Ben checked his Winchester rifles were loaded, rammed them into their holsters, gave his saddle strap a final tug then led his horse to the stable door and opened it a crack, peering into the torrential rain. The storm was right overhead and the roar of thunder was deafening. He could see lightening slamming into the hills out near the graveyard and hoped it wouldn't spook his horse. Ben was a little spooked himself; he didn't fancy riding out on a night when it seemed the devil himself had come to play stud, but had no choice. He had get out of Redemption while there was still a chance and he was twitchy as hell, staring out into the shadows, expecting to see Henry Usher's men creeping up on him. He had no doubt they were coming, might be here already since a storm like this was perfect cover. Visibility was down to a few yards, the thunder was louder than a gunshot and nobody was likely to be on the street to witness foul play.

And where the hell was Cort? Ben checked his pocket watch. It read nearly ten and the marshal had been gone too long. Cort didn't seem to think he was in any danger but Ben knew better, knew Henry Usher wouldn't wait until morning to talk; he was far too suspicious and paranoid. Usher's way was to act first, ask questions later but Cort wouldn't believe it. Ben knew he should be grateful he'd been given him the benefit of the doubt, knew how ludicrous his story must sound to somebody who wasn't part of it, and it was testament to Cort's better judgement that he was standing here now, preparing to flee Redemption.

He'd begged Cort to ride with him, even as a only a temporary leave of absence, just to get him out of town until Usher and his men had gone. But Cort wouldn't budge; seemed to think he could settle things with Usher in the morning and when Ben pointed out how that might be difficult with the prize long gone, he'd just shrugged and announced he didn't have a horse. The man was so stubborn Ben felt like punching him and the profound guilt which dragged at his conscience was quickly turning into frustrated anger. If anything happened to Cort he'd be to blame; he'd shot his mouth off to the marshal, told him a lot of things he didn't need to know just to save his own skin, and now he was taking off and leaving Cort to face the music alone. Ben punched the stable door and swore.

"One day it'll punch back."

He jumped in surprise and spun round, his hand flashing to a gun which wasn't there, but it was only Cort standing behind him, dripping wet and wearing that lop-sided grin.

"Feeling jumpy?"

"Hell Cort, why you sneaking up on me like that?"

"I shimmied through the window. Didn't want to be seen coming here, though who'd be fool enough to play in this weather I don't know."

He had Ben's gunbelt slung across his shoulder and he dropped it to the floor. Ben strapped it on hastily, checking the Remington was fully loaded before holstering it.

"How are things at the saloon? You were gone so long I figured you'd hit some kind of trouble."

Cort rubbed rainwater off his face and slicked his hair back. "It's quiet. The rain drove most folks home and the whole town's pretty much locked down."

Ben's stomach twisted. This scenario was just too perfect. He gave it one last shot.

"Usher's men are out there, sneaking around in the storm and when they can't find me they'll come looking for you. They'll kill you for what you know, but first they'll beat the shit out of you for letting me go. I know how this works, I've seen it happen and if you're too pig headed to listen then I'm staying right here in Redemption. I won't have your death on my conscience."

Cort eyed him evenly, not even remotely rattled by the words. "I can look after myself Ben Carter and I'll tell you something else, I want to talk to Henry Usher. I want to hear his side of the story. I'm letting you go because I don't appreciate threats and I won't put the town at risk should those men try and take you again. I reckon you should go before I change my mind."

Ben snorted with frustration. "You're one stubborn son of a bitch, Cort. Don't say I didn't warn you."

Cort smiled and stepped forward, his hand outstretched. They shook warmly.

"Where you headed, Ben?"

"No idea, buddy; just getting the hell out of Redemption."

Cort pulled the stable door open as Ben mounted up. The rain hadn't eased and he braced himself, tipping his hat to the marshal as he nudged his horse forward, spurring her into a fast gallop as soon as they cleared the building, heading north. He didn't look back. He stayed off the main street, pounding and splashing along the back of the town buildings, through water and mud, glancing left and right for signs of trouble, finding none. He was out of Redemption before he knew it and slowed his horse to a walk. She was steaming and blowing in the moist, chill air and he finally turned in his saddle and checked for signs of pursuit. It was hard to tell, since the rain was falling down like a sheet, so he took cover behind a rocky outcrop and waited to see if anybody passed. Fifteen minutes later he was still there, soaked to the skin and his horse was getting impatient, stamping her hooves and tossing her head. Ben decided that nobody was coming for him, not tonight, and as the fear and panic subsided so did the adrenalin which had kept him warm. He shivered and urged the horse forward.

He tried not to think about Cort, back there in town and too damned obstinate to see how vulnerable he was. Ben had such a bad feeling about tonight it was almost palpable, like the grim reaper itself was lurching along ahead of him in the dirt, grinning over its shoulder. But what could he do? If he went back and tried to help they'd probably both wind up dead. It was conceivable Cort might come to an agreement with Henry Usher but Ben doubted it. Usher was not a reasonable man, especially when he felt threatened, when things didn't go to plan and people didn't roll over and do as commanded, and he never played fair. He was a ruthless, devious, manipulative bastard and only a few people had ever gotten to see that side of him. Ben was one of them.

His horse was walking so slowly she'd almost come to a standstill. Ben didn't notice; he was too caught up in the moral battleground which comprised saving his own life at the expense of another's. If Cort was killed on his account he'd never be able to forgive himself. He already had one terrible death on his conscience, and he didn't need another.

Tonight's scenario in the hotel had put a hitch in his feelings towards Cort, and he would forever resent the marshal for locking him in a dark, stinking cupboard, but he understood why those things happened. Cort was doing his job and had stepped well outside the authority of his office by releasing a suspect, one who'd confessed to his crime no less, in the belief it was the right thing to do. It was the preacher in Cort which had defined that action, and he'd certainly pay for his act of kindness, might even be paying for it right now,.

A bolt of lightening slammed into the ground ten yards away, illuminating the town graveyard. Thunder boomed and Ben's horse screamed with fright and reared, throwing him out of the saddle backwards. He managed to hang onto the reins and spent the next few minutes fighting the terrified animal as the storm hammered around them. He knew they couldn't continue much further, had to hole up until the worst was over, and the graveyard reminded him of the little shack he'd spotted a few days ago. It was perfect.

He tugged the horse around the periphery of the cemetery, giving it a wide berth, mindful of the open graves he'd seen before, and approached the rear of the shelter. There was a lean-to hunched against it, somewhere for his horse to stand out of the rain but Ben froze, cursing under his breath as he realised it was already occupied. Not by one horse, which might signify a solitary gravedigger, but five of them parked there, all packed up like they were on a long journey. Ben eyed the tiny shack, there was no way that place could accommodate five men and, dread twisting his guts, he staked his horse to the nearest piece of bush and moved in for a closer look. He didn't need to worry about being quiet, the storm was taking care of that, but his heart was hammering in his chest as he approached and saw smoke rising from the roof. There was somebody in there, maybe more than one, but where were the rest?

He edged down the side of the shack, listening for voices inside and hearing nothing. As he neared the entrance the graveyard itself came into full view. He hunkered down and watched as it was lit up by successive flashes of lightening but there was nobody out there. Nobody living, anyway. He checked carefully in all directions, assisted by the storm, but the whole area was devoid of life.

Finally he approached the door which was badly hinged and hanging at an angle so he could get a glimpse inside. There was a fire burning, the smell of something cooking but he still couldn't see anybody. He backed up a few steps, about to kick the door and announce his presence forcefully when it swung open of its own accord and the silhouette of somebody big and obviously male was standing there, obliterating the firelight. Ben couldn't make out any of the man's features but he heard the fellow curse when he realised he had company. He reached for his gun but Ben was much faster, the Remington was already in his hand.

"Easy friend. I ain't looking for trouble, just somewhere to sit out the storm."

The man came forward and Ben peered at his face, trying to get a good look, but it was too dark and wet to see anything much. His movement afforded a good view into the shack though, and Ben saw it was empty.

"You should stand still, mister; tell me why a man on his lonesome has five horses out back?"

"The man took another step forward. "I reckon you should mind your business, son."

The voice was hostile and he kept coming forward. Ben retreated, glanced back to see where he was going and froze as he realised he was two feet away from the edge of an open grave. The man was pushing him that way and Ben wondered why he was so belligerent. A moment later he knew.

A particularly intense burst of lightening lit a face he recognised it in the same instant the man went for his gun. He was one of the gang members from the saloon, the one who'd punched Cort in the gut. Usher's man. Ben's blood boiled and he pulled and fired before the man even touched his weapon. The bullet ripped into his guts and he recoiled, teetering unsteadily for a moment before lurching forward, still reaching for his gun. Ben's second bullet tore into his heart but he still kept coming like a blind ox. Ben stepped aside as he staggered past and fell right into the grave, landing face down. That was an easy job for the gravedigger tomorrow. Ben put a final bullet through the back of his head, reloaded his gun then sank to his knees, his mind whirling.

Usher's gang was still around but they weren't near the graveyard, that was for sure. The only place they'd be interested in right now was Redemption. But why were there five horses and only four men? Ben was so wet and numb with cold that his brain had slowed down. One man was here so the other three had walked to town in the pissing rain. But why were there five horses and only four men? Finally it came to him.

The fifth man was Henry Usher.

"Fuck." Ben leapt to his feet and raced back to his horse. He jumped into the saddle and kicked her into a flat out gallop. All his instincts had been right and he rode with his heart in his mouth and his stomach churning so badly he thought he might throw up. He was dreading what might have happened as he'd made his slow way up to the cemetery, dreading what he might find in Redemption but as he approached the edge of town he slowed down and forced himself to think straight. Charging in blindly would only get the gang's attention. They would certainly have posted lookouts and Ben couldn't take all of them at once, not head on.

He tethered his horse to the same rocky outcrop he'd used on the way out, and went the rest of the way on foot. The rain was still doing a pretty good job of obscuring things but the storm seemed to be moving away and the lightning flashes were less frequent. Ben stooped close to the ground as he saw the marshal's office coming up and he flattened himself completely as he caught movement behind the building.

He squinted into the shadows, cursing the storm for giving up just when he needed it most, realising there was a dim light inside. No-one would have noticed it unless they were this close, but it meant somebody was in there and that couldn't be good.

Finally he got what he needed. A flash of lightening in the distance showed him the full scene and he felt like he'd been punched between they eyes. There was a solitary horse tethered behind the marshal's office and three men were approaching it. They were dragging a fourth man between them. He was limp, his wrists bound before him, his head lolling forward like he was unconscious. Ben couldn't see his face but he recognised the long hair and ill-fitting clothes instantly.

It was Cort.