This chapter would have been posted a few days ago...but, seeing as the battle between the White Legs and the Dead Horses and Sorrows is at its climax, I decided to pour some extra time into it. Hopefully this chapter is testament to my hard labor.

I must sound like a broken record, but I really like the way this chapter turned out. It took some serious thinking to figure out how I wanted to approach it...but I'm pleased with the product.

The next chapter will be posted Sunday if all goes well. Things are going to start winding down as we prepare to head back to the Mojave. Three chapters left for this piece.

Please, enjoy.

Boone gently laid the barrel of his rifle across the railing of the ranger station. He peered through his scope – it was dark. But Boone was familiar with darkness; earning him his position as night guardsmen in Novac. Countless nights spent in the mouth of that great lizard, staring out into the all consuming blackness of the Mojave. He'd become accustomed to it…the darkness, he'd learned a long time ago, was his friend. He could conceal himself in it – in more ways than one.

He thought back to the night of the ambush…sitting around the campfire. His eyes unadjusted to the darkness around him. Struggling to get a visual. It wasn't like that now…his vision had adapted to those familiar ways. Though, still – he had to admit – some Cateye would be useful right about now.

But, he reminded himself, this was different. During the ambush, the White Legs had the high ground – they had cover. They were attuned to the darkness. They had the advantage. An advantage that now belonged to him. With his eyes adjusted, he could make them out. Graham was leagues ahead of Six – even from a crouched position, he was practically sprinting across the valley.

Boone swept across the camp like a canvas – his rifle the brush. Salt-Upon-Wounds was nowhere to be found. Perhaps he was in one of the tents?

He watched Graham dash from one piece of cover to another. A few times, he was sure Graham would be discovered…but the White Legs sentries would pass him by, merely an arm's stretch from his position. Graham would act fast…as they neared him. Hunkering low to the ground. He'd wait silently for them to pass. For those unlucky enough to fall too great a distance behind the others, he'd emerge from the brush. He'd wrap their necks in the crook of his elbow and pull them from sight. When he was near enough to the camp, his method changed drastically. As the sentries neared him, he lied low. He let them pass…then, like a coiled rattler, he struck. He stood, burying his hatchet into the skull of one. Then, he took aim – with a speed that seemed impossible. His silenced pistol caused a light kick, one he barely took notice of. And in the blink of an eye, three sentries lay dead at his feet.

This all seemed to be routine. Graham seemed to be perfectly in control.

Boone swept his rifle to Six's location. He could see Six struggling to keep up with Graham. He could see the White Legs passing dangerously close to Six's position. One of the White Legs took notice of Six's movement. He edged closer towards him…Six was focused on catching up to Graham. The White Leg was close…a few yards away. Boone took aim and fired. The White Leg fell to the ground with a dull thud. The noise attracted Six, who examined the body then cast a appreciative glance in Boone's direction.

Six was in the camp now…he disappeared into a nearby tent. After a moment, he emerged – machete wet with blood. The rain started to pick back up. The sun was beginning to break – and the White Legs began to rouse. Boone could hear the familiar rattle of gunfire in the distance – The Sorrows and Dead Horses had found their mark.

Still, there was no sign of the White Leg war chief.

Boone turned his scope in the direction of the White Leg camp at Red Gate. He focused his rifle. He could see them retreating, headed towards the camp where Six and Graham laid in wait. He could see the Sorrows, clumsily wielding the weapons of their fallen foes. He frowned…they weren't accustomed to firearms. This could pan out badly…

The Dead Horses flanked the camp, coming around, back from the north. Graham must have split them up to barricade the White Legs in. No one would make it out of this camp if Graham didn't want them to. Boone skimmed through the ongoing battle – his sights coming to rest on Graham. Graham had adapted his strategy yet again. He fired his weapon steadily – never missing a beat. Downing targets with his pistol that seemed impossible distances away. He briskly paced through the camp – firing as he treaded from one piece of cover to the next. The White Legs were fighting back. Firing at Graham…and if they were firing at Graham…

Boone searched the camp – for a moment, he couldn't find Six. But when he did, Six had his rifle at the ready. Pacing backwards in the dim morning light, firing at any target he could find.

"Raul!" Boone barked.

"I see him," Raul answered immediately. Boone could hear the thick squelch of the ghoul's feet trekking through the mud in Six's direction.

He swept back around towards the White Legs – he'd aim, fire, and repeat. Three. Four. Five targets down. He ejected the clip, reloaded his weapon, and resumed firing. Raul should be nearly…

He scanned the crowd…Six wasn't headed backwards anymore. He was rushing forward. He wasn't even firing on the enemies…he zipped through the warzone in a dead sprint. Passing White Legs, Dead Horses, and Sorrows alike. What could have him so worked up? He followed Six's projected course…eastwards, towards the Red Gate. Not quite that far…doubled back…then he saw it.

Graham.

He had half a dozen captive tribals – all on their knees before them. He was standing before one of the captives. He stood there a long minute, then turned his pistol towards another – he fired once and the captive slumped to the ground.

Six raised his rifle – leveling it on Graham.

Then Boone saw the captive Graham stood before…a woman.

...Kurisu.

Graham turned from Kurisu, executing another prisoner.

Without missing a beat, Boone leveled his rifle on Graham's head.

Graham turned to Six. They seemed to be talking.

Six lowered his rifle.

Boone sighed in relief, though it would be short lived. Graham placed the pistol between Kurisu's eyes. He turned briefly back to Six, then towards the woman.

Boone fired.

Lighting struck in the distance. Six closed his eyes…waiting for the inevitable thunder.

And then he heard it, a sharp cry of pain…anger. The sound of metal on metal. Six's eyes shot open, Graham cupped his right hand in his left, cursing under his breath. His pistol lay on the ground mere feet from his position – shattered, broken into thirds.

"To be honest, I can't believe I'm still alive, Boss."

Six cast Raul a wry smile. "We made sure to take on most of the weight ourselves."

"I can see that, Boss. You really held up your own back there."

The fighting had died down…more than that. It was over. Those that had resisted were with whatever God they deified. The rest…were lined up against the canyon wall. Unarmed, terrified, and defeated. Graham stood before them, discussing the situation with Two-Bears.

"Nobody leaves," Graham spoke softly – still favoring his right hand. "If anyone so much as even moves, end them where they stand."

Two-Bears gave a single nod to his chief and returned to his tribesmen. Graham cast his gaze on the former NCR 1st Recon sniper – treading towards him in the distance, Waking Cloud following closely behind. He trudged towards Six and Raul.

"He's one hell of a shot," Graham acknowledged, motioning toward Boone – "Your friend."

Six nodded in agreement. "Yeah…about that..."

Graham held up a pacifying hand. "Save your apologies. Anything that's to be said, he can tell me himself. Though, I suspect I know his reasons." Then to Raul: "Can you fix it?"

Raul examined the .45 thoroughly. "Maybe…Boone's rife is .308 though, it's not going to be easy."

"It was a gift. See it repaired and returned to me, and I'll see you well rewarded." He turned to one of the Dead Horses, whispering into the tribal's ear. The Dead Horse shuffled off.

"No charge, Jefe," Raul tipped his sombrero. "I'll be using spare parts from your own gun cache anyway."

"You are too kind," Graham said appreciatively. He shifted his eyes back to Boone, who was drawing nearer by the moment. "How long have you known this one?"

Six shrugged. "Close to three months now, give or take."

"And you trust him?"

"With my life," Six admitted. "Rightfully so. He's saved my ass more times than I can count."

Graham took a breath. "And it seems he trusts you as well."

"What makes you say that?"

"If one pays attention, one sees what others often miss…" Graham sat at Six's side. "I have my suspicion that the only reason that my gun lies in ruin now is because of you."

"You think I had him attack you?"

"No," Graham clarified – standing to greet Boone. "I think you saved my life."

Boone was nearing earshot. "What the hell are you thinking, you son of a bitch! Murdering unarmed p.o.w.'s?" He turned his fiery eyes towards Six; practically shining through his shades. "I told you we couldn't trust him! He's Legion! They're all the same!"

"Kurisu." Graham's words came off less as a question and more as a statement of fact.

"What?" Boone locked his eyes on Graham.

"The woman…she's the one who set you free?"

"What does it matter? You were killing them in cold blood."

"You knew the plan coming into this," Graham retorted. "And I'd say it's a safe assumption to say that more than a few of the bodies strewn across this necropolis are the result of your own will."

"I did what I had to," Boone growled, his voice low.

"As do I. But, I wonder if she would appreciate that fact?" Graham asked.

Boone didn't answer.

Graham waited in silence a long moment – he and Boone locked in a death stare. Finally, Boone turned away.

"To hell with this."

"Why didn't you take the shot?" Graham called out behind him.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

"You shot the gun from my hands. Why didn't you take the kill shot?"

Boone turned back to face him. After a beat, he answered. "Because a friend of mine asked if he could trust me," he cast a glance at Six. "Because a man is only as good as his word."

Graham chuckled quietly to himself. "Bring the girl to me," He called out.

Boone raised a brow.

Dancing Flame escorted her out, pushing her to her knees at Graham's feet.

"Kurisu?" Graham's eyes studied the woman. "Do you know who I am?"

Kurisu swallowed. "Divolo."

Graham narrowed his eyes. "You think I'm the devil? And what of Salt-Upon-Wounds? What about the things he did in Ogden…the people he murdered in cold blood. What do you think of your war chief?"

Kurisu's breathing was quick – panicked. She turned her eyes to Boone, pleading for help. Boone stepped forward, Graham held up his hand.

"Put your dog on a leash," Graham warned Six. " I'm not going to hurt her."

Six shot Boone a glance. Boone frowned, but didn't move.

"What do you think of Salt-Upon-Wounds?" Graham reiterated.

Again, the tribal girl swallowed. "He est nu besser than you…"

Graham seemed pleased with the answer. "And this man…why did you help him?"

Kurisu looked at Boone again – eyes still begging for his aid.

"Why?" Graham repeated. "Warum? …Por qué?"

She turned back to Graham. "Cansado…sick zu ucissione…"

"Tired…" Graham chuckled. "Sick and tired of the killing…perhaps Daniel was right. Perhaps…there is hope for your tribe yet. How many feel the same way?"

The woman stared at him, confused.

Graham took a breath. "Cansado zu ucissione…cómo viele di più?"

"Molti. Moltissimi zu grande."

"Lo haránno folgen you?" No response. Graham scoured his mind. "Lo haránno însoți you?"

"Nu. Lo haránno Flag Bearer."

"Flag Bearer?" Graham echoed.

"Ya. Out-man flag en sulla shienda."

"What is it?" Six asked, curiously.

"She says her people are tired of fighting…at the very least, a good deal of them are. They're following more than just Salt-Upon-Wounds. They're following someone else…the Flag Bearer."

A sudden flash of memory. "I saw him," Boone said flatly. "At Three Marys. Man in a duster…had an Old World Flag on it."

Six narrowed his eyes. "Excuse me?"

"Yeah. Come to think of it…he definitely seemed like the one in charge."

"Ulysses," Graham grunted. "I should have known…" He looked at Boone. "You snuck out of the camp. Do you think you could sneak us back in?"

"Why?"

"Ulysses trained the White Legs. It's because of him they found the armory and raided its weapons. It's because of him, my tribe lies dead in the ruins of Ogden. We eliminate Salt-Upon-Wounds. We capture their Flag Bearer…and we won't need to eliminate the White Legs in their entirety."

"That's it then, isn't it?" Boone scoffed. "This is only about vengeance. That's what it's always been about."

"Revenge? No. Seeking revenge is an act of passion. This isn't vengeance, it's retribution. This is justice."

Boone looked at the tribal woman at Graham's feet. "And if I do this, you'll free her people?"

Under his bandages, Graham's lips curved into a smile. "You have my word."

The tribal returned – he handed Graham a pistol. Graham inspected it and nodded approvingly – he tucked it into his holster – then looked at Six. "It belonged to Follows-Chalk."

The four of them – Graham, Six, Raul, and Boone – trekked across the mesa, high above the valley floor. The ascent was rough…but, as Boone was too familiar with, the descent would be much more perilous. They walked in silence – pushing through the rain. Red sediment clung to their boots, the wind howled and lighting would occasionally streak across the sky.

The walk was longer than Boone remembered…but, not by much. He took them along the winding canyon wall, back to Three Marys where he had made his rocky ascent. "There," he pointed. "That's the cave where the prisoners are being held. That's where we'll likely find them."

Graham peered into the valley below. White Legs flooded the river banks. Tents and makeshift huts set up across the valley floor.

Boone crouched low and made his way to the cliff face. He peered over the edge. "This is where I scaled the canyon wall."

The precipice was steep – nearly smoothed over from centuries upon centuries of erosion. Six frowned. "This is suicide…"

"Yes," Graham agreed. "We can't descend here. The risk is far too great."

"Maybe…" Raul stroked his chin. "Boss, how many rolls of that surgical tubing do you have?"

Six shrugged. "Fifteen maybe."

"How long are they?"

"Varies. Three to five feet usually."

"And how far would you say this drop is?" Raul asked, looking at Boone.

"Thirty-five feet. Give or take."

Raul smiled. "And how many rolls of duct tape do you have?"

"Oh, plenty. Five rolls or better," Six answered.

Boone raised a brow.

"What? You can never have enough duct tape. You never know what you'll need it for."

Graham seemed puzzled. He stared at Raul inquisitively. "Is there a point to this?"

"Sure there is, Jefe. Start braiding the tubing. We're going to make a rope."

The process was slow going at first, but once a few sections of tubing had been braided, Raul began the taping process – winding the tape back and forth in a crossing motion to strengthen the bond. Six had seventeen sections of tubing, the longest of which ran about eight feet. They used every piece. Three rolls of duct tape later, a crude rubber-plastic rope stretched almost thirty feet before them.

Raul tied the pseudo-rope around his waist, then made his way to the cliff's edge – near a large boulder. He buried his heels into the base of the bolder and chucked the rope over the cliff. "One at a time, rope can't handle too much. And these old bones aren't much better off."

Six peeked over the edge again and examined the rope nervously. "You're sure this is going to work?"

"Sure I'm sure, Boss. Have I ever let you down?"

Six wasn't sure if Raul's sarcasm was shining through…but even if it was, he had to admit that the old timer had never given him a reason to doubt him. Then again…he'd practically just met the ghoul. Six gulped, swallowing a pocket of air and eased towards the cliff. Before he could situate himself, Boone was on the rope, scaling down the side. Six watched him – half amazed and half terrified. The rope was short, but not by much. When he reached the bottom, Boone kicked off the canyon wall and landed roughly in a tuck and roll. As he stood, he immediately readied his rifle.

He turned back up towards them. "Clear." His voice was just loud enough to relay the information without also alerting the White Legs to their presence.

Graham was next – gracefully climbing down the mountainside. The man was surprisingly agile.

Six took a breath.

"You're up, Boss."

Six bit his lower lip. "This is so fucking stupid…" He turned to Raul, "When I'm down, you head back to the others."

"Will do," Raul responded with a nod.

Six eased towards the edge. Gripping the makeshift rope tightly, he worked his way over. Slowly, he began down the rock face. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest – he was almost sure he could hear it too. Occasionally bits of red soil and rock would topple down the canyon wall. He was just over halfway now…moving almost at a snail's pace.

On top of the mesa, Raul was struggling. He grunted, holding the rope – he felt it stretching – the plastic and rubber giving way. "C'mon, Boss…any day now."

A head below him now…five feet, then he'd have to jump. Six paced himself, steadying his breathing. He was at the bottom.

"Jump," Graham whispered.

Six peered over his shoulder…Son of a bitch, he was still high up.

Buzzing.

He turned back towards the canyon wall. "Okay, Six. You can do this…"

Louder.

"What the fuck is that noise?"

He felt it before he saw it – a stinging sensation in his thigh. He heard the sound of Boone's silenced rifle. He was falling…and so was his assailant. Cazador. A juvenile from the look of it…about a foot across. He'd seen much bigger. He landed hard on his back, knocking the wind out of him.

Raul poked his head over the cliff's edge. "Boss! You okay?"

Six didn't answer…he couldn't answer. He couldn't breathe.

"He'll be fine," Graham called back, chuckling to himself. He knelt next to Six. "Take a breath." He rummaged through his pockets – withdrawing a small brown vial. "Drink this…for the sting. Antivenom brewed from the local datura root."

He lifted Six's head, gently raising the vial to his lips. Six drank, coughed…and drank more. The taste was miserable. He sat up, searching for composure.

"Son of bitch," Six groaned.

Graham laughed, patting his back. "You'll be fine. Rest here if you must, but stay out of sight. Boone and I will go ahead."

Six struggled to his feet. "No! No. I'm good. Let's go."

They pressed on, following the winding trail towards the cave. Staying low – out of sight. Then they were in – the darkness consumed them. Strange luminescent fungi clung to the cave walls. Deeper inside the cave, they could hear talking…

They moved like ghosts, silently – following Boone's lead. They could see them now – a dozen of them around a campfire. Salt-Upon-Wounds among them.

Boone pointed to him – then whispered, barely audible. "Him."

Graham stalked forward, pressing himself against the cave wall. He moved slowly – unnaturally. He was close to them…

"Kuna-man mad…kill all White legs! Kuna-man pay!" Salt-Upon-Wounds assured the group.

They cheered in response.

"Flag Bearer want courier and Kuna-man! He get neither!"

Another cheer.

Graham lunged forward, wrapping his arm around Salt-Upon-Wounds neck. The White Legs stood, Graham immediately withdrew Chalk's pistol and fired. A well aimed shot, hitting its mark in the White Leg's eye. They froze…staring at him expectedly. "Against the wall."

They didn't respond. He fired again, hitting one in the kneecap. The White Leg fell to the ground in pain.

"Now!"

They did as they were commanded.

"Take their weapons."

Six and Boone obliged – disarming the White Legs.

Graham flipped Salt-Upon-Wounds around, grasping his throat tightly. He pressed him against the wall.

"We warned you at Syracuse…still you persist. You took advantage of us at New Canaan…drove us out, butchered my people. Then…like the dogs of Caesar you are…you followed us to Zion. Now you stand here, on this most sacred ground. A testament to your sin…on the monument of God's Glory. You're an animal…and the only use for an animal in this temple is sacrifice!"

Salt-Upon-Wounds swallowed hard.

"Kale watche nei conserva oh! You understand me, don't you?"

Silence.

Graham pushed the pistol into the chief's throat. "Don't you?"

Salt-Upon-Wounds cast his eyes towards Six. "Outman! Per favore! Please! You talk! Him hear you!"

Six's face was a void – empty of sympathy.

"Please…" Salt-Upon-Wounds begged, practically in tears.

"Your cries are those of a mad beast caught in a thicket!" Graham barked. "You gave no mercy to my family…Now that I have come to collect your debt, you cower in the water like a damn animal pleading for mercy of your own. We have none to give."

"Jefe…" Raul emerged from the shadows. "It's over…no more blood."

Graham glared at the ghoul. "No. It's not over until this man pays in blood."

"And then what?" Raul asked. "The rest of his people? How many must die? How many must suffer?"

Graham's breathing was paced. He sneered, casting his eyes from Raul to the White Leg chief.

"Forgive them their trespasses, so that your Heavenly Father may also forgive you." Those were the words Raul spoke next. Alien to Six…but Graham's anger seemed to pacify at this thought.

"I want to take from them what they took from me…from my family," Graham confessed. "In this life. I want them to suffer as I have suffered. I want all of them to die in fear and pain." He took a deep breath. "Sometimes I tell myself that these wild fires in my heart never stop burning. That they are the result of the world around me. But…but I'm the one who starts them. They're not the will of God…or the result of the White Legs. Or even Caesar. They're always there…in the back of my mind. The warmth and the heat…will always be a part of me." He narrowed his eyes, pulling the hammer back on the gun. He leaned in close to Salt-Upon-Wounds…close enough that the tribal could see that fire in his eyes. "But not today. Go." He released his captive. "Get out of here…go back to the Great Salt Lake. But be warned…I will not extend this hospitality a second time. We got to you once…past your defenses. Slipped through your security. We can do it again. If I ever see you again…I will kill you."

"Wait…" Six stepped forward, eyes glued upon the White Leg chief. "The Flag Bearer. Where is he?"

Salt-Upon-Wounds swallowed again…more easily this time. "Flag Bearer leave last moon."

"Are you lying to me?" Six asked, leveling the sidearm that Boone had lent him at the tribal's head.

"No. Truth."

Six chewed his lower lip. "You won't stop."

The tribal looked at him.

Six continued, "You'll keep killing…you're scavengers. A war tribe." Six wheeled the chief around, "March," he told him, pressing forward. He turned to his group – "Bring the others."

He stood at the center of Three Marys – atop a large mound. The White Legs gathered round – shifting in uncomfortable silence. Waiting for an opportunity to rescue their leader.

"You have been deceived," Six shouted over the pouring rain. "This man promises you safety within Caesar's Legion. That is a promise he cannot deliver. This man! Joshua Graham! The Burned Man! He was part of the Legion!" Six turned to Graham. "Tell them! Tell them about your former family!"

Graham was quiet for a long moment. Then he turned to the White Legs. "Caesar will not accept you into his ranks…and even if he does, it will not be what you expect it to be," Graham explained. "The women…su frauen…they will be taken as slaves. Shiavi. Used for breeding, for labor. Raped. Or worse. The men…su fir…will become subjects of the Legion. They will be conditioned. They will serve Caesar unconditionally or they will be crucified. And even if you serve him…you will die. Eventually. Caesar does not lead his people. He rules his people."

"This man," Six cut in, "would have you believe that he is protecting you. The truth is…he is leading you to your doom. Kurisu says you are sick of war. You are tired of fighting. So end it…put down your weapons and take up hands with the Dead Horses. With the Sorrows. With the New Canaanites. They will teach you to live off the land…no more running. No more senseless violence." Six pressed the pistol into the back of the war chief's head and fired. A spray of red mist consumed the air. The crowd that had gathered round let out a surprised gasp. The chief's body fell limply to the ground. "No more salting the earth."

Six waited…sure that the White Legs would attack him. Instead…they all stood frozen in place – watching him contently. Then he heard a splash…and another. All around him. The White Legs were dropping their weapons.

They passed through the White Leg camp quietly and without incident. The road back to the camp was short…the Sorrows and the Dead Horses awaited their return. When they had made it back, Graham freed the prisoners.

"I'm surprised," Six admitted. "I didn't think you'd let him go."

"I thought you would," Graham sighed. "It will not be easy from here on out. The White Legs are not used to compromise. To cooperation. It will take the work of New Canaan's finest missionaries to bring peace to this valley. There will be animosity between the tribes for years to come."

Six nodded in agreement.

"Which is why you must understand that I cannot go back with you."

"What?" Six turned to face Graham. "Fuck that. We had a deal."

Graham shook his head. "Things have grown more complicated. I must stay…at least until the other New Canaanites arrive."

"Then send scouts to find them. Fuck, I'll send Raul and Boone. But you're not backing out of this."

Graham pressed his lips. "This is the covenant I will make with them; after that time, says the Lord. I Will put my laws in their hearts, and I will write them on their minds. Then he adds: Their sins and lawless acts I will remember no more. And where these have been forgiven, sacrifice for sin is no longer necessary."

Six cocked his head to the side, confused.

"Hebrews ten…we all make covenants. With each other. With our God. Raul was right…we must learn to forgive as our Lord and Savior has taught us. To turn the other cheek…and a good man once said to me that a man is only as good as his word. Still, the covenant we make with our Lord must take precedence over our promises to our fellow man." Graham took a long breath. "Come. Tomorrow will be here soon…and there is much to do."

I'm really liking Raul's character more and more. So much potential with all of that knowledge of his. He's been around for a long, long time...done a lot, seen a lot. It's fun to use him as a wise man. And not just with philosophical matters, but technical matters too. It took me a while to figure out how I was going to get them down off the cliff and into the White Leg camp. I didn't want to conveniently give them a rope...and I didn't want to make anyone backtrack. At the same time...just saying they climbed down seemed like a cop out. So I got a little creative with it. I liked the end result.

I kind of feel like - compared to Boone, Graham, and Raul...Six is a pretty weak character. But at the same time...I think that makes him more likeable. I dunno...I mean, eventually, he's going to start getting better. It's inevitable...he'll get stronger, he'll become wiser, but he'll always have his weaknesses. Balancing his fear and pragmatism with courage, drive to help...and a bit of his dark side is proving to be a challenge. He adapts to the situation as necessary though not always without complaint. I just hope I'm keeping his character contradiction free. I mean...it's not always easy to remember what I've had him do in past chapters. And I simply don't have time to go back and reread everything every time I write a chapter. So I'm mostly just going with instinct here.

Anyway, I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter. Until next time.