossed unceremoniously onto the back of a wagon that brought the words of that long ago poem into Vin's mind; instead, it was the sight of tiny Mary Travis, publisher of the town's newspaper, standing before the hell-bent cowboys with a rifle that was bigger than she was, defying every statute set for a proper lady and demanding that Nathan be set free. Her stance was rigid, her face stony, and she looked both competent and scared to death in the same breath as she demanded the release of her friend, her blonde hair escaping its bun and her hands still stained with printers' ink.

No good man could stand by idly while a woman held off a mob single-handedly and Vin was not just an ordinary good man: he was a Tanner.

His gut wrenched when the lead cowboy kicked Mary Travis to the street and a second wrested the rifle from her grasp and he'd cast off the broom and apron and grabbed a brand new rifle and handful of shells from behind the counter of the store before he realized what he was doing. Yet he didn't grasp the full weight of how much his life was about to change until seconds later, directly after the store owner threatened him as he passed by on his way to the street, saying, "You walk out with that rifle and you're fired."

"Hell, I'm probably going to get myself killed," Vin commented with a frown, part of him wanting to laugh at the man's misplaced priorities, but growing more annoyed by the second as he shoved the shells into the gun with deft fingers, "and now I got to worry about a new job too."

But the job didn't matter anymore and despite the danger inherent in the situation before him, Vin felt his muscles relax and his breathing slow for the first time in a week. It was as though the tightness of the apron had made it hard to breathe and without it, he could move about, unrestricted. The gun fit into his hands easily where the broom never had, sliding into the groove between thumb and forefinger as though made for him. Absent was the weight of a gun belt around his waist, the familiar mare's leg he preferred to shoot stowed with his possessions in the room he rented, but the rifle was all that was available and it would have to do.

It was as he moved to step into the street that he saw him again – the man in black – standing on the porch of the saloon in a thoughtful pose. His manner was unruffled, despite the charged air surrounding them, and his face, while not as stony as when Vin had seen him ride into town, was still relatively unreadable.

Casting off the chewed butt of a cheroot, the stranger locked eyes with Vin and opened his gaze so that they conversed without a single word:

Can't let them hang him.

Nope. It'd be a shame.

Better go do something about it. You in?

Lead the way.

The best laid plans, indeed.

Ordinarily, going into a situation where he knew he was outnumbered – and particularly now, with his reflexes a bit duller than usual and a gun he'd never fired before – Vin felt a few flutters of fear in his stomach, but they were just enough to remind him of the gravity of the situation and so were welcome. Yet as he and the man in black walked in silence and pretended that they weren't facing possible death, there was nothing but steely resolve and assuredness that coursed through him – all accompanied by a mantra of those familiar words: "The best laid plans of mice and men..."

And perhaps it was then that he should have realized it; perhaps then he should have known that his plans weren't in his control any longer and that by joining the man in black – a man whose name he didn't even know but would later learn to be Chris Larabee – he was altering his fate forever.

He didn't know that they'd soon be joined by five more – by Nathan himself, and Chris's old friend Buck Wilmington, by dandy card shark Ezra Standish, devout Josiah Sanchez, and by greenhorn JD Donne.

He didn't know that Tuscosa would be less and less important once he and the other six were hired to watch over the town of Four Corners and her citizens.

He didn't know that in the sleepy dust bowl where he'd hoped to only stay a month at most he'd find something that he'd never had and didn't think existed: a home.

He also didn't know that with the men he'd soon join forces with he'd find something that any self-respecting Tanner wouldn't feel worthy of: a family.

He simply knew that he was doing the right thing – the sort of thing that a Tanner would do. The rest would sort itself out later, as it always did.

At the gateway to the town cemetery, the pair pushed through the assembled crowd and halted just inside the gate, where Vin could see that Nathan was already wearing a noose around his neck. The tall healer stood perched in the back of the mob's wagon and looked prepared to meet his Maker while the crowd muttered uselessly amongst themselves.

The lead cowboy noticed the pair of gunmen watching and strode over to menacingly ask, "What the hell you want?"

Beside Vin, the man in black spoke in an even tone: "Cut him loose."

"Reckon y'all would be happier if you just rode away," Vin put in. He never relished killing people and, despite the cloud of danger that shrouded his counterpart, he suspected that the stranger beside him felt the same. If Nathan were released, the whole thing would just blow over.

The cowboys all laughed and their leader shook his head. "Not a chance, boys."

The man in black spoke again in the same low voice, though this time laced with a thread of danger: "Shot a lot of holes in the clouds back there. Anybody stop to reload?"

Puzzlement, then fear crossed the faces of the cowboys then and Vin wanted to chuckle when he saw that the implied threat had sobered them up more quickly than a few gallons of hot coffee could.

When the shooting started, Vin was pleased to realize that his reflexes were still

as sharp as ever – which paid off when the team of horses attached to the wagon on which Nathan stood bolted in fear, leaving the black man hanging in midair. It would have been an easy shot for the former buffalo hunter under normal circumstances, but under fire it caused a bit more of a challenge. The first shot missed when he was forced to duck behind a nearby tombstone but the second was dead on and Nathan dropped to the ground, alive and gasping for breath.

The last remaining cowboy hightailed it out of the cemetery on foot, weaving unevenly in a manner that displayed his still-drunken state and Vin didn't have time to move or think as a wiry young man in tweed ran up, gun drawn and yelling, "I got him! I got him!"

The man in black was in motion before Vin realized what was happening, firing a shot into the ground to stop the kid's flight.

"You don't shoot nobody in the back!" he admonished and the kid slunk away, looking startled and chagrined.

Vin exhaled slowly, then looked appraisingly on the man beside him – a man with principles that were as scrupulous and firmly-held as his own. He'd often held himself to such a high personal standard that he'd found it impossible to imagine that someone else might see things the same way. Perhaps that meant that being a Tanner was something greater than just living up to his last name. Perhaps it was something that a person couldn't even put words to.

He wasn't sure he'd have enough time in Four Corners to figure it out, but then, "The best laid plans of mice and men..."

When the stranger spoke again, it was with the same easy, low tone he'd used with the cowboys, only this time friendlier: "Name's Chris."

"Vin Tanner," Vin told him. Conversationally, he asked the question he already knew the answer to. "New in town?"

"Yesterday," Chris replied.

"Last week," Vin told him.

Chris gave Vin the same quick, appraising once-over as the tracker had given to him, then asked, "Buffalo hunter?"

Vin frowned. "Among other things. Not many left to hunt."

Neither noticed the wounded cowboy on the ground pick up a pistol and aim it at them until Nathan had thrown a knife that hit him square in the back, killing him instantly. Then the pair exchanged a look between them in similar fashion to the way they had on the street.

Good shot.

Not bad for a man who was near dead a few minutes ago.

Think you could have done it?

Nope.

Me neither.

"One of y'all want to pull the knife out of that fella and cut me loose here?" Nathan wanted to know.

Silently, the pair acquiesced, helping the black man to his feet in time to see Mary Travis hurrying towards them.

"Gentlemen, I run The Clarion News," she said briskly, by way of introduction. "Where did you come from?"

Chris frowned and Vin fought the urge to chuckle when the man responded dryly, "Saloon."

The newly-formed trio began to walk away, Vin's nerves suddenly telling him that a shot of whiskey wasn't a bad idea right about then. Nathan too could probably use a few sips to soothe his rattled spirit.

Mary protested their departure. "Hey! I want to talk to you. Where are you going?"

Chris and Vin exchanged another look between them, eyes smiling as they shared a joke, and answered in unison: "Saloon."

And when Vin felt his strides matched by the two men who flanked him as they made their way back into town, the words of the poem began to cycle through his mind again: "The best laid plans of mice and men…"

Somehow he knew that his plans were about to change irreparably – and yet he didn't think he minded. Whatever was about to happen beat dying with a broom in his hand and at least this time he'd have company for the ride.

TBC