A/N - you all do a writer's heart good!

OVER THE EDGE
By TIPPER

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CHAPTER SIX: COOMBS

Vin blinked away the dizziness, fighting the sensation that had been plaguing him for the last two days. The burning sensation in his shoulder didn't help, even if he knew it was healing. Shifting in the chair he was tied to, he glared at the man tending the injury, relishing the way the man flinched every time he caught Vin's stare.

"I said I was sorry," Coombs said, washing the wound with alcohol from his home's kit. "I don't know how many more times I can say it."

"It don't matter," Vin snarled. "Because it'll never be enough."

Coombs flinched again from the venom in Vin's voice, but he continued his gentle tending of the wound.

When Vin had woken up the first time, being tended by Coombs somewhere far from their original campsite, his first question had been what Coombs had done to Ezra. At first, the skittish man wouldn't say, just said that he'd knocked Ezra out and tied him up. But the fact that all the rope he and Ezra had been carrying was either around Vin's wrists or still in the saddlebags had shown that a lie.

It didn't take long for Coombs to start begging forgiveness for more than just shooting Vin; he started begging forgiveness for killing Ezra.

"I've told you a hundred times it was an accident! I just meant to knock him down, take his guns, but I must have hit too hard, and then he hit that rock on the ground…." Coombs swallowed. "What could I have done?"

"Not hit him in the first place."

"I explained that too! Ezra's idea wasn't a bad one, and I was grateful, but it wasn't going to help me find the truth! I needed you to come with me, and I knew you wouldn't do it voluntarily."

"You have no idea what I might've done! Or what Ezra would've done!"

"Exactly! And if you changed your minds again, where would I be? Where would Karen be?"

"I know where Ezra'd be. He'd be alive."

"And I'll go to hell for that, but…but my wife comes first."

Vin stared at the man, at the pale blue eyes brimming with tears for the millionth time since they met, the waxen, pox riddled face, the badly cut sand colored hair. He had innocence pouring from him, as pure as JD's, even though Coombs was a good decade older. Vin still didn't believe this man capable of cold-blooded murder, but that no longer mattered. He'd killed Ezra, who was as close to him as a brother. One way or another, this man was going down.

Coombs wisely said nothing more after that, finishing with his cleaning of the wound and bandaging Vin's shoulder again. Vin hissed in pain a couple of times, but otherwise refused to show this man any further emotion.

Fact was, his anger with Coombs wasn't anywhere near the anger he felt for himself. He'd allowed this to happen; it was his fault Ezra was dead. He should have listened to Buck, kept Coombs tied up, but instead he'd been a fool. Ezra had kept his promise to Buck—had told Vin to keep Coombs tied up-but as soon as Ezra'd left the camp to get water, Vin had untied Coombs and turned his back to check on the dinner, and that's when Coombs went for the gun. He'd shouted for Ezra, but it was too late, Coombs had gotten the Mare's Leg and fired—wildly, sure, but he still hit Vin. When Vin staggered, his right shoulder on fire, Coombs had used the butt of the gun to knock him down.

When he'd woken again, several hours later, he'd been tied up and sitting a long way away from where he'd been, his head throbbing and his shoulder still bleeding heavily. Coombs had been trying to clean and bandage it, and the pain was what had woken him. He'd tried to stay awake after finding about Ezra, but between his head and the blood loss, it'd been impossible.

He'd woken up a few more times after that, usually from his position hanging over Peso's saddle, slipping and sliding. He could smell the drying vomit on the horse's side, smell the blood stains drying on his clothes, and it usually resulted in him retching even more. The horse was moving slowly and Coombs was obviously not clever enough to secure him tightly enough to get them to move faster; the whole thing had been torture.

At some point last night, they'd arrived here, which Coombs had told him was his homestead. Which meant that he'd been serious about why he'd needed Vin—to figure out what had really happened to Coombs' wife.

Vin watched as Coombs walked away with the unused bandages and water, back to the small kitchen in the corner. Sunlight was pouring through the windows, suggesting it was morning. Frowning, he looked more carefully around the house.

It was a mess. Not in the lived-in sort of way, like his wagon or Nathan's clinic, but a place where someone had been in a fight. An ugly one.

Furniture was strewn about—some on its side, a chair broken, shards of glass from a vase and dead flowers on the wood floor. The water puddle had long since dried up, but the state of the flowers gave Vin a good reference point as to when it had happened. The petals still had some softness to them—couldn't have been more than a couple of weeks—about the time Karen Coombs went missing.

Martin Coombs returned, holding a pistol and a knife. Vin didn't move in the chair, just watched the knife as Coombs walked around his back.

"I'm going to cut you free," Coombs said. "Nothing funny, now. I was a little awkward with that sawed off of yours—again, I didn't actually mean to hit you, and I'm sorry again. But I'm pretty good with a pistol, so I'll hit what I aim for this time."

Vin said nothing. Fact was, he hadn't been conscious enough to put up much a fight before, but having slept on a real pallet last night and not, say, slung over the back of a horse with all the blood rushing to his already throbbing head, had apparently done a world of good. The minute Coombs gave him a chance…

"So now what?" he asked.

"Now you're going to help figure out what happened here."

"And why would I do that?"

"Because…because I have a gun."

Vin sneered.

"And…" Coombs said, sounding nervous, "and because I think you do believe in justice, no matter what I did to get us here. You want to know what happened to her too."

Vin set his jaw. It wasn't a lie—he did want to know. He felt the ropes tug on his arms as Coombs cut them, and then again on his wrists. He drew his arms and hands forward, wincing a little at the agony in his shoulder, and rubbed at the rope burns. He stood up as Coombs came around the front, standing just out of range as Vin glared at him.

"So?" Coombs said. "Will you help?"

"I didn't think I had a choice."

"You don't, but…but…" Coombs faltered, and finally shook his head, backing up further towards the front door of the homestead. "Anyway, see what you can see. Please."

Still rubbing his wrists, Vin turned around slowly, ignoring the weakness in his legs, the agony of his shoulder and the headache as he studied his surroundings.

It was a single room dwelling. On one side, partially hidden behind a curtain, was a double bed. The covers were messy, but no indications that the fight had included that space. The kitchen was on the opposite side of the cabin, a small black metal stove with a chimney that clearly also doubled as the room's heat source. One of the small windows near the stove was smashed.

He walked around the broken furniture to the kitchen, ignoring the still hot kettle and the bowl with the bloody bandages. There were cooking implements on the floor, as if someone had tried to grab for something and they all fell to the ground. He studied what he could see, and then frowned.

"Do you have a skillet?" he asked.

"What? Yes, of course, it's usually…." Coombs had moved closer, and was looking at the pots hanging near the stove. "It's usually there." He indicated the area with his pistol.

Vin nodded. The skillet was missing, so was the stove's poker. He walked out of the kitchen area and did a circuit around the rest of the room, plotting the course of the fight as best he could, and looked towards the back door. It was slightly ajar.

He ended up back in the middle, near the chair he'd been tied to.

"She was probably here at the table," he said finally, indicating the table next to him, "working on her knitting." The knitting basket was on the ground, the yarn a jumble, the knitting needles loose. One of them had dried blood on it. "Someone came in, and threatened her. She backed away, and he came after her. She tried to get the furniture between him and her, and he tossed it aside. He might even have reached her once, but she used the needles to hurt him."

Coombs was staring at the needles, clearly trying to picture it.

Vin indicated the kitchen area with his head. "She then went to the kitchen, to get another weapon. The skillet maybe. The poker. Anything that she could use. He attacked her in there, and something went through the window—something small and hard. My guess is she then rounded the stove, and he tripped over the stuff on the ground, giving her time to go out the back."

Coombs followed all this with glassy eyes, but he nodded when Vin looked at him.

"Then we go out back," Coombs said huskily. "Is there light enough for you to start tracking?"

Vin considered, then shook his head. "Maybe another hour, when the sun is fully up." He hoped Coombs didn't see through the lie. He sat down in the chair, not needing to feign tiredness, the arm connected to the shot shoulder throbbing. Just walking around had been hard. He wondered how much blood he'd actually lost?

But mostly he needed to stall. Because by now he knew Chris would be looking for him.

"Can I have some water?" he asked.

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Ezra blinked, aware that there was much movement in the camp now. People were getting ready to leave. They must have found the trail.

He wondered if he was going with them, or if he was being left here. He didn't mind being left. He was awfully tired.

When a shadow fell across his chest, he expected it to be Nathan or Josiah. But the shadow resolved itself into Chris, still all dressed in black, guns on his hips and, oddly, smiling at him.

Wait, was he smiling? Yes, he was, standing over him with the livery behind, a banner flapping overhead saying something about statehood…

"You done good, Ezra."

"What?" he asked. He saw Chris's image flicker, the frown and a smile warring together.

"You done good, Ezra."

He couldn't remember the last time Chris had smiled at him. He'd saved Mary; he was the hero!

And then Nathan found the money…

"He'd be dead if it weren't for this."

And just like that, Chris's expression morphed, turning to the inevitable disappointment.

Ah, to hell with it. Mary and Nathan were still smiling, he was still a hero—what was a little tarnish?

"Mr. Larabee," he said, feeling woozy now as he smiled, "in the future, I think it would be best just…" He huffed a laugh. "…not to burden me with other people's money."

And his mind fluttered again, as images came like a hundred black winged birds flitted through his consciousness: standing back to back with Chris in a streetfight; Chris throwing him keys to get out of jail; Chris standing in front of him, telling him never to run off again…

The shadow knelt down, and he saw Chris's face more clearly. There was no disappointment there. Instead, he looked…. Actually, he didn't know how to describe it. Surprised? Pleased? Concerned? Upset? It was confusing.

The gunslinger reached a hand forward to touch his good arm.

"You're going be okay, Ezra."

"I am?" he asked curiously.

"Yeah, you are, because you know how I feel about you running out on me."

Ezra smiled, remembering those words delivered in sharp clarity to him years ago. "Yes. I do."

"Then we understand each other." He stood up again, the still pale early morning sky shimmering above him.

"Fine," Ezra agreed, his eyes closing of their own accord, "but what are we planning to do with that money?"

He heard Chris huff a laugh, and Ezra continued to smile as he fell asleep.

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Behind the cabin, Vin quickly found the skillet. Dropped or knocked out of someone's hands, it was hard to tell, but the fact that two people had then started running was pretty clear despite the age of the tracks and the rain in between. When people ran, they kicked up more dirt, left deeper treads—those marks were still visible.

"She tried to fend him off with the skillet, but dropped it and was chased," Vin told Coombs, kneeling next to the skillet and following the tracks with his eyes. He pointed northerly. "That way."

"That's towards the canyon. Why would she go that way?"

"If she was avoiding someone, she may have just run in the opposite direction from her attacker."

"Oh." Coombs expression was still confused. Vin frowned, not sure what was confusing about what he'd said. He stood, only to stagger a little when blood rushed to his head. Coombs moved closer, but Vin held up a hand.

"I'm fine."

Too late, it occurred to him that, if Coombs had gotten closer, he might have gotten the gun away from him. Stupid.

Sighing, he stared walking, following the tracks, holding his arm to his chest to take the strain off his shoulder.

"Wait," Coombs said, and Vin stopped, looking back. "How far are we going?"

Vin frowned. "I don't know. As far as she could run, I suppose."

"That could be miles. She was good at running."

"So?"

"So I should bring water. And lunch. And you should eat breakfast and drink before we go, get back your strength."

Vin just frowned more, not understanding this man at all. He knew why he wanted to stall, but why would Coombs? This was the second time that Coombs had delayed the search, first by saying that waiting another hour could only make it easier, and now by talking about eating.

"We'll go after you eat," Coombs said. "It'll be fine. I don't…we don't have to rush."

Okay, now that was downright bewildering. No rush? Surely, by now, Buck had found Ezra. A search party might be on its way to find them as well, likely with a furious Chris leading it. So why, after all his urgency to find out what happened to his wife, did Coombs want to delay?

But he also wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. It gave Buck and Chris more time to catch up, he'd eat whatever this man wanted him to.

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They found the road heading east with Betty Eaton's help, and, true to her word, she was fast on the back of her horse. They had to push their own mounts to keep up with her. Miles were being eaten up with determination.

Buck had finally given in, accepting that someone had to go with the Eaton boys and track Coombs from the camp, even if he hated the idea. The one nice thing was that, due to the rain, the horses had left fairly deep marks, making it a pretty easy trail to follow. If the homestead was the final destination, it shouldn't take them long to follow.

Josiah, meantime, had taken Ezra to Dry Ridge. Ezra hadn't said a word as he'd been helped up onto the saddle in front of the preacher, seeming to have gotten lost in some memory again. He'd muttered something about birds, but it hadn't made much sense. He was asleep again as soon as Josiah started moving, the preacher promising Nathan that'd he treat him like fine crystal the whole way.

Nathan just hoped that Doc Pratt could do something, because if Ezra died before he saw him again, he'd never forgive himself.

He spurred his mount even faster after Betty and Chris.

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"Are you, uh…" Coombs swallowed audibly, his voice sounding hoarse as he pushed aside a tree branch. "Are you sure this is the way?"

Vin looked over his shoulder at him, standing almost on top of a woman's shoe print, deeply embedded in the soft earth.

"Yeah."

"Just…I mean…this seems implausible. There's no path." Coombs hands were opening and closing nervously around the hunting rifle he was now carrying.

"She was running, Coombs. She didn't care if she were on a path."

"I know. I do. But the ground's so rough, all this mesquite, it must of torn her up something awful running this way."

Vin didn't disagree. She'd broken through a lot of nasty, prickly things trying to get away. She'd probably lost some of her momentum doing it, but the man chasing her hadn't caught up. Coombs was right – she must have been very quick on her feet.

"It's just…" Coombs had stopped again. "I wasn't expecting…"

"Expecting?"

Coombs shrugged. "Nothing. I don't know. I think…I think I'm afraid of what we're going to find."

Vin sighed, and seeing a nearby boulder, went to sit on it. His head was really throbbing now and his shoulder seemed to ache in time with it. He rubbed at his arm, which felt weak and useless because of the wound in his shoulder, and looked around.

"What if she's dead?" Coombs asked softly. "What if, at the end of this trail, we find her body?"

Vin sighed. "Then at least you'll know."

Coombs lifted his head, eyes glancing across Vin's face quickly before shifting away.

"We've been doing this for a few hours," Coombs said then. "Should we…should we eat lunch? It's past mid-day."

Vin almost shrugged, but thought the better of it at the last second. "If you like."

Coombs nodded quickly and, without letting go of his gun, dropped the bag from off his shoulder and tossed it to Vin. It was a poor toss, and Vin almost missed it, causing him to fall to his knees in the sandy earth and yelping as he pulled on his shoulder.

"Oh God! I'm so sorry! I didn't—"

"It's fine!" Vin snapped, even though it wasn't. Christ that had hurt! "It's fine," he repeated through gritted teeth. "I got it."

Coombs swallowed but nodded, sitting down on another boulder next to the trail, looking at his wife's footprints.

Vin pulled the bag of food closer, then stopped, seeing something new in the soft earth in this area. More footprints. One was the same size as the man chasing Karen. The other wasn't. It was larger and, curiously, pointing the wrong way. They were both pointing the wrong way-back to the homestead, and at a walk.

He stared at the prints for a while, then realized he could see some others. He hadn't been looking for them, but now that he was, they were everywhere. The larger footprints were close together and carefully to the side of the path the runners had taken. It was if…

Oh god no.

"You find something?" Coombs was standing again, looking at Vin.

"I, uh…" Vin frowned. Fact is, he could only think of one reason for the pattern he was seeing, and it was like a knife to his gut. "I'm not sure. Maybe."

Coombs had moved closer, though still not close enough for Vin to attack him. He was trying to see what Vin was looking at.

"It's nothing," Vin said, not sure why he was lying but going on instinct. "Animal tracks. I thought it was another set of footprints, but it's not."

"Oh," Coombs sounded disappointed. He moved back to his boulder and sat down heavily. Vin got up as well and sat on his own rock. He opened the bag, pulling out the bread and apples stowed inside.

Coombs was right to be worried about what they might find at the end of this.

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Their horses were breathing heavily, sweat pouring down the hides. Chris kept his eyes on Betty's mount just a few yards ahead—he had to admit, she was as fast as she'd promised. He glanced over his shoulder to see Nathan bringing up the rear, the healer's face covered in sweat and grime from the hard ride. Nathan gave him a nod and Chris returned his attention forward.

Betty rounded a corner on the road, the trees blocking the view and she suddenly squealed, his horse coming to a sliding stop. Chris pulled up hard, and he heard Nathan do as well, the healer swearing blue murder as the horses barely avoided ramming into each other.

He immediately saw what had caused her to stop, and he rode forward, getting in front of the still obviously panicked girl and her panting horse.

Chris raised dropped the reins and raised a hand at the guns pointed at them, six of them in all, and spoke to their leader.

"Sheriff, what the hell?"

Sheriff Donnelly of Blue River glared back over the barrel of his long rifle. "Don't even think about going for a gun, Larabee."

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TBC

A/N – To answer one the questions I got, JD is indeed watching the town for the others. He doesn't know that any of this is happening. He had to stay behind because there are prisoners at the jail. But as soon the Marshals pick them up, he'll be on his way-and soon. I promise!