Rating: PG Mild language and plenty of action
Summary: Buck, Chris, and Josiah have the job of protecting a key witness on the way to testify against a crooked cattle baron. But nothing is ever easy with these fellows, as proven with a shootout, a wounded Buck, and a missing witness.
Author's notes: This turned out completely different from what it originally started as, but that's a good thing! :) Thank you so much, Deb, for your willingness to discuss plot problems and your help with story structure. Thank you, Kelly L., for your feedback and for betaing this. This story wouldn't be half so good without your help, you two! Also thanks to my brother FreeLancer and sister Chefz for their part in the storywriting process. :) All mistakes are mine, and don't be bashful pointing them out. How else will I know they exist? :) P.S. Brief reference is made to Tiffiny's story Chance Met Friends.
P.S. If you're still reading :) think of Sheriff Cohen as Tommy Lee Jones...maybe a few years younger. I just picture him that way in my head. g>
Enjoy!
The Witness
By Trekkieb
The dust swirled around in the slight breeze stirred up by the gunfire. Some found its way in through the broken window and washed over the mustached man standing beside it.
"Ahh, damn," Buck Wilmington muttered as he staggered a step.
He used one hand to grab onto the wall nearest him and the other to staunch the flow of blood that began to stain his shirt. The pain was just starting to force its way through his shock-numbed body, quickly becoming unbearable. Buck had been shot before, several times in fact, but it never got any easier. It never hurt any less.
He wanted to sit down, but his knees locked, refusing to let him sink to the dusty saloon floor. Looking down, Buck blinked and noticed the shards of glass that covered the wooden planks. He hoped the saloonkeeper was an understanding fellow.
It had all happened so quickly. Less than fifteen minutes ago he and the others had ridden into town. And now the street and rooftops were filled with the bodies of the men sent to stop them. It was doubtful any were still alive. They'd all be in Boot Hill by the morrow's end.
Buck's breath caught in his throat and his vision wavered as the fire in his chest increased. Damn, he thought grimly, looks like I might be joining 'em.
Peering out the glass-less window through squinted eyes, Buck could see his friends, and was filled with relief that they were all right. He tried to call out, tried to get their attention, but all that came out was a hoarse whisper barely loud enough to stir the air around him. And all of a sudden, his knees relaxed and he slid to the floor, his hand still on the wall. His eyes slid closed as well.
It hurt to breath—hell, it hurt to think—but he forced himself to concentrate on drawing in each breath, knowing that to stop would be to die.
When he opened his eyes again a second later, everything was off-kilter. It took a moment, but he wrapped his mind around the fact that he was lying on the floor now, looking up at the tables and chairs. Strange, he thought. Don't remember lyin' down.
Things seemed to be moving in slow motion. Every breath seemed painfully drawn out. Even the fly near the ceiling appeared to be moving in slow speed. And then he could hear it: footsteps. Only they were just as slow as everything else was, their echoes strangely muffled.
"Buck!"
It was Josiah. Buck could hear him call for Chris and then his worried face appeared in front of his own.
"Buck?" This time it was Chris.
Wilmington's eyes shot wide open and he hissed in pain as Larabee used his hands to push down on the wound in Buck's chest. He would have chewed Chris out good except for the fact that he was breathing too hard to form words.
Buck tried to smile at the two, to let them know that he was all right, but it must not have worked as well as he thought because he saw Chris' brow tighten into a frown.
"Buck, can you hear me?" he asked.
Buck looked at him again. "Yeah, I can hear you, Chris," he managed. He didn't mention that Chris' voice sounded like it came from the bottom of a well.
"How're you doin' there, Buck?" Josiah asked.
Buck swallowed. "Oh, not so good, J'siah."
Josiah nodded sympathetically. "I'm gonna go rustle up a doctor, then you'll be right as rain in no time." He clapped Buck gently on the shoulder and disappeared from Wilmington's view.
"Buck, you just hang in there, you hear?" Chris said firmly. Buck nodded, but it was getting harder and harder to concentrate on what Chris was saying.
"Buck," Chris said again, as if he had just thought of something. "Where is she?"
"Hmm?" He had to close his eyes again; they were too heavy.
"Where is she, Buck? Where's Irene?"
"Irene?" Then Buck remembered. She had been with him when he, Chris and Josiah had split up. "Irene." He squinted his eyes open again. Chris' face wavered above him. "Where is she?" he asked, puzzled.
Chris' voice was calm but urgent. "You're the only one who knows, Buck. She was with you. You have to remember."
Have to remember…she's in trouble… "She's…" But his concentration wouldn't hold, and he slipped into unconsciousness before he could grasp the answer. Where was Irene?
~~Two Days Ago~~
"They ought to be here pretty soon."
"Yup."
"How long you think it'll take to get there?"
"About a day, I s'pose."
"Huh."
That was the extent of the conversation between Vin Tanner and Chris Larabee. The two of them sat on a bench outside the jail, legs stretched out, enjoying the coolness of the early morning. Larabee read one of his faded leather-bound books, and Tanner idly whittled a stick with his knife. Both were content with the silence.
They stayed that way for a while, talking briefly now and then but mainly keeping to their own thoughts. It was some time later, when the sun had risen higher and the temperature along with it, that four horses slowly made their way down the town's main street. Larabee set his book aside and stood up. Buck and JD appeared out of nowhere, and Josiah walked out of the general store and leaned against a post.
Chris scrutinized the riders as they approached. Three were men, in their thirties and forties. One was dressed in a worn three-piece suit. The fourth rider was a young woman. She wore denim jeans and a tan duster. Her dark hair was twisted up beneath her hat. All four were covered in dust.
The newcomers stopped in front of the jail. "Is one of you Chris Larabee?" the man in the suit asked.
Chris stepped slowly into the street, spurs jingling. "That's me," he confirmed.
The man relaxed and dismounted. He offered his hand and introduced himself as he and Chris shook. "I'm Rich McGregor." He then waved at the rest of his party. "This is Sam Clark and Abe Marshall. And this," he said, pointing at the young woman, "is Irene Scott."
Chris nodded and then made his round of introductions.
"Well, come on down from there and come inside," Buck ordered cheerfully. He beat JD to Irene's horse and helped her dismount. He flashed a smile. "I bet you're plumb tired, Miss Scott. Come in and sit a spell."
"Actually, Mr. Wilmington, if I sit another minute I'm afraid my backside will fall off." She grinned, and they followed the rest of the men into the jail.
An hour later, Chris, Buck, Josiah, and Irene mounted back up, saddle bags filled with supplies.
"Don't get into any trouble while I'm gone, boys," Larabee said with a slight grin.
Vin raised one eyebrow as if to say 'Who, us?' But he instead he said, "Sure thing, cowboy."
"I'd say the rule applies to you as well, gentlemen," drawled Ezra, who had finally woken up and wandered on over. "We are hardly the only ones to whom trouble is attracted."
Chris just shook his head and clucked to his horse. He took the lead as they moved off, while Buck rode alongside Irene and Josiah took up the rear.
If they kept up a brisk pace, they could cover maybe ten to fifteen miles before nightfall. They'd make it to Larkspur in plenty of time for the trial.
Buck glanced up at the scorching sun, then wiped the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief and replaced his hat on his head.
He looked over at Irene Scott. She'd been quiet, barely speaking a word in the two hours since they'd left town. A frown creased her brow, and she seemed to be lost in her own little world.
"So," he began amiably, "what exactly is it that you're testifyin' to?"
The frown deepened and she looked at Buck. "Didn't they already tell you?"
"Nah, not really. Just that you witnessed a murder or something."
"Or something," she whispered, then sighed and turned forward again.
Buck was curious, but didn't want to pry. He was surprised when she spoke again.
"My brother Peter and I lived in Chicago for most of our lives. When the law firm where he practiced laid him off due to lack of money, he decided to go west. I decided to go with him. There wasn't anything keeping me there aside from him anyway."
She watched the dust swirl around the hooves of Chris' horse for a moment.
"He got a job as an advisor and attorney with Andrew Kincaid. You might have heard of him?"
Buck nodded. "I sure have." And it was no lie. Andrew Kincaid owned and controlled the largest piece of ranch land than any other rancher in the state, and a few of the surrounding ones. He was called King Kincaid because he held such a monopoly over the cattle industry.
Irene continued. "Well, Kincaid hired Peter to be his financial advisor, because he was a lawyer and all. Pete had access to many of the ranch's documents at the office in town, and it was only a few months before he became suspicious. He told me he thought there was something odd about the deals to purchase neighboring land. He told me he was going to look into it. I told him to be careful, but…
"Over the next year, he found out more and more. There were inconsistencies in the ledgers, and in the inventory. New cattle where there shouldn't be. And the deeds to nearby ranches, which Kincaid supposedly bought from the owners, weren't right. There were discrepancies."
"Why didn't he go to the authorities?" Buck asked.
"He was going to," she snapped, and then looked apologetic. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude."
Buck just grinned. "It takes a lot more than that to get to ol' Buck."
She absently chewed on her bottom lip as she looked around again. "Damn, it's hot out." Buck wholeheartedly agreed, then prompted her to continue.
"Well, anyway, Peter was planning on going to the authorities with the information he had, but he wanted to go back to the office one more time, to check something. He never came back. After a while I got worried and headed over there. I heard people talking, so I hid. There were four men, four voices. I recognized two of them: Kincaid and his top foreman. One of the men I didn't know was talking about the 'problem being under control.' He said he'd caught Pete going through Kincaid's
office, the one he was never allowed in. And then he said that Pete's body was taken care of and would never be found.
"I ran to the authorities and told them everything I had heard and everything Peter had told me. He had kept notes hidden at our place detailing everything he had found out, so with those and what I told them, Kincaid was put under arrest for murder and fraud, as well as cattle rustling. And if I don't testify, there's no case. Peter's notes by themselves won't get a conviction."
She turned her gaze to Buck and said with determination, "And I will testify no matter what."
Buck couldn't think of a single thing to say.
They'd covered a good chunk of ground by nightfall. The horses were tired, as were the people. They set up camp near a trickle of water that tried to pass itself off as a creek.
Chris had first watch. He took his rifle and slipped outside the circle of light cast by the fire. They were all aware of the possibility that someone would come after Irene.
Josiah had put together a dinner of beans, dry cornbread, and coffee. All but Chris busied themselves with eating.
"This is mighty fine, Josiah," Buck said as he cleaned his plate.
Sanchez smiled. "Thank you, Buck." He stretched his arms above his head. "Now, since I made dinner perhaps you'd like to offer to wash the dishes?" It wasn't really a suggestion.
Buck couldn't come up with a good excuse quick enough, so he just shrugged. "Be glad to. But only if you make another pot of coffee." Josiah agreed, and Buck began to clean up.
"I'll help," Irene offered. She stood and gathered up the cooking utensils. "After you." She motioned to Buck to precede her.
At the creek, they rinsed the plates in the cold water for a silent moment. Then, Irene rocked back on her heels and watched Buck.
Buck noticed and smiled quizzically. "What?"
She hesitated, then asked, "How long have you known each other?"
He sat back. "Who, me and Josiah and Chris?" She nodded. "Well, Chris and I have known each other for, oh, about twelve years now. We met on a cattle drive. Both of us flat broke. Chris, well he was an ornery cuss. Sour as they come. I saved his life soon after, and after that even he couldn't resist Buck Wilmington's charm." His smile grew as Irene chuckled. "As for Josiah, we've only known each other a couple of years, but it feels like longer. All of us, we've been through some tough times
together. Almost like family, us and the fellows back at town." He laughed, then, and shook his head. "Ain't like no family I've ever seen, though."
Irene's expression grew wistful, and Buck's smile faded a bit. "What is it?" he asked gently.
She sighed. "Peter was all I had in the world. Our parents died when we were young, and our sister Ellie ran off with a railroad engineer years ago. Haven't heard from her since. I was just thinking it must be nice…to have such a family."
She drew a deep breath and collected the dishes. "Okay, that's enough self pity for one day. Shall we?"
Buck scrambled to his feet and dusted his pant legs off. Irene started walking back to camp, then turned back. "Buck?"
"Yes, Miss Scott?"
Her brown eyes regarded him warmly. "Thanks…for just listening."
"Well, I'm very good at listening, or so I've been told a time or two."
"And, Buck? You can call me Irene if you'd like." She turned once more and headed toward the light of the fire.
"Irene," Buck said softly, letting the name roll off his tongue. He smiled widely and followed her.
The following afternoon, they approached Larkspur, population three hundred. The four of them crested a ridge and looked down upon the town nestled among sloping green hills. Cows dotted the range, dark blobs moving along the grass.
"Looks peaceful," Josiah commented. The townsfolk went about their daily business, seemingly ignorant of the fact that they were being watched.
"Yeah," Chris said. His sharp gaze raked over everything below, taking in every detail. "But looks can be deceiving." He glanced over at Josiah and Buck. "We go in nice and slow. Stay alert and keep your eyes open for trouble."
They nodded and walked their horses down the slope. In a matter of minutes they entered Larkspur, winding through side streets to avoid being noticed.
"There's the hotel," Buck said, pointing to a large building off to the right. They were in a rear alley-way, and could see the main street from there.
"All right. Buck, take Irene to the hotel. Get us a couple rooms and stay put. Josiah, scout around a bit, see if anything's out of the ordinary. I'll head on over to the jail and see if I can find the sheriff or the judge. Questions?"
Buck shrugged. "Nope." He looked at Sanchez. "You, Josiah?"
"Seems clear to me."
"I have a question." They all looked at Irene. She shifted nervously. "What if something happens? What if someone finds me?"
Chris tipped his hat back on his head and crossed his hands over the saddle horn. "Don't worry, Buck'll be with you."
Buck smiled reassuringly.
"Okay then, let's go," Larabee ordered.
Josiah went ahead onto the main street first and dismounted in front of the mercantile. He pulled his hat down and casually observed the busy street. Chris followed next, heading straight for the sheriff's office. He dismounted and walked up to the door.
That left Buck and Irene still sitting on their horses in the alley. Buck almost believed that nothing would go wrong, that they'd get Irene tucked away until the trial and all would be well. Almost. He knew, however, that Andrew Kincaid was a powerful man, and that it was well within his means to have Irene killed.
"Ready?" he asked.
"As I'll ever be, I suppose," the young woman replied.
He clucked to his horse and led the way down the littered alleyway. They were almost to the street when the first shot rang out. Buck ducked and whirled his horse around. "Get back!" he yelled. He grabbed the reins of Irene's whinnying mount and they hurried back down the alley. Buck could hear the retort of answering fire from Chris and Josiah. People screamed and ran out of the main street, but Buck didn't pay any attention to that.
He hopped off his horse and pulled Irene off hers. "Buck!" she cried out. He spun around just in time to shoot the man about to shoot them. The stranger dropped like a sack of dirt, and Buck swiftly relieved him of his weapon. Glancing around quickly, he took in his options. They could hide in the hotel, but that was probably the first place they'd look for Irene. Adjacent to the hotel was the back of another building that Buck thought was the saloon. Also a bad choice. Too crowded. Finally, he looked down the tiny alley at the rear of the buildings and spotted another door.
"Come on, this way," he urged. Irene followed him unhesitatingly, and they dashed down the muddy road. He opened the door, looked around one last time, then pushed Irene in before him and closed the door.
Outside he could still hear the muffled report of gunfire.
They found themselves in a long shadowy hallway, illuminated by only one lantern high on the wall. Several doors branched off on either side, and one by one Buck opened them and looked inside. Buck assumed they were in a boarding house by the nature of the rooms—bed, nightstand, desk, chair—and all were empty. Not good enough. Finally, he found a door that
didn't lead to a bedroom. Instead, he found a dark stairwell.
"Let's take our chances this way," he suggested.
"Where does it lead?" She looked worried.
"Don't rightly know yet, but we'll soon find out."
They quickly headed down the steps, their way lighted by a match. The stairs led to what appeared to be a laundry room. Several large tubs occupied the floor space, and shelves along the walls contained folded linen as well as other supplies.
Over to the left, almost completely hidden by a wet blanket strung up on a line, was a door. Buck led the way, and they discovered a little bedroom on the other side. "Perfect," Buck stated as he looked around. There was a bed with a cozy-looking quilt, a wooden chair, a dresser, and a small bookcase. A lantern stood on the dresser, and Buck hastily
lit it.
"Irene, I want you to stay here. You lock the door and sit tight. If you hear anyone coming, anyone at all, turn out the light." He turned to go.
"Buck!" He stopped at the door. "Where are you going? You can't leave me." Her voice was getting louder. He hurried to her again.
"You'll be all right here, don't worry. They'll never find you, I promise." She didn't look convinced. Buck took out the gun he had removed from the man in the ally. "Look, you take this. Do you know how to use it?"
"No, I've never had need to before."
"Okay," he explained, "just slide this here, point and pull the trigger." He thrust the gun in her hands. "I have to help Chris and
Josiah. I can't leave them out there by themselves."
Irene looked at the gun and as he reached the door again she looked up. "Buck?" He paused. "Be careful."
He smiled and tipped his hat. "Don't worry, darlin', I will."
He closed the door behind him and heard her wedge the chair beneath the handle. Satisfied, he ran back up the stairs and out into the alley. Another shot rang out from the main street. Buck hurried across the alley and entered the saloon through the back door. The place had apparently cleared out when the shooting began; not a soul remained.
At the front of the tavern was a big picture window made of a single, large pane of glass. He crept up to the side and surveyed the street. Directly opposite the saloon was the town's post office. Over to the right a bit was the jail, and Buck assumed Chris had taken up position there. Down to the left a hundred yards or so was the mercantile, where Josiah had dismounted. He couldn't see either of his two friends, but he could still hear the familiar barks of their guns.
He could also see, from his position at the window, a man with a rifle situated on the roof of the post office. Buck aimed at him and fired, but the shot didn't strike its mark. Instead, the man on the roof turned his attention to the saloon, and Buck had to jump to the side to avoid being punctured by one of the high-powered bullets.
He shook his head in anger. "Didn't your mama ever tell you it's not polite to shoot at people?" he asked even though he knew the man couldn't hear him.
As he returned fire once again, Buck couldn't help but think back to when they had left Four Corners. Ezra was right. We never can seem t'stay outta trouble.
When the shooting started, Chris had just reached the door of the jail. As he ducked inside, he saw Buck and Irene take off down the alley and Josiah take cover inside a nearby building. The next bullet crashed through the window of the jail and nearly took Chris' hat off his head. "Son of a--"
"What the hell's goin' on?" Chris fired off a shot through the window, then glanced back to see a man grab a rifle and join him. Light glinted dully off the star pinned to his chest.
"I'm the law from Four Corners," Chris explained tersely and let another bullet fly. "We brought in Irene Scott to testify in trial tomorrow morning. We've been expecting something like this. Sure expected it a hell of a lot sooner, though." He glanced at the other man. "The name's Larabee."
"Cohen."
They fell silent, occupied with the battle going on. Chris fired at a man he saw slinking down the street toward the hotel side alley, but the man ducked and slipped around the corner. "Damn," he muttered, and hoped Buck had taken Irene somewhere safe.
Cohen proved to be a fair shot as one of his bullets hit its target--a shooter in a second story window--square in the chest.
Amidst the roar of the guns in the small room and the noise from the street, Chris could hear the sound of Josiah's old Smith & Wesson and was comforted to know the preacher was still in the game.
It seemed to last forever. The roar of the guns, the smell of gunpowder, the adrenaline in his veins. For a moment, the battle blurred into the countless other battles he'd fought in the past, where he'd gone through exactly the same motions. But then the addition of another player snapped him back to here and now.
Buck?
Chris caught a glimpse of his friend through the saloon window and was both relieved and puzzled. He was glad for the extra help, but Buck was supposed to protect Irene. Where was she?
Within minutes, the shooting was over. The last of their assailants was taken care of, and Chris breathed a sigh. He glanced over at Cohen and raised an eyebrow. "Nice shootin'."
The gray haired sheriff smiled tightly. "Thanks."
Chris looked around the jail. It was empty but for the two of them. A closed door was situated on one wall; Chris assumed it led to the prisoners' cells. But there were no other lawmen around. "Don't you have any deputies?" he asked.
Cohen flung open the door and stepped out onto the boardwalk. He eyed the bodies that lay sprawled in the street, the disturbed dust slowly settling on them. "I have a regular deputy, but he got thrown from his horse a few days ago. He's laid up with a wrenched back."
Chris nodded absently and watched as Josiah made his way over to the two of them. "You all right, Josiah?" he asked when the man came near.
"All in one piece, anyway," Sanchez answered wryly. He fingered a cut on his forehead. "Where's Buck?"
Chris pointed. "I saw him through the saloon window."
Josiah raised an inquiring eyebrow and started across the street. Larabee and Cohen followed a step behind.
Sanchez reached the entrance first. "Buck!" he said in surprise, then called for Chris. He disappeared into the dim interior, and Chris ran the few remaining steps.
Inside, the saloon was empty except for Buck. He was lying on the floor amidst a sea of broken glass. It was obvious that he'd been shot.
"Buck?" Chris asked softly as he knelt by the wounded man. Buck's eyes were nearly closed. Chris took a closer look at the bullet wound in Buck's chest—it looked bad. Quickly, he placed his hands on the wound to stop the flow of blood. Buck hissed and opened his eyes wide. He grimaced, and Chris frowned.
Behind him, Josiah was talking to Cohen but Chris didn't pay too much attention. "Buck, can you hear me?"
Buck looked up at him. "Yeah, I can hear you, Chris," he whispered hoarsely.
"How're you doin' there, Buck?" Josiah asked as he bent over into Wilmington's view.
Buck swallowed. "Oh, not so good, J'siah."
Josiah nodded sympathetically. "I'm gonna go rustle up a doctor, then you'll be right as rain in no time." He clapped Buck gently on the shoulder and nodded to Larabee. "Be right back."
Chris knelt by his friend as Josiah and Cohen went in search of the town's doctor. He could tell that Buck was weakening quickly. "Buck, you just hang in there, you hear?" Buck nodded, but Chris didn't know if he'd actually heard him or not.
A second passed in which he continued to press against Buck's chest. He thought the bleeding had slowed but he couldn't be sure without removing his hands to check, and he wasn't about to do that.
All of a sudden, he remembered the reason for their mission to Larkspur. "Buck," he asked. "Where is she?"
"Hmm?" Buck closed his eyes.
"Where is she, Buck? Where's Irene?" Don't close your eyes, buddy. C'mon, stay awake.
"Irene?" Chris watched as Wilmington creased his brow in thought. He waited intently. "Irene," Buck said again, this time with a tone of realization. "Where is she?" he asked Chris.
"You're the only one who knows, Buck. She was with you. You have to remember." He needed Buck to remember.
"She's…" Buck started to say. But Chris never learned Irene's location because at that moment the injured man lost consciousness.
"Damn!" Chris cursed quietly.
It was supposed to be a simple mission, but he should have known that nothing was ever simple when they got involved.
They had to get Buck patched up. Make sure he'd be okay. And they had to find Irene Scott. The trial started the next morning, and if she didn't show up to testify…then the whole damn trip would have been for nothing.
Irene Scott sat on the small bed and watched the door. So far she hadn't heard a single thing, but she kept the gun that Buck had given her in her grasp. Just in case.
The room was filled with shadows. There were no windows in the basement living quarters she occupied, and she kept the flame in the lantern turned low in case someone happened to see light from beneath the door.
She couldn't hear whether or not the shooting still continued outside; the walls were thick and solid. But she guessed ten or fifteen minutes had passed since Buck had left. If only she knew what was going on outside.
Irene adjusted her grip on the heavy weapon and prayed that Buck was all right.
Doc Engle was an older man about the same age as Judge Travis. His nose was red and splotchy from years of hard drinking, but he was sober at the moment. That was all Chris Larabee currently cared about.
It was just Chris and Engle in the doctor's small clinic, with Buck lying unconscious on the bed. Cohen had left to deal with the dead bodies in the street, and Josiah had gone to see if he could find Irene.
At last Engle finished applying the final dressing. As he washed his hands in a basin of hot water, he spoke to Chris. "Lucky for your friend, here, the bullet went in and out without causing a lot of mess.Slipped right by his lung, scraped a rib or two, and just got some muscles." He finished scrubbing his hands and proceeded to wipe them dry on a towel.
"So he'll be all right, then?" Chris asked from his position leaning against one wall.
Engle nodded. "Barring any complications, and with plenty of rest and care, he should recover. I've given him a heavy dose of laudanum to help him rest." The doctor headed for the door. "I'm going to go get some supper, then I'll be back to keep an eye on him. Can I get you something?"
Chris declined and after the physician left he pulled up a chair next to Buck and sat down. He regarded his pale friend for a moment, then rubbed a weary hand through his blond hair. "Jesus, Buck, I'm goin' gray because of you fellas."
There was no response, and Chris sighed. "You got to help me out here, Buck," he said. "You have to wake up soon and tell us where you hid Irene."
He slowly leaned back in his chair and stared out the window, thinking.
A heavy tread outside the door heralded Josiah's return. Chris looked up as he entered. "Any luck?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
Sanchez stood at the foot of the bed and looked at Wilmington. "No. I tried to trace their path down the alley, but the mud distorted their tracks. Talked to some people, but they haven't seen her or they're not talking."
Chris shot up from his chair and began pacing around the room. "What the hell was he even thinking? He was supposed to stay with her. Why would he leave?"
Josiah opened his mouth to speak, but Chris held up his hand and took a deep breath. "No, I know why. Because he knew we needed the extra help." A small smile found its way to his lips. "Damn you, Buck. Why do you always have to be so considerate?"
"What now?"
"As soon as the doc gets back to take care of Buck, we go looking for Irene. Every place close enough to their original location that they might have found."
Chris sat back down. Josiah followed suit in a chair across the room.
"The trial begins at eight o'clock tomorrow morning," Sanchez said. "Maybe we could ask the judge to postpone it a bit? She is the key witness."
Chris shook his head. "I talked to Cohen. The judge's arrival was delayed. He won't get here until the early stage tomorrow, about six. And I got the picture that he's not the flexible sort."
"But we'll find her before then," Chris added.
"If Kincaid's men don't first."
Silence.
Russ Engle sat in a chair, reading a book and keeping an eye on his patient. The wounded man was currently asleep but had woken briefly several times. Engle'd been there for hours while Wilmington's two lawmen friends had been searching for the girl witness. Every once in a while they would check in on their friend, and with every visit he could see their tension levels rise due to their lack of success.
The door to the room opened, and Engle looked up, expecting to see Larabee or Sanchez. Instead, he saw a man with red-brown hair and a face that was vaguely familiar. Someone he had seen around town?
"Can I help you?" he asked, setting aside his book.
The newcomer glanced around the room, his eyes sweeping over Wilmington then landing on Engle. "Yeah, Doc. Sheriff Cohen, he, uh, wanted to talk to you about something down at the jail. He sent me to tell you."
Engle hesitated and looked at his sleeping patient.
"It's okay, I'll keep an eye on him for a few minutes. You can go on an' see what the sheriff wants." The redheaded man stepped further into the room.
"All right," Engle agreed as he stood. He picked up his hat by from the table by the door, then turned back. "But if he wakes up, or anything changes, you come get me right away. Understand?" He waited until the man agreed before leaving.
He heard voices. Muffled, like his ears were stuffed full of cotton. There were two of them, but he couldn't concentrate on what they were saying. Actually, concentrating on anything was rather difficult. He felt disconnected, like he was floating on something soft and warm. It was an odd sensation, but certainly not unpleasant. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he recognized that he was so full of laudanum, he could be anywhere in the world and not know it.
Anywhere. Like San Francisco. Hmm. Wonder how Miss Polly's doin' over in there Frisco. She sure was a pretty one…Eyes as blue as cornflowers. Corn… Am a might hungry…
Something distracted him from his thoughts. One of the voices was talking to him. Asking him something.
"Chris?" Buck thought he heard himself say. "That you? What're'ya doin' here?"
There was a pause. "Yeah, yeah, this is Chris. Say, pal, since we're buddies an' all why don't you tell me where the girl is?"
"The girl?" Buck turned his head and tried to open his eyes but they seemed weighed down and wouldn't budge. He suddenly realized whom Chris meant. "Oooohhh. Polly's not here, Chris. Y'should know that. Polly, sh-she's in San Francisco."
"No," Chris whispered. "The other girl, Irene Scott. I know you hid her, so tell me."
But Buck was still thinking about Polly in San Francisco. "She had the prettiest blue eyes… Always did fancy blue eyes in a gal…" He half giggled. "Hey, you remember that one blue eyed girl…you know…the daughter of that ol' miner…what was her name again? Claire? Clareena? Nah, that ain't it…"
Buck could hear the frustration in Chris' voice when he spoke again. "No. Listen up: Irene Scott. Black hair, brown eyes, about twenty-five or so. You were with her. Remember? The shooting?"
Buck frowned. He did remember something about that. The shooting, the mud, the basement. Irene, yeah, he remembered Irene. "Oh, yeah," he drawled lazily. "She-she's in the basement. That's right, the basement. Hey," he added as he realized something, "y'guys better find her. There's a trial comin' up. Y'gotta make sure she gets to the trial."
"Don't worry about it," Chris said. "Which basement is she in?"
Buck finally managed to open his eyes. He squinted up at Chris for a second before the weights on his eyelids pulled them closed again. He yawned. "The basement… Hey, Chris? When did'ya dye your hair?"
He drifted off and was once again floating lazily in the comfortable darkness.
"Who are you?" Chris demanded coldly when he saw a redheaded stranger leaning over Buck. The man jumped and spun around. Chris stepped forward and Josiah blocked the doorway.
"I, uh, I'm watching over Mr. Wilmington for a few minutes. The sheriff wanted to talk to Doc Engle, so I volunteered to stay." The stranger sidled away from the bed, glancing nervously at the door and Josiah. He gestured with one hand at Buck's still form. "He woke up for a few seconds."
Larabee's glare pinned him mercilessly. "What did he say?"
The man shook his head. "Nothin'. Just mumbling about a girl named Polly or somethin'." He was almost to the door. "Can I leave?" he asked Chris.
Chris didn't try to stop him, and Josiah reluctantly shifted enough for the man to pass through the doorway. Chris stared after him suspiciously, then walked over to Buck. He appeared to be sleeping deeply. He was just about to relay that to Josiah when Doc Engle came hurrying into the room.
"What's wrong?" Josiah asked, putting a hand on the doctor's arm.
Engle looked around. "There was a man in here. He said the sheriff wanted to talk to me at the jail but Cohen said he never asked anyone to come get me." He walked over to Buck and checked on him. "What's going on?" he asked the two men.
Chris and Josiah shared a look. "I don't know," Josiah answered the doctor. "But I gather we'll find out soon enough."
Sanchez and Larabee hurried out of the room and down the hall. When they reached the front porch of the clinic a minute later, they scanned the street. It was night now, and the town was cast in dark shadows, areas illuminated by the lights streaming from windows.
"There!" Josiah shouted, pointing down the main road. The redheaded man dashed around the corner of a building and into darkness. Josiah and Chris ran after him.
Chris led the way, determined to find out who the stranger was and what he was doing in Buck's room. He had a pretty good idea what he was doing there, actually. He was probably fishing for information about Irene's whereabouts. If Buck had told him anything in his current laudanum-filled state, though, Chris wanted that information. And he wanted that man before he could tell anyone else.
They reached the corner where the man had disappeared and found themselves in another of the town's many side alleys. It was narrow, about fifty feet long. They dashed to the end, but by the time they reached it their quarry had vanished.
"Damn," Chris swore as he looked around.
"My sentiments exactly, Brother Chris."
They stood there for a moment thinking their own thoughts before heading back to Doc Engle's clinic and Buck.
"All right, that's it. I'm leaving," Irene Scott said out loud to herself. It was comforting to hear the sound after so many hours of
silence.
She was hungry, thirsty, tired, and sick of being locked up in the small, dank room. She knew that if Buck or the others had been able to, they would have come and gotten her. That meant that they were most likely dead, and she would most likely be stuck there forever.
But she would not let that happen. She would testify at Kincaid's trial. She would show the court the evidence her brother had left her. She would not let the attempts on her life scare her into hiding.
So, with the gun in her hand and her courage and determination sufficiently worked up, she blew out the lantern and left the little
basement room behind.
Outside, she wasn't surprised to find that the sky had turned dark. Irene stood pressed against the side of the boarding house she had just left. The light shining from the hotel's rear windows dimly lit the narrow back-road enough for her to see that there was no one else around. The sounds of people from inside the saloon and along the main road reached her ears, however, and she guessed that the hour wasn't that late.
She thought that she ought to go to the jail and find the sheriff, but for all she knew he could be in Kincaid's pocket. Besides, Kincaid was in jail and she didn't want to be anywhere near him. So she started down the alley, edging along the shadowy buildings. She held the gun in both hands.
A few minutes later, she heard the sound of someone running and froze in her tracks, pressing into the shadows. As the figure ran through a beam of light she saw that it was a man with red hair, and she saw a brief view of his profile. Irene immediately ducked into a tiny alcove ten feet to her right. She knew that face. She was sure of it. He worked for Andrew Kincaid. Jim Fletcher, yes that was it. Once, a few months ago, he had come to the office while she had been visiting her brother. She
had instantly distrusted him, as, she was sure, had Peter.
A moment passed. She wiped the sweat from her palms, readjusted her grip on the gun, and continued on in the direction Fletcher had gone.
"Hey, J'siah," Buck said sleepily.
Josiah smiled. It was the first time he had seen Buck awake since he'd been shot. He moved closer to the bed, Chris doing the same on the other side. "How are you feeling, Buck?" Sanchez asked gently.
"Pretty good, actually," Buck admitted. He looked extremely groggy.
"I bet you are."
Buck smiled as he saw Chris. "Hey, Chris." He furrowed his brow. "I thought you dyed your hair."
Josiah smiled. "Buck, we need you to remember something for us. Can you do that?"
"Sure thing, preacher man."
Chris: "We need to find Irene. Where is she, Buck?"
"I already told you. Remember? You were here, askin'."
Chris and Josiah looked at each other and nodded. The redheaded stranger had indeed been looking for Irene. Josiah motioned for Chris to say something.
"Uh, yeah, Buck," Chris began. "But tell me again; you know how forgetful I am."
"Forgetful? Pshaw! You remember, we were talking about Polly. You know, Chris, Polly? The Frisco gal with the blue eyes. Yessiree, bluer than the Texas sky at sundown…"
Buck continued to ramble on, and Josiah shook his head.
I can't believe I'm doing this, Irene thought to herself.
She still trailed Fletcher and had just caught a glimpse of him again, only because he had finally stopped running. He hadn't seen her, for she kept far enough behind in the shadows.
At a small house at the edge of town, she saw Fletcher stop. He spoke to a man standing guard at the back of the house. She crept closer, knowing it was foolish but wanting to hear what they were saying.
She got as close as she dared and strained her ears.
Fletcher was speaking. "…the clinic. Got the information from that Wilmington fella. He hid Scott in a basement."
"What basement?" the other man asked.
"Dunno. But how many can there be in this town? We'll just have to eliminate 'em one by one."
As the two men retreated into the house, Irene's thoughts spun. Buck was at the clinic? That meant he was alive! And maybe Chris and Josiah as well. She was immensely relieved and, deciding that she had to find them, she hurried off the way she'd come.
She wasn't exactly sure where the clinic was, but didn't expect it to be too hard to find out. She ran now, still sticking to the shadows. But as she passed another dark side alley, an arm reached out and caught her around the waist. She started to scream but stopped cold when the hard steel of a gun was pressed against her neck. The gun Buck had given her slid from her hands and hit the ground with a dull thud.
"Well, well, look what we have here," a voice breathed harshly in her ear. Her eyes were wide, and her heart pounded nearly a thousand beats a minute. "Won't Mr. Kincaid be pleased?"
"The basement." Buck realized he'd spoken out loud when Chris and Josiah both looked at him. "I told you she was in the basement," he said to Larabee. "There was a little room in the basement of the boarding house. It was hid pretty well. I told her to stay put." Buck nodded in satisfaction, pleased with himself for remembering.
"Where?" Chris demanded.
"The building right across from the rear of the hotel. That's the boarding house. Can't miss it."
"Let's go," Chris said, already halfway to the door. Josiah followed quickly.
Buck blinked. "Guys?" he called. There was no response.
He flipped aside the blankets and struggled to sit up. Chris and Josiah might not find the room in the basement; he had to go make sure they did. There was no way he was going to take a chance with Irene's life at stake. After a brief time, he finally decided the best way to get upright was to roll over on his side and push himself up. When he had accomplished the task, the room was spinning around him.
"Whoa, there, Buckaroo," he said as he unsteadily got to his feet. The laudanum was the only thing keeping him from collapsing back on the bed; he was aware of that, and thanked whoever had patched him up for giving him such a nice dosage.
He shuffled his way to a wooden chair and grabbed his revolver from the gun belt draped across it. The gun would be good enough. Besides, he didn't think he could manage to put the gun belt on.
By the time he reached the door, sweat had already begun to trickle into his eyes.
"Where are we going?" Irene dared to ask her captor as they walked. He continued to hold the gun on her with one hand and her arm twisted behind her back with the other.
The man chuckled, an unpleasant sound that released a wave of equally unpleasant breath. "We're going for a little walk. We're gonna meet up with the rest of the boys over at the boarding house. That is where you were s'posed to be, wasn't it?" She didn't reply. "Doesn't matter. We're going over there, and then we'll decide what to do with you. Maybe, if you're lucky, we won't kill you after all." He laughed again.
Chris, Josiah, and Cohen raced across the street and down the alley until they came to the rear of the boarding house. Everything was quiet. The three slipped into the hallway and found the door that led to the lower level. Chris was about to reach for the handle when he heard something. "Wait," he hissed, and listened. He could hear several male voices through the wooden barrier. "Quiet." He slowly, silently opened the door.
The stairwell was dark, but a faint glow could be seen from the bottom. The voices were a bit louder, and angrier.
As quietly as possible, the three lawmen made their way down to the bottom of the stairs. The voices came from off to the left. No one, it appeared, had been stationed to guard the larger washroom. Chris, Josiah, and Cohen spread out, taking up various positions next to shelves or behind washtubs. They waited.
Half a minute later, a man stalked out from behind a draped blanket. "Damn it, Fletcher! Next time make sure you get the right information!"
"Hold it right there!" Larabee ordered as three more men appeared behind the first man. One, the redheaded man from Buck's room, dove to the side and drew his firearm. His action spurred his comrades to do the same, and the room was soon filled with the echoes and roars of many guns.
Out of the clinic, Buck took a minute to orient himself with the town. For a second, he forgot the reason why he was out there, but then his muddled brain remembered, and he looked up and down the street. There, the hotel. The distance looked incredibly far.
A shiver passed through him, and Buck wished he'd thought to grab a shirt. He couldn't go back and get one now, though, or he'd never catch up with Chris and Josiah. So, ignoring the few curious stares aimed at him, he set off as fast as he could, which was not as fast as he would have hoped. He was feeling little pain, only a dull throb in his chest, but his legs seemed determined not to cooperate with the rest of him.
He cursed and struggled on.
Irene and her assailant had just entered the hallway of the boarding house when she heard Larabee's voice and the first sounds of gunfire. "Chris!" she yelled, only to have a large hand clamp down over her mouth.
The man swore colorfully and ducked into one of the rented rooms, pulling her with him. He banged the door closed and locked it. He pushed her onto the bed and, keeping his gun trained on her, looked around the room. There were no windows, and the only exit was the door through which they'd entered.
"Don't make a sound," he growled fiercely. He stalked over to the door, pressed his ear against the wood, and listened.
Josiah ducked his head back behind the edge of the shelves as another bullet flew by. Two firefights in the same day. I'm getting too old for this, he thought, then changed his mind and admitted, But I do love a good fight.
Three against four. Not bad odds, not bad odds at all.
It was over in a surprisingly short amount of time. A bullet from his gun felled the last of Kincaid's men, and the echo bounced its way around the room a few times before finally stopping. The air was acrid with the scent of gunpowder.
"Chris, Sheriff, you two all right?" Josiah called as he came out from behind his cover.
He was almost there. At the mouth of the hotel's side alley, he paused. The passageway was filled with shadows. He tensed his muscles, willing himself to move forward again, but they didn't respond. "Okay, we'll take a little break," he told himself. "But just for a second."
He closed his tired eyes but opened them again quickly when a wave of dizziness swept over him. Time to get going, now, before he lost his lunch.
This time his muscles obeyed his commands, and he moved into the darkness, gun clenched tightly in his right hand.
The shooting had stopped, and Irene held her breath. Who had won?
"Come on," the jerk holding the gun said. He grabbed her by the arm and hauled her to her feet, then pulled her into the hallway. "You're my ticket outta here, just in case my side didn't come out on top."
Praying that someone was still alive to hear her, Irene took a deep breath. "Chris!" she yelled as loud as she could.
Sheriff Cohen leaned against a wall, holding a hand clamped against his shoulder. Blood seeped between his fingers. As Josiah made sure he was all right, Chris stalked behind the drying blanket and found a door leading into a small room. A small, empty room. What the hell?
Larabee whirled around on his heel and strode back into the outer room. "She's not here," he stated. Josiah and Cohen looked at him in surprise.
"Not here?" Cohen repeated.
"Chris!" The three froze. The voice was Irene's, and it had come from upstairs.
Larabee led the way upstairs and stepped into the hallway, his gun in hand. Less than ten feet away stood an unfamiliar man and Irene. The stranger held Irene in front of him as a shield and pressed a gun into the base of her neck. Chris aimed his gun between the man's eyes and stepped forward one pace. Josiah and Cohen filled the hallway behind him.
"Put your guns down," the man ordered. He pushed his firearm harder against Irene's skin, and she grimaced.
Chris' eyes narrowed, and he gazed coldly and calculatingly at Irene's captor. His gun didn't waver. "I don't think so." He took another step forward.
The stranger glanced nervously behind him and took a step back. He was several feet from the exit. Chris knew the man couldn't make a dash for it without turning away from him and the others.
"I'll shoot her, I swear it!" An attempt at bravado. Another small step back towards the door.
"And if you do," Chris replied calmly, "I will kill you."
"You'd best listen to him, son," Josiah said
The man sneered. "Go to hell." He started to squeeze the trigger.
"You first," Chris Larabee said, and fired.
The faint sounds of gunfire reached Buck's ears, and he paused. What was going on? Was he too late? He groaned in frustration at the thought.
This time, he really was almost at his destination. He could see the back door of the boarding house some twenty feet away. But despite all his determination, he couldn't get himself to move another inch. He was too tired. Exhausted was the word, really. And the dull throb in his chest was becoming something more unpleasant. As he leaned heavily against the brick wall of the hotel, his left hand strayed to the thick white bandages on his chest, and he grimaced. Buck then turned his attention to that same door, staring at it and cursing himself for not getting there sooner.
Silence fell, and he suddenly realized that the shooting had stopped. Keeping a shoulder against the wall, Buck raised unsteady arms, gripped his gun in both hands, and aimed it at the boarding house's exit. "Okay, Buck, just keep it together for a little bit longer," he whispered tensely.
He nearly jumped out of his skin when the door swung open. When he realized who it was, however, he dropped his arms and slumped in relief. "Chris!" Buck called out. His voice was weaker than he would have liked.
Larabee's head swiveled around and his eyes searched the darkness. Finally, he saw Buck. Wilmington attempted to stand up on his own, but the minute he lost contact with the wall beside him, he threatened to fall on his face. He quickly placed a hand on the rough brick for support.
"Buck!" Irene exclaimed as she ran up to him. "Are you all right?"
The others followed. "What're you doing out here, Buck?" Chris asked.
Buck grinned mischievously. "Thought I'd give you boys a hand." Then he coughed harshly, ruining the effect. When he got his breath back, he asked, "What happened?"
"Kincaid's men happened," a man Buck had never seen before replied. Squinting, Buck could just make out a clean-cut jaw and a star shaped badge.
"Come on, we should get you out of here," Irene urged. She placed his left arm over her shoulder.
Josiah stepped forward to help, and that was when Buck, who had glanced briefly down the back end of the alley, saw the man. Time slowed down considerably as Buck recognized what he was seeing: A man holding a large gun. A gun that was aimed right at Buck. No, he realized. It wasn't aimed at him. It was aimed at Irene, who stood next to him.
He didn't have time to yell a warning. He didn't have time to push Irene out of the way. All he had was half a second—but that was plenty of time to aim and fire.
The roar of his gun blasted in his ears and brought with it a return of normal time. Dimly, Buck saw Chris and the others start and spin around, but he was focused solely on the man at the end of the passageway, watching as he swayed and then toppled into the mud.
Buck smiled, then the exhaustion prevailed, pulling him down into the comfort of sleep.
~~The Next Morning~~
"Hello, there, Irene," Buck greeted as she stepped into the room. "You're lookin' mighty lovely today."
Gone were the denim jeans and cowboy boots she was so unaccustomed to. Instead, Irene was dressed in a well-tailored gray dress with lace trim; her hair hung about her shoulders. She smiled and approached his bedside. "Thank you, Buck. You look much better than when I saw you last night."
"Glad to hear it," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "I'm sure I looked a fright." Now, though, he was more rested and clothed in a nightshirt he'd borrowed from Josiah. The laudanum had worn off some, and Buck was grateful. He hurt a little bit more but at least he could talk straight. He still cringed at the memory of practically giving away Irene's hiding place to one of Kincaid's men.
She reached out and took his hand in both of hers. "So, how long will you be staying?"
"A while at least, according to the Doc. Chris wired back home and told the rest of the fellas we'll be a little later than planned."
She looked around the otherwise empty room, and Buck caught on to her unasked question. "Josiah and Chris are helping Sheriff Cohen deal with the prisoners while he's recuperatin'."
"Oh," was all she said.
Buck could tell something was on her mind, and he had a pretty good guess what it was. "You nervous?"
She laughed a little. "Is it that obvious?" She paused for a second, then admitted, "Yes, I am a little nervous. But mostly relieved. I've been waiting for this day ever since my brother was killed." Buck nodded in understanding.
"The judge arrived half an hour ago," she added. "Do you mind if I sit here with you until it's time to go?"
"It'd be my pleasure."
Irene sat down in the chair beside the bed, reclaimed his hand, and smiled. "And, Buck? Thank you."
She didn't have to say what for. He smiled back. "You, Miss Irene, are very welcome."
The End
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