A/N: Wow, I didn't expect such an excited response! I'm blown away, thank you all from the bottom of my heart! Your reviews prompted me to finish this chapter much faster than I'd planned, so here you are :)

Chapter Two

The noon sun hung high against the whitish-blue of the midday sky, casting its small, gray shadows over Laramie. Riding briskly along the main street, Jess squinted up into the cold white light and pulled at the reddish, frayed hem of long underwear that peeped from beneath his sky-blue shirt sleeve, covering the chilled bit of skin between shirt and glove. Turning up his coat collar against the wind, he slipped a casual hand into his saddle bag, touching the stack of bills hidden under his extra shirt. Still there, just as he knew it would be... but it was reassuring to feel the stacked paper. One could never be too careful when traveling with cash; the cattle money that Jess had withdrawn would have made him a target for highwaymen, if they'd known he was carrying it. As it was, the frigid wind kept most folks inside, and there'd barely been anyone on the street, much less in the bank when he made his withdrawal.

"Hey, Jess!"

His train of thought cut off abruptly as the friendly greeting drew his attention.

"Jake," the dark-haired Texan greeted dryly, pulling his bay to a stop. One slender leg swung over the saddle horn and his lithe form slid to the boardwalk. "Need help?" he asked, seeing how the mercantile owner struggled with the large sacks of flour he hefted on each shoulder.

Jake shook his head vigorously. "No, no. A little exercise'll keep me warm." He deposited both sacks on the front counter simultaneously, sending up a cloud of white. Jess, who'd been following close behind, caught the worst of it; coughing, he waved a gloved hand in front of his face and staggered backward, out of the chalky cloud.

"How's... business... Jake?" Jess asked, each word punctuated with a powdery cough.

"Same," Jake replied evenly, wiping a flour-covered hand on his apron. "Awful chilly day. A mite colder'n yesterday, I'd say."

"It ain't so much the cold," the younger man coughed, "It's this dang-blasted wind that keeps blowin' my hat all over" – cough – "creation." Jess tugged at the leather fingers of his gloves, tucked them into his belt, and rubbed chilled, work-weathered hands together. Faint lines appeared around his eyes and along his mouth, evidence of a contained wince as the pins-and-needles sensation intensified before fading away. "I need enough supplies for two days' ride."

"Sure thing." Jake moved behind the counter, gathering coffee and beans. "Where're you headin'?"

"Green River. Slim wants me to ride out for a cattle auct- no, Jake, none of that."

The flask was almost completely obscured by the dark leather of Jess's saddle bags when Jake's hand stilled. The sudden rise in the cowboy's tone confused him. "What, nothin' to keep you warm on the trail?"

Jess shook his head firmly, feeling the slightest residual ache from the morning's hangover. The leather flap on the saddle bags flipped shut, and the dark-headed man slung his supplies over his shoulder. "Nope, I've had my fill for a good while. Coffee'n beans'll be plenty. Thanks." Metal clinked on wood, the shiny coin bouncing once, twice on the counter where Jess had dropped it. Moving briskly, he jerked his hat low over his eyes, brushed past the men loitering outside the store, and swung gracefully up into Traveller's saddle. His boots slipped easily into the stirrups, and a light click of his tongue urged the groomed bay westward.

"He's right tame for a gunslick."

Drawling words, spoken after the young man was well out of earshot. The speaker was a tall man, well-built, and unkempt. He leaned back against the wooden siding of the mercantile, arms folded across his chest, between his two companions.

"Ain't a gunslick no more, Dover. I hear he done been domesticated this past year. An' keep it down, will you?" Stormy gray eyes narrowed, the effect heightened by dark circles. "He'll hear you."

"Aw, Casey, you worry too much." The third man scratched his straw-like mustache, scrunching his nose. "He can't hear a thing we're sayin'. Good thing he didn't see us though... think he'd have recognized us?"

Casey thumbed the hammer of his revolver, nestled neatly in a battered holster. "Likely he would've, Hank. He spent enough time 'round us in the saloon last night."

A satisfied grin slid across the shorter man's face. "Yeah, I reckon he did. Did you hear what the barkeep said after his boss come to fetch 'im? Sounds like he ain't hardly been drunk more'n once in the past year. Folks say he's a right sensible, respectable fella, an' he don't get carried away with his liquor."

"Well that's 'cause he don't drink with the likes of us too often, I reckon." Casey's dirty red hair fell into his eyes, and he jerked his head sideways to flip it back. "His boss didn't seem too happy."

"Didn't seem all that mad, neither," Dover observed dryly. "Most ranch hands woulda been fired after somethin' like that, 'less they was real close with their boss."

The following silence was empty and cold as the three tugged their coats tighter and watched Jess disappear at the end of the street. Wind pushed at their Stetsons, and the only sound was the steady smack of Dover's chewing tobacco.

"Where'd he tell the storekeep he was headin', anyhow?"

Dover worked his jaw, spitting a stream of brown tobacco juice between his teeth. "Green River, I think. Reckon we oughta catch up with 'im outside of town?"

"What for?" Casey's hands rested on his gun belt, one finger absently fiddling with the buckle. "He's headin' up the same way as us. We'll take 'im outside of Green River. It'll save us a heap o' trouble."

Nodding slowly, Dover turned to watch the meager amount of Laramie folk out and about, bre. "S'pose it makes sense. But Case... are you sure he's the Harper we're lookin' for?"

"Sure, I'm sure." The older man's eyes flashed. "Why? Ain't you?"

"Well, there's a lotta Harpers out west..."

Casey's mouth settled into a grim line, and he shook his head. "Not a chance I'm mistaken. You both saw the pictures on those ol' wanted posters. Don't it look like the same fella t'you boys?" Both heads bobbed immediately, and Casey crossed his arms in satisfaction. "There you go! I've looked into 'im real good, he's the one."

"And you're sure this is the way Ansem wants to play it?"

Casey unconsciously stiffened at the mention of their leader. He considered himself to be fast on the draw, and an all-around tough character, scared of nothing and nobody. Charles Ansem was the only man who'd ever sent a chill down his spine. There was something off about the man – maybe it was he hollow look in his black eyes, the way he never seemed to blink. He'd never seen the man sleep, either – sometimes he wondered if their boss was more machine than man.

"That's what Ansem says," he replied tightly, feeling his throat constrict. He swallowed hard. "If he wants Harper, we'd do well to deliver."

"Hold still, Trav."

Barely a mile out of Creston, and his bay had pulled up lame. Fortunately the moon was full, and Jess was able to clearly see Traveller's hoof, held tightly in his hands, as he crouched by the horse's flank.

Expert fingers explored the hoof and shoe, making short work of finding the pebble wedged under iron. It took several long minutes, but Jess managed to ease the pebble closer to freedom.

"One more minute. Easy, fella."

His fingers felt swollen and stiff in the numbing cold, but he managed to grasp the tiny stone between thumb and forefinger one more time.

"Steady."

His breath was hot and damp against the chestnut flank, slowly become more labored with the effort of squatting, supporting Traveller's leg, and working at the pebble.

"Almost got-"

"Don't move, boy." The hollow click of a gun drew Jess's attention immediately, accompanied by the grated threat.

Jess stilled, and felt a tremor in the warm hoof cradled in his hand as his bay seemed to sense the quickness of his master's heartbeat. The dark-haired man slowly – very slowly – lowered the animal's foot to the damp earth and raised his hands. "Mind if I turn around?" he asked tightly, resisting the urge to turn around.

He bristled, feeling the tug at his hip. Eleven pounds of steel, a comforting weight Jess had lived with since he was big enough to do a man's work, was lifted from his holster.

"Go on. Turn around." A mocking smile was audible in the man's tone. The taunting note sparked recognition as Jess eased himself around, and his expression hardened.

"You three." Gloved fingers rubbed against the leather of his empty holster, and his shoulders squared unconsciously. "You oughta know better'n anyone, I've barely a penny to my name."

Jess would have recognized them anywhere. He didn't often forget men that got him drunk and then cheated him out of his pay. It was just his luck, running into them again out here, miles from Laramie.

"Don't be sore, boy. Was your own fault, gettin' so drunk that you couldn't tell a pair from a full house."

"Don't be sore?" Jess echoed, his voice rising an octave. "You're the worst kinda scum there is, mister; cheatin' when the other fella's already too drunk to see straight. I bet you ain't never played a straight game in your li-"

"Watch it," Casey warned sharply, lifting his gun so it was aligned with the young gunfighter's heart.

"All the money I've got's in my wallet here," Jess ventured, reaching carefully into his jacket. "It's about twelve dollars. You're welcome to it."

The square of leather was jerked from his hand, opened, and inspected. "You're lyin' through your teeth, friend. We know you drew a hefty sum from the bank just this mornin'." A slow grin revealed yellowed, neglected teeth. "Don't fret none, we ain't after your money."

"You got enough of it as it is," Jess growled.

"We'd planned on jumpin' you after our little poker game the other night," Dover sneered, "but your boss come in an' hauled you outta there like you was a stray calf. It's a cryin' shame he had to spoil things like that. We had it set up real nice."

Hank cocked his head to the side, and his neck cracked loudly. "Mmmhmm. That spiked liquor had you drunker than ratified whiskey after only two shots. We figured you'd be no trouble at all on the road."

So that was it. Jess had kicked himself all day for letting himself go like that, and getting into a poker game drunk... come to find out it hadn't been a lapse of self-control, but drug-laced alcohol. "How much did I drink?" he grated, fingers rubbing together restlessly.

"Oh, 'bout half a bottle. It weren't hard t' keep you drinkin' the stuff, once the drug kicked in."

"You went to an awful lotta trouble just to cheat me out of a lousy sixty dollars." Dark brows drew together, and Jess regarded the three men warily. "Or are you after more than just my money?"

"Well, since you ask," Hank drawled, fixing his dull gaze on Jess, "We're lookin' for a man by the name of Jack Harper. You know 'im?"

Jess's fingers curled around his empty holster as the feeling of apprehension grew stronger. "You friends of his?"

"More or less," Casey replied snidely. His grin widened. "We're lookin' for 'im, an' I think you can help us."

A muscle in the slender cowboy's face twitched, and his eyes darkened. "Jack Harper is dead."