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At first Buck thought the bright things he saw were like those Marfa Lights he and Chris had drunkenly chased all one night out in West Texas. The roundish orbs had bobbed and eddied and grown. It seemed like they had been playing chase or tag with the two drunken drifters. The stories of ghosts and spirits had added an edge to the adventure, no doubt about it.

But these lights in the darkness quickly became recognizable as torches. They'd caught up. They'd found them. He and Chris slowed their mounts simultaneously and moved cautiously toward the scene. What he saw made him angry.

Ezra was on the back of that swaybacked mare he'd ridden out of town on. His hands were tied behind him and a noose, which was swung over the lower limb of a 60-year-old pecan tree, was around his neck. This particularly large tree was beside the bank. Part of it's roots were exposed in the water from years of erosion. Ezra would sway almost over the water when the horse came out from under him.

Miller and his men were heckling Buck's friend.

The horse was gradually pulling away from the rowdy mob and it was slowly strangling the southerner.

A shiver of anger ran down Wilmington's spine. He started to ride into the clearing, but a firm hand on his upper arm held him in check.

He turned, but the defiant protest died on his lips when he saw the shrewd, calculating way his partner was studying the scene. Neither one liked what they saw.

But then it was too late.

Jason Miller was rearing back with a stick to slap Ezra's mount on the flank.

Buck pulled the knife from his boot, held it up for Larabee to see, and in that moment, they both knew the plan.

Buck quickly handed his rifle and revolver to the other man who tucked the pistol in his belt and shouldered, one armed, this rifle instead of his own. The hand still on his friend's arm tightened briefly for luck, for contact, for the good times, the old times. Buck nodded.

Larabee went first. Rifle and side arm drawn, he let them both cough as he spurred his black forward and hit the clearing.

He had surprising accuracy. Two men fell, if not to fatal wounds, then to ones that would certainly stop them from firing back.

Buck was only a half a heartbeat behind him as his horse bolted forward with the kick-start.

Larabee's unspoken responsibility was to supply cover fire. And the men were scattering from the rain of bullets as a second horse, a gray ghost, bounded at them from the fog.

Kyte Miller, tending the horses to avoid watching the lynching grabbed for as many reins as he could once he registered they were under attack. The horses shied, reared and bolted in reaction to the sudden movement and gunfire.

Miller's men drew their own weapons as they scrambled for cover. Automatically they aimed at the dark specter firing down on them.

The black horse pirouetted and reared in response to his master's commands.

Larabee rotated, looking for targets; changing from the rifle to his handgun. Finally this gun's hammer, too, fell on an empty chamber. He tossed it aside, drew the one from his waistband and continued the barrage.

Jason Miller put all his rage into the blow he landed on the flank of Ezra's horse.

The animal screamed in terror and sprang forward.

Wilmington rammed his own mount into the swayback and was able to kick out and land a glancing blow on Miller's shoulder. As the vengeance hungry rancher fell to the ground, he was already drawing the sawed off shotgun he carried from it's modified holster.

As Ezra slid off the back of the horse, Buck flung himself from his saddle and wrapped one arm and both legs around his friend. The knife in his right hand sliced through the too taut rope and his forward momentum had both men sailing into the rapids.

Jason's feral roar was followed immediately by the blast of his 20 gauge.

A split second before he hit the water, Buck felt the multiple pellets bite into the right side of his back and the back of his right arm. Instinctively he knew that the pellets that missed him would have found their mark in the space between his back and his arm. The body of the younger man in his arms would have stopped the rest of the shot.

The shotgun blast sent a ripple of fear through Larabee. He spun in the direction of the sound. That damned Miller let lose with the second barrel.

By that time Buck and Ezra were in the water and being washed down stream. In the fog dank darkness, it was only an occasional glimpse of Ezra's white shirt that gave him any idea of the progress his friends were making much too rapidly down the river.

Miller had taken cover behind a boulder. As much as Larabee wanted him dead, he had learned over the recent months that his first obligation must be to his friends. He didn't know if they were wounded or if they were, how badly. If Wilmington had taken the brunt of the blast, Ezra, with his hands tied behind him would be at the mercy of the raging waters.

With an angry shout that rivaled that of Jason Miller, the dark gunfighter took just enough time to ride into the band's horses and scatter most of them before he spurred the black down steam, maneuvering in, out and over trees, roots and boulders, trying to get a glimpse at his friends.

Buck's gray followed after the black as if it were her place in life. "C'mon, Ezra. Damn it, Buck, give me a sign," he whispered to himself and it was almost a prayer.

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Ezra didn't realize he had closed his eyes to meet his end until his expectations of sliding over the rump of the horse, maybe some quick pain and then nothing were confounded by a heavy weight hitting him from an angle.

He knew the rope went taut; knew he left the horse. He felt a deep burning pain in his side. An adrenaline surge put time into slow motion so that he experienced a sense of free fall before he hit the water. Real time took over then and the surprise immediately turned to panic.

He was under water with no air left in his lungs. Between the noose restricting his airway and the weight that hit him forcing the air out from his chest, he needed to breathe. He couldn't help the panic that overtook him.

Hands tied uselessly behind his back, Ezra began to kick and struggle. There was really no sense of up or down in the wet depths and darkness. He could be fighting his way to the riverbed and certain death as easily as he could be kicking toward the surface.

It was a miracle to his way of thinking, when his face finally broke the surface. At the same time a voice in his left ear gasped between involuntarily taking in mouthfuls of water, "Don't... fight me - Ezra - I got... ya ... won't .. let go."

Buck.

So the miracle had been the gift of friendship, more amazing and wondrous than he had first suspected when he had sensed simply that he was still alive. He remembered then to open his eyes.

Maybe all of ten seconds had passed in that lifetime between one breath and another. He became aware of a solid form underneath him and the secure weight of Wilmington's arm across his chest. And maybe, just maybe, that meant they weren't completely at the mercy of the white water rapids. There was some control. Very little, he realized as his head was submerged again. With sudden awareness, he knew this meant his friend was floundering beneath the current as well.

The back of Ezra's mind seemed to register shouts and gunfire, but he was focused on the roar of water around him and how surprisingly powerful it sounded. He was also aware that he could hear his own pulse in his ears because the noose around his neck still threatened his blood circulation and oxygen. "Can't... breath..," he was able to gasp out when he finally again broke the surface of the water. He prayed that his improved situation meant Buck's head was above the surface as well.

There was no verbal response, except a possible drowned out curse, but the arm across his chest worked its way to the noose and the arm at his back grabbed the length of rope that did it's best to tangle them in the debris around them and pull them back down. \

He felt the form beneath him disappear.

As Buck Wilmington tried to loosen the noose from his friend's neck, he immediately felt himself separated from the other man and the loss of all control. He felt his hands slide down the slick hemp line and he was the length of that rope from his friend. With his hands bound, Ezra would not be able to keep his head above water. Wilmington was hard pressed to save himself. And yet, saving himself without saving his friend was not in his make up.

Both of Wilmington's hands had to abandon the rope and grab the gambler's shirt to haul him back into a safe hold. The power of the water would rip him from anything less than the two-handed death grip that was keeping him alive. "Best... I... can..," the voice tried to speak.

Ezra nodded. The noose was loosened some. He understood. It was enough.

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Only the initial shock of the icy snow-fed waters had registered on Wilmington. Then it was forgotten in the dire struggle to get both Ezra and himself where they could breathe and keep them there. Letting go had not been an option. He had been gratified when the smaller man stopped his struggles and trusted his word to keep him safe.

Buck knew trust was difficult for the younger man, and, too often, even in the security framed in the six men he rode with, that trust had been sorely tested. With his hands tied helplessly behind him and the noose a frightening reminder of how close he had come to death, he at last had responded to Buck's litany of reassurances and relaxed slightly.

Buck had also heard the shouts and gunfire and realized they were fading in the distance. His heart ached to know whether Larabee was safe. He hated to leave his old friend alone against such odds, it went against every instinct and reflex he had. When the notorious gunslinger got vengeance in his head, it would blind him to the danger in the numbers he was facing.

The erstwhile rascal had mentally shaken the thoughts from his mind. He had made his decision. Ezra was his responsibility. They were headed down stream at a frightening pace and head first.

A stair step-like series of rapids plunged the two underwater and pounded against his already wounded back.

Standish again struggled to reach the surface, almost pulling himself away from Buck's grasp.

Wilmington tightened his grip.

When he had heard his friend's laborious voice rasp that he couldn't breathe, the taller man had cursed himself for every kind of fool. Thinking how terrifying the noose must be, he had maneuvered his grip to the rope as quickly as possible. Next he cursed the knife still in his hand. It was useless. He had little or no control over their backward plunge through the river, much less enough control to attempt to use the knife on the noose or the ropes that held his friend's hands.

Loosening the noose ever so slightly had almost cost him everything. When he had moved his hands from the body on top of him to the rope, the force of the water immediately separated him from the other man.

He grabbed double handfuls of the once white shirt and felt it give and pull from the other man's waistband. A desperate surge finally got his hand across the chest and under an arm for some grip.

The river was much deeper now than when they'd fished here. The summer thaws up in the snow-covered mountains had seen to that. Only occasionally did a rock scrape his back, head or legs except for the rapids themselves. Unfortunately that also meant they were at the mercy of the current. It would be a painfully slow process if they were even able to work their way to shore.

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Chris Larabee could see his friends mostly as dark areas in the water. Occasionally a part of Standish's white shirt, now discolored by mud and what he feared was blood, would flash and reassure him he was looking in the right place. They were moving faster in the water than he could on horseback as the black had to navigate around the roots and other obstacles.

The gunfighter felt a panic unbidden and barely recognized after so many years. It crept up his spine when he realized it was all the pair could do to keep their heads above water. They would need help in a hurry. The exertion, not to mention the frigid temperatures of the water would sap even Buck Wilmington's stubborn determination.

With a whispered cry of frustration, he jerked his horse away from the bank to the cleaner trail above. He hurried to get ahead of the other two men.

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Praying he'd given himself enough time and distance, Larabee finally turned Habenero back toward the water. He could hear vague shouts, carried as water carries sound, from the camp they'd recently disrupted, but they were too far away to make out the words. Good. Maybe that meant they had a little time.

Nothing had seemed more important to the man in black in recent times as getting in position to help his friends.

Just as surely as he knew that at any moment Buck could slam into an outcrop and lose consciousness, or his strength could simply give out, he also knew they would both be safe, or neither. It wouldn't be an option to Buck to save himself at the expense of another. At the same time that Larabee damned his old friend for that irrational loyalty, that had saved his own life more than once, he also gave thanks for it because he suspected that it would keep that irritating gambler alive long enough for one Chris Larabee to make things right between the two of them.

This side of the river was much too steep for any hope of reaching the others, much less getting them safely ashore. There was only one option.

Habanero wasn't happy and balked at the commands he was being given by his rider to edge forward cautiously toward the high side of the river bank. Larabee never considered how like Wilmington he was in this moment; his determination they would all survive or none would. He pushed forward with this thought until finally his loyal horse took the vault into the darkness and snow-fed current.

Wilmington's mare, without the encouragement of a rider, hesitated a bit longer, but in the end, followed after her companion.

Larabee was immediately soaked by the icy waters. Only the black's head and neck were above the water as he struggled toward the other side.

Little more than the gunfighter's torso was above the water line and that had been given a good dousing from the splash as their combined weight displaced the water.

Even now his shirt was absorbing the water and the moisture was creeping towards his shoulders. He was well aware of how the heat was already being leached from his body and that staying in this for even a short time could be life-threatening.

He allowed the black to make its own way; to focus the swim on getting across the river and not using his strength to fight the current that carried them along. The result was that they came on shore further downstream from where they had begun, and several yards from where Larabee would have liked to try and effect his rescue.

But the gelding's labored breathing was enough to assure the rider that the recent effort had in itself been enough exertion on the animal.

Larabee felt the black's feet finally gain solid footing on the far side of the river.

The water was soon much calmer and when the horse sank several inches down into the fine, muddy silt, he understood why. The mossy, rotten, metallic smell told him the water that backed up here had become stagnant and sour behind a beaver dam-like pile of fallen trees and trash.

Both horses sank deep making their way up the riverbank. The noxious liquid quickly oozed in to fill the depressions.

As soon as they made solid ground, the leader of the seven was grabbing the riata off his horse and forming the loop. He strained his eyes in the darkness for a sign of the two men still in the water. He should have ridden hard and fast enough to still be up stream from them. How much time had passed?

It wasn't long before he recognized the shadowy forms being buffeted toward him at the mercy of the current.

"Buck!" He had no idea if he could be heard over the torrential rush that swept them forward.

As the men got closer, their leader realized that they might finally be getting a break. The long night was over. The gray of pre-dawn showed him more than just the silhouettes of his friends.

He prepared to toss the lasso when he noticed something else. Buck was constantly readjusting his hold on the smaller man now. He couldn't keep a grip. With the sudden insight of one who had only recently escaped the frigid environment, Chris knew without a doubt that Buck's fingers were going numb. He was loosing his battle with the cold.

Larabee threw off his duster and hat, secured the end of the rope to Habanero's saddle horn, looped the lariat under one arm and over the opposite shoulder.

He dove back into the violent waters and veered his body toward the other two who were already past him.

Buck fought the current.

Chris let the same current drive him forward, desperate to catch up to the other two men.

With every heartbeat Larabee dreaded the time there would be no more give and the rope wrapped around his saddle horn would go no further and his friends would be swept out of reach.

Using his entire body he ruddered himself toward the others.

The next bout of rapids was in front of them. He knew the rope wouldn't reach to follow through that crevice.

In one last superhuman effort, the gunfighter lunged forward, his body breaking the surf and skirting the top of the waves faster than the submerged bodies could travel.

With a cry of success, he grabbed the gambler's left leg just above the boot. He pulled the form toward him and walked himself, hand over hand, up toward the other man's thigh and waist.

Larabee was very consciously relying on the fact that Wilmington wouldn't let go of his burden. Even if he didn't realize they were close to rescue or didn't understand what was pulling the smaller man back from the rapids, he would hold on.

All the shootist had to do was save Ezra and he would also be saving his oldest friend.

Larabee thought things were working out when he finally reached Standish's belt and gained the first grip on his friend that wasn't precarious at best.

Suddenly the pull against Chris' arms lessened. He found himself face-to-face with Standish. The look of terror on the smaller man's face brought home the understanding that this was both of their worst nightmares.

Buck's hold had finally betrayed him and he had lost the gambler. Larabee realized that the hold he had on the Southerner which he had expected to save both men, had not been enough.