The Countess 01

by JeanGenie

Vin becomes the victim in a deadly game and Ezra is forced to play for the highest stakes imaginable - a man's life.

2. The Countess

PART TWO

Mary drew the buggy to a halt in the semicircular driveway in front of the house. It was very quiet although lights showed in almost every window and she found it odd that the front door was standing wide open.

"Hello! Is there anyone home?"

She set the brake and climbed down from the buggy, keeping the heavy pistol in her right hand but concealed in her skirts. Slowly she walked up the wide steps to the porch and stood before the open door for a moment. A warm light from the hall spilled out onto the porch and she reached out to knock on the door, uncomfortable about walking in unannounced although it seemed that the house was deserted.

"Hello?"

Hesitantly she stepped over the threshold and moved warily up the hall. She found she was shaking, and wondered what on earth she was doing breaking into someone's house. Had she completely lost her senses?

"In here!"

She jumped at the sound then realised the voice was familiar.

"J.D?"

Cautiously pushing open the next door she was shocked to find Dunne tied securely to a chair. To say he looked distressed would have been a gross understatement. She darted over to him and began to untie the ropes but he shook his head.

"No, leave me. It's Ezra." He gesture with his head in the direction of the card table. "Ezra's been shot."

Mary realised then that the Southerner was lying on the floor, very still but still breathing, and she paled at the blood she could see not only on his vest but pooling on the floor.

"My God!" She dropped to her knees beside the gambler but was uncertain just what she should do. There seemed to be so much blood.

Suddenly her brain kicked into gear and she jumped up.

"J.D. You've got to help me."

She started to tug at the ropes, breaking fingernails and skinning knuckles as she struggled with the knots. Once his hands were untied, Dunne made short work of the rest and freed himself.

"He's not dead is he?"

"No, he's not dead," Mary assured him, as she rifled through the dresser drawers, "But we need to stop the bleeding." She found some table linen which she promptly thrust at J.D. "Come on."

The woman knelt down and gently moving his hand which he had pressed against the wound deftly unfastened Ezra's vest and shirt. The bullet had entered his left side at the level of the lowest rib and dark blood still welled sluggishly out of the bullet hole. Folding a white linen napkin she pressed it over the wound, an action which elicited the first response from the Southerner.

"Holy Christ," he breathed, through a groan, his bloodied hand ineffectually pushing at what he perceived to be the source of his pain.

Mary looked up at J.D. kneeling across from her.

"You hold this." She took his hand and placed it over the already bloody linen cloth. "We need to turn him over."

J.D. followed her instructions. Hell, Nathan usually handled this kind of stuff, what did he know?

The younger man eased the gambler onto his side while Mary pulled up his jacket and shirt. Another wound almost in the middle of his back, just slightly to the left of centre still bled freely and the newspaperwoman wadded a tablecloth and pushed it hard against the wound, rolling the Southerner again onto his back to allow his own body weight to provide the pressure.

Ezra's eyes flickered and he focused on Mary.

"Sacrificing your petticoats again, Miz Travis? You seem to be making a habit of this."

She smiled and wiped his face with a spare table napkin.

"Not this time, Ezra. And it's you that seems to be making a habit of this!"

He gripped her hand and closed his eyes again fro a moment.

"I believe I said something to which the Count took exception."

Mary looked at J.D. questioningly.

"He told him he couldn't play poker and that he was a lousy cheat. At least I think that's what he said."

The woman sighed.

"Maybe it would just have been simpler to simply put a gun to your own head, Ezra."

He laughed then in spite of the pain it caused him and looked evenly at her.

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained so the saying goes Miz Travis."

Finally, Mary looked at Dunne.

"Just what happened here, J.D?"

In as few words as possible, the younger man explained the day's events from finding the signs that Vin had been ambushed, to their trip to Mercyville and the telegraph to Chris, through to the insane card game with the Texan as the stakes and the shooting of Ezra. Mary listened with increasing horror, now glad that she had acted on impulse and come out to the ranch. In turn Mary recounted her side of the story; the McKenzie boy, Chris going off to find the wild dogs, the telegraph messages and Josiah leaving to find Chris then finally her own decision to bring the news about the von Hohenstaffel's to Ezra.

J.D. looked anxiously from Ezra to Mary.

"Will you be alright here? I gotta go and find the others. Gotta help Vin. They already got a good head start."

She nodded and picked up the gun that she had lain on the floor beside her.

"I can use this if need be."

Dunne nodded, believing her. He quickly retrieved his own twin Colts which the count had left on the table, then on second thoughts picked up Ezra's Remington and knelt beside the wounded man.

"Here, Ez. You hang on to this. You might need it if they come back."

Standish nodded and took the revolver in his right hand.

"Thank you, Mr. Dunne."

J.D. nodded, satisfied that Ezra was not about to die immediately, although he was uneasy about what the long term result might yet be. He stood up, torn between the need to go and the desire to stay. Ezra, correctly interpreting his hesitation waved his gun in the direction of the door.

"Go, Mr. Dunne. Vin needs you more than I do." The Easterner needed no second prompting, he ran from the room not hearing the whispered post-script. "Be careful, J.D."

The hounds were on the scent, barking wildly as their sensitive noses picked up the trail falling over each other to take the lead. The eight foxhounds were small and agile, they would run down the quarry and harry it to the point of exhaustion, killing small game and savagely attacking anything larger; the mastiff, standing just over two feet tall at the shoulder and weighing a much as a man followed in the pack's wake waiting for its master's signal, the command to attack. The mastiff was capable of easily running down a man and it would kill on command. His master had named him well, Teufel -- Devil -- for that is what his prey believed him to be when he appeared out of the night and his jaws closed around a fragile neck.

Katrin urged her horse forward, slashing its flanks with the crop as she followed the hounds. She would see blood tonight; feel it on her hands, smell it, taste it. He would be hers if he proved worthy; if not Teufel would see to him. She spared a regretful thought for the gambler. A pity Erik had shot him; she had wanted him so badly, those green eyes had captivated her from the start. She would have loved him if he had given her a chance.

Erik shouted and drew his own mount to a halt as the hounds milled around in confusion, snuffling an object on the ground. Katrin sent her horse through the pack driving them apart as she leaned down and lifted the shapeless mass from the earth with her crop. The coarse fabric was sticky with congealed blood and Katrin dropped the sodden mass to the ground.

"A false trail, Erik. How clever!"

Von Hohenstaffel swore.

"Too clever, my heart. We must go back and find where he deceived us."

Calling the dogs to order they trotted back the way they had come. Katrin laughing as Erik continued to curse.

Time too much time.

Or not enough.

Vin felt sick. If there had been anything in his stomach he would be emptying onto the ground but all he could do was retch weakly. He had reached the end of his endurance and was still no nearer to reaching safety. Under normal circumstances he could have led them a merry chase, turned them so far around that they would have been riding up their own asses but he knew he now had nothing left to give, nothing held in reserve. He had fallen again and this time finding he had no strength left to rise, remained where he was and listened for the approach of the dogs. It shouldn't be long now.

The Texan slowly lifted his head. Had he been asleep? Time seemed to have passed but it could have been ten seconds or ten minutes for all he knew. The air was still and he could no longer hear his pursuers. He painfully pushed himself on to one elbow and looked around. Nothing. He squinted trying to make sense of the shifting shadows. Wrong Tanner. Something out there. The shape coalesced, took form and Vin felt his heart constrict in his chest. It did not come swiftly, it came purposefully, blending so well with the night that for a moment Tanner believed the form to be an evil manifestation of his own fevered imagination but it was real. It lived and it breathed and it was the herald of his death.

The growl came from deep within the animal's chest; a rumbling warning but still it did not move. One hundred and thirty pounds of malevolence glared at him from a distance of twenty feet, muscular forequarters tensed in anticipation but still the beast held position. Waiting. Vin moved slowly but all his senses were alert, a surge of energy suffused his limbs with renewed strength and he found his heart to be hammering wildly in his chest. This was how it felt to be alive and he was not about to surrender quite so easily. That was not the Tanner way. He drew his legs up and rolled smoothly onto his knees, his own eyes locked onto the unwavering stare of the dog but as he moved he saw the curl of the lip and an impressively huge fang gleamed whitely in the pale moonlight. He reached down beside him and picked up a fist sized rock, closing his fingers around its roughness then trying not to think about the unevenness of the contest he sat back on his heels, hand held loosely at his side. And waited.

The rider approached quietly, given away only by the metallic jingling of the horse's tack as it shook its head. Vin did not look away from the massive canine recognising that this new development was in no way likely to mean his salvation. The horse stopped some distance from where the dog kept its vigil, the rider still in shadow.

"You have done well. My best challenge yet." Not the Count then. This was a woman. Katrin. "Your friend did well by you, did he not? See how far you have come."

Vin remained silent. Needing no distractions.

"Ach, strong and with courage. I like this. Most men would be by now crying for their mothers and begging for mercy."

She kicked the horse forward and rode in a wide circle around Tanner, coming to a halt some way behind him.

"But I do not believe you are the begging kind."

"I'd like to make you beg you crazy bitch," he muttered heatedly, unable to refrain from comment and he heard her laugh throatily.

"You would do violence to a woman? You are no gentleman! Now Herr Standish was indeed a gentleman." She sighed regretfully.

Was? Vin didn't allow his mind to follow that thought through to its obvious conclusion and kept his attention focused on the dog instead.

She moved again and Vin flinched involuntarily but the Countess only completed the circle and halted her horse in front of him again.

"You are lucky Erik did not find you first. Those hounds would have already torn you to pieces, but the stupid animals lost the trail. I sent him back. I knew Teufel could find you, so we came on alone. Now at least you can die with dignity."

Vin was at a loss to see what dignity was afforded him in being mauled to death by some monstrous dog. He had been attacked by a wolf once and survived but he had fully clothed, protected by buckskin and still he had been badly bitten before he had managed to shoot the starving animal. Now he had no such protection, no weapon, and his adversary was no starving wolf. He watched from the corner of his eye as she backed the horse away and readied himself for the coming assault, as she raised her riding crop.

"Ende!"

The dog covered the ground between them at a speed Vin could scarcely credit to such a heavy animal and as it launched itself into the air he closed his eyes. The body slammed into him with such force that he was driven backwards and man and beast rolled together in a welter of limbs, each struggling for superiority. The Texan, on the ground and fending off the attack, felt the huge jaws close around his forearm and grunted, an inarticulate sound of rage and pain. He thrust his arm further into the dog's jaws rather than trying to pull away, shoving the animal back, and brought the rock in his other hand forcefully against the side of the mastiff's head. The animal responded by sinking its teeth further into flesh and briefly shaking its head. Claws scratched his naked chest, his belly, his thighs as the animal sought purchase scoring long bloody welts in the flesh that Vin barely noticed. Locked in a nightmare battle with the huge dog, he would fight until his last breath whatever the cost. His reality became the heaving weight of the dog, the slippery wetness of his own blood and the flashing teeth and claws that rent his defenceless body. The dog sought his throat, snarling, its teeth snapping air as he managed to jerk aside; once, twice before the fangs raked a long furrow along his shoulder and laid it open. In a last effort to protect himself the Texan threw all his weight against the animal, putting it momentarily off balance and he rolled out from under it and scrambled to his feet.

"Aufhören!"

The dog stood its ground, sides heaving, watching its prey; unsure why it had been commanded to stop, bloodied saliva dripping from its mouth -- waiting for the signal to finish.

Vin stood, shoulders hunched, blood pouring from a dozen places on his body, out of breath and out of strength, knowing he could not hope to prevail -- waiting for the end.

He felt it before he heard it. The thrumming vibration of galloping hoof beats transmitted through the soles of his feet; urgent and fast, then the unmistakable sound of approaching horses ridden at speed. He heard the woman shout again a note of panic in her voice and braced himself for the killing stroke. The dog came in low and fast, unstoppable, its hindquarters bunching as it gathered itself to spring and in a smooth extension of its body which made it appear as if the dog was literally flying the mastiff hurled itself at the Texan.

The night exploded in a flash of light and a blast of gunfire but Vin had only one thing on his mind; keeping those teeth away from his throat. He met the beast squarely, body tensed but, unable to withstand the onslaught, he slammed into the unyielding earth his ribs feeling the crushing weight of the dog as it landed squarely on his chest a moment before his head struck a rock and he slid into grateful oblivion.

Chris would have liked to have had the luxury of dismounting before he fired but he knew that there was no time. They had already impotently witnessed the unequal first round, had seen the man -- incredibly -- regain his footing, had seen the woman call off the dog, and now were about to bear witness to the bloody finale. Unless they were able to change the odds. He released the reins, brought the Winchester out of its scabbard and smoothly up to his shoulder, taking a chance and firing as he saw the huge animal gathering itself to strike.

Shit! He'd missed.

"Get the woman!" he had yelled at Buck, trusting the man riding on his left to do what was necessary, as he chambered another round and once again fired.

Josiah and Nathan were both firing their handguns but there was little hope of either of them hitting the target at the distance they were attempting. The best they could hope for would be distraction. From what Chris could see it wasn't working. On his third shot, man and dog slammed into the ground and he hoped to God he had hit the right one. Although, he thought grimly, if this poor bastard was in a similar condition to the McKenzie boy a bullet might be a blessing.

Buck and Josiah peeled off in pursuit of the woman on horseback. Chris kicked free of the stirrups and dismounted while the horse was still on the move drawing his sidearm, ready to finish off the black beast but there was no movement from either the dog or the man pinned beneath it. Warily, Larabee toed the animal, and only when he was satisfied that there was no spark of life did he holster his weapon. Nathan jogged to his side and helped push the mastiff off its victim before turning his attention to the unmoving and bloody form of the man.

"Jesus! What does this fucking thing weigh?" grunted Chris as he dragged the very dead canine to one side, amazed by its size and pausing to examine the animal with a morbid curiosity. "Never seen nothin' like this before."

"Chris."

Larabee, momentarily distracted by the unusual dog, glanced back over his shoulder at the healer and remembered the casualty still lying on the ground.

"Chris. Come on over here."

The gunslinger rose.

"Is he dead?"

"Chris. It's Vin."

The blond man paled.

"Christ! Did I shoot him?"

Nathan shook his head, running his hands over Tanner's body.

"Don't think so, Chris. He's pretty badly torn up here but he's breathin' fine. Looks like your aim was right on." He glanced up seeing the concern and something else -- dread? -- in Larabee's eyes. "I'll get my pack."

J.D. could not remember ever being so full of anger. Driven by a need for vengeance he had never before experienced in his young life he was riding for Vin and he was riding for Ezra. And if he was too late to stop what was happening to Vin he vowed to himself and whatever God might be above him that he would exact the worst kind of retribution. He had never intentionally killed a woman but he would happily take his gun to this particular female without any trace of guilt. His face still throbbed, a line of fire etched into his skin, from where she had slashed him with her quirt and he wondered if he would be permanently marked. It felt as if she had opened his cheek to the bone but it had not bled and he repeated to himself that it was really nothing. He kept his eyes to the ground although he was having no difficulty in following the trail; two horses and a pack of dogs were not hard to track even with his limited skills. Vin had been patiently teaching him but his ability was still rudimentary and he found himself giving thanks that he was not required to do any more than follow a trail as clear and wide as a city street.

His mind was a confused and seething mass of disconnected images from which he tried to make some sense. Was it only that morning he and Ezra had set out to take the Countess' black stallion back to the ranch? It had started out as a pleasant enough day and although he would never admit it to Buck he had actually enjoyed the ride in Ezra's company. He had also seen a different side to the gambler, one which he now believed the Southerner went out of his way to conceal. But he had been shot. J.D. knew little enough about doctoring but he guessed the wound was serious and he did know that people who lost too much blood, died. He recalled the pool of dark blood that Ezra had been lying in and wondered how much was too much. At least Mary was now there to take care of him. His mind skidded away to focus on Vin. He had to find the Texan but in the back of his mind lurked the terrifying thought that maybe he was already too late. He tried to imagine what it would be like to be hunted down, chased for mile after mile by dogs. Vin had looked as if he would not last one mile let alone many. In fact he looked like Chris had when they'd sprung him from that jail compound in Jericho last year. His thoughts jumped ahead to settle on Chris. He must be out here somewhere -- Mary had said they were out tracking the dogs -- the question was, just where? And more importantly could he find them?

He reined in and scanned the landscape in the desperate hope that he would catch sight of something. Anything. Goddamn it! Nothing. He could be out here all night being no use to anybody. Vin was out here, Ezra was back at the ranch, both man in bad shape, and he was sitting in the middle of a big nothing, not even sure if he was going the right way anymore. He swept off his hat and slapped it in frustration against his thigh. Where the hell had everyone disappeared?

A single shot rang out, startling his horse and setting his own heart racing, closely followed by several more that reverberated across the landscape in a brief but almost continuous roll of gunfire. Finally two more sharp cracks -- a rifle he thought -- and silence descended once more. Without a second thought J.D. kicked his horse into a gallop, turning the horse towards the sound of the gunfire and hoping he wasn't riding himself straight into a whole mess of trouble.

Chris sat beside the still figure of the tracker, his hard gaze alternating between looking at the bloodied Texan and into the night. Although he looked calm and relaxed, Nathan could see the signs of tension and knew that in reality he was wound as tightly as coiled spring.

They had spread out Chris' bedroll for Vin and while Nathan had cleaned up the unconscious man as best he could, the blond gunfighter had silently made a fire. Chris' first instinct had been to double Vin on his horse and get him somewhere warm and safe but Nathan had pointed out that he would probably do more harm than good. So Larabee had reluctantly conceded to the healer and now looked on as Nathan tried to patch up some of the damage.

"Some of these are a few days old, Chris." He pointed to the wound in Tanner's neck. Two distinct sets of puncture marks, partially healed but angry-looking and weeping unhealthily. "Long enough to be festering"

Chris merely nodded and looked away. He just wanted Nathan to fix him and Vin to wake up.

Nathan checked the water boiling on the fire and dropped in some herbs, filling the air with a pungent but not unpleasant aroma then opened up a small rawhide roll which was his medical pack. From the depths of his saddle bags he retrieved some bandages and some squares of plain muslin with which to dress the tracker's various injuries. He was ready. He glanced up at Chris.

"You might want to be ready in case he comes out of it fightin'. Gotta stitch up this shoulder."

Again a nod and this time the gunfighter paid attention to what was going on. Tanner stirred as Nathan plied his needle, moaning occasionally as the former slave systematically sewed skin and muscle together, then finally closed the wound and tied off the thread.

"Ain't much fight left in him, I reckon," observed Chris, bitterly.

Nathan deftly bandaged the shoulder and sat back on his heels.

"Better this way for now, Chris. He'll be hurtin' enough when he does wake up. He's runnin' a fever too."

The tracker surfaced by degrees, his initial protests at Nathan's interventions confined to incoherent mumbles and weak attempts to push him away, but gradually increasing in vigour until he finally regained consciousness with a curse.

"Son of a bitch!"

Nathan ignored him and finished cleaning the long scratches on his chest and belly.

"Just quiet down there, Vin. No sense in fussin'."

The Texan groaned, his eyes fluttering.

"Thought I was a dead man." He rasped out finally. "Wherever you came from, I'm mighty grateful."

Chris smiled for the first time at the sound of Tanner's voice.

"Don't mention it." He put a hand on the tracker's good shoulder. "That was a mighty impressive fight, Cowboy."

"Is that what it was? Reckon I just didn't know when to give up."

Some of the hard edge went out of Chris' voice.

"Wanna tell me what happened?"

Vin fell silent, his face a study in concentration, then suddenly he paled visibly and raised panic-stricken eyes to the gunfighter.

"Ezra. She said Ezra was a gentleman. Was."

Chris frowned and looked quickly at Nathan wondering if the tracker might not be delirious. The healer shrugged, equally puzzled but recognising that the Texan was agitated.

"What about Ezra?" he prompted gently.

"Was, not is." He pronounced, his distress evident. "We've got to get back to the ranch. Somethin's happened."

The bounty-hunter struggled to get up his movements almost frantic and, disregarding his injuries, he managed to finally stand, trembling like a blown horse but determined, showing the same grit he had in facing off against the mastiff. Chris did not understand what he was talking about but he did understand the urgency and fear in his voice and trusting in him implicitly, it was enough for him to act. He nodded. No argument.

"We'll go right now. You sure you're up to it?"

Tanner heaved a sigh.

"No, but ain't no time to be lollygaggin'."

Nathan shook his head not sure who was worse; Vin for wanting to go, or Chris for letting him.

"You loco, Vin? You can't hardly stand yet."

"Don't plan on walkin' anywhere, Nathan," he grimaced, "Just get me on a horse."

Ezra had discovered that if he lay absolutely still, refrained from speaking and breathed only shallowly that the pain was tolerable; hardly pleasant but at least bearable. As a result he had slipped into an almost trance-like state of consciousness, eyes closed and thoughts focused inwards. He could still feel the comforting weight of the gun J.D. had placed in his hand but his legs, indeed his entire lower body, felt numb. How long had he been lying on the floor? He wondered if the loss of sensation was anything to do with how much blood he had lost and that he had bled profusely was obvious. His clothes were sticky with it and where he lay the carpet was unpleasantly moist under his back. His jacket would be ruined, beyond salvation. No matter. If the inestimable Mr. Jackson were not on hand to render assistance very soon, he would likely have no further need for a jacket except for possibly his laying out and the black, he thought, would serve quite nicely for that.

"Ezra?"

With an effort he responded to his name slightly irritated that his plans for his own funeral had been interrupted. He was too tired to engage in conversation, even with the lovely Mary Travis. Opening his eyes he managed to bring the woman's face into focus.

"Ezra, someone's coming. I just heard a horse come into the yard."

"Only one?"

She answered with a nod.

"I think it might be wise, Mrs. Travis, if you concealed yourself."

"I..."

The Southerner cut off her protest.

"Now, Mary! There isn't much time." He lifted his gun, which seemed to have grown exceedingly heavy. "Do not concern yourself regarding my welfare, dear lady. Mr. Remington is quite sufficient protection I assure you."

With a rustle of skirts the newspaperwoman disappeared from his sight and he sighed. Those few words had cost him dearly taxing his meagre reserves of energy to the point of exhaustion. He drew back the hammer on the gun surprised at how difficult that small task was and with his finger curled around the trigger extended his arm down his right thigh, partially concealing the weapon under his leg. He just hoped he didn't end up shooting himself.

He heard the sound of booted feet in the hall and held his breath very aware that in his present position he was entirely too vulnerable. He closed his eyes and waited, knowing his own best chance of survival would depend on the element of surprise and that would mean playing possum. He rejected the alternative as being slightly too close to the truth for comfort -- playing dead. The footsteps came closer. Confident. A master in his own house and Ezra knew without a doubt that this was von Hohenstaffel.

The voice was right but instead of a cultured German accent the next word was delivered in old fashioned Anglo-Saxon.

"Fuck!"

The clatter of furniture being thrown aside startled the Southerner but he controlled his reaction, guessing the Count had taken his frustration out on the chair where J.D. had been restrained. No doubt the fact that Dunne had escaped would be something of a concern to von Hohenstaffel. Ezra waited for the inevitable and found his fluttering heart increased its already rapid rate as he heard the footsteps stop beside him, then the heavy sound of breathing as the nobleman leaned over him. His jacket and shirt were roughly pulled aside as the Count examined the results of his marksmanship. Ezra barely managed to keep himself from gasping aloud and while he still held onto his senses he smoothly brought the gun up, green eyes opening wide, to Erik's neck. The Southerner had to admit that he was gratified by the man's response. The look of shock painted on the handsome features was almost comical and Ezra was almost tempted to laugh. Almost. The situation was still far too dire for him to indulge in such frivolity.

"My dear, Count," he managed conversationally, "How good of you to return. Might I ask if your hunt was successful?"

Von Hohenstaffel had composed himself enough to assume a sneer.

"I should have killed you when I had the chance."

"Yes," agreed the gambler evenly, "You probably should, because rest assured I fully intend to kill you."

Ezra knew that the Count was rapidly calculating his chances; working out if he could turn the situation to his advantage. He also knew that if he didn't make good his threat and pull the trigger soon that he would no longer be able to hold up the gun. For a long minute the two men stared each into the other's eyes, vivid green holding ice blue, then von Hohenstaffel made his decision. And Ezra pulled the trigger.

The Count's eyes flew open in shocked horror as his hands clutched his throat, blood pulsing between his fingers. The gambler watched with detached interest as the man staggered to his feet, fully aware that his lifeblood was rapidly draining out of him. Not dead, but dying, and it gave the Southerner a certain sense of satisfaction that von Hohestaffel was not about to have an easy end. A part of him wanted him to suffer, to feel pain and dread; payback for what he had done to Tanner. It surprised him that he could so bereft of sympathy, but the urge to exact revenge had robbed him of any compassion. He allowed his arm to fall back to his side, the effort of holding the gun suddenly too much. Von Hohenstaffel was making choking noises but he was still on his feet, reeling back towards the card table and the gambler calmly speculated on how long it took a man to bleed to death; after all he had been slowly bleeding onto the carpet for quite some time now and he was still alive. He wondered if Erik would like to wager on this particular outcome.

That the Count was suddenly pointing a gun at him was a development Ezra had not taken into consideration; he most definitely would have to revise the odds. On reflection he believed it was his own Colt that was currently aimed at his heart. Pity J.D. had not thought to leave him both weapons. It crossed his mind that it was quite ironic really that he was going to finally meet his end with a bullet from his own gun.

He flinched at the very loud report of the discharging weapon, his entire body tensing in anticipation but he felt nothing. The Count cried out once, a blossoming circle of bright red in the centre of his chest, and fell to his knees before crashing face down onto the floor a few feet from the startled gambler. He tore his eyes from the dead man to the slim figure that moved into his field of vision, a still smoking pistol held in her hand.

"Mrs. Travis," he breathed, barely able to find his voice, "Good shot."

She looked down at the body, her face hard.

"I'd like to do that again."

Ezra looked up, believing her.

"Once is quite enough, dear lady."

**********

Buck brought his mount to a halt and signalled to Josiah to stop.

"We lost her, Josiah. Ain't no catchin' that stallion of hers once it gets up to speed. She could ride clear to Bolivia without us even layin' eyes on her again."

"You wanna be the one to tell Chris that?"

Buck savagely turned his horse around and waited for Sanchez to catch up.

"Can't chase the wind, Josiah, and I ain't about to try. Let's go back."

Josiah held up his hand for silence and put his head on one side, listening.

"Hear that?"

Buck strained his ears, searching for a sound, then shook his head.

"Uh uh."

"Listen!" insisted Sanchez and the two men fell into absolute silence.

On the night breeze they both identified the sound of a single horse moving quickly towards them.

"Someone's in a mighty big hurry," commented Buck, "You wanna wait?"

"Could be the woman," ventured Sanchez, doubtfully.

Buck gave him a sceptical glance.

"Right, Josiah! She's gonna come runnin' right back into Buck's lovin' arms."

Buck wheeled again and spurred his horse forward at an easy trot.

"Let's have a look and see whose britches are on fire."

A few minutes later Sanchez pointed out a growing shape materialising out of the darkness and the two men angled to intercept the rider.

"It's J.D!" yelled Buck in surprise as they crossed to cut him off. "Whoa, boy. Steady on, it's ol' Buck."

Dunne's horse went down on its haunches so savage was the halt that J.D. executed.

"Buck! I thought I'd never find you. Where's Nathan? Ezra's been shot. Mary's with him but he's bleeding somethin' awful. And Vin's out here somewhere. The dogs -- the Count -- hunting......" he trailed off, no longer making any sense to either man and Buck grabbed him by the arm.

"Easy, son! Now what'd you say 'bout Ezra and Vin?"

"The Count shot Ezra, back at the ranch, he needs help. They set the dogs to run after Vin, I came looking for him, tracked the pack for a while then heard the gunshots."

Sanchez looked back towards where they had left Chris and Nathan.

"The dogs were huntin' Vin?"

He exchanged an anguished look with Wilmington as the awful reality dawned. J.D. missed the significant glance.

"That's what I said. I was tracking him," he began again, breathlessly.

Buck released his grip on the younger man's arm and dropped his gaze.

"It's okay, J.D. I think we've found Vin."

Chris had stopped twice already, concerned for his passenger but Vin had merely cursed him for a fool, insisting that he was man full grown and did not need Chris to be lookin' out for him every five minutes. Larabee had smiled, reassured by the Texan's feisty attitude and had continued knowing every jarring mile was an ordeal for the injured bounty hunter.

Nathan had given up on both men, understanding that talking sense to either of them was useless. He could only tag along and be ready to pick up the pieces at the end. Vin was in no shape to be taking off on a wild night ride but there was no stopping the stubborn Texan once he had his mind set. Larabee was no better; disposition of a country mule and the attitude of an ornery mountain grizzly. No dealin' with that kind of man, not if you wanted to stay in one piece. So they rode.

"Riders at two o'clock!" J.D. saw them first and smoothly changed direction.

The two groups of riders coalesced, horses milling as breathless voices exchanged information.

"Ezra's been shot," yelled Buck, "At the ranch. Needs you Nathan."

The healer looked from Vin to Buck, indecision clearly etched on his face. J.D. kneed his horse forward and clutched Jackson's arm.

"Nathan! Ezra's dyin'. He's shot!" His voice was frantic. "The bullet went clean through his back."

Chris turned to the healer.

"Go. Now!" It was an order that brooked no argument. "We'll catch up. Buck go with him."

Wilmington nodded, his face grave, and joined the healer as they urged their already tired mounts to feats of greater endurance in a race against time that neither man was prepared to lose.

In spite of the overwhelming temptation to race after the two men, Chris kept a tight rein on his own horse and in doing so forced Josiah and J.D. to match his pace.

"You lost the woman?" This directed at Sanchez.

Josiah nodded but understood that there was no censure in Larabee's voice, just grim resignation. The preacher knew the reaction would be different in the cold light of day, when Vin was safe and, God-willing, Ezra too. He also knew the gunfighter would never allow what had transpired this day to go unpunished. Vengeance was a strong motivator and Larabee knew the emotion too well to disregard it, although he would consider it justice. In this case, Josiah felt he was bound to agree.

"We can start afresh in the morning, Chris. Spell the horses and get some rest. We'll find them both."

He saw Chris nod. Tomorrow.

"What happened with Ezra, J.D.?" asked Vin quietly, "I knew somethin' had happened when that hellcat started talkin' like he was dead." He looked searchingly at J.D. "He ain't dead is he?"

"No, Vin. He ain't dead. Leastways he wasn't when I left. Mary was tendin' him."

Chris' head came up with a snap.

"Mary?"

"Shoot, Chris. Don't ask me! I'm just glad she fronted up, else we'd've been in real deep trouble."

Larabee remained silently contemplative and the group continued without speaking, taking their lead from the gunman. For all of them it was simply too much to deal with. For now they would just concentrate on taking one step at a time, and the first one was getting back to the ranch.

**********

Buck hit the ground running before his horse had even stopped, charging up the steps and through the front door, crashing noisily into empty room before bringing up short in the doorway of the salon staring down the business end of a wicked-looking pistol being pointed at him by none other than Mary Travis. He back-pedalled several steps and put both hands out in front of his chest, a warding gesture.

"Whoa, there, Mary! It's ol' Bucklin here. Don't go gettin' twitchy now."

She lowered the gun and wiped her forehead with her sleeve.

"My God, you scared me, Buck!"

He moved forward and gently removed the pistol from her hand.

"Not half as much as you scared me," he admitted softly, placing the gun on the table.

His gaze travelled to the floor, first to Ezra then on to the very dead Count von Hohenstaffel and finally back to Mary.

"He was going to kill, Ezra," she said by way of explanation, "I shot him."

Buck raised an expressive eyebrow and crossed to briefly check the body before turning his attention to the gambler.

"You've been a busy lady, Miz Travis." His voice held a note of grudging admiration.

She inclined her head and knelt at the Southerner's head, gently stroking his face.

"Ezra," she called softly.

Nathan, still breathing heavily from his sprint to the house, slid into place at Mary's side and dropped his saddlebags on the floor.

"How long since he got shot?"

Mary looked up.

"About three hours I think, maybe more. I managed to stop the bleeding but he'd already lost a lot of blood before I got here."

The healer nodded approvingly.

"You done good, Mrs. Travis. Real good." He looked across at Wilmington. "I think we should move him somewhere more comfortable where I can get a good look."

"That sounds an eminently agreeable suggestion, Mr. Jackson, which I for one wholeheartedly endorse. Preferably a feather bed but at this moment I confess any available surface which is not as unyielding as this floor will be sufficient."

Nathan smiled, for once glad to hear the Southerner's verbosity.

"Come on, Buck. Help me get him onto the sofa. Mary can you bring the lamp?"

Mary sat quietly on a chair beside the sleeping man. The healer had painstakingly cleaned and bandaged his wounds before Buck, in a search of the house, had found a bottle of tincture of opium. Nathan had immediately given a dose of the pain killer to the exhausted Southerner who had drifted off into a deep sleep within minutes.

Buck followed Nathan out to the yard and pumped the water for him while he washed Ezra's blood from his hands.

"Is he gonna be alright, Nathan?"

The healer shook his head.

"Can't say, Buck. Don't know what that bullet did on its way through. I ain't no doctor." He scrubbed his arms and hands then rinsed his face and sat down on the edge of the trough, his head in his hands.

Wilmington leaned on the pump handle and watched Jackson for a few moments.

"What is it, Nathan?" he prompted gently, "There's something you're not sayin'."

Jackson sighed heavily, his face a picture of doubt.

"Remember Mort Brooks?"

"The cowpoke from the Butler place that broke his back? What's that got to do with Ezra."

"Well, I don't know I'm getting this right but Mort couldn't feel nothin' in his legs after that accident."

"That's right. Never walked again. Finally blew his brains out with his own shotgun."

"Well, I'm thinking Ezra can't feel nothin' either. He can't move his legs."

Buck straightened.

"That can't be. Ezra didn't break his back. He got shot."

Jackson shook his head, his uncertainty plain.

"No but that bullet went mighty close to his backbone. Might've done somethin."

Wilmington started to pace distractedly, finally wheeling to face Jackson again.

"You sure about this, Nathan."

The healer stood up and hung his head.

"Ain't sure about nothing, Buck. Hell, I don't know nothin'! I just know Ezra can't feel anything from the waist down."

Buck swallowed hard as the implications sank in.

"Nothin' at all?"

"Nope. I really think Ezra's paralysed."

"Does he know?"

Nathan smiled sadly.

"I reckon, but you know Ezra. Wouldn't say nothing even if he had to crawl."

Buck dug his hands in his pocket, his voice soft.

"Maybe would've been kinder to let him go, Nathan."

The healer raised troubled eyes to the ladies' man.

"Can't let a man die, Buck. That's not for me to decide."

"Ezra won't thank you for it."

Nathan shrugged.

"I can live with that."

Buck turned away.

"I wonder if Ezra can?"

**********

It was the early hours of the morning before Chris and the others arrived at the von Hohenstaffel spread, horses and man equally spent. The euphoria induced by the ongoing excitement had gradually dissipated leaving all four riders tired and aching, wanting nothing more than to crash into a bunk and sleep till daylight.

The ranch house lights burned brightly and although it was not home and for at least two of the riders held decidedly unpleasant associations it was still a welcoming sight. Chris dismounted and stretched out the kinks in his muscles before offering his hand to help the Texan down. The two men grasped forearms and Tanner slid painfully from the saddle then limped stiffly over to the water pump and working the handle doused his head before drinking his fill from his cupped hands. Leaning heavily on the pump he took several deep breaths before straightening. Chris moved in beside him.

"You alright, pard?"

Vin nodded and managed a crooked grin.

"Reckon I'll feel better once I get into some proper clothes."

Chris nodded and waited for the younger man to precede him into the house, not convinced that the tracker wouldn't still keel over from his injuries, but the wiry Texan it seemed was as resilient as he was stubborn. He looked over his shoulder to find Josiah and J.D. had taken the horses in tow and were heading for the stables. One less chore for him to think about.

Buck launched himself from a delicate chair that looked as if it wouldn't hold his large frame as the two men crossed the threshold. He had been sitting patiently in the hall, the lookout and night watchman. Tired but unable to rest he had stationed himself outside the salon, armed and ready for trouble. One part of him would have welcomed the opportunity to bust a few heads but he had combed the ranch and the servants and ranch-hands had all fled. The bunkhouse and servants quarters all showed signs of the staff hastily pulling up stakes and moving on. The horses had been turned loose and all that remained of any livestock were a few chickens scratching around the yard. It was no more than an empty shell -- a ghost ranch.

"Vin! Chris! Thought you'd decided to go back to town."

"Took it slow," explained Chris unnecessarily, "J.D's plain wore out and my horse was carryin' double. No sense in rushin'."

He cast a glance at the salon door.

"Ezra?"

Buck dropped his gaze.

"Hangin' in there."

"But?"

Larabee could always tell when there was a 'but' with his oldest friend.

"Nathan thinks the bullet did something in his back. He ain't gonna be able to walk."

Chris' expression was unreadable but he squared his shoulders before he walked in to the room, as if assuming a new, heavier burden than the one he already carried.

Vin took hold of Buck's arm as he passed, his blue eyes shadowed with unspoken sorrow.

"Nathan's sure?"

"Pretty sure. He checked him out good and all. Said he's going to call on Dr. Mason in Bitter Creek though."

Tanner sighed.

"Reckon we'll know soon enough with or without a doctor."

"Reckon you're right."

The Texan followed Larabee into the salon, nodding a greeting to Mary, just in time to hear Chris exclaim disbelievingly: "The Count's dead?"

"Dead as a doornail when we got here, Chris. Ezra got a shot at him and Mary here finished him off."

"What?" He looked sharply at the newspaperwoman.

Mary sighed.

"It was nothing. He was going to kill Ezra so I shot him -- in the back."

Chris shook his head trying to get his head around the notion of Mary cold-bloodedly shooting a man.

"I don't rightly hold with the idea of shooting a man in the back, but this time I'll make an exception."

"Thank you, Mr. Larabee. I'm sure Ezra will appreciate the dispensation."

Chris laughed.

"Mary, with a tongue like that you sure don't need a gun."

It was obvious the blonde woman didn't know whether to be amused or take exception to his comment but in the end she smiled, conceding that her own sarcasm had provoked the response in the first place.

"Buck took the body out to the barn," interrupted Nathan. He pointed to a large stain on the wooden floor boards. "Most of that leaked out of the Count, the rest is Ezra's. Had to take the rug up."

"Jesus! Either of 'em got any left?"

Nathan shrugged.

"Gotta say the Count's bled pretty white. Ezra shot him in the neck. He was already dyin' when Mary shot him through the heart."

Chris glanced at Mary.

"You can spare me the details, Nathan. How's Ezra?"

The healer sighed.

"Doesn't seem to have gotten any worse in the last couple of hours. I thought maybe now everyone's here we could get him upstairs and into a bed. At least make him more comfortable." He switched his gaze to Vin. "And I reckon we can do the same for you."

"Rather take my bedroll and sleep outside."

Mary jumped up and looked aghast, moving quickly to his side and placing a hand on his uninjured arm.

"Nonsense, Vin. In fact you're coming with me right now. You need a bath and you need some sleep."

The Texan turned pleading eyes on Larabee who merely smiled.

"She's right, Vin. Reckon if you don't lie down soon we'll be picking you up off the floor. So get."

Nathan agreed and nodded to the woman.

"Thanks Mary, and Vin, just as soon as we get Ezra settled I'll see to you properly."

Tanner knew when he was beaten and allowed Mary to lead him out of the salon and up the stairs.

Josiah had made a pot of coffee which now simmered over the range and five of them sat around the scrubbed wooden table in the kitchen. Mary was upstairs with the two injured men, unwilling to leave either of them for long. J.D. had been glad to get out of the salon and now sat drinking coffee generously laced with some of the Count's brandy which Chris had liberated from the cabinet and which now stood, severely depleted, in the centre of the table.

Chris was still trying to put together the pieces from the individual stories in an attempt to see the whole picture. Their knowledge of what had happened to Vin was patchy. They guessed he had been ambushed on the way to Mercyville and had spent three days incarcerated somewhere on the property. Ezra had been selected as the instrument by which they could initiate their insane game and once he was induced to play against von Hohenstaffel there was no alternative for him but to continue. That the Count and his sister had already practiced the hunt was obvious from the murder of the McKenzie boy and once J.D. had mentioned the missing youths from Mercyville Chris believed that somewhere on the huge spread they would eventually find two, if not more bodies.

Larabee splashed more brandy into his cup, quite aware that he was drinking more alcohol than coffee and not caring in the least -- after all there was plenty more where that came from. He swirled the dark liquid around in the bottom of his cup. He hated to leave anything unfinished and there were too many loose ends to this business. Katrin von Hohenstaffel for one. He shuddered at the thought of the woman roaming free. Would she dare come back to the ranch house? The hounds were still out there and he wondered how much livestock would be killed before they could be brought down. He would have to organise a posse to see to it. He rubbed his eyes. Too much still to do.

"I gotta turn in," he confessed finally, "Who'll take first watch?"

Josiah stood up and poured himself another coffee.

"I'll do it. I ain't been chasing over the whole damn countryside all day."

Chris accepted the offer.

"Fine. Give me four hours. I'll bed down in the parlour. J.D.? Buck? Nathan?"

J.D stood up.

"I'll just sleep in the hall. This place gives me the creeps."

"Know what you mean, kid," agreed Buck, "I'm with you."

Nathan sipped his coffee.

"I'll stay a while longer, Chris and keep Josiah company. Got to check on Ezra and Vin soon anyway, and give Mary a break."

Chris tipped his hat.

"Four hours."

Vin knew this room. He had been cared for in this room before he had been imprisoned. Someone had washed him in this very bed. He remembered the smell of lavender and the flocked wallpaper, the soft bed and the heavy drapes. The bed now felt too soft, the air too sweet and if he had not been so exhausted he would have crawled out from under the covers, pulled the quilt around him and slept on the floor. Instead he surrendered and allowed himself to relax pushing away the memories that threatened to suffocate him, focusing on the fact that he was now surrounded by friends rather than enemies.

He had been embarrassed that Mary had insisted on helping him but the bath had soothed away some of the aches and pains, not to mention soaked away some of the filth and she had given him his privacy and left him with his dignity intact. She had washed his hair though and he could still feel her fingers working in the soap, massaging his scalp. He had never realised that having someone else wash your hair could feel so damned good. He threw back the covers, feeling hot and sick again, allowing the cool air to wash over him. These last few days he always seemed to be too hot or too cold. Finally finding some relief and a reasonably comfortable position he dropped into a fitful doze.

He dreamed. Twisted nightmares from the depths of his imagination, that took his fears and made them real. Suffocating in the confines of his prison, earth being shovelled in on him burying him alive, filling his mouth and nose...running endlessly and getting nowhere the howling of a pack of monstrous dogs snapping at his heels, tearing flesh from his body...slavering jaws closing around his throat...Awake. Afraid. Had he screamed? He lay trembling, his body in a lather of sweat as he tried to bring his racing heart back under control. He sat up and gasped in shock as a hand touched his shoulder.

"It's alright, Vin. You were dreaming. Come on. Lie down."

Mary again. Did she never sleep?

"Nathan left this for you to drink."

She put a cup to his lips and he tasted the familiar bitter taste of one of the healer's medicinal teas. He hoped it wasn't something to make him sleep, he wanted to be able to escape from his nightmares not be trapped in a sleep from which he couldn't wake. He drifted off to sleep again feeling the welcome relief of a cool, damp cloth on his forehead. There were no more dreams.

Sleep did not come readily although Chris was so tired his head ached. He had pulled a bolster from the ornate chaise lounge, wrapped himself in his duster, and stretched out on the rug but his overactive brain refused to succumb. He turned onto his side and stared at the wall. The ghostly face of the Countess slowly formed before his eyes emerging eerily from the darkness, and he was on his feet with his gun drawn and cocked before he realised that he was staring at an oil painting. He laughed, a short bark that sounded strained even to himself and although he released the hammer on the Colt he didn't holster it. Moving to the window he pulled back the drapes, flooding the room with pale moonlight and walked back to stand in front of the portrait studying the woman who had caused such havoc. The face was not classically beautiful but there was no doubt about it, the woman was striking in appearance. The artist had captured not only her looks but her very essence; not only the sultry, sensuousness that he remembered so well but the hint of cruelty in the full, pouting mouth and the hardness in the almond-shaped eyes. No doubt her seductive charms had been put to good use on many occasions. He looked away. Pity it was only a painting. Chris wanted the woman so much he could taste it -- he wanted to be the one to put a bullet through her.

"Mercenary bitch!"

He realised he had spoken aloud, venting his anger, and the force of his own emotions startled him. He had never shot a woman. Had never needed to, or wanted to, but he knew without any doubt that he would have no hesitation in pulling the trigger and sending this murdering hellcat to her Maker. He bent to retrieve his duster from the floor and tossed the bolster back onto the chaise with a sigh. There would be no sleep for him in this room tonight and with a final glance at the now mocking Countess he strode out into the hall and bedded down by the front door. Surprisingly, he slept, exhaustion finally winning out, but his hand never once strayed from his gun.

**********

Ezra believed he fully understood what it felt like to be skewered with a hot poker. The Count's bullet had reamed a searing path through his rib cage starting low in his chest on the left side and exiting in the small of his back and while the gambler had considered himself fortunate to still be alive to feel pain he was quickly beginning to revise his initial estimation of his apparent good fortune. Having spent the best part of half an hour focusing his energies on trying to move either leg just a fraction of on inch with no success he had come to the disagreeable conclusion that he was indeed crippled. As he paused to consider the irrevocable truth of his affliction two distinct feelings fought for supremacy: dread and melancholy. A profound sense of loss washed over him in a rolling wave of emotion, leaving in its wake such a deep well of sorrow, that for the first time in his life he wished for death.

Nathan stood silently at the door, guiltily observing the injured Southerner whose emotions were so clearly on display, his thoughts for once as readable as an open book. He felt his own sense of inadequacy keenly knowing that he had no skill that would help the gambler and that he had no answers for him. With a sigh he tapped on the door and crossed to the bedside. He would do the only thing he knew how, try and take away some of the hurt but he seriously doubted that anything he could say or do would alleviate the kind of pain that Ezra was feeling.

He carried the lamp to the table and leaned over the wounded man.

"Didn't think you'd be awake yet. Sorry I wasn't here."

Ezra raised a hand and waved away the healer's apology.

"No matter, Mr. Jackson. I have merely been passing the time in idle thought. I believe time is something of which I am shortly to have a surfeit, is it not?"

"You're gonna be fine, Ezra. Now let me take a look at these bandages."

Ezra laughed.

"Mr. Jackson, you are an incredibly poor liar. Something is most definitely amiss in that I am unable to feel or move my legs. That in itself hardly justifies your optimistic prognosis of "fine"."

Nathan hung his head as he started to cut away the bandages.

"I'm sorry. I just don't know enough, Ezra. I think the bullet clipped your backbone and did some damage. You need to see a proper doctor."

Jackson was surprised when the Southerner laid a hand on his arm, an unusually affectionate gesture for the gambler.

"Nathan, that would hardly change things. Knowing why something happened does not necessarily alter the result. Can a 'real' doctor undo what has already been done any more than you can?"

The healer covered the elegantly manicured hand with his own, unable to answer the question but his silence only served to confirm to the injured man the hopelessness of his situation. Jackson focused his attention on the bullet wounds once more only interrupting his ministrations to pour a generous measure of opium for the gambler. The least he could offer the troubled Southerner was some ease from the pain and the blessed release of sleep.

**********

Four hours had been Larabee's instructions, so it was that at first light Josiah gently shook the gunfighter's shoulder. Chris was awake in an instant, tensed and aware but quickly relaxing as he recognised his surroundings and the man leaning over him. The entire sequence from first touch to full awareness took less than a second and Josiah wondered at how the response would have differed if he had not been a friend. Even for Chris this morning's reaction was impressive, he was sure on a hair trigger this time around.

"Coffee's on."

Chris groaned, rested but hardly refreshed, deciding he could probably have spent a more comfortable night on his bedroll under the stars, and got to his feet.

"Be right there."

Ten minutes later, Buck found him outside, stripped to the waist and washing at the water pump. The mustached man stretched and glanced at the sun tipping over the horizon, an explosion of colour sending bands of pink and gold across the pale morning sky.

"Shaping up to be another hot one, pard."

Larabee shrugged back into his shirt, the fabric sticking to his still wet skin and slung his gunbelt over his shoulder.

"Reckon it's you, me, J.D. and Josiah. You want to split up or stick together."

Buck shook his head.

"You're really gonna do this aren't you? You know she's probably a long ways gone by now."

Larabee's head came up, eyes hard.

"You not up to this, Buck?"

Wilmington raised his hands in supplication, recognising the dangerous mood in his friend.

"I'm with you. Just think we could use a few more men."

Chris tucked in his shirt tails and savagely cinched his gun belt around his hips.

"Fine! Just get Ezra and Vin out here and saddled up. Maybe Mary too?"

Buck ducked his head. When Chris was being reasonable he was hard to deal with, when he was being unreasonable he was impossible.

"Mary mightn't be such a bad idea," he observed wickedly, "Don't have no objection to shootin' a man in the back neither."

Larabee's glare could have melted brass but Buck knew when it was time to quit and with a grin he turned on his heel and ran up the front steps shouting for J.D.

"Where the hell do you think you're goin'?"

Tanner jogged down the steps, with a little more care than usual but otherwise resembling pretty much the old Vin. He was dressed in reasonably fitting tan moleskins, a white shirt that was just a little too large, a pair of shiny black boots and, unless Chris was mistaken, sported Ezra's gunbelt with the Remington in the holster. With his injuries concealed the only sign of his ordeal were the dark circles under his eyes and the feverish flush to his cheeks.

"First off, you need me. Second, ain't no way I'm gonna let you have that lady all to yourself."

Larabee looked up at Jackson who had followed the tracker out onto the porch.

"Nathan?"

"I ain't gonna be the one to try and stop him. You know he's got a head as thick as a mule."

"It's not his head I'm worried about."

The Texan turned to the gunfighter his icy blue stare brooking no argument.

"Look, Chris. I know we're friends an' all but, no offence, I ain't your responsibility. I'll either ride with you or I'll ride after you but I'm going along come what may. If I feel like shit, or fall off my goddamn horse then that's my problem but I'm going after that murderous bitch or I'll die in tryin'."

Larabee traded glares with the bounty-hunter for several seconds before nodding. Sentiments like that he could understand. Satisfied, Vin walked stiffly across to the stable and Chris referred to Nathan again.

"He goin' to be alright?"

"Only Vin knows how Vin feels, I've patched up everything I can but he's gonna be pretty sore for a few days yet. Just keep an eye on him, Chris."

Vin had saddled up Ezra's horse appropriating his rifle as well as his tack and was already mounted when he came out of the stable. Chris suspected that it was because it had been a real effort for him to mount up but said nothing. As Vin had already pointed out, it wasn't his responsibility.

Nathan took off his hat and threw it to the tracker.

"Here, you're gonna need this, Vin, unless you want to end up with sunstroke as well."

Tanner nodded his thanks and settled the wide brimmed hat on his head, then looked at the other four men.

"We waitin' on somethin' in particular, or we gonna move sometime today?"

Chris finally broke into a grin and shook his head before gathering up the reins and spurring his horse forward.

"Let's go, boys, 'fore Vin gets his fancy drawers into a knot."

The laughter drifted back to the healer and he hoped that they would still have something to laugh about at the end of the day.

The big horse stood perfectly still, so still that horse and rider might have been carved out of black marble, rather than the living flesh and blood that they were. The woman had shed her hat, veil and hunting jacket and now wore only the long skirt and white blouse of her riding habit. She had unpinned her long hair and it hung in waves over her shoulders. It had been a hard ride but she had lost her pursuers quickly, their mounts no match for the mighty Kaiser. She leaned forward and patted the animal's neck causing him to arch his neck and toss his head in response. Katrin shifted slightly in the saddle and nudged the horse forward. No more running. She wondered if it was safe to go back to the house. Surely Erik would have taken care of things by now. So inconvenient. Damn that Southern stud! She smiled wickedly, suddenly recalling the wonderful smoothness of his chest and the criss-cross ridges of scars on his back. How she would have loved the opportunity to pleasure that man. Pity Erik had shot him. She thought back to the one she had hunted last night. He indeed had been a man. Handsome, if a little rough, strong and fearless. So sad he had to die. They all died in the end. With a heavy sigh she glanced towards the sunrise. Time to go home.

The Texan slid down from his horse again, and crouched in the dust his hand tracing a shape on the ground. Chris leaned on the pommel of his saddle and waited for the tracker to offer a verdict. They had covered a lot of ground, followed a lot of tracks but Chris was no longer sure that they ever really had a chance of catching up with Katrin and he was ready to call it quits, but Vin was like a dog with a bone. He had been up and down off that horse, each painful manoeuvre wearing him down, until the gunfighter thought the exhausted tracker would never be able to climb back into the saddle again.

They were all tired and distracted and Chris wondered if he shouldn't send the others back. He and Vin would continue in the hope of picking up her trail again.

Tanner suddenly straightened and looked away towards the south, taking a few steps forward and trailing his horse by the reins. Squatting on his heels again he cast his keen gaze in a circle and laughed softly.

"Son of a bitch!"

Chris exchanged puzzled glances with the other four men and moved forward.

"Vin?"

The Texan stood up.

"She ain't goin' west, boys. She's goin' home."

"What?"

"She cut around in a big circle here," he swept his arm around taking in most of the distance they had covered in the last twenty minutes, "Tracks here are coming back, she's crossed her own trail and these are going back that way. I'm telling you she's headed for home."

"You're sure. She's not just laying a false trail?"

The Texan looked as if Wilmington had just indecently propositioned him, which as far as Vin was concerned he had.

"You sayin' I can't read a sign?"

Buck sighed. Everyone was so goddamned touchy.

"That's not what I'm sayin', Vin but this is one tricky lady."

Vin pushed back his borrowed hat and squinted up at the mustached man.

"Tricky, maybe but she ain't too smart."

Chris looked back over his shoulder his eyes shadowed with doubt and worry. The ranch. He started to turn his horse.

"Don't know about that, Vin. Maybe she is the smart one after all. We're the ones sitting out here, while she's on her way back to the ranch! She's still way ahead of us whichever way you look at it."

Vin stood beside his horse preparing to mount and rested a hand on the horn, his head down, too tired to get back up in the saddle

"Sorry, Ezra."

Chris heard the barely audible whisper and in a sudden movement jumped from his own horse and strode across to Vin, grabbing him bodily and almost throwing him into the saddle.

"Not yet! Ain't finished yet, Cowboy. Not by a long shot."

The gunfighter remounted and savagely dug his spurs in sending the animal forward in a burst of speed that was quickly emulated by the other four riders, the start of a desperate race to an uncertain finish.

**********

Ezra had found an escape. He had discovered that the opium not only eased the pain of his wounds it eased the pain in his soul. The contents of the small bottle on the nightstand had become the most desirable elixir in the world. He could even reach it if he leaned over and stretched just a little; certainly the action sent fresh waves of pain through his back and side but such a small discomfort really. He shifted his shoulders and reached out towards the object of his undivided attention, ignoring the tightening down his side inching closer until his fingers were within reach of the medicine. He hesitated as his gaze fell on the pistol -- Mary's pistol -- resting next to the bottle on the little table. Slowly he changed direction and his hand closed over the butt of the heavy weapon, drawing it towards him. A different kind of escape had offered itself to him. Breathing heavily from the exertion he lifted the gun and rolled his upper body back onto the bed, allowing his hand and the gun to fall loosely on the coverlet by his leg. Maybe he had found the answer after all. For a long moment he looked at the ugly weapon then held it up and emptied out the cartridges. Slowly, thoughtfully, he selected one and loaded it into the gun before snapping it shut and spinning the chamber. He had always been a gambler and the odds of five to one were pretty much in his favour. This then would decide his fate. Not quite the turn of a card but then one had to make do. Sadly he brought back the hammer and felt it click satisfyingly into place. He had found the means, now all he had to find was the courage.

**********

Nathan walked slowly from the stables and tried to imagine what it would be like not to be able to do that. Walking was something everyone took for granted but with each step he thought more and more of Ezra and how little he had been able to do for him. He didn't even know if the paralysis was likely to be permanent or not. He knew of similar wounds in the war that had healed and allowed the men to walk again. He decided that as soon as Chris and the others came back that he would ride over to Bitter Creek and talk to Dr. Mason. The doctor knew Ezra, and Nathan was hoping that as well as giving him some advice on treatment he would be able to talk to him. He had seen some men who were crippled, especially in the war, who either just gave up and died or who had found a way to take their own lives. Ezra was an intelligent man; he would have already weighed the consequences and realised that there was more to being paralysed than just being unable to walk, it meant the loss of control of his bodily functions too. He paused and sat for a moment on the porch steps. Hard thing for a grown man to take and no argument. He wondered whether it might not be best to let Mary tend him for a while, then again that might just make things worse. Damn. He didn't know what the right thing to do was any more. How did you talk to a proud man about such things? Ezra would die rather than lose his dignity.

The healer experienced a moment of dreadful insight. Would he really rather die? A man like Ezra certainly might consider it an option. Had Buck been right after all? Would he have rather died than survive and reamin a cripple? He wondered if he should sit with the gambler; just in case he got any ideas into that stubborn Southern head of his. The man could be as difficult as Vin when he wanted to be. He glanced up as a rustle of skirts announced Mary's arrival.

"You been to see Ezra, Mrs. Travis?"

She wiped her hands on the apron she had appropriated from the kitchen.

"I looked in about an hour ago and he was sleeping. I gave him some more medicine if that's alright. He was hurting so much."

Nathan frowned.

"That's mighty powerful stuff, Mary. Have to watch how much he's takin'. A man can get too much of a good thing."

Mary smiled and laid a hand in his arm.

"I know, Nathan, but I don't think that's our main concern at the moment."

The healer ducked his head.

"No. You're right. At least when he's sleepin', he ain't hurtin'.

The newspaperwoman sat down on the step beside Jackson, her face a picture of sorrowful concern.

"He will be alright won't he, Nathan? He seems to have suffered so much."

"Done had his share of misfortune lately, Mrs. Travis and no mistake. Truth is I can't say. The wounds are clean, but there's an awful lot of swelling in his back. Leastwise I didn't have to go digging around for a bullet."

He sighed and stood up.

"If you'll excuse me, Mrs. Travis, I think one of us should stay with him. Ain't no time for him to be alone."

She nodded.

"Of course. Just call if you need anything."

The room was light and airy, drapes pulled back and the window opened but Ezra appreciated none of it. He was in twilight world filled with dark thoughts. The gun weighed heavily in his hand but he dared not relinquish it. He had hidden the brass cartridges under the feather mattress but he had kept a tight grip on the pistol. What he would do when Nathan came to change the bandages he had not quite decided but only because it was getting harder to follow his thoughts through to a logical conclusion. For now it was enough that he had the means to choose his own destiny and not even Mr. Jackson was going to interfere with that.

His fingers located the wound in his side and he wondered how something so small and insignificant could reduce him to his current sorry condition. He had almost bled his life away through that small hole, that and the troublesome wound in his back that he could not see or touch, instead he had been saved from that fate to endure a greater horror. A living nightmare where he was reduced to being half a man, or no man at all considering he was about as much use as a eunuch, the indignity of being reliant on others for his every need and the knowledge that before long he would be soiling himself like an infant. He would have pulled the gun from under the covers then and loaded every chamber forgetting the game of Russian roulette he had planned but he heard heavy footsteps on the landing and relaxed his hand. There would be time enough.

The healer carried a tray of food and Ezra hoped that he wouldn't be expected to eat. The idea set his stomach roiling in vigorous protest. He turned his head to the wall and closed his eyes, withdrawing.

"Ezra, come on. You've got to eat. Mary made some broth and there's some barley water."

"My dear Mr. Jackson, I trust you do not expect me to partake of such bland and disgusting pap?" He was surprised that his words were slurred and it took him an inordinate amount of time to articulate the sentence.

He heard Nathan set down the tray on the side table and felt the man's hand first on his forehead then unceremoniously peeling his eyelids back one after the other. He chose not to protest, realising just how weak he really was and submitting as Nathan proceeded to hold a cup to his lips. He understood from the aroma that it was one of the healer's medicinal teas and the bitter brew made him grimace and his stomach flutter uncertainly but he kept it down.

"Ezra, look at me. You can't keep pretending I'm not here."

The man was undeniably persistent.

"Would that it were possible, Mr. Jackson," he retorted waspishly, bringing a smile to the healer's face. At least he still had some fight left in him. "However you seem determined to torment me."

He sighed and opened his eyes, shadowed sockets in a pale face accentuating the brilliant green of his irises. Nathan sat on the edge of the bed and gently checked the dressing on his side. He obediently turned his upper body towards the wall to give Jackson access to the wound in his back, conscious of the fact that his legs remained stubbornly in position, useless appendages.

"Still a lot of swelling, Ezra. Is it still paining you?"

"It would cause me much less distress Mr. Jackson if you did not insist on regularly manhandling my injuries."

Jackson helped him back and replaced the pillows so that he was reclining against the headboard in a nest of feather bolsters.

"Sorry, Ezra, but got to keep a check. Don't want you to start bleeding again or for those wounds to fester. Now are you going to have some of this broth or do I have to feed it to you myself?"

The Southerner glanced at Jackson as if calculating the possibility of him carrying out his threat and deciding he was not prepared to take the chance released his grip on the gun and held out his hand.

"Be it upon your head if this returns with interest, Mr. Jackson. I confess that I feel decidedly unwell."

"That's likely the opium," explained Nathan, "You'll feel better with something in your stomach."

"As long as it stays there," the gambler muttered, irritably.

He finished the broth, complained about the barley water, asked for a whiskey chaser and was promptly refused by a stern-faced Jackson.

"You must be feelin' better," he observed drily, "You're starting to complain already."

"How fares Mr. Tanner. I understand from Miz Travis that he was somewhat worse for wear after an altercation with a rather large canine."

Jackson sighed still annoyed that the tracker had chosen to ignore his injuries and ride off on a wild goose chase.

"Damned fool, don't know when to lie down and stay put," he grumbled, "Can't hardly get himself up on a horse and he's gone off traipsing halfway across the territory looking for that woman!"

Ezra leaned back and stared down at his toes, suddenly envious of the Texan.

"A fool's errand indeed, Mr. Jackson as I have no doubt that the woman, if she has any sense at all, is now many miles from here."

Jackson shrugged.

"I hope you're right, Ezra."

Something was definitely wrong.

The horse stopped and pawed the ground impatiently but she held him on a tight rein. No activity. No sign of life at all in fact. The corral was empty, its gate standing open and for a very brief moment she mourned the loss of her horses. They had gone -- the servants, the caballeros -- craven cowards all of them! Cold fury in her eyes she scanned the again the ranch house. Someone would pay for this! Slowly she walked the horse down the shallow incline and drew the shotgun from its scabbard. If there was anyone still remaining who had not run away, they would soon wish that they had. Dismounting she secured the stallion behind the barn and crept along the wall, slipping noiselessly through the slightly open door.

Katrin's nose twitched. Blood. She smelled blood and the slight whiff of corruption. Something dead. In the musty darkness she padded softly to where Kia, the falcon, was still sleeping hooded and secured to its perch. Quietly she released the thongs and slipped off the hood, watching as the big bird blinked its eyes and swivelled its head looking keenly around the barn.

"Go," she whispered, "Fly free."

She turned and looked around. Death was here. She walked slowly her eyes sweeping the straw-covered floor. There. She stopped, not breathing. An untidy bundle dropped in the corner. Her hand came slowly to her mouth. Erik? Several slow steps and she was looking down on the grey, slack-featured face of her brother. The salon carpet was thrown partly across him and she could smell the blood, rich and rank. Erik. Kneeling she touched the marbled cheek. Cold as ice. Gently she stroked the blond hair falling lankly across his brow, ignoring the gaping wound in his neck. In a last gesture of farewell she kissed her gloved fingers and touched them to his blued lips. Someone would definitely pay for this. Holding the shotgun loosely under her left arm she moved out of the barn; searching, stalking, hunting.

The woman was very blonde. She was throwing corn to the scattered chickens in the yard who promptly milled around her feet clucking and flapping. Katrin marked her for later attention and, unseen, continued around the back of the house and through the back door. She scanned the kitchen offended that strangers were using her house so casually. Peasants! There had been two horses in the stable, so there was at least one other person in the house. Her house. There was a sound from the stairs and she moved quietly into the salon, concealing herself behind the door.

The black, one of Herr Standish's friends she recalled, jogged down the stairs with a tray in his hands and turned towards the kitchen. Making themselves very much at home. Quickly and quietly she moved lightly up the steps and onto the landing, darting out of sight then checking through the rooms. One door was open and she slid sinuously along the wall to peep around the jamb.

Katrin almost laughed. It was too delicious for words. Herr Standish. Ezra. In bed. She could see the white bandage above his waist, a spot of blood showing at his right side and her delight increased. She shuddered, remembering the feel of his skin against her fingers and wondered if he would still object to her caresses. She watched a moment longer and decided that he was probably in no condition to object to anything. Breathless with anticipation she moved along the upstairs hall. Yes, indeed. Someone was going to pay.

Nathan yawned and stretched, more tired than he cared to admit. Between tending Vin and watching over Ezra he'd had precious little sleep and it was finally catching up with him. Not quite dead on his feet he thought it might be time to at least catch an hour or so while everything was quiet. He strolled out to the yard and caught up with Mary, yawning wide enough to crack his jaw before he could speak. He apologised.

"Sorry, Mrs, Travis but I've just got to get some sleep. Will you be alright with Ezra? I just tended him and he although he cussed and moaned he did have the broth." He chuckled. "Even asked me for a shot of whiskey from that hip flask of his."

She brushed the chicken feed from her hands and walked with the healer back towards the house.

"Don't worry, I'll be fine."

"I'm sure you will, ma'am. I'll be bunking down in the parlor if you need me."

That the wiry Texan was still in the saddle was as much a surprise to him as it was to the other four men and more attributable to tenacity than common sense. The punishing pace was beginning to tell and once or twice he had almost slipped from the saddle; now Chris rode almost knee to knee with him and he knew the gunslinger would see to it that he did not fall. The anticipation of putting a bullet, or several if necessary, into the woman and ending her poisonous life kept all other thoughts at bay; thoughts of the heat that consumed his body, thoughts of the sickness that rose in waves from his stomach, thoughts of the raging pain in his arm and the ache in his head. He had killed women before -- some of them were worse than the men he'd claimed bounty on, some had tried to kill him first -- doing it again would not be difficult and in this case it would be more like killing a rabid animal. He would look upon it as performing a public service. That Chris was in a similar frame of mind he did not doubt but this one was his and his alone. What was it that Josiah was so fond of reminding them: vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord? Well, the Lord would have to stand back this time unless He had taken to dispensing justice with a forty-five and got there before Vin Tanner, 'cos with all due respect to the Almighty he didn't have time to wait. He felt a grip like a vice on his upper arm and shifted his seat. Damn! He had almost done it again. He spared a grateful nod to Larabee and dug in his knees. Jesus, how much further could it be?

Tanner almost slid from the saddle as Chris sharply reined his own horse in and simultaneously grabbed for the other horse's bridle before the Texan, unheeding, charged on alone. He barely saved himself by grabbing the horse's mane, wincing as his crotch slammed into the unyielding pommel.

"Goddamn it, Chris!"

Larabee dismounted and Vin had no choice but to follow suit as a the same powerful grip that had kept him in the saddle jerked him out of it, and pulled him down onto the ground. It finally registered that they were behind a small rise that backed onto the von Hohenstaffel ranch house. J.D. took the reins from his hand, gathering up the horses and ground tethering them a few yards up the track, out of sight.

"Keep your head down," snapped the gunfighter, "No good charging in there all piss and vinegar, stirring up the pot. Gotta play this smart, Cowboy."

Vin got down beside Larabee and peered down into the natural depression wishing he had his spy glass. His spy glass, his mare's leg, his buckskins...shit, that bitch owed him good. His body protested as he shimmied forward on his elbows and he wondered if he would be able to get up again. Being on a horse was one thing, trying to get his abused body to co-operate on foot was something else entirely. Larabee was giving instructions and he saw Josiah and Buck peel off in opposite directions, J.D. was pointing over to the east and Vin followed his line of sight. The black stallion had been tethered in the shade behind the barn, almost out of sight but not quite. The fleeting thought crossed his mind that he'd make a tracker out of Dunne yet.

"Come on, Vin. You stick with me. J.D. cover us." Any concerns about getting up from the ground immediately vanished as Chris unceremoniously hauled him to his feet and dusted him off. "You with me, pard?"

Tanner unholstered his borrowed gun -- Ezra's gun -- and focused his attention on the ranch house.

"All the way, Cowboy. Lets' go."

Mary did not like the house. She found its overbearing opulence distasteful although she remembered that a child and a young woman she had too lived in such splendid surroundings. She smiled inwardly wondering when she had changed from an Eastern belle into a simple frontierswoman. Stephen had been responsible for that. New Mexico territory had been an eye-opener for her but she had risen to the challenge and now actually relished her independence. It had been difficult and losing Stephen had not made it any easier but she had come to terms with his passing and she felt that her decision to remain in the territory rather than return back east to her family had been justified many times over.

She certainly did not like the house now it was empty. The sensation of being alone in a hostile environment pressed upon her and although she kept reminding herself that she was safe, that Nathan was just a few rooms away, her unease persisted. The recollection that she had shot a man, had contributed to his death, made her shudder involuntarily and she wondered how it felt for someone like Chris, or Vin even, who had killed so many in the course of their lives. She did not feel guilt; the man had been about to kill Ezra and had been responsible for the horrors inflicted on Vin, but she did feel as if somehow the experience had sullied her.

Dragging her thoughts back to the present she listened to the creakings and minute noises of the rambling house and could not help but wonder when the others were going to return. More than anything she wanted to get back to town, to the newspaper, to normality and forget what she had seen and done over the past twenty-four hours. With a sigh she moved towards the stairs and slowly ascended. Ezra. She could at least try to offer some comfort to the Southerner, although she did not know what would be the right thing to say to a man who had within a moment of time gone from being a vigorous, sophisticated and charming rogue to an invalid, robbed of his vitality by a small piece of lead no bigger than a pea.

On the landing she paused. Movement? She hoped Ezra was not about to try anything foolish' if he should try to get out of bed she had no idea what damage he might do.

"Ezra?"

Mary, suddenly aware that something was not right, whirled and connected with the butt of a rifle slamming against the side of her head. A split second of coloured flashes exploded before her eyes before darkness descended and she crumpled bonelessly to the floor.

He had been dozing. Nathan had been right, the food had made him feel better and the disgusting herbal brew had chased away his headache and, he believed, reduced his fever. At first he had been more than a little piqued that the healer had pocketed the opium bottle on his last visit, removing the temptation for him to slip away from harsh reality, but with his head clearer his despair did not seem quite so overwhelming. It was warm and sunny, and he actually felt some degree of comfort in reclining against downy softness in fact if the crushing weight of his affliction had not been so great he might actually have enjoyed the luxury of lying abed in the middle of the day. Since his change in career it had been an aspect of his former life which he had missed the most. His companions invariably rose with the sun and expected him to do the same, with not a care that he had often only fallen into his bed scant hours before after a full night at the gaming table. He recalled that now distant part of his life when he had won and lost fortunes in a single night -- had not he had been something of a legend on the Mississippi -- and had spent nights at the gaming tables and long lazy days in bed, more often than not with a charming companion with whom he could pass the time. A wave of sadness passed over him and he brought his thoughts back to the present. That life was gone and, if he admitted it, in spite of the ready money, the willing Southern belles and the notoriety, he did not miss it as much as he would have others believe. This little backwater that he had wound up in, a brief stopover to replenish his dwindling cash reserves, on his way to California had staked a claim on him in a way that nowhere else in the world had managed. Not Paris, not Vienna, not New York, Boston or any other cosmopolitan city he had passed through in his adult life had managed to hold him in quite the same way that this godforsaken New Mexico widening in the road had done. The difference was not in the location, which in all truth was as hostile and uncivilised as anything he had ever previously experienced, but in the people with which he had been obliged to associate. A loose alliance formed in a time of need had grown into something he had difficulty explaining but the end result had been a strange and unique sense of cameraderie that was almost alien to his very nature. These men had become his friends. He opened his eyes, surprised at the moisture that had gathered and now threatened to spill over, blinked rapidly and was suddenly glad that there was no one to observe his sudden and uncharacteristic display of weakness.

"Ezra?" Mary's voice.

He composed himself, torn between not wanting to be alone but neither wanting to see the pity in Mary's eyes that he knew would be there. He could stand anything but pity.

"Mrs. Travis?" He heard a soft bump and leaned a little way forward curious that Mary had called out to him yet had not appeared. "Mary?"

Damn! He threw back the covers then laughed softly. What exactly was he intending to do? March out into the hall and investigate

"Courage, Ezra," he muttered aloud, "Nothing ventured, nothing gained." He tried not to recall the last time he had used that particular tenet considering it had put him in this very situation and took hold of his right leg.

The effort left him sweating, and he knew he had started his wounds bleeding afresh but he was at least sitting up on the edge of the bed. It was a decidedly odd experience to see his feet planted firmly on the floor but of having no sensation that they were in contact with the polished wooden boards. He glanced behind him at the gun lying in the bed and impulsively reached for it with his left hand and tucked it out of sight under the rumpled covers. It would not do for Mary or Nathan to see that he had been sleeping with a gun in his hand. In truth he was feeling slightly foolish now.

"Mary?" he called again. "Nathan?"

The silence that greeted him sent a flutter of apprehension through him and only served to heighten his sense of complete and utter vulnerability. He slammed the heel of his hand down on his unfeeling thigh, a mark of his frustration. Goddamn it!

"Herr Standish! Please do not get up on my account. After all I am quite aware that you have suffered an accident. In fact I am surprised that you are still alive. Not unhappy you understand, merely surprised."

The cold hand of dread closed over his heart and he found himself looking straight into deep blue eyes that spelled madness and the menacing twin bores of a double barrelled shotgun -- a rather fine 12 bore Purdey if he was not mistaken and capable of removing quite a significant portion of his anatomy. Ezra swallowed and permitted his hands to fall to his sides gripping the edge of the mattress. He had no intention of telling the Countess that he could not have risen on any account even if she had threatened to shoot him where he sat.

"As I indeed am I, my dear. However your brother fired in haste and failed to achieve his objective."

She glanced around the room.

"Your friends. They have gone."

"I believe my worthy associates are currently attempting to ascertain your whereabouts."

She laughed and he moved his left hand closer to the disarranged sheets as if to cover himself. The woman's eyes fell on his state of undress and she smiled lasciviously.

"Please, you are too modest. I take no offence."

His fingers closed around the butt of the gun and he wondered if it would be possible to fire before she could cock her own weapon and pull the triggers. He was a betting man after all and he was prepared to wager that he had faster reflexes but of being then able avoid being cut in half by the explosive power of the shotgun he was not so confident. A bluff then, and when she had four aces and he held a mere deuce that was possibly the only option open to him. He moved with a speed that impressed even himself, the revolver becoming an extension of his arm as he levelled the heavy weapon at the woman. If she was in any way surprised she did not show it.

"Why, Herr Standish. That is no welcome to extend to a lady."

He snorted in amusement.

"That is simply because, my dear, you are no lady."

She sighed sadly.

"I think maybe Erik was right. You have no manners." She raised the shotgun a little to point in the centre of his chest. "A pity it has to end this way."

Ezra realised that in a moment that she would increase the pressure on the triggers and without hesitation he fired -- the hammer falling with an ominous click on an empty chamber.

**********

Vin was spent. Done in. He should have listened to Chris but he had been too ornery, too blasted pig-headed and mulish to listen and Chris had given him the rope that he had now played out far enough to hang himself. Should've stayed behind. Would've been there when the bitch came back. Should've known she would come back. His ears were filled with the sound of his own laboured breathing and his palm was slick with sweat around the butt of the weapon in his hand. Ezra's gun -- just didn't feel right. he missed the comforting weight of the mare's leg in his hand.

"Vin?"

He shook the sweat out of his eyes and threw down Nathan's hat. Didn't feel right. Nothing felt right; like he was wearing not only someone else's clothes but someone else's skin.

"Vin?" More insistent. He dredged the last of his strength from a tiny reserve fuelled by little more than resolve and turned to the source of the voice, an anxious-looking Chris Larabee.

"I'm okay." He focused on the ranch and pointed to the back door. Chris' nod told him he would follow. Buck and Josiah had swung around the front and J.D. was bringing up the rear. Running crabwise and making himself as small a target as possible he crossed the yards of open space and stopped just outside the back door, pressed hard against the jamb. Chris joined him taking the other side of the door and he grinned, the feeling of detachment increasing but his desire for activity driving him on. The blood sang in his veins and his weariness momentarily eased. She was so close he could feel it.

Tanner ran in a crouch along the hall to the foot of the stairs and saw, out of the tail of his eye, Buck skitter through the front door with Josiah close behind. He held out a hand signalling silence and cocked his head to one side, listening, waiting. Definitely voices. He pointed upwards and felt Chris so close behind him that under other circumstances he might have commented about Larabee gettin' a mite too friendly. Now it didn't matter. He took several deep breaths knowing negotiating the stairs was not going to be easy. He didn't fancy being a sitting duck for someone at the top of the stairs with all the advantages. He glanced down the hall again and saw Nathan appear from the front parlor, but his eye caught a sudden glint of light and he realised that the mirror on the hallstand gave him a clear view to the top of the landing. Nothing. He swung around the ornate newel post and crept up the stairs, his heart hammering as he tried to combine stealth with speed and keep himself from getting his fool head from being blown off. By the time he hit the landing and crouched against the wall, checking quickly up and down the hall, the sweat was running down his face and he was feeling light-headed. He wiped his forehead with his shirt sleeve and winced as a stab of pain reminded him that his arm was heavily bandaged for a reason. He brought his ragged breathing under control and tried to pinpoint the sound of the voice. It came again. Ezra.

"...you are no lady."

It sure as hell wasn't Mary he was talking to.

"You got that one right, Ezra," he whispered to himself and edged closer to the next doorway along. The room he knew Nathan was using for the gambler.

Ezra closed his eyes. He was dead. He no longer had a choice to make and now it had been made for him, he knew it was not what he wanted. He heard the woman laugh again and knew that he could not hope to find a loaded chamber before she could cut him down. He had lost his chance. With a sigh of resignation he opened his eyes again, determined that he would not die a coward. A movement on the landing caught his eye; no sound just a momentary flash of black and he understood then that he was not alone but the click of the Countess cocking the hammers rudely reminded him that it was a little too late for him.

"I would say auf wiedersehen but I don't think we will meet again, unless it it in hell."

Ezra mustered his strength and threw himself onto the floor, landing heavily his useless legs dragging behind and brought up his gun in a reflex action as Vin stepped through the door.

"And that's just where you're going lady!"

The first bullet struck her high in the back and she jerked forward, stunned surprise painted on her face, as she reflexively discharged one barrel into the wall. Spinning she turned to face theTexan, blood already welling up in her mouth as she tried to draw a bead on the man who had shot her. The second bullet struck her in the hip and she grunted, staggering from the force of it but stayed on her feet, face twisting in a combination of hate and agony. The Texan took another step forward and fired a third shot. On the floor watching the woman bleed, seeing her finger still curled around the trigger, the awful reality dawned on the Southerner that Vin had no intention of killing her outright. He could have killed her with his first shot but he was making it a slow death, inflicting pain with no intention of showing mercy.

"Dear God, Vin," breathed the gambler, "Finish it!"

The shotgun blasted again as Katrin managed to pull the trigger and the tracker's head jerked to one side as the shot creased his left ear. He fired a fourth time and the woman went onto her knees clutching her belly, her mouth a wide, silent scream.

A figure in black swept into the room roughly shouldering the Texan aside.

"Goddamn, Vin! That's enough!"

In one smooth motion he brought up his gun and delivered the killing stroke through the centre of the forehead, drilling a hole through her brain. Ending it. Slowly she slumped forward and lay still.

Vin stood for a moment, the gun hanging at his side, staring at the body on the floor then so slowly that it was hardly a movement at first he slid down the wall. Finally able to go no further he hit the floor -- blank eyes staring out of an expressionless face -- before his eyes rolled up into his head and he keeled over in a dead faint.

Slowly, sadly Chris dropped to one knee beside the Texan and took the gun from his nerveless fingers before crossing to the fallen gambler and supporting his upper body.

"Ezra? You okay?"

"I'm still alive, Mr. Larabee and for now I believe that is more than I could have hoped for and certainly all I can ask for."

**********

She was not dead. He had emptied his gun and she would not die, but kept coming towards him, her mouth open in a silent scream but instead of sound, thick dark blood kept welling out from between her lips and her finger was pulling back on the trigger. The shotgun exploded and Vin jerked back screaming.

"Nooooo!"

He sat up, panting, the sweat running off him in rivulets, shaking from the rigors of his fever and the memory of his dream. A firm hand pushed him back against the pillows and he felt the welcome feel of a damp cloth on his burning body and a cup at his lips. He drank thirstily but as soon as he had emptied the cup, he craved more.

"She's dead?"

Nathan dipped the rag in the basin and sponged the Texan's sweating body again, feeling the heat from him through the cloth.

"Yes. She's dead."

Some of the tension went out of him but he started to shiver and Nathan knew it was not because he was cold but rather because he was too hot and the fever was reaching a critical phase. All he could do was try and keep the tracker from burning up and hope the fever would break overnight. He poured another cup of medicinal tea, trusting the combination of feverfew and coneflower would bring some results. Vin grabbed the cup in shaking hands and drained it then fell back, his head tossing restlessly from side to side.

"Can I help?"

Nathan glanced up and frowned.

"Mary! You should be restin'. That was quite a whop you took."

The woman fingered the bruise above her right ear and gave a half smile.

"I'm fine, Nathan. Just a headache." She looked down at the sharpshooter. "And I thought you might need some help here."

"Now you sure you're feelin' alright?"

"Positive. Now what can I do?"

Nathan stood up.

"You just sit here, ma'am. Keep washing him down. I need to make some more tea."

Mary gently bathed the man's abused body thinking that she seemed to be making a habit lately of tending to these men. He did not seem to be aware that she was there, in fact at times he seemed to be sleeping and at others he would toss and moan in a fever of delirium. His brown hair hung in lank, damp stands across his forehead and plastered to his neck and she smiled fondly remembering his embarrassment when she had offered to wash it for him -- was it only yesterday? He had been feverish then, now he was truly sick.

Vin rolled his head from side to side, mumbling incoherently but obviously distressed and she started as he struggled to sit up, his eyes suddenly wide with fear.

"She's not dead! Not dead!"

She moved to sit on the edge of the bed and instinctively drew him to her, resting his head on her breast and comforting him as she would her own son, smoothing his hair and murmuring reassurances as she rocked him. He settled, eyes closing and breathing becoming easier so she held him, bracing herself against the headboard of the bed and allowing him to against her. Reaching across to the basin on the night stand she squeezed water from the rag and started bathing his face again.

Nathan smiled at the touching sight as he came back through the door. He could hear Mary murmuring as she stroked Vin's hair and urged him to drink from the cup she held to his lips, then returned to cooling his fever applying the wet cloth on his skin. He set down his herbal decoction and leaned over the tracker, checking his temperature with the back of his hand across his forehead. He looked at the newspaperwoman and shook his head; whatever she was doing was working. There was no doubt that the Texan's state of agitation had lessened if not his fever.

"Looks like you got the magic touch, ma'am. He looks a mite easier than when I left."

Mary rested her cheek against the top of Vin's head and rubbed his back.

"Not magic, Nathan. He's just hurt and afraid. No different to Billy really."

Nathan cocked an amused eyebrow.

"No, ma'am." Except Vin was no little boy as Mary might very well discover if the sheet covering him slipped much further.

Ezra felt extremely vulnerable. Nathan had insisted that he lie on his stomach and rest, so he was face down on the bed, his head cradled on his outstretched arms when Chris walked in. He didn't have to see him, he recognised the jingling spurs. With difficulty he turned his head to face the stern-faced gunfighter, any movement of his upper body currently rewarding him with resultant waves of pain which he had decided to avoid at all costs.

"Please excuse my back, Mr. Larabee, but I am presently indisposed."

The older man dropped into a crouch beside the bed at eye level and held a gun out where Ezra would be able to see it.

"Yours, I think."

Ezra's glance at the weapon was noncommittal.

"I believe you will find that you are in possession of Mrs. Travis' gun."

"You were holding this gun. This is the one I took off you before we got you back into bed."

"Your point is, Mr. Larabee?"

"Could you explain to me why this gun has only one bullet?"

"I would rather refrain from commenting on that particular question. It's no longer of any consequence."

"Then let me tell you, Ezra. You were playing a goddamn game. Now I know you're a bettin' man but 1 to 5 are pretty slim odds when you're gamblin' with your life!" He angrily set the chamber spinning and pointed the gun just above the Southerner's head. "Let's see whether you would have drawn a losin' hand, Ezra."

He pulled the trigger and the gambler tensed as the hammer fell loudly on an empty chamber.

"So, you're lucky this time.'

He fired rapidly one after the other until on the fourth pull of the trigger the hammer found the live round and the shot cracked over Ezra's head putting a hole in the wall and sending wooden splinters flying.

"How many times would you have pulled the trigger, Ezra? Every day until you finally hit the right one?"

He threw the Colt on the bed beside the pale Southerner.

"I told you once never to run out on me again, Ezra. Not being able to walk doesn't change anything!"

Larabee started to walk out, wheeled back and snatched up the gun. "No more games!"

The gambler dropped his head onto the pillow, his heart frantically hammering in a bid to escape his chest.

"I shall take that as an order then shalI I, Mr. Larabee?"

Josiah shovelled the last spadeful of earth onto the mound, wiping the sweat from his face as he leaned on the tool and surveyed his handiwork. The freshly turned soil stood out like fresh wounds in the ground and the preacher could not help but whisper a prayer for the unfortunate and misguided souls now lying forever beneath the earth.

"Thanks, Josiah."

He glanced up in surprise to find Chris strolling towards him. Peering keenly at the gunfighter and noting the fine lines around the eyes, the obvious signs of tiredness giving way to something else. Worry? The gunfighter toyed with the hat he now held in his hand looking askance at the graves. No doubt about it, the man was troubled. Josiah drove the spade into the ground, dusted off his hands and picked up his coat.

"Chris. Everything alright?" He paused, frowning, "Vin?"

Larabee smiled, amused at the assumption and shook his head.

"Anything I can do?"

Larabee hesitated for a moment before looking again at the two mounds.

"Josiah, I've put a lot of people in the ground in my time, some of them I'm not particularly proud of and I never killed a woman before but when it comes down to it, it ain't any different to killin' a man." He switched his gaze back to the older man. "But you know, even in the worst times of my life I ain't ever once thought about killing myself."

Josiah sighed and started to walk back to the ranch house, clapping a large hand on Larabee's shoulder and urging him to walk alongside.

"Ezra?"

"Goddamn, Josiah! He planned on shooting himself."

"Understandable, Chris. He's a proud man."

Chris stopped in surprise.

"You mean, you think what he was going to do was right? Josiah..."

The preacher held up a hand cutting Chris off mid-sentence.

"I said it was understandable, not that it was right. Just put yourself in his place right now, Chris. He's hurting, his independence and dignity have been ripped away from him and right now he's looking into a future where all he can see is life as a cripple, forced to endure the pity of others. For a man like Ezra -- for any man -- that's hard medicine to swallow."

Chris stopped and guiltily kicked the ground.

"I whaled into him, Josiah, kicked him while he was down. Accused him of trying to run out on me again."

Josiah laughed softly.

"Maybe the best thing you could have done, Chris. Perhaps an appeal to his honour is likely to be more successful than an appeal to common sense at this stage."

"What do I do, Josiah? How do you stop a man from wanting to die. From wanting to take a gun and scatter his brains?"

"Simple, Chris. You give him a reason to want to live."

The fever had broken a few hours after midnight and the tracker had fallen into a sleep of exhaustion, no longer tormented by the dreams of delirium, his breathing deep and regular, his body relaxed. The man, indeed the room, smelled of sweat and the sour odour of sickness mingled with the sharp tang of herbs but the crisis was over.

He woke just before dawn, every muscle aching, feeling as if he had spent two days in the desert without water. He stirred and found it difficult to move, the sensation of a weight across his chest momentarily alarming him. Too weak to pull himself away he slowly turned his head, eyes opening wide as he saw a tumble of blonde hair across his shoulder and realised that the weight he could feel was Mary's arm across his upper body. She had fallen asleep, her head on the mattress beside him, the blonde hair cascading over his arm and neck, one arm thrown protectively across his body, her other hand resting lightly on his arm. A tiny frown creased his forehead then tentatively he moved his arm and rested it across the woman's back, his fingers stroking the silken hair beneath his fingers, his touch delicate as if afraid the slight motion might waken her. He remembered then Mary's voice talking to him through his fever, her soft touch soothing him and he sighed at the memory, a slow smile spreading across his face as he slipped once again into sleep.

She was gone when he woke again to full daylight, clean sheets and a feeling of well being that was at odds with his sallow complexion and weakened state. His limbs felt boneless, and as if they were made of lead, a feeling Nathan assured him would go as soon as he had begun to eat and drink again. He had already downed several cups of tea, a measure of his body's need for fluid that he had done so without protest. Now he wanted to get up.

"Damnit, Vin! Don't you ever learn? You ain't going nowhere yet."

"I don't want to go anywhere, Nathan. I just want to get out of this blasted bed."

He struggled to get up, pushing aside the bed covers, ignoring his state of undress.

"Uh, Vin, you might want to think twice about gettin' up right now." Intent on getting out of the hated bed Tanner was in no mood to be given any advice or detect the warning in the healer's voice until: "What do you think, Mrs. Travis?"

The Texan's head flew up in alarm as, mortified, he clutched desperately at the covers and dragged them in front of him covering his nakedness. Mary! The newspaperwoman stood in the doorway of the room, a bundle of clothing across her arm, trying to conceal the smile that flickered across her lips. The slight flush of blood in her cheeks was nothing in comparison to the blush that darkened Tanner's face. She stepped forward and held out the freshly washed clothes.

"I think, you might want to consider putting these on before you decide to go rushing off anywhere, Vin."

Nathan laughed richly as the tracker, defeated, slid back into bed and drew the covers up to his chin.

"No, ma'am. I figure I'll just stay right here if it's all the same to you."

**********

The main street of the town looked just the way it had when he had ridden out of town some four days ago. The day was still hot, the street still dusty, the citizens even more lethargic but it was business as usual and there was barely a second glance for the buggy being driven down the street. No, nothing had changed -- except him.

Nathan had wanted him to travel in the wagon. Had insisted. He had refused. He may not be able to sit astride a horse but he would not be carted back to town like some sack of grain in the back of a wagon. So he had won a small victory and in spite of the pain it caused him he was at least riding back into town with a modicum of dignity. Not that anyone but himself would ever know the agony that sitting for an extended period in a jolting buggy which somehow had found every pothole and stone had caused him. Now that they had arrived he felt a rising sense of panic. His infirmity would be on public display, a source of curiosity and comment, an open invitation to pity -- and ridicule. He swallowed hard wondering if he could get through the next few minutes without being violently ill. Nathan brought the buggy to a halt outside the boarding house and set the brake.

"You ready for this, Ezra?"

Amazing. The man was a clairvoyant as well as a de facto physician.

"Never in a thousand years, Mr. Jackson."

"Ain't no easy way to do this, Ezra, you know that."

He knew. The sarcastic reply that automatically rose to his lips died as he recognised the genuine concern in the healer's warm brown eyes. Instead he took a deep breath and braced himself giving a sharp nod. If he was to lose his dignity he could at least hang onto his pride even if he was down to the last shred of that particular commodity.

"Then I suggest we get this over with as quickly as possible, dear sir, before my courage deserts me altogether."

Jackson patted his shoulder and nodded.

Josiah and Nathan had brought him inside. Not, as he had expected, carried like a child but suspended between the shoulders of the two bigger men. His feet had dragged uselessly but at least he was upright and his passage from the buggy to the boarding house had attracted scant attention, indeed no more than if the two men had just escorted him from the saloon after an overindulgence in alcohol. He laughed inwardly. Priorities, Ezra. Certainly preferable to be considered a drunk than a cripple.

He ignored the pain in his side, the burning in his back, in his relief to be home and welcomed the softness of the feather bed as the two men carefully lowered him to the mattress. He hardly noticed that he was being undressed, the reality of his situation now that he was back in his own room flooding back ten-fold. Would this then become his prison -- the centre of his universe? Somehow the thought saddened him more than anything that had come before; was his life then reduced to this one small, cheerless room; rented accommodation in a public boarding house? Lord, if this was all he had to look forward to then he should have loaded the gun with all six bullets while he had the opportunity-- and had the courage to pull the trigger -- and the Devil take the self-righteous Mr. Larabee!

"Ezra?"

The voice brought him out of his reverie and he looked earnestly at the healer, his heart thudding in his chest and his throat so constricted he could hardly force out the words.

"Mr. Jackson. Tell me one thing and I want you to swear upon your life that you will tell me the absolute, irrevocable truth, do you in all honesty believe that I will ever walk again?"

Nathan opened his mouth, hesitated, closed it and looked in mute appeal to the preacher standing next to him. Ezra smiled, his brilliant green eyes filling with unshed tears.

"Thank you. You have answered my question most eloquently, Mr. Jackson."

Sweat was streaming down his face and he was clenching his jaw so tightly that it ached, and if he had been able to muster the energy to raise his head he would have seen that his fingers were gripping the pillow with an almost savage ferocity in his determination not to cry out. Dear Lord, would it never stop!

Lying face down he could not see his tormentor, and he had yet to decide whether it was a boon or a curse. He had the advantage of concealing his own expression but the disadvantage of not being able to gauge the reaction of the man currently examining him; John Mason, physician, surgeon and friend. Ezra gasped and wondered if Mason had suddenly forgotten that small fact as he believed he would be suffering less were he in the decidedly unfriendly hands of hostile Comanches. The hand on his shoulder made him realise that the pain had lessened to a dull ache and he raised his head to look into the serious but neutral face of the doctor. Obviously a poker player -- and a very good one.

Flipped expertly onto his back by Nathan and Mason he waited, his breathing ragged, more scared than he cared to admit while John washed his hands.

"Well, Dr. Mason?" He found himself lost for words. What was he going to say?

"Ezra, I'm going to be honest with you." The Southerner's stomach lurched and he held his breath. Dear God, he was going to say the words he had dreaded since the moment John had laid hands on him. "I can't give you a definite answer. I've seen similar injuries over my career and all of them have been different. All I can tell you is that there is no damage to the spine itself. In fact from what I can see and feel you were very lucky and I can tell you with certainty that if the bullet had hit just one more inch to the right you would never walk again."

Ezra felt the blood drain out of his face, pooling somewhere in his belly and he felt that any moment he would faint dead away.

"The bullet has caused a great deal of localised swelling and I believe that as well as the damage to the muscles in this area the swelling is interfering with the nerve supply. If this is causing the paralysis, once the swelling subsides you should regain some feeling."

"Some?"

"As I said I can't give you a definite answer and I don't want to give you false hope but if you ask me for my best estimation I'd say that your condition is temporary."

Ezra's head filled with noise, rushing wind through his ears, blood pounding in his head as Mason's voice faded to an extreme distance and his vision blurred then the sharp tang of ammonia assailed his nostrils immediately clearing his head and he instinctively jerked away from the source. He waved away the offending bottle and drew in a deep breath.

"Good God! Are you trying to kill me, John?"

"My dear, Ezra, these are just smelling salts."

The gambler raised himself on one elbow, his green eyes blazing his whole body stiff with indignation.

"Smelling salts? I am not, in case you have not noticed, a over-laced self-indulgent female with an attack of the vapours!"

Mason laughed and capped the small bottle.

"No, but I must say you're very becoming when you swoon like that."

Ezra shook his head and breathed deeply trying to get the sting of the ammonia out of his nose, then suddenly he stopped and laughed softly.

"Temporary?"

Mason sat down on the edge of the bed becoming serious.

"Wounds need time to heal, Ezra. And I will warn you that you cannot make this happen any faster than nature intended. You need to be patient and you need to rest. I can't give you any more than that."

The Southerner reached out and grasped Mason's sleeve.

"You have given me more than enough, John, merely because you have given me the one thing I lacked -- indeed feared to entertain -- hope."

Mason inclined his head and closed his hand over the gambler's in a reassuring squeeze.

"I'll be back to see you again next week. Until then I will leave you in Mr. Jackson's capable hands."

Ezra turned his gaze to the healer, a glint of wickedness in his eyes.

"I do believe, Mr. Jackson, that you may inform the indomitable Mr. Larabee that it is now safe to restore my side-arms to me -- and with their full complement of bullets I might add."

**********

Chris leaned casually against the door frame of the sheriff's office and looked thoughtfully across the street at the two men sitting on the verandah of the saloon. Close call, Larabee. Nearly lost both of 'em. Why that should actually worry him had become a concern in itself. Gettin' soft maybe? His eyes tracked to centre on the Texan. Vin, never a man for idle talk, had remained close-lipped about his ordeal although Chris knew he was still troubled by it. He also knew from experience that the scars that were visible were not always the ones that caused the most pain. Then there was Ezra. Smart-mouthed, double-dealing, wise-ass Southerner who had achieved something that few people ever had. He had scared the bejesus out of him. For Christ's sake, he had been going to kill himself! The smooth-talking con man, who could as often as not be a burr under everyone's saddle blanket, had been ready to take a gun to his head. What troubled him most was that he should care. Caring was the bear trap that one day snapped shut and ripped the heart right out of you; he had already learned that lesson the hard way. Best not to care, to feel, to become attached for down that road just waited sorrow and pain.

He realised that he was no longer alone. That Buck had joined him in the shadow of the doorway and was following the direction of his gaze.

"Somethin' on your mind, pard?"

Chris flicked a glance at the ladies' man.

"Nothin' in particular. Just thinking."

"Thinking that it's time to be movin' on maybe?"

Chris frowned.

"What?"

"I've seen that look before."

Larabee shook his head, a half-smile forming on his lips.

"Just thinking how things change, Buck."

Wilmington dug his thumbs in his belt and hung his head.

"Know what you mean, Chris. One minute you just drift along, goin' from one cow town to another, hellraisin' and movin' on, next minute you're startin' to put down roots. Scares the hell outta me, pard! This town kinda takes a hold of you and ain't keen to let go that's no mistake."

For a moment both men stared across the street at the two men outside the saloon.

"Ain' the town, Buck."

He pushed away from the jamb and walked slowly out onto the boardwalk. No, it was a lot more than the town.

Tanner looked contemplatively at the cards in his hand, not seeing them as his mind drifted. He had not yet managed to get through a day without being plagued by dark visions of being hunted like an animal; the dull ache of his healing wounds a constant reminder of something he desperately wanted to forget.

"Mr. Tanner, should I perhaps find some other way to entertain myself while you come to a decision or have you succeeded in divining the meaning of life from these modest cards?"

Ignoring the gambler's sarcasm Vin raised his eyes to the Southerner.

"I ain't never got around to thankin' you, Ezra."

"Thanking me? What on earth for, Mr. Tanner? Allowing you to win that last hand? I assure it was nothing, as I fully intend to recoup my losses in full and relieve you of the burden of having to carry around any large sums of money."

"Hell, you know! For savin' my life."

Standish collapsed the fan of cards between his hands and toyed with the five painted pasteboards.

"I rather believe you have Mr. Larabee to thank for that."

Vin put his cards down on the table and rubbed his injured thigh not looking at the gambler.

"You too, Ezra. Bought me time."

"Not quite enough if you recall, Mr. Tanner," he replied softly.

The Texan picked up his cards again and flashed the gambler a brief smile.

"Wrong, Ezra. Reckon it was just enough. Still here ain't I?"

Standish glanced thoughtfully down at his legs, the shadow of regret momentarily passing across the Southerner's face, his response barely breathed.

"As am I, Mr. Tanner. As am I."

Two weeks. Ezra was almost used to the routine but he knew he would never get used to the indignity of it all. Some days he just wanted to stay in bed; pull the covers over his head, draw the curtains and hibernate in the safety of his own room with no prying eyes to dwell on his continued infirmity but Nathan was ruthless. Today was one of those days. He was tired and he was angry and as each day passed his resolve and his hope crumbled, eroded to nothing as he began to realise that in spite of John Adams' optimistic words he may face a lifetime of unending horror. As if the circumstance that Nathan had become his nursemaid was not sufficient to endure, Nathan had even begun to talk of contacting Maude and the only thing that had prevented him was the fact that Ezra refused to divulge her current whereabouts. Good God, the very thought of his mother descending upon the town and showering him with insincere sympathy send chills down his spine -- well, part way down his spine at least.

He raised himself on his elbows and not for the first time wished that Erik von Hohenstaffel's bullet had done its work with more efficiency. He no longer wanted to end his life but he could not help but think that it would have been better if he had died that night. What use was he now? Not that he had ever been much use to society, at least not before he stumbled across this town -- this town and Chris Larabee -- and just when he was beginning to think he had found a purpose it had been wrenched from him. As long as he could shuffle and deal a deck he would not go hungry; he had lived off his talents before and he could do it again but now only through the indulgence of others. He also had to live with the consequences of his actions; a hasty departure to avoid disgruntled townsfolk was out of the question in his current circumstances and how long could he go on making a living in one small town from his gambling alone? Indeed how soon before his companions tired of him? How soon before he tired of himself? With a sigh he dropped back against his pillows and pulled the covers over his head and God help the man who tried to move him today.

A soft knock heralded Nathan's arrival and the Southerner burrowed deeper into the soft down pillow, wondering why Jackson bothered when he was hardly in a position to refuse him entry. He heard the familiar footsteps across the carpet and sighed.

"Go away."

Nathan put a gentle hand on his shoulder and he shrugged it off.

"Come on. Can't stay in bed all day, Ezra."

"I am asking you to leave, Mr. Jackson. I would appreciate it if you did so."

"Ezra? You feelin' poorly?"

The Southerner slowly drew the covers away from his face.

"I just want you to leave me alone! Is that too much to ask, or have I now become public property?"

Jackson stood for a long moment and looked down at the gambler.

"Is that really what you want, Ezra? You want me to go?"

"Goddamn it, yes!"

The healer looked sadly at the Southerner.

"You sure 'bout this now?"

Ezra pulled the bedding back over his head.

"Just leave me alone."

The quiet closure of the door announced Jackson's departure and the gambler closed his eyes once again but discovered no sense of satisfaction at the victory.

Chris watched Nathan approach the sheriff's office, a study in concentration, obviously unhappy and almost flinched as the normally even tempered healer slammed his hand against the wall where the gunslinger stood.

"Of all the stubborn, bad-tempered, misguided, ungrateful, self-pitying..."

Larabee interrupted Jackson's tirade.

"Ezra?'

Nathan sighed in exasperation.

"Told me to get out. To leave him alone."

Chris shrugged.

"Leave him."

The healer raised soulful brown eyes to the gunfighter.

"Chris, he can't manage on his own."

"Gotta let him find that out for himself, Nathan. Ain't gonna help him if you keep babyin' him all the time. Ezra's a grown man."

"I can't just leave him."

Chris stared across at the boarding house and looked back to Nathan.

"You can and you will. Sometimes there's only one way to learn a lesson -- and that's the hard way."

Jackson looked at the gunfighter doubtfully but nodded finally.

"I'll go back in a few hours and make sure he's doin' alright."

Chris' smile was calculating.

"No. I will."

Chris wondered at the wisdom of his strategy as he neared Ezra's room and heard the ominous sound of something breaking -- china? glass? -- into very small pieces. He waited for a moment, hand resting on the door knob, as a second crash followed the first; something larger that struck the back of the very door he was standing in front of shattering with a resounding smash. Without bothering to knock the gunfighter thrust open the door and drew back momentarily at the sight that greeted him. How one man who was unable to walk could wreak such havoc was almost beyond Chris' ability to comprehend.

Ezra was on the floor beside the bed, still partly wrapped in the bedclothes, his hand closing around the ewer which had obviously tumbled to the floor when he had tipped over the night stand. The room stank; an unpleasant combination of bay rum, whiskey and piss. Chris shook his head and stepped over the shards of what seemed to be the remains of the wash bowl and a crystal decanter.

"Shit, Ezra!"

The gambler savagely pulled at the bedding around him and snarled: "No, however I believe that may be the encore if you care to see out the performance!"

Chris stood amongst the debris and quickly glanced around. Everything within Ezra's reach had been lobbed in the direction of the door. Liquid seeped down the wallpaper where a bottle of cologne had struck the wall and shattered, whiskey was rapidly soaking into the rug, even the lamp from beside the bed lay in ruins, the oil joining the alcohol to form a disgusting alliance on the floor. He raised flinty eyes to the Southerner.

"You riled about somethin'?" His tone was mild.

The brilliant green eyes bored into the gunfighter, the fury behind them flashing with the intensity of a summer storm.

"Of course not, Mr. Larabee! I am merely rearranging the decor of this hell hole to reflect my current mood!" It was not quite a shout.

Chris moved forward and tugged the bedclothes that were still caught under the mattress free, letting the wet mass fall to the floor with a slight grimace of distaste. That explained the third odour he had detected on walking through the door. Ezra, no longer held up by the sheets slid untidily onto his side.

"Should've let Nathan fix you up this mornin'. Saved yourself all this."

Ezra pushed himself a little way up from the floor and twisted to look at the gunfighter.

"Mr. Larabee, this might be difficult for you to understand but I'm tired of being treated like a child."

"Well, you're sure actin' like one. Seems to me it ain't Nathan you need, more like a wet nurse."

If Larabee was expecting a reaction there was none. The gambler merely turned his face away and hung his head, his hands fastened on the sheets in a white-knuckled grip. Chris crouched down and putting a hand on Ezra's well-muscled shoulder, felt a ridge of scar tissue under his fingers that reminded him of how much the man had endured in recent months. Some of his anger trickled away and he sighed.

"You want some help?"

The response was barely audible.

"Just leave me alone."

"You want that?" snapped Chris, pushing Ezra's shoulder back and forcing him to raise his head. "You want that I leave you to crawl around in your own filth feelin' sorry for yourself and stinking like a pig? Well, I ain't gonna do that!"

He clamped a hand on the Southerner's bicep and hauled him upright, before shifting his stance and preparing to lift the gambler from behind. For a moment the Southerner tried to resist but the gunfighter had him in a bear hug and his struggles lacked both the energy and conviction to secure his release. His protests fell on deaf ears as the gunfighter kicked away the bedding and manhandled him across to the rocking chair, unceremoniously dumping him into it. Ezra spat invective with all the venom of an angry rattlesnake, cursing not only Larabee but his entire family heritage in his tirade.

"You angry, Ezra? Good! It sure as hell beats watchin' you wallow in self-pity, 'cos if that's all you can manage I might as well put you out of your misery right now."

The gambler glared at Larabee, his breath a tortured rasping as he fought for control of his emotions.

"Then do it, Mr. Larabee. Do it and be damned!"

Chris drew his gun and reversing it threw it at the white-faced Southerner.

"No, you do it!" Ezra reflexively caught the weapon. "Isn't that what you want? Or is that too hard as well? Too much of a fucking coward to pull the trigger."

Larabee saw the muscles tense, but was unprepared for Ezra's next move. The gambler thrust himself out of the chair with an inarticulate roar of fury, standing for one prolonged moment before he teetered forward, no longer able to bear his own weight. The gunfighter, barely able to comprehend what he had just witnessed, jumped forward to catch the falling man supporting him under the arms and allowing him to rest against his chest. For his part Ezra heaved a shuddering sigh, and clutched at the gunfighter's shirt sleeves, digging his fingers brutally into Chris' upper arms in an effort to prevent himself from sliding to the floor. Quickly, Larabee adjusted his own grip, anticipating Standish's imminent fall but the pair continued the impromptu embrace as Ezra sustained the pose for several seconds more before his legs started to buckle.

The Southerner looked down in shocked incredulity at his own legs, unwilling to trust that he had remained standing if only for a few moments and wondering when it would all become just another part of the nightmare, a cruel joke that his body was playing on him.

"Jesus!" Larabee slapped the younger man on the back and carefully lowered him back into the chair suddenly at a loss for words. "Goddamn it, Ezra, you were standing."

**********

The two men rode in companionable silence, reins slack, allowing the horses to set the pace. The air was still and warm, the heat rising in shimmering waves from the hot ground and neither of them was inclined to hurry in the least. For both of them the ride had been a pilgrimage of sorts, an opportunity to exorcise the ghosts of the recent past and now they were going home. The man in buckskins occasionally raised a hand to his neck and rubbed the twin scars marking the soft skin there, while his companion merely revelled in the simple joy of sitting astride a horse once again. Walking was still not quite as free and easy as he would like, the residual weakness in his left leg causing a slight limp, and on some days the pain in his back was a torment but he had no complaint.

They had stood over the two simple unmarked graves, not to mourn -- neither to gloat -- but rather to bury their own fears and finally lay them to rest. Vin had stood for a long time in the barn looking into the open pit that had been his cell before abruptly turning away and seeking clean, open air outside the rambling shed. There had been no need for dialogue and the two men had finally mounted their horses, both with some difficulty, and had ridden away never once looking back.

The plaintive cry of the predatory bird drew Ezra's eye skywards and he paused to watch the lone creature soar high above, dipping and swooping on the air currents a picture of rare elegance and beauty. The whispered sigh of a rifle clearing the scabbard brought his attention to the man beside him and he watched sadly as Vin raised the weapon to his shoulder preparing to fire. Impulsively he reached across and forced the barrel of the Winchester down, shaking his head. For a moment the Texan hesitated then with a nod deftly reversed the rifle and slotted it back into its scabbard. As one the two men urged their horses onwards eyes turned once again towards the town they called home.

It plummeted out of the sky like a lightning bolt, a blur of movement sensed rather than seen, to fasten vice-like talons on its hapless prey. Caught in mid-flight some fifty feet off the ground its victim died in a flurry of blood and feathers as the falcon triumphantly sounded its victory cry and swept once again skywards on outspread wings.