RPS1

RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL SON

"...and I would just like to express my thanks to all of you, for coming to the opening of my little store."

The words, wrapped in the heavy tones of Germany, wafted out over the small crowd gathered before the newest shop in the small frontier town of Four Corners. As the throng blinked and clapped in the morning sunlight, the handsome, middle–aged man who addressed them gave a grateful smile, the warm spring breeze slightly stirring the graying blonde curls which hung just past his starched collar. In one hand he grasped a mahogany cane with an elaborately carved silver head. He stood in the doorway of the new store, squinting against the glare of the new day behind his round spectacles, while above him hung the newly–painted sign proclaiming the presence of HOFMANN'S JEWELRY AND WATCHES.

As the women of the town waited eagerly for the proud owner to unlock the door, several of the town's hired peacekeepers hung towards the back of the crowd, observing the proceedings with a variety of attitudes.

"Boy, I ain't never seen the women here so excited," remarked one of their number, a young man with thick black hair and quick hazel eyes. He shook his head with a smile and put his hands on his hips, a grin on his boyish face.

"This is an important event, JD," said the handsome blonde woman who stood by his side, writing swiftly in the small notebook held in her hand and glancing at the crowd from time to time, keenly observing everything. "New businesses are proof that the town's growing."

"That may be, Mrs. Travis," sniffed the dark–haired, mustached man who was leaning on a nearby post, his hands hitched casually into his belt, "but all I'm seein' is myself goin' broke. Now all the pretty gals are gonna be wantin' gold earbobs an' diamond bracelets before they'll even let a man court 'em."

JD laughed. "An' we all know Buck'd rather be broke than go without a girl."

"Well, cheer up, my friend," drawled the fourth member of the group, a nattily dressed chestnut–haired man in a bright red coat and flat–topped black hat. He slapped Buck on the shoulder and eyed the new establishment with eager green eyes. "If you need any assistance in choosing baubles for the fair ones of this town, I will be happy to oblige. I happen to be quite knowledgable in the area of fine jewelry."

Buck snorted. "That don't surprise me, Ezra, you gamblin' men are always bettin' rings an' watches an' such." He glanced at the Southerner's glittering acoutrements. "Hell, I bet you didn't buy half that flashy stuff you wear."

The gambler appeared insulted. "Mr. Wilmington, a skilled gambler can attire himself completely at the expense of others. My percentage, I'll have you know, is at least in the high sixties."

"I'd be happy if I could just get somethin' nice for Casey's birthday," JD sighed, staring at the wares glittering behind the windows. Mr. Hofmann had finished speaking and was holding up the small brass key to the front door, a beaming smile lighting his round face as the crowd cheered.

"I'm sure there's something in there she'd like, JD," Mrs. Travis replied with an understanding smile as she continued to write. "Mr. Hofmann assured me he'll stock a wide variety of goods in all price ranges."

"How 'bout 'free'?" Buck inquired.

"Looks like we're just in time."

The heads of the small group turned to see two more men ambling up the walk towards them, a lean blonde man dressed in a blue shirt and black duster, accompanied by a tall black man who was eyeing the festivities with an amused expression.

"I'll say y'are, Chris," Buck declared to the blond man as he stood up and nodded towards the store. "You're witnessin' the end of me as a man with cash."

"If Casey goes in there, that'll be two of us," JD sighed. A shout of expectation swelled through the air as the doors opened and the small assembly of shoppers streamed inside.

Nathan looked at Mary, still smiling. "Sure didn't think this'd happen, Mrs. Travis. Hard t'believe this town was dyin' not too long ago. Now seems we got new shops openin' every week."

Mary made a few last notes and folded up her notebook. "It certainly appears to be a miracle," she sighed, looking with quiet happiness at the small, bustling store. "But you all had a lot to do with it." She gave them all a thankful smile. "You've made it safe for us to have hope again."

Chris studied the new store, his green eyes concerned. "Gettin' bigger can sometimes mean more trouble, Mary," he muttered. "I just hope things don't get too big, too fast."

"But if we are to encounter an increased share of danger, gentlemen, we should at least be well dressed," Ezra suggested, stepping off of the boardwalk. "I believe a new pair of cufflinks will perfectly suit the occasion." With a touch to the brim of his black hat, the gambler sauntered towards the store.

"I better go have a look, too," JD said, tugging his bowler hat against the bright spring sunshine. "Casey's gonna want at least a bracelet or somethin'. Maybe Ezra can help me pick it out."

"If it's Casey you're thinkin' on, mebbe they got some nice Bowie knives," Buck suggested, reflecting on the young girl's tough tomboy nature.

JD considered this, but quickly shook his head. "Nah, that's what I got her for Christmas." He turned and ran across the street.

Mary smiled, then tucked away her notes. "I'd better hurry back to the office if I want to get this story in the Clarion this week."

With a quick round of farewells and nods, she hastened down the boardwalk towards the newspaper office.

"Guess Vin decided not to get himself a gold–plated harmonica, huh?" Buck observed, leaning against the post once more.

Chris sat down on a nearby chair and propped his booted feet before him, crossing his long legs. "Nah, he an' Josiah are still down at the Seminole village. A rockslide dammed their river, they're helpin' 'em clear it away."

Nathan pulled on his coat. "'Sides, you know Vin ain't the kind for fancy rings an' gold stuff. I bet he don't even own a watch."

"Yes, he does," Buck said mournfully. "He won mine off me last–"

A woman's scream split the air, causing all three men to become instantly alert. Chris was on his feet in a second, guns drawn.

Buck stared up the street, alarm clear on his handsome face. "That sounded like–"

There were a few more screams, this time from panicked passersby, and the men began to run towards the commotion. Behind them more footsteps sounded, as Ezra and JD, their weapons also at the ready, followed close behind.

The source of the noise quickly became apparent. The door to the Clarion stood open, and out swirled two figures, locked in a deadly embrace. One was a large, dirty man with a thick black beard and straggling hair topped by a ragged brown hat. In his powerful grip was Mary, struggling mightily against the iron arm clamped around her throat. The man was shouting as he dragged her into the street, the rusty barrel of a gun pressed against her temple.

"You shouldn'ta printed them lies about my brother!" the man was yelling as he tightened his grip. He looked up, saw the gunmen approaching, and shouted, "One more step an' I'll shoot!"

Chris and the others halted, twenty feet away, every available gun pointed right at the assailant.

"Let her go!" Chris cried, not backing down an inch.

"Hell, no!" was the furious reply. "She slandered my brother, I don't take kindly t'uppity women!"

"You're outgunned, now," Nathan cautioned, stepping ever so slowly around him, trying to get a clear shot at the man's back. "You know we ain't gonna let you harm that lady."

A long, anxious silence passed. The five lawmen looked for an opening, any way to take the man down, but he held Mary so that any shot at him could easily be made to strike her.

Finally the dirty man snarled. "Don't care if ya kill me, just so's I can kill her!"

He lifted his arm a little and made to pull the trigger. The five lawmen each did the same, but before any of them could shoot, another party entered the fray with surprising swiftness.

A bystander, whom nobody had noticed before, leapt out of the crowd and slammed the butt of his own gun squarely against the attacker's head before the man could even turn around. Mary gasped and staggered away as the assailant fell, watching him hit the ground with wide blue eyes.

Then her eyes lifted to the man who had saved her, and became even wider.

Chris holstered his gun while Buck, Ezra and JD apprehended the semi–conscious attacker. His rugged face was puzzled as he studied her amazed expession. "Mary? You all right?"

She was panting a little as she glanced at Chris and nodded in a distracted manner before returning her stare to the man who had saved her.

The stranger looked at her, then at everyone else. His own face betrayed little, except for something like embarassment. "She's fine," he mumbled, in a low voice.

"I don't believe it," Chris heard Nathan say in hushed tones. He turned to look at the healer, and saw Nathan wearing a look he had never seen on his friend's face before: sheer, blazing anger. Before Chris could say anything, Nathan sprang forward and drove his fist solidly across the stranger's jaw, sending him tumbling to the ground.

Ezra and JD looked up, startled. Buck's blue eyes widened.

"Nathan!" Chris exclaimed, grabbing the healer's sleeve.

The former slave ignored him, directing all of his rage to the man who lay sprawled in the dust, nursing a cut lip and looking up at Nathan without surprise.

"You got a lot of nerve comin' back here!" Nathan was yelling. Chris had to hold tightly on his sleeve to prevent him from lunging at the man.

The stranger coughed and sat up, wiping his bleeding lip with the back of one long hand. "I don't blame you for being mad, Jackson."

"It's all right, Nathan," Mary said calmly, although her eyes were full of confusion as she watched the man slowly get up. He was tall and thin, his face long and accented by prominent cheekbones and slightly sunken brown eyes. His hair was thin and dark, combed back against his bony skull.

Nathan shook himself from Chris's grip and stepped back, still staring at the man with open disgust.

"It sure doesn't sound all right, Mary," Chris said sharply, eying the newcomer with bewildered suspicion. "Just who is this guy?"

"I can answer that, Mrs. Travis," the man replied quickly. Chris's confusion grew; this man knew Mary and Nathan.

The stranger panted and looked around, his gaze finally resting on Chris as he put his hat back on.

"My name is Irving Wyatt," he announced in a firm voice. "I'm the sheriff of Four Corners."

Everyone within earshot stared. JD looked at his friends, his mouth open.

"You *were* the sheriff, Wyatt," Nathan said hotly, his brown eyes snapping. "'Til you an' your deputy rode on outta here an' left me to hang! We oughta arrest you for desertin' you duty right now!"

Chris studied the man closely, then slowly nodded. "I remember you," he said softly, stepping closer until they were only a few feet apart. Wyatt didn't flinch. "Town was gettin' shot up by trail herders, an' you an' your deputy lit out."

Wyatt's mouth twitched a bit. "Don't forget the stolen horse."

Chris frowned and glanced at the others. They were all puzzled.

"Look, " Wyatt said quickly, "I–I know a lot of folks here got good reasons to be angry at me. I ain't proud of what I did, but I had to come back an' make it right again."

A crowd was forming now, several townspeople staring at Wyatt with amazement. The whispers ran rampant.

"Look, it's our old sheriff!" "I don't believe it–he came back!" "Man's lookin' to get himself hung..." "I'll get the rope myself! Cowardly bastard."

Mary glanced around. "We'd better get off the street and work this out," she said quietly.

"An excellent suggestion," agreed Ezra as he and JD hauled the attacker to his feet. "May I suggest we repair to the jail, for a start?"

"Better fix up a cell for two," Nathan muttered, still glaring at Wyatt. Chris threw him a warning glance as they all moved off, the crowd staring after them and chattering long and loud.



The rusted door of the old jailhouse cell gave a loud 'clang' as JD pulled it shut and locked it, securing the dirty man inside. His attention, however, was more focused on the small conversation behind him, and as soon as the door was fastened shut, he returned to the small group, his hazel eyes sharply appraising the newly returned sheriff.

Chris was leaning against the desk, still clearly uncomfortable, while the others stood nearby, all wearing a variety of cautious expressions. Nathan's face betrayed a barely suppressed rage which threatened to burst its bonds at any moment. Ezra was at his elbow, his gaze flicking over to the healer occasionally as if judging his comrade's state of control.

Wyatt stood before them, hat in hand, apparently nervous and contrite.

"So where have you been all this time?" Mary was asking. She stood with her arms folded, her features masked with a guarded expression.

"Oh," Wyatt sighed with a shrug, rarely looking up from the battered hat in his hands, "been ridin' all over, Ridge City, Yuma. Never stopped in one place too long, was afraid you'd all sent a posse after me."

"We were sorta busy with other things," Chris remarked in a flat tone, his green eyes hard. "Like doin' your job."

Wyatt's head snapped up, a stricken look shooting across his face. He stared at Chris for a moment, then nodded, dropping his eyes once more.

"Yeah, I–I bet you were," he stammered. Then, taking a deep breath, he looked up again, as if forcing himself to continue. "Look, I ain't askin' no forgiveness for what I did. It was a damn cowardly thing, an' I'll never get over the shame of it."

"I hope you don't," Nathan snapped, utter contempt written on every line of his body. "You left us all t'get shot up! Mary got kicked to the ground, an' I just about got myself hanged, an' you didn't do nothin' to stop it."

Wyatt winced. "I know, Nathan, I'm just...glad to see you're all right."

"He wouldn't be if Vin an' I hadn't been there," Chris muttered.

The tall man nodded and, after a few attempts, managed to look Chris in the eye. "I'm right grateful for that, Mr. Larabee," he said, then looked around at all of them. "An' I wanna assure you, I ain't lookin' for my ol' job back. I figure I just ain't cut out for lawkeepin'. The Judge appointed you men, an' you're doin' a better job than I ever did, so–don't worry. I won't cause you one lick of trouble."

"Smart move," Buck said in a low voice.

"Where's your deputy?" Mary inquired.

Wyatt looked back at her, his face falling. "We, uh, had a fallin' out soon after we left here. He rode off south, might be in Mexico. I don't know."

"An' you been wanderin' around this whole time?" JD said, with a faint tone of amazement. "What made you come back here?"

Wyatt shrugged again, bouncing his hat in his hats. "Well, I...heard the town was doin' right well, thought I'd see for myself. I was thinkin' it'd be empty by now, but when I heard folks tell about the railroad comin' by, an' of course you seven men," he scanned each of the men present with a slight smile, "sounded too good t'be true, so I thought I'd come an' see. An' too, I just couldn't keep runnin'. Figured it was time to be face whatever came an' be a man."

Nathan seemed less than convinced. "Wish you'd felt that way when they was stringin' me up."

The door opened, followed quickly by the entrance of a large man with dark graying hair and a slender, long–haired figure in buckskins. The long–haired man stopped when he saw Wyatt, his keen blue eyes narrowing.

Wyatt started as well as he studied the younger man. "Aren't you the young man who worked at Watson's Hardware?"

The other man stared for a few moments, then shook his head. "Damn," he murmured, the single word thick with surprise. He looked at Mary and Nathan. "Ain't he–?"

"Yup," Nathan said with a scowl. "That's him, Vin."

"Is there a problem, Chris?" the older arrival asked, as he and Vin moved inside. He was studying Wyatt too, his blue eyes flickering in recognition.

Chris shook his head. "Don't look like it, Josiah, except there's bound to be lots of folks here who ain't gonna be happy with their old sheriff's return."

"It may be dangerous for him to even put his head out the door," Ezra remarked as he threw a glance out the jail's dust–smeared window. "There appears to be a crowd gathering already."

Wyatt put up his hands, the fingers spread wide. "Look, I don't want to cause any trouble, I just want to let them know how sorry I am. It's the only way I can live with myself."

Mary and Nathan exchanged looks. Mary's was apprehensive, Nathan's openly disapproving.

Before another word could be spoken, the door burst open. A thickset middle–aged man with unruly black hair barged in and went straight to Wyatt.

"There you are, you God–damned horse theif!" he yelled, waving his arms in rage. "I ought to string you up!"

Reluctantly, Chris interposed, as the other men tensed, expecting an ugly scene. Ezra gently took Mary's arm and drew her away.

Wyatt didn't back down, however, and held up his hands once more in an effort to placate his accuser. "Don't worry, Calvert, he's fine, I took real good care of him. He's right over in the livery, an' all yours. Take a look, he's in better shape now than when I...um...borrowed him."

"Borrowed, my ass!" Calvert bellowed, his black eyes full of belligerence. "'Cause of you I've had to walk everywhere for the past year! You better be tellin' the truth, or I'm comin' back with a rope!"

With that, Calvert stormed out, pushing his way past the gathered lawmen.

"I wondered why that guy was always so cranky," JD muttered.

Through the open door they could hear the murmurings of the gathered crowd. Wyatt studied them for a minute, then sighed and put on his hat.

"Reckon I best get this over with," he said, and went to the door.

"Yeah, sooner you do, sooner you can leave," Nathan remarked, mostly to himself, as he followed the others outside.

Almost the whole town was collected in the street; word had flown fast that the old sheriff had returned. Many wore looks of anger; some were curious; a few looked relieved. Wyatt stepped to the edge of the boardwalk as the lawmen lined up behind him, their hands resting lightly on their guns in case of trouble. As soon as they saw he was about to speak, the crowd fell silent.

Wyatt cleared his throat anxiously, his eyes traveling over every face as he spoke in nervous, halting words. "Uh, I–I don't guess any of you thought you'd ever see me again. I..." He fidgeted and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. "I gotta say, I didn't think I'd ever see you again, neither."

"You ran out on us, Wyatt!" came an angry voice from the crowd.

The gaunt man bit his lip and nodded. "Yes, yes I did, sir, and I'll always regret it. That guilt's been eatin' me up for a year, an' it's 'cause of that that I'm here. I–I just wanted to tell all of you...how sorry I am for desertin' you."

"Hell of a lot of good that does!" another member of the audience replied.

"Oh, let the man talk!" said someone else in the crowd. Several voices agreed.

Wyatt took a deep breath. "I ain't gonna chew your ears off," he promised, "an' I ain't gonna interfere with how things are now. You got seven good men lookin' after you, it's their job now an' I ain't aimin' to change that."

Chris noticed that a few of the onlookers muttered in disappointment.

"I just–well–I just wanted t'say my piece to you, an' I've said it," the former sheriff continued. "I pray you'll forgive me, but I won't blame you if you don't. That's all."

He stood for a few moments, unsure what to do next, then took a step back and began to walk away towards the saloon.

"Hey, Irving," called a husky, older man from the crowd as he began to follow Wyatt, "wait up!"

Wyatt stopped, and the two began to talk. Chris watched carefully, along with the others; it seemed civil enough, the older man didn't appear angry. A few more of the townspeople began to approach Wyatt, apparently in forgiveness.

"Looks like he ain't gonna get lynched after all," Vin said, coming up next to Chris.

"Can't believe they're buyin' that talk," Nathan growled, watching as the townfolk shook Wyatt's hand and smiled at him. "They done forgot what it was like here when he was around."

"Maybe they didn't have it so bad," JD noted as they watched Mr. Conklin, a slender, bespectacled gray–haired resident, approach Wyatt with a wide grin.

"Sure looks like ol' man Conklin's happy," Buck observed as he leaned against a wooden post.

"That should come as no surprise," was Ezra's drawled reply as he withdrew a pack of cards from his pocket and began to shuffle them idly. "He hasn't liked our being here since the moment we set foot inside the town limits."

"I'll telegraph Orin and let him know about this," Mary said, a slight undercurrent of concern in her smooth voice, and she hastened down the street towards the telegraph office.

Calvert reappeared, his attitude now completely changed as he went up to Wyatt and extended one beefy hand. He seemed quite enthusiastic about something, which he eagerly shared with the surrounding townfolk, and it could only be assumed that he had found his horse in excellent shape, exactly as Wyatt had promised.

"Looks like he's well on the way to redemption," Josiah remarked. "Least he said he won't cause any trouble."

"Yup," Chris said with a sigh, a strange feeling of suspicion twinging in his gut as he watched Wyatt smiling and talking with a growing number of townspeople. "Let's just hope his word's better than it used to be."



Three days passed quietly. The lawmen went about their business, keeping an eye on Wyatt for any signs of mischief. The former sheriff, however, did nothing to indicate that he was interested in doing anything other than making amends. He took a room in the most modest boarding house in town and spent most of his time getting reacquainted with his former charges, his manner remaining almost timid–at first.

Chris saw him a few times in the streets, talking to old friends, mostly men. Once they were gathered in front of the tobacco store, a small knot of them, and as Chris passed inside to buy some cheroots he noticed that they were all getting along very affably. Wyatt certainly seemed happy, at any rate; all, it seemed, had been forgiven.

"Sure is good t'see Irving back," the tobacconist said with a smiling shake of his head as he tallied Chris's purchase.

"Reckon so," was the muttered reply, as Chris watched Wyatt laughing with the townsmen.

The merchant shrugged as he wrapped up the cheroots in brown paper. "Oh, some are still mighty sore, but y'know, he wasn't so bad. Lot of people here liked him. Seventy–five cents, please."

Chris counted out the money and handed it over. "Spose it's right Christian the way they've overlooked the fact he ran out on 'em."

"Lot of folks rode outta here that day," was the somewhat testy reply. "Hell, I did. But I came back, an' so did he. You got to admit, he's got grit for facin' up to what he did. Many of us hope he stays for good."

Chris shouldn't have been surprised to hear that, but it still gave him an uncomfortable sensation up his spine. He nodded to the shopkeeper and stepped back outside, past the group of talking men. As he went by, he noticed a distinct lull in the conversation, and he knew instinctively that they were looking at him.

He stopped and turned. Sure enough, every eye in the group was on him, including Wyatt's, and none of them were smiling. They stood for a moment, studying each other with an air of veiled suspicion. Then a few of the men turned back to Wyatt, followed by the others. Chris frowned, then headed for the saloon, but not before overhearing one of the men say, "Look, Irving, are you *sure* you don't want to be sheriff again?"


Nathan sipped at his morning coffee without appetite, his mood sour despite the bright spring morning just outside the saloon's batwing doors.

He sat alone in the nearly–empty saloon, a plate of barely–touched breakfast before him, his mind full of tumultuous thoughts. He really should stop this, he thought as he set down the cup; it wasn't good for him to keep dwelling on the past and being so angry. If he didn't let go of this soon, it'd eat him up, and there would be no one fit to help the town's sick and injured.

Nathan fidgeted, one hand unconsciously rubbing his neck. Letting go would not be easy; he'd been having nightmares about that day, dark dreams full of fear and anger. He could still feel the tight noose around his neck, the fear at seeing Mary hurt, the near–panic when the world slipped away from beneath his feet and he was hanging there, strangling, consumed by the thought, "I'm about to die."

He sighed and looked down at his coffee, unable to meet anyone's eyes. The pain had been awful, but even worse was the knowledge that there was noone to help him, nobody who cared to stop it even after all he'd done for the town. He'd lived there for years, set bones and stitched cuts, treated bites and breaks and countless illnesses. Yet at the end, not one finger was lifted to save his life. He'd been abandoned, even by the other black folks in the town.

Wyatt could have stopped them, and his deputy. But they were gone. He knew Wyatt had seen the lynching party, knew the sheriff was aware of exactly what was happening, and still, *still* Wyatt rode away to leave Nathan to hang.

Nathan could forgive a lot. But he couldn't forgive that.

Didn't they remember? he wondered, looking over to where a few of the townsmen were leaning on the bar talking. He could make out the name Wyatt clearly. Didn't they recall the dying town, the shuttered stores, the drunken men running riot in the streets with no one to stop them? Didn't they care that property had been damaged, lives almost lost, because of Wyatt's cowardice?

He sighed and picked the cup back up, mostly so that his hands would be occupied. Maybe they didn't remember, or just didn't care. It wasn't their necks in the noose, or their homes that got shot up. And it probably wouldn't bother them one bit to have Wyatt come back and be sheriff again. Better than seven hired guns, right?

"Nathan? I'm sorry to interrupt your breakfast."

The healer started and looked up to see Mary standing before him. With her was a short, paunchy man of about fifty years, in dusty but well–fitting clothes, his bushy brown hair topped by a fashionable silk hat.

"That's all right, Mrs. Travis," he said quickly, shaking himself from his reverie.

She smiled, but there was a curious air of nervousness behind her pleasant expression. "Nathan Jackson, I'd like you to meet Dr. Benjamin Fredericks."

Oh. Nathan stood a bit and extended his hand, his interest instantly piqued. "Mornin', Dr. Fredericks. Sure am glad t'meet you."

"And I you, Mr. Jackson," the man replied amiably, the lips beneath his large mustache curling into a smile. "Mary tells me you're a healer. Very impressive."

"Thanks," Nathan replied with a nod, sitting down once more. "I'd be mighty anxious t'talk to you, Doctor. Got a lot of questions about real doctorin', if you got the time."

Fredericks sat down opposite Nathan and took off his hat. "Oh, I think I have, Nathan," he said with a laugh. "If the people here approve of me, that is."

Nathan didn't like the sound of that for some reason, and he looked at Mary with questioning eyes.

Before he could utter a sound, she cleared her throat and said in a somewhat reluctant tone, "Dr. Fredericks is moving here. He's bought an office next door to the Clarion."

Nathan felt himself start, and he looked at Fredericks with surprise. Of course, he'd always hoped Four Corners would get a real doctor, but it still came as something of a knock to suddenly have another healer around.

But it'd be good for the town, he quickly reminded himself, and forced a smile onto his face as he nodded. "That's–that's great," he said, trying to sound convincing. Why wasn't he happier about this? "Hope you don't mind if I come an' look over your shoulder. There's a lot I'm lookin' to learn about healin' folks."

"Not at all," Fredericks replied, his round, pudgy face set in a friendly grin. "I'd like to hear about your experiences in the war. I'm quite astounded that you were a stretcher bearer, that must have taken a lot of courage."

Nathan nodded absently. "Yeah, guess it did."

"Well then," the other man said firmly, standing once more and picking up his hat, "give me a few days to get settled and we'll see about getting together. Perhaps you can help me get acquainted with the people here, I'm afraid it'll take them a while to trust me, being an outsider and all."

"I'll do what I can," Nathan said with a nod, still feeling ill at ease about...what?

"Splendid." Fredericks smiled and nodded to Mary. "Thank you for your help, Mrs. Travis, I'll just go see about having my things delivered. Good day to you both." He gave a quick nod and bustled out of the saloon.

Mary sighed and turned to Nathan. "Well," she said with what sounded like cautious optimism, "first the jewelry store, now a doctor, all in one week. Things are moving fast for us, aren't they?"

"Yep," was the healer's somber reply, as he watched Fredericks walk down the boardwalk through the saloon window, and pondering the strange sensation of disquiet stealing over his heart. "Just hope we can keep up." Something struck his memory, and he looked at Mary. "Heard anything from the Judge?"

Mary made a small, frustrated noise and shook her head. "The telegraph operator said he's out of town until the end of next week and can't be reached. I suppose we'll just have to keep an eye on Wyatt until he gets back."

Nathan leaned forward, staring over his cup of coffee at a scene long past. "You can bet I'll be doin' that," he said in a low voice tinged with anger.



Vin sauntered slowly down the street, now deserted and dusty in the light of the setting sun. Only a few other people were about, and none of them gave the tracker a second glance. Which, of course, was just fine with Vin, who hated being stared at. The day had been long and unseasonably warm for spring; all he wanted now was a drink, and the companionable solitude of the saloon.

He saw a figure standing on the boardwalk up ahead, in front of the grocer's; as he drew closer he could discern Wyatt, leaning against a wooden post and smoking a cheroot. Vin's hackles instantly rose, and he tried not to glare at the returned sheriff as he walked by.

He had no idea why his instincts flared whenever he was around the lean older man, but he did know he had no liking for him. The man abandoned his duty, left his charges in the hands of ruffians, and there was more than enough honor in Vin to feel nothing but contempt for a man who would forsake the helpless to save his own neck.

But there was more to it than that, Vin mused as he lifted his tired blue eyes to look up the street at the saloon looming ahead. Something about Wyatt that he couldn't pin down just rubbed him wrong–there was an air of unknown danger lurking beneath those pleas of apology and contrition. He reminded Vin of a cagey animal, pretending to be injured to lure in its prey.

Judging by how folks in town had seemed to forgive Wyatt, the ploy seemed to be working.

*BANG!!*

The gunshot echoed through the empty street like a thunderclap, the bullet slamming into the dust only a few feet from Vin. The few townsmen who were around yelled in alarm and dove for cover as more shots rang out.

The former bounty hunter reacted instantly, his Winchester out and primed as he ducked smoothly behind the nearest shelter, a fully loaded wagon. Another bullet struck the wagon, sending splinters of wood spinning through the air.

Vin waited, his eyes searching, his hands grasping his weapon as he coiled himself to strike. Another gunshot; it struck the wagon again. The gunman was definitely shooting at him. One guy, it seemed, on the roof of the tobacco shop across the street.

He gripped his gun, then sprang up and fired a few shots towards the roof. He could see a lone figure there, watching and waiting. As soon as Vin emerged, the figure got off another round, causing the tracker to seek shelter again.

As Vin waited for another chance, he heard footsteps behind him, and looked up to see Wyatt moving towards him, his own gun drawn.

"See him?" Wyatt asked as he inched over to where Vin was, careful to stay hidden.

Grudgingly, Vin nodded at the roof, galled that he had to accept help from a man whom he so thoroughly distrusted. "He's up on that roof."

Wyatt glanced around at the townspeople who had sought shelter, and were now peering into the street fearfully from behind doors and turned–over tables. "Anybody hit?"

Vin shook his head, his long golden–brown curls dancing with the motion. "Nope. It's me he's after."

"But the civilians could still get hurt," Wyatt insisted.

Vin scowled as he checked his gun. "Hell, Wyatt, I know that! I'm going to–"

He lifted his head to continue, but Wyatt was gone.

"Damn," he muttered, looking around. In the fading sunlight he saw Wyatt approaching the tobacco shop in a crouch, gun lifted, staying close to the sides of the nearest buildings.

Dang fool, gonna get himself killed pullin' some stupid heroic stunt, Vin thought angrily as he scanned the rooftop. Maybe he was trying to redeem himself in the eyes of the townfolk. Or maybe he was just crazy.

"Wyatt!" he whispered, hoping to call the former sheriff back. Wyatt ignored him as he trotted towards the weathered wooden stairs leading to the tobacco shop's second floor.

"What's goin' on, Vin?" said a familiar voice at the tracker's elbow.

Vin didn't turn around, his blue eyes glued to Wyatt. "Guy on the roof takin' potshots, Josiah," was the muttered reply.

"Huh," Josiah grunted as he stepped next to Vin, squinting into the sunlight. "What's Wyatt doin'?"

Wyatt had now reached the steps and was very slowly climbing them, his gun poised just in case.

"Tryin' t'get himself killed, looks like," Vin said in a quiet, slightly irritated tone.

"Thought that was our job," Josiah noted dryly. Vin shook his head, and together they followed Wyatt over to the tobacco shop.

Wyatt had reached the second floor; on the landing stood a ladder leading up to the flat roof. He began to ascend very slowly as Vin and Josiah came towards him, their own weapons at the ready.

He arrived at the top of the ladder, his head just below the lip of the roof. With extreme caution, he carefully lifted it, peering furtively over the edge. As soon as he did so, he relaxed and turned to the other men.

"He's gone," Wyatt shouted.

Josiah and Vin looked at each other.

"I'll check the street," Josiah offered, and darted off.

Vin nodded. "I'll look 'round back," he returned, and they split up while Wyatt went up to inspect the roof.

Twenty minutes later they met at the front of the tobacco shop, empty–handed.

"Reckon he climbed down the other side an' took off into the desert," Vin said with disappointment as he holstered his Winchester.

"Or just blended in somewhere," Josiah sighed, looking around.

"Well, we do know one thing," Wyatt announced as he came down the steps, a fluttering sheet of weathered paper in his hand. "He was after you, Tanner."

He held up the paper. It was a wanted poster for Vin, dirty and torn but still legible, featuring a reasonable sketch of the tracker, his name and the five hundred dollar bounty for murder in Texas.

"Damn!" Vin spat, his eyes turning stormy. "Some bastard's lookin' to collect on me."

"That won't happen while any of us are around, Vin," Josiah promised, hoping to ease his friend's anger.

"I'm certain Tanner's life is safe in the hands of his comrades, Mr. Sanchez," Wyatt noted, looking at the poster before rolling it up. "I just thank God none of those people were hurt."

Josiah's eyebrows came together as he threw Wyatt a furious look. "It's not Vin's fault he's a marked man, Wyatt," he said in a sharp tone. "Them charges are false, an' everyone here knows it."

A few of the townspeople had remained nearby, and were listening intently.

Wyatt's expression was serious. "I'm sure they are, Sanchez," he said with all sincerity. "But that would hardly matter if an innocent person here lost their life because someone came for Tanner. That much money could easily cause recklessness."

Vin's blue eyes were blazing as he took a step towards Wyatt, heedless of the audience around them. "I'd take a bullet myself before I'd let any of these folks get hurt, Wyatt," he snapped, coming to within a few feet on the former sheriff. "We already saw what you'd do for 'em–leave 'em to fend for themselves."

Wyatt looked stung. "That was a long time ago, Tanner!" he protested. A few people muttered in agreement.

Vin and Josiah looked at each other. The tracker drew a deep breath, turned back to Wyatt and snatched the wanted poster from his hands, crumpling it to pieces.

"I'm goin' to the saloon," he said in a low voice full of barely restrained anger, and walked away. Josiah gave Wyatt an appraising look and went after his comrade.

"I knew this would happen one day!" a townsman said behind them, loud enough for Vin to hear. "Having a marked man in town is dangerous, even if he is a lawman. I mean, Tanner's all right, but–well–"

"I'm with you, Jack," another voice chimed in, although the words grew fainter as they walked farther away. "Somebody's gonna get shot."

A third voice, the last he heard, came in. "What do you think, Wyatt?"

Vin sighed.

"Wasn't your fault, Vin," Josiah consoled him as they strode up the street.

"Hell it ain't, Josiah," was the bitter response as Vin hurled the crumpled wanted poster away. "He was gunnin' for me. I always been afraid this would happen."

They walked in silence for a few minutes, Vin wearing a deeply troubled expression.

"Don't want nobody gettin' hurt 'cause of me bein' here," he finally added quietly.

The other man smiled a bit. "We all know that, Vin. Try not to get too worked up, I reckon we can cover their behinds as well as yours," he said in a reassuring tone. "Now let's see what Inez is servin' up at the Tavern."

Vin nodded, not feeling at all reassured. This opened up a whole new set of problems, ones he hoped he'd never have to face. A drink wouldn't solve them, but he found himself wanting one very badly. Or maybe it was just the company that would go with the drink; Chris would be at the saloon now, and Nathan, and Buck, Ezra and JD. Maybe it was them he wanted to see, to hear their voices and share in their company.

Because the time might come very soon when he could no longer risk their lives to do so.



Another two days went by, remarkable only for their lack of excitement. The town seemed crowded as the farmers came in to buy supplies for the spring planting, and there were a few dustups at the saloon between some hotheaded cattle hands and stubborn farm boys, but that was about all.

On the night of the second day, Buck sat lounging in the jail, idly reading the latest copy of the Clarion and keeping an eye on the large, scruffy miscreant who had attacked Mary.

"Hey, friend, looks like you made the paper," he announced, scanning the inside pages.

The prisoner grunted, glaring with unfriendly eyes at Buck. "That a fact?"

"Sure is," the lawman replied, his eyes still on the paper. "But it ain't somethin' you'll be wantin' to send to your mama, I bet."

The prisoner grunted. "Go to hell, lawman," he spat, and turned away.

Buck grinned to himself and kept reading, until a shout in the street caught his attention.

"Fire!"

He was on his feet in an instant, the paper tossed aside. A quick glance at the jail cell assured him that the outlaw was secure, and he dashed out into the street.

A few doors down, a pile of barrels lay blazing next to the undertaker's, thick smoke and flames roaring into the black night air. The hungry flames licked at the wooden building.

"Shit!" Buck yelled, taking a few steps off the porch. Some of the townspeople were running over, their leather fire buckets in hand. Within moments they were dragging them in the nearby horse's trough and tossing the water on the blaze. The barrels were soon doused, but the walls of the undertaker's were smoldering, flames still dangling on the boards and along the edge of the roof.

Buck whirled and dashed inside, intent of finding the fire bucket which was always kept inside the door of the jail. He checked the cell and saw that the prisoner was sleeping on his cot; things seemed secure enough, but he grabbed and pocketed the keys to the cell just in case anyone got ideas about freeing the lawbreaker. Then, grabbing the fire bucket, he ran back outside.

The flames were now snaking up the side of the wall. A ladder was quickly procured, and Buck filled his bucket and climbed it as quickly as he could, heaving the contents onto the smoking roof. A line formed swiftly behind him, full and empty buckets passed up and down the way until the fire was extinguished.

"Whew!" Buck breathed as he climbed down the ladder, exhausted. That had been close; he'd seen how fires could destroy entire towns in a hurry. After mopping his brow, he turned around, and to his surprise ran smack into Irving Wyatt.

"Whoa!" exclaimed Buck as he staggered back a few paces. "Uh, hey there, Wyatt."

"Wilmington," nodded the former sheriff, running one smudged arm over his perspiring forehead. Like Buck, Wyatt was covered with ashes and sweat. "Nice work there."

"Oh, uh, thanks," Buck replied, glancing back at the charred side of the undertaker's. Then he swung his gaze back to Wyatt. "Looks like you were workin' pretty hard yourself."

"You bet he was!" said another of the townsmen as he walked by, dripping bucket in hand. "Didn't you see him, Wilmington? Wyatt here got the line going. It was somethin', you'd have thought it was his own place burnin' down."

"Yeah?" Buck replied, peering closely at Wyatt and wondering why he wasn't more impressed or grateful.

Wyatt merely shrugged. "Well, you know, I wasn't about to let the town burn to the ground."

Buck nodded. "Well...thanks. Best go look in on the prisoner, make sure he didn't slither through the bars or somethin'."

"Right. Well, night," Wyatt said, and wandered off.

Buck watched him go, noticing a few of the townsmen coming up and talking to him as he went towards the saloon. Then he sighed, suddenly feeling very tired, and walked back to the jail.

He entered and slung the bucket into the corner, blinking as he noticed the smoke still hanging in the air from the fire next door. The outlaw, he saw, was still lying perfectly still on his bunk with his face to the wall, and Buck was about to sit back down when he stopped and looked again. Something wasn't right.

"Oh, shit!" he whispered in horror, running across the small room to the outer bars and furiously digging the keys from his pocket. As he quickly unlocked the door, his eyes stayed riveted to the man on the bunk, who remained motionless.

The outer door flew open, and Buck ran to the outlaw's door, but his dread suppositions were turning into certainties the closer he got to the cell. By the time he unlocked the door and yanked it open, he no longer had any questions, and without hesitation he charged inside and grabbed the figure on the cot, violently dragging it to the floor.

Straw and wadded rags flew everywhere as the stuffed clothing was pulled apart. Letting out a furious yell, Buck throttled the headless shirt in his fist for a moment, then dashed it to the floor of the cell and sped out, a million questions running through his mind as he plunged into the street. Obviously he'd gotten out during the fire, but how, if Buck had the only key? Did he pick the lock? Where did the stuffed clothes come from? And most importantly, where the hell did the guy go?

He looked in every direction, his eyes wide with urgency. A few men still stood nearby, including Wyatt.

"Somethin' wrong, Wilmington?" one of the townsmen called.

"The prisoner got out!" he replied in a yell, his gun drawn.

"Aw, damn!" another man gasped. "We'll find 'im, Buck, don't worry."

"Bastard can't have gone too far," the first man observed.

"I'll check down the back alley," Wyatt volunteered, and ran off.

"Be careful!" Buck shouted after them as they dispersed. He gave one more look around and then began his own search, his heart pounding. Chris and Mary were going to kill him, but Buck was more concerned with how the guy got out. He'd had the only key, and that stuffed dummy had to come from somewhere. The man had had help escaping, but from who?

Hoping to find some answers, Buck ran off into the night.



The next morning revealed the full extent the small fire had done to the undertaker's shop. As the townspeople gaped and pointed at the blackened roof and charred pile of splintered wood and twisted metal where the old barrels had been, the seven lawmen worked to find the escaped criminal.

"Looks like this fire was just a diversion," Chris observed as he studied the mess.

JD was standing next to him, his hands on his hips. "I asked all over town, an' nobody saw who set it," the young man sighed. "Sure hope Vin an' Buck find somethin'."

A red-clad figure emerged from the jail, adjusting his flat-crowned black hat against the glare of the morning sun. "It appears our wayward felon also possessed a key to his cell," Ezra announced as he approached JD and Chris. "There are no signs of a pick having been employed."

JD frowned at him. "The only person who had a key was Buck, an' he said he took them when he went to fight the fire."

The three men contemplated this for a moment, but before it could be addressed further, their thoughts were interrupted by Mary's worried voice. "Chris?"

They turned to see the slender blonde woman coming towards them, concern plainly written on her face.

"Mary," Chris replied, tugging at his hat brim. His two comrades did the same.

"Is it true?" she inquired, stopping a few feet from them and scanning their faces with wide blue eyes. "Did the man who attacked me escape last night?"

"Don't you worry, Mrs. Travis, Vin's probably got 'im in tow right now," JD assured her.

"I somehow think that's highly unlikely, Mr. Dunne," announced a new voice.

At this addition to their conversation, the men and Mrs. Travis turned their eyes to the street. Wyatt was trotting up to where they stood, holding a bundle of cloth wadded up before him on his saddle.

"What do you mean, Wyatt?" Mary asked, as soon as the former marshal was close enough.

Wyatt reined in and faced them. "Did a little scouting on my own-no offense, Mr. Larabee, just didn't like the idea that that skunk had gotten loose."

Chris's mouth twitched but he said nothing beyond, "Find anything?"

Wyatt sighed and crossed his hands on his saddle pommel. "Yep. The prisoner-or rather, what was left of him." He straightened and held up the cloth. It was a blue shirt, identical to the one the outlaw had been wearing, torn to pieces and soaked with brownish dried blood.

Mary didn't flinch at the gruesome sight; instead, she looked relieved and a little curious. "What happened?"

"Met somethin' meaner than he was, I suppose," Wyatt answered, wadding the cloth back up. "Probably a mountain lion. Not much left of him, but I managed to get this shirt, just to prove he's dead."

"Where's the body?" Chris asked quietly, studying Wyatt with skeptical eyes.

A small grin crossed Wyatt's lips. "A little ghoulish fascination, Larabee? I buried the remains near that outcropping next to the river. He's right by a large dead tree with four branches. If you want, I can take you there, you can see for yourself."

Chris shook his head. "Just in case the law wanted him, that's all. They might need proof he's dead."

Wyatt chuckled and held up the bloody shirt. "Here's all the proof they should need. Now, I'm headed to the bath house. Morning, Mary."

He nodded to Mary and tossed the shirt to Chris before riding off down the street. Chris grabbed the stiff fabric in one fist and stared after the former marshal, his instincts blazing.

JD sighed. "Guess you can stop worryin', Mrs. Travis," he breathed in surprise. "Looks like he met justice after all."

Mary gave an unsteady nod and forced a smile. "Yes, it looks that way. Well," she cleared her throat, "I-I have to go open the office. I'll see you boys later."

She hurried off with a preoccupied expression on her face, walking through the small crowd of people who were gawking at the burned building.

Chris stood silent for a moment, clutching the bloodied shirt, then without turning his head said, "Keep an eye on things, JD, I'm gonna see if I can find Vin."

As Chris began to walk towards the livery, JD nodded. "Sure, Chris. Where you goin'?"

"To see if this dead man is really dead," was the reply, and Chris was gone.


The warm spring wind whistled past the desolate desert rocks and over the shallow, sparkling river as it made its way east to more attractive climes. It barely paused to linger over the two men who now crouched beside a small open grave, and as it went on its way its arrival and departure failed to attract the slightest bit of their attention.

"What do you think?" Chris asked, his green eyes never moving from the almost indecipherable mass of what was once a human body lying in the rocky pit before them.

Vin shifted on his haunches and scratched at his chin, his face puzzled. Finally he ran one hand through his long brown curls, now dancing restlessly in the breeze. "Ran into a cougar, all right, but hell if I know if that's the feller that got outta our jail. Ain't enough face left, could be anybody." He tilted his head a little, studying the gory remains closely without the barest trace of hesitation or squeamishness. "'Bout the right size, though."

"Clothes are the same, too," his friend observed in a pensive, quiet voice. Finally Chris stood and beats his palms together to wipe off the dust. "Right. Let's head back."

The other man got to his feet as well, pulling his battered wide-brimmed leather hat back onto his head as he continued to stare at the dead man. "We sayin' this is the feller who escaped?"

Chris looked around at the unforgiving landscape, so wide open and yet secretive. "Yep," he said, squinting as his keen green eyes seemed to pick out every cactus and boulder. "But we'll keep our eyes open, just in case this is a trick. Somethin' about this just don't set right."

Vin drew a deep breath and nodded his silent agreement. Without another word, they dumped handfuls of sand and rocks back over the body, then walked back to their horses, mounted up, and trotted back to town, leaving the desert and its secrets behind.