A/N: A note to guest reviewers - I can't send you personal replies, but I love you all! Thank you for your beautiful, encouraging reviews!

Chapter Thirteen

The door clicked softly behind Slim, and a hand clapped onto his shoulder. "Good job out there, Sherman."

A smile graced Ben's hardened face for a half second, before his hand fell away. Slim wasn't sure if it was just a trick of the light, or even his imagination, but he was sure he glimpsed an apologetic element in the small smile. Ben's whole demeanor softened in that moment, leaving Slim unsure about the older outlaw yet again. He'd surprised Slim with his callous behavior only minutes before, and now it seemed his tough-as-nails façade – if that was what it was – was slipping again. In any case, Slim pushed Ben's unpredictability to the back of his mind and pushed past the outlaw, storming into the bedroom.

"Jess?"

A soft groan was the only reply the younger man offered. He lay awkwardly on the cot, just as he'd been dropped, with an arm hanging off the side and brushing the floor. Dark lashes fluttered once; fingers twitched against wood.

Slim sat on the edge of the cot, easing Jess slowly upright. "Easy, pard," he muttered, relieved to see his partner coming around. "Take it easy."

"He's fine," Will snapped, leaned against the doorframe.

"Well excuse me if I don't take your word for it," Slim shot back, his restraint worn paper-thin. An angry flush crept up his neck, coloring his cheeks. "If Jess is hurt bad, it'll take more than just a gun to keep me off of you." The words felt good on his tongue, springing forth with a choleric bite that Slim wasn't used to.

Will scowled, but said nothing. Hand resting on the butt of his pistol, he looked on with mild interest as Slim focused his attention wholly on his friend.

"Jess... come on, pard, talk to me."

Jess sucked in a sharp breath, hand lifting to brush against the tender spot on his head. Blue eyes flickered open, blinking rapidly to clear the heavy, cob-webby feeling that weighed them down. "Slim..."

"Yeah. Do you feel alright?" the taller man asked anxiously, absently working his lower lip against his teeth.

"Mmmm..." Jess shook his head sharply, and instantly regretted the movement. His head swam, the room seeming to tilt all around him. "I... I don't rightly know."

"You weren't out long, so I guess you didn't hit too hard." A comforting smile softened the worry lining Slim's face. "You'll be alright, Jess."

The dark-haired man nodded, raking a hand through his hair. His fingers trembled ever-so-slightly, and his pained expression betrayed the inevitable headache; but those telling signs aside, Jess seemed relatively unfazed by the blow he'd sustained. The thing that caught Slim's attention wasn't the tremor in the younger man's hand or the discomfort marring his features – he was primarily interested Jess's expression when he'd first opened his eyes. A fleeting look of slack-jawed surprise ghosted across his face, then his stare had settled into the vacancy that Slim had grown accustomed to over the past month. A muscled in Jess's jaw twitched, lips parting readily – but he seemed to think the better of it, and abandoned the unspoken comment with a shake of his head.

Satisfied with Jess's condition, Will nudged Slim's shoulder with the muzzle of his revolver. "Come on, boys. On your feet."

Slim bit back a harsh reply, rising stiffly. "Can you walk alright?" he asked gently, warily watching Jess lean against the wall for support.

"Yeah, I think so." With a brisk nod, the shorter man led the way out of the bedroom and made his way back to the rocker by the fire.

Slim lowered himself into his chair, a knot growing in his stomach. He inwardly cursed himself for not dropping a subtle hint when he spoke to Mort. No doubt Ben had been listening at the bedroom window, but he hadn't seen Slim. There had been ample opportunity to tip the sheriff off, but he hadn't done a thing. His jaw clenched tight. The memory flashed across his mind again: his only chance at help, riding out of the yard... out of reach.

Letting Mort ride off like that – lying to him – had been a huge mistake.

Sheriff Corey knew how to reason and use logic when tracking men. It was his livelihood, and he was pretty darn good at it, even if he did say so himself. Mort was also experienced enough to know that logic and reasoning didn't always get the job done – sometimes, a lawman had to go with his gut and hope he wasn't making a career-ending mistake. In his years as Laramie sheriff, Mort had seldom regretted following his instincts; he had his fingers crossed that this wouldn't be the exception.

He hadn't known anything was off right away. When Slim opened the door and stepped out into the dim lantern light, Mort had barely noticed his appearance. His shirt was rumpled, faintly streaked with dust or dirt in a few places, and his hair looked like he'd tried to smooth it down in a hurry, maybe giving it a quick combing with his fingers before answering the door. The sheriff had passed it off as nothing. After all, Slim was a working rancher. No doubt he'd become a little disheveled after a day of chores and ranch work.

On top of that, Jess hadn't come out to greet him. Mort knew for a fact he was there; Slim had assured him that both he and his friend would be sticking close to the ranch until the thieves were caught. Sure, maybe Jess was busy... but if he'd been outside, he'd have come over and said hello. If he was working inside, Mort surely would have heard dishes clanking, or some sort of mild clatter. It was awfully quiet inside... but that still didn't mean there was trouble.

If that had been all that was off, Mort might have ridden away and not looked back once.

What really tipped him off was Slim's stance; tight, his breathing imperceptibly labored, as if he'd been doing some heavy lifting or whatnot. He seemed stiff – maybe not to the untrained eye, but to Mort it was glaringly obvious.

So Mort went with his gut. He rode out of the Sherman yard, tethered his mare out of sight of the house, and slipped into the barn through the back entrance. Sharp eyes scanned the stalls, searching for anything out of the ordinary. "Gotcha," Mort muttered, setting his sights on two mounts in the corner stalls with saddles by their feet. They certainly didn't belong to Slim and Jess, judging by the muddled brands on their hindquarters. Probably stolen and branded over – and not very skillfully, either.

A buckskin and a spotted gray, no doubt belonging to the two petty-thieves-turned-murderers; combining everything their previous victims had been able to tell Mort – their mounts, glimpses of hair color, general height and build – the sheriff had put the pieces together and concluded that the two were Ben and Will Grayson, brothers from the Montana territory. After wiring a few other lawmen, he'd gotten his hands on a poster, which Helen Kelly used to positively identify the pair. The only crimes hanging over their heads, until now, had been robbery and assault.

Mort didn't doubt that the two were here now, inside the ranch house. Common sense told him the rest: the outlaws had been holding Jess inside while Slim came out to talk to him. Slim had been tasked to send him packing as soon as possible, no doubt, which accounted for his overall unkempt appearance. Knowing Slim and Jess as well as he did, Mort would have bet money at least one of them had been in a scuffle – and from the looks of it, Slim was the one.

Watching the quiet house across the yard, windows illuminated behind their curtains, the sheriff worked at formulating some kind of plan, based on the evidence and his conclusions. He could rush the place... no, too many variables. While the possibility stood that it could work, the plan was too risky. And where Slim and Jess were concerned, that wasn't a risk Mort was willing to take.

So he waited. Ben and Will thought they'd shaken the law, so they'd soon begin to relax... and that was when the sheriff would move. It had to be timed just right, and he had to get a handle on the situation, which he aimed to do with a careful look through the kitchen window. If all went well – and Mort prayed that it would – then they'd all come out of this alive, and no worse for the wear.