Captives

by Sue

After discovering a long-missing Ezra close to death in the abandoned fortress hideout of a sadistic outlaw, Chris, Vin and Buck go in pursuit of his tormentor while Buck and JD deal with their own demons in the aftermath of the traumatic event. Complete.

3. Chapter 3

JD watched the saloon crowd empty out from his solitary bench on the boardwalk across the street. None of the patrons seemed to notice him, probably because it was dark where he was sitting, and they were far removed from the ability to recognize even their own mothers. The young man watched them leave with sad diligence, prepared to tell anyone who asked that he was up this late only to keep an eye on things.

He could only hope the questioner would be too drunk to detect the lie.

JD shivered, even though the night air was still warm, and almost reluctantly let his eye wander to one of the upper windows. Only one of them was shuttered; that marked the location of Ezra's room. JD felt a familiar, dreadful sadness settle over him as he contemplated that window. He really didn't want to think about it, but ever since the moment he stepped through the gates of the fort, he had been unable to put his mind on anything else.

It rose up again before him, the gruesome sight which had haunted him for the past two days. He'd seen dead bodies before, but only one or two at a time. These were...there were piles of them, all over, covered with blood and flies. Nausea almost overwhelmed him, but he couldn't stop the images. They'd even shot the women, and although JD didn't know for sure, it appeared that the women had been brutally used before their deaths.

God, JD groaned to himself, pulling off his hat and running a hand through his hair, no longer caring who saw him. God, why would someone do something like that? It was the worst thing he'd ever seen.

And the men they'd found locked up, they'd been tortured, actually really tortured. JD had heard about such things, but never thought he'd ever see someone who'd suffered through it. It had seemed a distant concept, something nobody really did, except maybe the Indians, and who knew if even that was true. Oh, sure, he and Chris and the others had sometimes scared the bad guys they'd caught, but they'd never hurt anybody, that he knew of, anyway. So he was completely unprepared to see what the outlaws had done to their victims.

It was far worse than he could've imagined.

That was all bad enough, but then they had found Ezra. JD tried to shake off the sudden surge of grief which swept through him; he didn't want to think that Ezra had suffered like that. Ezra was too smart, too strong, too quick. And Ezra was his friend. Sure, the gambler had been impatient with him at times, but he had never turned JD away from his table. Many evenings had been whiled away at the saloon, gambling and laughing and telling dubious stories. It was usually fun to have Ezra around.

And now...JD cringed. He couldn't, just couldn't think of his joking, clever friend locked up in that awful cell with no light. He didn't want to think about his friend yelling in pain or bleeding under the beatings he'd received. Such things had never happened to anyone so close to him. There had been woundings, of course, and several times one of their number had almost died. Gunshot wounds were expected out here, however; even JD had had a few of those.

He never expected this.

Guilt kept his eyes riveted to the closed window. He should see Ezra, let Josiah and Nathan get some rest, but he couldn't bring himself to climb those stairs. He couldn't bear to look at Ezra like that. Maybe later he could do it, but not yet.

And the man who did this was still out there. JD turned his eyes westward, past the edge of town, as if trying to penetrate the dark desert which lay beyond. Chris would catch him, JD knew that, but did that matter? It didn't seem possible that the capture of One-Eyed Wolf Parsons would stop such a monstrous evil. Next week they might find someone even worse. Now that JD knew this sort of savagery existed, had seen it with his own eyes, it seemed everywhere, and too immense to stop. What chance did the seven of them have against something so powerful?

He blinked and glanced again at the window, fear swelling through him. Ezra, who was smart and strong, had still been unable to prevent his capture and torment. What if it had been himself that had fallen into Parsons' clutches? It easily might have been. JD's stomach turned as he pictured facing such horrible suffering. If it had almost killed Ezra, it would certainly kill him. And, except for a capricious turn of fate, it might have.

JD shivered again and wrapped his arms around himself; this was not a new thought, and had been increasingly troubling him. The mesas and valleys of the West harbored as much evil as beauty; who knew what would happen? Parsons had proven that such a terrible fate was possible, and that someone like Ezra-or JD-could easily meet it. They might catch Parsons, but there might still be other, even more depraved souls out there, and JD could not shake the haunting thought that one day he might face the same anguish as Ezra had. Or even worse.

Stop it, he yelled at himself, shaking his head. This is crazy, there's no reason to think you're going to be tortured to death someday. But the answer always came: Ezra didn't think it either, and look what happened. This is the West, such things are real here. Best prepare yourself for the possibility if you want to stay.

A memory pushed its way to the forefront of JD's mind, of the day he was brutally beaten by the racketeering Nichols brothers. Well, that had been painful, he pointed out to himself, but he'd survived it. And the time he got shot in the side by that crazy Mattie Stokes, he'd toughed that out too. He'd already been tested, and passed, so why the hell was he so worried?

Because, the young man told himself, what he was facing now was a lot worse than a small band of big-city toughs or a loco female bounty hunter. It was as close to pure evil as JD ever hoped to get. How could he fight it without knowing what drove it, and how could he learn that when the mere thought of having to deal with such horrors drove his stomach down to his boots?

And he wasn't a coward, he knew that. He'd faced danger several times with no problem. But he had been able to understand most of the desperadoes they'd fought against. He didn't understand the thinking behind evil like this, and was pretty sure he didn't want to know. But it was the not knowing that knotted his gut.

He stood, stretching his sore muscles. The drunks were pretty much all gone now; only a few lights remained in the saloon. Inez was closing down for the night. Soon Josiah would be coming out, and JD didn't want to answer any questions right now. He was still sorting it all out for himself.

With weary steps JD hastened to his boarding-room bed, still deep in thought and profoundly troubled. The monster who had gotten Ezra still lived beyond the shadows of the desert, and Chris, Vin and Buck were riding straight into its jaws. JD had every confidence they would succeed, but he was rattled enough to contemplate other, darker possibilities. But he shook these away, or tried to; he was having enough trouble just coping with what had happened to Ezra. If any of his other friends met the same fate...

He firmly pushed this terrible thought away and hurried down the street, as if trying to outrun the fear which nevertheless seemed to dog his every step.

It promised to be a long night.



Buck sighed to himself with fierce frustration as he hefted the saddle off of his horse. The roundabout route they had taken had enabled them to avoid running into any more army, but it had also prevented them from reaching Purgatorio ahead of the slashing rainstorm which was now soaking the landscape. They had managed to find a cave large enough to shelter them, with a stand of sheltering trees nearby for the horses, but the break in their journey still rankled Buck. Every moment's delay meant that Parsons was getting farther away.

As beauty blew a little and bent her head down to munch on the prairie grass, Buck carried her saddle away a short distance and plopped it on the ground, still thinking. Sure, it was foolish to ride in the rain and the darkness, but dangit, if Parsons got away from him again-well, he just wouldn't be able to take it. He'd have to quit the group and track the bastard down all by himself, if necessary. It might take the rest of his life, but if that was what was needed...

"You gonna tell 'im?"

Buck jumped a bit and looked up to see Chris standing nearby, without his hat or duster. A lit cheroot glowed between his teeth, illuminating his face with a faint red light. Behind him, Buck could see the flicker of light as Vin started a fire in the cave.

Buck scowled as he stood. "Tell who what, Chris?"

His friend jerked his head a little in Vin's direction. "Vin. You gonna tell 'im about what happened in Kansas City, with Parsons?"

Buck's eyes widened a little bit as he stared at the gunslinger, stupefied, his heart hammering. God, Chris knew about what had happened with Parsons and Rio! Shame flooded him, followed quickly by confusion.

His eyes narrowed a little. "Mind tellin' me how you know about that?"

Now it was Chris who looked at him, startled. "You don't remember?"

"I reckon not," was the flat reply.

Chris paused, and took a few steps closer, keeping his voice low. "You told me all about it when we got together in Butte the winter after it happened. You was drunker'n all get-out an' spent three solid hours cryin' on my shoulder on how Rio'd double-crossed you and sprung Parsons."

Buck could only blink. "Dang. Really?"

The other man nodded. "Wasn't sure if you remembered it, an' I didn't think you'd want the others knowin'. Y'seemed mighty sore about it at the time."

Buck threw him a furious look. "Hell, Chris, don't I got every right t'be?" he said in a low, pained voice as he took a step back. "This whole thing is my fault. If I hadn't let Rio turn my head, Parsons would be rottin' in a cheap coffin six feet under Kansas soil, them folks would still be alive, an' Ezra an' that little gal would be walkin' around just fine. It ain't somethin' I'm real proud of."

Chris nodded as he took a long pull on the cheroot. After a few moments he removed it from his mouth and looked away, blowing out the smoke in a languorous hazy stream. "I know how a mistake like that can eat at a man, Buck. I'm just makin' sure you don't go an' blow his head off the minute we find 'im."

Buck knelt down and began fiddling with the saddle. His expression was lethal. "Can't promise that, Chris. Not after what he's done." He glanced up. "I'm surprised you'd show them monsters the slightest bit of mercy."

"I ain't talkin' about mercy," Chris replied, putting the cheroot back between his teeth. The glint in his green eyes was as hard as steel. "But we got to make sure they go to trial an' hang for what they did. An' we can't give that rat Stephenson any excuse for lockin' us up. He'd do that in a minute if we killed Parsons before the law had a chance to."

Buck thought for a moment, then sighed and nodded. "Yeah, he would."

Chris paused, then looked at Buck, his expression serious. "I also," he continued, "don't want you goin' off an' gettin' yourself shot tryin' t'get the drop on 'im. Parsons is a crazy, sick bastard, an' we got to go after him together if we're going to bring him down."

Buck looked up at his old friend, understanding and accepting his concern for him. It was just his way of letting Buck know that he'd personally kick Buck's ass if he let himself get hurt. He'd seen the violent, reckless side that Buck showed to precious few people-most of whom dearly regretted it-and was simply saying: Be careful.

"Don't worry, Pard, I won't put Parsons in the ground before the Judge gets the chance to," he assured his friend with a somber nod. Chris said nothing, simply returning the nod, and the deal was set.

Buck looked over at the fire, where Vin was skinning the rabbit he'd caught for dinner. He drew a long, slightly nervous breath and blew it back out. "Yeah, guess I better let Vin in on all this mess. We're ridin' together, best he knows what he's ridin' with." Buck chuckled slightly as he stood and dusted off his hands. "He'll probably think I'm a damn crazy lovesick fool."

Chris grinned a little around the cheroot. "Hell, we all do that already," he said. Buck mustered enough good nature out of his sour mood to laugh slightly at the joke, and they walked back to the cave as the thunder and rain rolled about them.



Josiah strode slowly out of the Standish Tavern, a steaming cup of coffee held in one hand as he blearily regarded the new day. The night before it had been so long he had begun to imagine the sun would never rise.

He leaned againt a wooden post and sipped at the brew, watching as the townfolk went about their business but paying little attention to the sceen before his eyes. Worry still ate at his gut, a persistent ache which he feared would be unpacking its bags and staying for a long time. There was, after all, so much to be worried about.

Ezra had passed a bad night, barely sleeping, and haunted by nightmares even when he did close his eyes. Inez had found him screaming in his room after the lamp had accidently gone out; he had awakened in the dark, convinced once again that he had come to consciousness back in his cell. Mary was with him now; Josiah had passed her on the stairs, carrying a tray of food. Hopefully Ezra would want to eat; he'd have to go back up soon and see how it was going. Ezra had a great deal of esteem for Mary; if anyone could help him, it would be her.

Then there was JD, Josiah mused as he eased himself into a chair on the porch. Something was bothering the boy, but he didn't seem to want to talk about it. Of course, the boy had seen enough in the past few days to unnerve anyone; it wasn't a matter of what was bothering him, but which of a host of potential nightmares was the most likely choice. With any luck, he thought, JD would decide to talk soon and let someone help him. Keeping such dark thoughts to oneself could drive the young man mad.

Then there was Chris and the others out after Parsons, he thought to himself, glancing out to the east along the street his freinds had ridden out on. They were in danger as well; Parsons may have found a new band to do his evil work. There were plenty of men who'd gladly follow such a man if he promised money, power and the freedom to be as depraved as you wanted. A bitter helplessness clawed at Josiah's throat; if only they could have all gone. But as it was, he could only pray for their safety and hope God heard. if God wasn't too sick from hearing Josiah's voice already...

"Scuse me, sir? You the preacher?"

Josiah looked up, startled. Before him stood a slight, brown-haired man, clean-shaven and clad in worn clothes dusty from traveling. His hat was in his hand, his lean tan face weary but respectful.

"Reckon I am, sir," Josiah replied, putting aside his thoughts as he stood and extended his hand. "Josiah Sanchez."

"Mitchell Gardner," the man replied, shaking Josiah's hand firmly. "I was told t'talk to you, Father, uh, Sanchez..."

Josiah smiled gently at him. "Just Josiah'll do, friend."

Mr. Gardner seemed a little surprised, but nodded. "All right. Josiah. Me an' my family was travelin' through on the way t'homestead, an' my Pa passed on not five miles back. He's at the undertaker's now, an' I was wonderin' if you could say a few words over 'im so he could have a decent Christian burial? I'd sure be much obliged, an' it'd mean a lot t'Josie an' the young ones. They're over prayin' at the church right now."

Josiah's face settled into solemn lines. "I'll be happy t'help, Mr. Gardner. Right sorry about your pa."

The other man nodded a little, emotion twitching his mouth. "Thank you, Josiah, he...well, he weren't never a rich man or nothin' but he was always good t'us. Had a hard life but never blamed nobody." He stood silent for a moment, lost in thought, the sniffed and looked up. "Anyway, I don't got too much cash, but whatever you want is yours for helpin' us."

He motioned to Josiah, and they stepped into the street towards a wagon hitched nearby. It was quite large, its back taken up with a few trunks, some small pieces of furniture and bedding, and boxes of food.

One item caught Josiah's attention right away. It was a large chair, covered with red padded leather, its back hinged in a most peculiar way.

"Never seen a chair like that before," he muttered as they walked to the back of the wagon.

"That was pa's," Mr. Gardner informed him. "Well, we got it for him anyway, but he never really used it. Picked it up in Phoenix. It was dang expensive, but he insisted, an' hell I couldn't never talk him outta nothin'. They called it an invalid's chair."

"Is that right," Josiah said softly, his voice edged with interest.

His companion climbed into the back of the vehicle and picked his way past a few trunks to where the chair sat. "See, y'can bend the back an' the bottom so's the person in it can stretch out." He pulled on the back of the chair, which responded by tilting backwards almost a foot. Reaching down, he yanked the footrest up a similar distance. He stood, gazing at the contraption sadly. "We was hopin' t'sell it. Pa sure don't need it no more. but I don't reckon nobody out here'd want it."

Josiah's face was bright with eagerness. "Mr. Gardner, if you're willin', I'll be glad to take this chair off your hands in exchange for doin' your pa's funeral, an' give you a few dollars besides for it."

The other man's weary face lit up as he climbed back out of the wagon. "That'd suit me, Josiah. I know Pa'd be happy someone had a use for his chair."

The preacher helped Gardner out of the wagon, his face reflective. "Yeah," he murmured, a touch of sadness in his voice, "we got a use for it. But you'll forgive me if I say that I dearly wish we didn't."

Gardner reached the ground and nodded, fully understanding the sentiment. Josiah glanced on last time at the chair, then he and Gardner moved off towards the church to make the necessary arrangements.



Mary carefully balanced the small tray of food in one hand as she approached the door to Ezra's room. her blue eyes looked once more over its contents: a tin cup of weak tea, a small bowl of broth, a slice of bread. Simple, bland food, but nourishing at least, if Ezra would only eat it.

Concern plucked at her heart as she neared the door; she had helped Nathan and Josiah with Ezra the night he was brought back. It was amazing, to her, that he was even still alive, considering his appearance then. But then, he was a fighter, as they all were; her father-in-law, Judge Travis, would not have entrusted her safety and that of the town to Ezra and his friends if he had been anything less.

She reached the door, and holding the tray in one hand knocked on the smoothly painted white wood with the other.

After a few moments the door quietly opened, and Nathan appeared.

"Mornin', Mrs. Travis," he said quietly, and with a small hint of surprise.

She gave a tiny smile of greeting. "Hello, Nathan." She lifted the tray a bit. "I brought some food up for Ezra, if he's awake enough to eat it."

Nathan glanced behind him. "Should be soon, ma'am, he was stirrin' a bit just now." He looked back at her. "If you'd like to bring it on in, y'can sit with 'im while I go get the bath ready. It's gonna be time soon t'wash his cuts again."

He opened the door a little, allowing her to slip in. Inside it was still dark, but not as gloomy as it had been the day before. As she set the tray gently down on the dresser, Mary glanced at the bed and saw Ezra curled up in the quilt, almost buried in its folds with his back to her.

"I won't be long," Nathan promised. Then he paused. "Did Inez tell you what happened last night?"

Mary's expression became thoughtful as her blue eyes dropped their gaze. "Yes," she replied simply. "It sounds like Ezra's going to need all of our help to get through this."

"That he will, ma'am," Nathan said with a nod. "Just wanted t'warn you, he might be powerful surly when he wakes up. Just let him come 'round himself. An' don't be surprised if he don't feel like eatin'. Josiah told 'im what happened in that fort, an' it done broke his heart."

She sighed, folding her arms as if suddenly cold. "I understand," she whispered, looking away, knowing that she couldn't truly understand, ever. How much pain would the gambler have to bear? Then she took a breath and looked back at Nathan, trying to smile. "I'll be all right, Nathan. I just...wanted to make sure Ezra knew there are those of us in town who want to help."

"Well, I sure 'preciate it," was Nathan's reply as he softly opened the door. "I'll be right back."

He slipped out of the door, and was gone.

Mary had just settled into the chair near the bed when Ezra began to stir, his slow motions filling the air with the gentle noise of soft rustling.

She stood and walked to the foot of the bed, eager not to startle him with her presence. She could see that he was awake, his eyes open as he stared for a few moments at the wall, blinking. She felt her heart race a little with empathy as she saw once more the dark, deep bruises which marked his face. In this light it was hard to tell it was even Ezra.

After a short pause he looked down at her, frowning in puzzlement.

"Mrs. Travis?" he muttered, lifting his head up slightly.

She smiled and walked around the bed to face him. "I came to see how you were doing," she said in as gentle a voice as possible. She desperately hoped she was successful in hiding her horror at his appearance; the closer she drew, the more apparent his suffering became. He looked so thin and weary it almost frightened her.

He regarded her for a moment, then let his head sink back onto the plump down pillow, still keeping his eyes on her. "My thanks," he said in a small voice, "but propriety would frown on your being alone in here with me, you know." His lips curled in a ghost of a smile.

She folded her hands. "I think propriety can forgive a few things in the name of mercy," she said firmly, and nodded towards the dresser. "Inez prepared some breakfast for you."

His face fell, and he settled further into the pillow as his eyes looked away. "A thoughtful gesture, but I'm afraid I'm not hungry."

Silence fell, and Mary could see a haunted expression fall across his gaunt face. She stepped a little closer, worried, wondering what to say. If Ezra didn't eat, he would never regain enough strength to recover.

"I hear Contessa is doing very well," she finally said, hoping that would help.

Ezra looked up at her, his vieled eyes confused. "Contessa?"

"The young girl JD and Nathan found," Mary explained. "She wants to see you so badly. She thinks you were very brave for fighting those outlaws."

Nothing was said for several minutes. Finally Ezra drew a ragged breath and closed his eyes. "What she should do is go home and be with her family," he whispered. "I am hardly deserving of such adulation."

Mary leaned closer, hoping her words would reach him. "I think she'd dsagree," she repleid softly. "Contessa says noone else ever tried to stop those men. What you did took quite a lot of courage. You shouldn't regret doing it."

There was a pause. "If I had not tried to save those women," Ezra muttered, keeping his eyes closed, "they might have been dealt with less harshly, and I would doubtless be in a much healthier state." He drew another deep sigh. "It accomplished nothing. If I had only waited, perhaps I might have devised a way to save us all."

Mary could think of nothing to say. The pain and defeat which suffused every word Ezra spoke betrayed a suffering far deeper than any wound could cause.

Finally she licked her lips and looked at him. "Ezra, I'm planning to do an article on what happened at that fort. I want to let everyone here know to keep a lookout for Wolf Parsons. Miss Almarez has consented to my telling her story; may I tell yours as well?"

Ezra seemed to wince a bit, and he opened his eyes to look a her. "I would rather you didn't, Mrs. Travis. It is not a story I'm proud of."

She regarded him with sympathy. "But, Ezra, you did nothing wrong."

He frowned. "There are some who would disagree on that," he murmured, "and others who would see it as a reason to look on me as an object of pity. I truly believe I could not bear that, Mrs. Travis. My apologies."

She sighed to herself. "You don't have to apologize, Ezra," she said softly. "I understand. You have my word that I'll respect your wishes. Will you at least allow me to welcome you home?"

Ezra considered it. "As long as no details are given, that will be...acceptable."

Silence fell again, and Mary began to get the impressionthat Ezra was becoming tired. Maybe it was time to go. She straightened and took a step towards the door, opening her mouth to say her goodbye.

"Mrs. Travis?"

The word was spoken so softly that she wondered if she'd really heard it. When she stopped and looked at him, she saw Ezra staring at her.

"Yes, Ezra?" She drew closer.

"May I ask you a rather...personal question? You don't have to answer it."

She paused. "If it will help you at all, Ezra, I'll do my best."

The gambler nestled his head a little deeper into the pillow, pausing as he framed what he what about to say. "Following your husband's death," he finally said, in a quiet, reflective voice rife with sorrow, "did you ever regret the fact that you survived him?"

Mary was startled by the question, and it took her several tries before she could form a coherent reply.

"Well," she said in a low and husky voice, "there...were times I thought my grief would overcome me, but...I knew Stephen would never have wanted me to give up on my life. And I had Billy to think about, and be strong for. But I still miss him every day, and there were many times when I questioned why he was taken from me so soon."

Ezra swallowed and closed his eyes. "Just as I am wondering why I was spared."

Her heart sank at the despair in his voice, but she struggled to sound hopeful. "You were spared to come back and protect us," she said, gently touching his hand.

She felt him shudder beneath her fingers. "Somehow I find that thought highly unlikely," he replied bitterly. "Now if you'll forgive me, I am too weary for further conversation."

He turned his face deeper into the pillow, his eyes resolutely closed.

Mary frowned, more concerned than ever. "Ezra?"

There was no reply.

She stood by the bed, uncertain, until the door opened once more and Nathan appeared. He looked down at Ezra, then motioned Mary into the hallway.

"Reckon he didn't eat nothin'," the healer surmised once Mary had closed the door behind her.

She sighed, shaking her head. "No. I tried, but...it's like he's consumed with sadness. He's blaming himself for living while everyone else at the fort died."

Nathan glanced at the door, a flicker of sadness in his dark eyes. "Yeah, Josiah said it's weighin' heavy on 'im. I seen this durin' the war, too. Sometimes the men who lived through battles couldn't stop thinkin' about the ones who didn't an' never got over the grief of it."

Mary felt a coldness clutch at her heart at the thought that Ezra might stay like this. "Is there anything we can do?"

The healer looked back at her, his gaze sad but steady. "Just keep tendin' to 'im, ma'am, an' try to find 'im a reason not t'give up."



Despite the very early hour, the cantina of the outlaw town Purgatorio was swarming with activity, its unwashed patrons wolfing down whiskey and food with equal abandon. The sun filtered feebly through the dense smoke and dust into its adobe interior, trying in vain to cast some light into its dark proceedings. The most valiant attempts on its part were sadly doomed to failure; there were always dark places in the cantina even on the brightest days, always some murky corners where no illumination would ever reach.

It was in these places that Vin and Chris decided to begin their search for One-Eyed Wolf Parsons, while Buck investigated the town's other dives.

"Better watch your step, Vin," Chris muttered as they pushed through the dangling beaded curtain decorating the cantina's doorway. His green eyes searched the gloomy room sharply, missing nothing. "Bound to be a few desperadoes here who'd know you're a wanted man."

"I always keep an eye out, pard," the tracker assured him, sweeping the area with his own keen glance. "Lucky for us most of these desperadoes are too drunk t'see straight."

As he spoke he stepped carefully over one unconscious reveler who lay sprawled on the floor, disregarded by most of the populace. Those who did notice the hapless drunkard were content to casually shower him with their cigar butts.

They went further into the cantina, studying every wayward shadow which might prove to be their prey. Few gave them much attention, beyond a couple of suspicious looks. Those who recognized them appeared content to keep their distance.

Within a few moments they were at the bar, elbowing aside an amorous couple to make room for themselves.

"Two whiskeys," Chris muttered to the bartender, tossing a few coins onto the grimy countertop. As the drinks were prepared he folded his hands and leaned forward, his head barely moving as he looked around.

"Senor Chris?"

Chris and Vin both turned in mild surprise to the amorous couple next to them. The woman, a scantily-clad and rather sweaty working girl, was regarding Chris with a smile of sweet recognition.

Her patron, a grubby, flabby-looking man with a thick blonde mustache, seemed less than pleased. "Hey, darlin'," he snarled, "I paid fer you, you best not be throwin' me over."

The pretty young woman gave Chris a wide-eyed grin, then said something rapidly to the man in Spanish, pointing at Chris as she talked. At the words "Chris Larabee" the stranger's eyes grew large.

"Shit, Chris Larabee!" he sputtered, almost dropping her as he pulled away from the bar. "Hey-I'm sorry, mister-I, uh-"

"Mind if we talk a few minutes with Maria?" Chris said with a barely suppressed grin.

"Aw, hell no!" the man replied quickly in a breathless voice, and hurried off. Vin downed his whiskey with a smile as Chris gave the young woman a sharply suspicious look.

"What'd you tell that guy, anyway?" the gunslinger asked, amused.

Maria stepped towards him, her large eyes watching him. "I told him only the truth, Senor Chris. With you it is all that is needed." Deftly she entwined one arm around his, her lips mere inches from his face. "I have missed you," she whispered, and before he could stop her she devoured his mouth in a long, sensuous kiss.

Chris waited a few moments, then very gently pulled away from her, taking her hand in his. "Been missin' you too," he returned in a low voice, "but I ain't come for that this time. We're lookin' for an outlaw name of Wolf Parsons. Real thin, tall, long black hair, got one eye, might be travelin' with a red-haired gal named Rio."

Disappointed, Maria stood back and thought for a moment. Vin and Chris watched her eagerly, hoping. "We have many one-eyed men come through here, but none like you describe. What has he done?"

Chris's face grew dark with disgust as he turned to the bar and lifted his whiskey glass. "Killed a lot of innocent folks an' nearly beat one of my men to death," was the ice-cold reply. He slammed the whiskey down his throat as if to wash away the images of evil he had been forced to describe.

"There was a young gal escaped from 'im an led us t'the fort where he was holed up, then we tracked 'im to the border," Vin continued. "Rain washed away his tracks so we ain't sure where he got off to, but we heard he was comin' here. Figured he's hidin' an' waitin' t'get a new gang or ride down into Mexico."

Maria's expression softened. "I am sorry to hear of this. Your friend and the young girl, will they all right?"

"They're restin' up back home at Four Corners," Vin assured her. He could not honestly say, however, if they would be all right or not.

"Reckon we best take a look around town an' see if Buck's found anything," Chris said in a rough voice as he stood. He turned to Maria. "You see these people, you come an' find us. But be careful." With one swift movement he pressed a gold coin into her hand.

She stared into his face for a moment, an expression close to amazement in her eyes over his concern for her. Then she smiled, as if to assure him. "I will be careful, Senor Chris," she promised. "I hope you find this man. There are too many bad people here already, we do not need any more."

Chris gave her a smile and a quick kiss, then glanced at Vin. They moved towards the door, still looking around the cantina as they went. As they passed the fat man Chris glanced at him and said, "Treat her right or you're gonna be meetin' me again."

This seemed to completely rattle the man, who jumped up and pulled his hat on. "Uh, that's all right, Mr. Larabee, I just remembered-I gotta be gettin' home to th' wife."

With that he sped out of the door ahead of them. Chris and Vin watched him go, then Chris turned to the working girl and shrugged. Maria, however, did not seem too distraught, and they stepped back out into the street to continue their search.



Ezra lay in his room, staring at nothing as he lay lost in thought. The heavy curtains had come off of his window; his eyes had now recovered fully, and sunlight was once more allowed to stream in unabated. The room was bathed in its deepening orange glow as it began its descent to the western horizon, but Ezra did not even seem to notice the first sunset he had been able to witness for two long months. There was a darkness on his soul which no amount of daylight could wash away.

He shifted in the bed, clutching the pillow tighter against his bruised face as if to pad himself against the sorrow flooding his mind. There was pain, the annoying ache of healing wounds, but he paid little attention to it as he continued to brood, seeking answers which he believed would never come.

This is madness, he told himself as he settled down into the soft bed. For the past two months (could it have really been only two? Impossible...) he had dreamed of nothing but surviving his ordeal and coming home. He should be joyous over his rescue.

But he could not feel joy, or relief, or anything but an aching confusion over what had happened. How could he rejoice over his own good fortune, when those who had shared his imprisonment had not been spared? He thought of the two young women he had tried to protect, so youthful and lovely, certainly undeserving of the harsh fate dealt to them. He might have been able to free them, if he had not acted so rashly. If he had only waited...

He closed his eyes briefly as weariness overtook him; he was so damn tired, but he didn't want to sleep. The faces of his fellow prisoners loomed before him when he closed his eyes-he had seen them only briefly, they were really more shapes than anything else. But there had been so many, that day he'd arrived. Husbands and fathers, mothers and sisters, all held by the outlaws' cruel whims.

Now all dead. But he had been spared, with no one to answer the question which would not stop echoing through his soul: Why?

He sighed, opening his eyes, unwilling to gaze into the blank faces of the bleeding ghosts which rose before him. So many people, surely the odds would dictate that among them would be family men and women, people with loved ones waiting for them somewhere. But they had been slaughtered, and Ezra, who had no wife or family, was allowed to live.

The heaviness pressed on Ezra's heart, a curious weight made more unbearable with each passing thought. Self-examination had never been one of his favorite pastimes, and usually he acknowledged his sinful past with a dismissive shrug. But now it all seemed to come crashing down on him, every dishonest action, every con, every immorality he had ever used in his pursuit of gain. There seemed no heavenly reason why he should have been saved, no clue as to why his stained soul was lifted above the carnage while other, more worthy lives were ended. It was an accident, after all, wasn't that what Josiah had said? They had forgotten about him.

But Ezra did not believe in accidents any more than he believed in luck. There had to be a reason. But as he lay thinking, he could see no logic behind what had happened, only a blind and bloody tragedy with no shred of possible redemption. He had survived, but lived burdened with pain and the crushing memories of what he had endured and the unanswerable questions.

Perhaps that was the reason he'd been condemned to live, he thought with a shudder. To pay for his sins by continuing to suffer. The pain of his companions was over forever, but his...He felt as if his agony might never end. And too, he had shamed himself by allowing himself to give way in front of his comrades. A true gentleman, he had always believed, never lost his composure no matter how emotional the circumstances. It was so undignified to display his feelings so openly and violently. He had to be careful not to let it happen again-not for joy, or sorrow.

The worst part was, there was no one here he could turn to. No one could possibly comprehend the horrors he had endured, the agony and loneliness and eternal fear. Only someone who had shared his fate would understand-but everyone else who had shared his fate was dead, except for that young girl, Contessa.

She must be quite a courageous child, he mused; it was fortunate indeed that fate had spared her so that mankind might still benefit from her gifts. He could talk to her, he supposed, but that would be too painful for the child; she should go home, and forget what had happened to her. Besides, why did she want to see him, as Mary had said? He had done nothing remarkable, only committed a foolish act, suffered for it, and survived by being forgotten.

The sunlight began to fade. Ezra sighed, tired of thinking; soon someone would be up with food, asking him how he was doing. And he would nod and say he was feeling better, and maybe even smile a few times, so they'd see he was doing fine.

It would be the greatest con of his career.


The fat man who had been Maria's customer looked behind him as he mounted his horse. Few noticed how quickly he spurred his steed forward; fast getaways were common enough in Purgatorio. As he tore through the crowded, filthy streets and through the front gate, no one paid him the slightest bit of attention.

Great clouds of dust swirled in the air as he pounded across the sandy soil. His destination was not hearth and home, however; instead, he guided his horse's steps to a craggy mesa overlooking the wilderness which surrounded Purgatorio. To the hiding place of an old friend met by chance on the desert, who'd asked a favor of him...

The fat man reined in as he approached a particular outcropping of boulders, slowing his steed as his brown eyes searched the barren rocks. Carefully he directed his mount a short ways up the face of the slight slope, until he heard a sound which he had been expecting. But it still made his heart thump with dread.

*CLICK*

A gun, close by, readied to fire.

He sat up in the saddle, pushing back his floppy tan hat. "Wolf, it's me, Peters," he said quickly in reply to the threatening sound.

There was a pause. Ten feet away a slender figure emerged from the rocks, gun in hand, its long black hair dancing in the hot wind.

"That didn't take long," the slender man said with quiet surprise, not moving from his perch. Behind him, a red-haired woman rose with graceful silence, her eyes sharp and watching.

"Good thing y'sent me in there t'scout the place out, Wolf," Peters responded. "You was right, they're after you."

Wolf Parsons scowled. "Suspected as much after seein' that damn Army at the border. How many?"

"Two, fer now," was the casual reply as the man hooked his thumbs into his belt. "But they ain't Army. One of 'em's Chris Larabee."

A grin spread over the tall man's face as he looked back at his companion. "Hear that, Rio? We got the famous Chris Larabee on our tail."

"Maybe he's lookin' t'join up with us," the woman replied smoothly as she holstered her gun. "I heard he's a hell-raiser."

"Don't think so, gal," Peters said, shaking his head. "If what I heard's true, he an' his pal are on a blood hunt for you two. Looks like a couple folks made it out of your hands alive an' put 'em on your trail."

Wolf and Rio both looked up sharply.

"Oh, shit," she breathed, looking at her mate. "That little Mexican bitch that got away. I told you we should've gone after her, Wolf!"

Peters nodded. "Yeah, he said it was a young gal an' one of Larabee's men that you were beatin' on. Can't see how they got by you, Wolf, but they're the ones bringin' down the law on you."

Wolf stood unmoving for a few moments, one hand massaging the fisted form of the other as he stared at Peters just long enough to make him uncomfortable.

"Damn!" he finally spat, and turning on his heel he began walking briskly back to the campsite. Rio and Peters were close behind.

"Do you think you can find Larabee and his friend again?' he asked Peters as he strode to where the horses were tethered.

The large man considered the question, then shrugged. "Well...yeah, Purgatorio ain't that big. You want me to tail 'em?"

Wolf was at his horse, preparing to mount up. "No, I want you to kill them."

Rio smiled and began her own preparations.

"Kill Chris Larabee!" Peters barked, stunned. "Shit, Wolf, you ain't serious. That man's a born gunman."

"Fifty dollars in gold will tell you how serious I am," Wolf replied, glancing at him as he cinched his saddle. "Meet me here in a week with proof of his death and that's what you'll get. Hire all the guns you need-I'm sure there are plenty of men there who'll work for a drink and a few dollars. But I want him and his friend dead and out of my way."

Peters mulled it over, then watched as Wolf mounted his horse. "Hell, I don't reckon even Larabee could fight off a whole squad of hired guns. But why don't you do this yourself, Wolf? Killin' folks is what you like best. Don't figure you gone soft."

Wolf took his reins in hand and looked at Peters with an even, deadly glare. "If I had the time to take care of Larabee and his bastard friend, I would. But I got other blood t'spill. Did Larabee say where that young gal was, an' his friend that got away from us?"

Peters thought a moment. "Heard that long-haired fella say Four Corners."

A killing gleam came into Wolf's eyes as he scanned the horizon. "Then that's where we'll be ridin', once we steal us some supplies. Can't let nobody live who'd say a word against me, can I?"

An ugly chuckle rose from Peters' throat. "Reckon not, Wolf. Hell, what they might tell a judge could get you hanged."

Wolf's mouth twitched. He looked down at Parsons as Rio mounted up.

"One week," he said, and spurred his horse away. Rio followed him, an eager smile on her ruby lips, and Peters watched as they sped into the twilight, riding away in the direction of Four Corners.



The saloon was quiet as JD stood by himself at the bar, slowly nursing a shot of whiskey and trying to get up the courage to fulfill a promise he'd just made to Nathan. Maybe that hadn't been a smart idea...

But what else could he do, when the healer stopped him in the street, obviously in a hurry. Hey JD, he said in a rushed voice, I got to go, Mr. Keller broke his leg. Can you do me a favor an' check on Ezra? Josiah's doin' a funeral an' nobody's been to see 'im all afternoon.

Then he was gone.

JD had been too embarrassed to say no, but now he was wishing he had. Fear ate at his heart, he didn't want to see Ezra looking-well, like he did when they found him. it had broken his heart then, and he'd been across the room. What would it be like when he was just a few feet away? How would he be able to bear the sight of his friend in so much pain?

"JD? Are you all right?"

He looked up, sightly startled, into the large, concerned eyes of Inez, who was watching him closely from behind the bar.

He sighed and stood. "Oh, uh, yeah. Just...thinkin'."

"They must be very sad thoughts, from the look on your face," she replied with sympathy.

He tried to shrug. "Oh, well, nothing us gunslingers can't handle, right?" But he swallowed at the end of his words and nervously rubbed his hands on his jacket. "Well, I gotta go, uh, check on Ezra for Nathan."

Inez nodded as she began to wipe the bar. "That is good, he had been alone all day. He will be happy to see a friendly face, I'm sure."

JD dropped his eyes to the whiskey. "Yeah," he whispered with uncertainty, and picking up the shot glass quickly poured its contents down his throat. he grimaced as he put the empty glass back down-God, he really didn't like whiskey all that much, but maybe it would help him face what was waiting for him. Without another word he nodded to Inez and made his way up the stairs to Ezra's room.

He hesitated at the door, his heart pounding. He felt like running back down the stairs, but did his best to quell the urge. He could do this, it wouldn't be so bad. Check on Ezra, that's all, a quick look in the door. He's probably just sleeping anyway. No reason to think there's anything to worry about.

No reason to think that might well be you lying broken and bleeding on a bed someday, thanks to the outlaws you're trying to fight...

He shook his head, determined to dispel that haunting thought, and very gently opened the door.

Ezra's room was softly lit by the oil lamp now kept constantly burning on the dresser. JD stepped inside, bracing himself, hoping to face his fears by proving to himself that they were groundless. But what he saw didn't help matters much at all.

Ezra was indeed asleep, and oblivious to JD's presence. The young man stared at his friend, horrified; he looked even worse now than he did in the cell, if that was possible. There JD had only a glimpse of his injuries; now he could see every bruise and cut on his friend's face, how almost his whole body was wrapped in bandages to hide the deeper wounds. He'd never seen bruises like that on anyone, they were so dark and deep it appeared they would never heal.

JD felt sick to his stomach; he'd never thought Ezra could look so thin and exhausted. Even asleep, the pain was still evident on his face, lines of agony which no amount of care could erase. He looked ten years older than before; the change was so drastic it frightened him. This Ezra wouldn't be down in the saloon any time soon, laughing and playing cards like before. He didn't look as if he would ever have the heart to laugh again.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw that Nathan had left some of the more minor wounds unbandaged, probably because they were healing faster than the others. But nothing about those wounds seemed minor to JD, as he looked with horror at the long, red stripes on Ezra's arms and chest. There were others he couldn't see, he was sure of it. The more he stared, the more seemed to appear. They looked like whip marks.

JD gulped and shuddered, suddenly feeling very cold. He'd never seen anyone who'd been whipped before, and the fact that it was someone he knew made it unbearable to even think about. How could Ezra have survived in that cold, dark cell, all alone, with pain like this? An unwanted image seared itself into JD's mind, of his friend in agony, alone in the endless night. He thought of what he had seen in the cell when they found Ezra, the wall with that horrible red stain, those chains...

God, JD gulped to himself as he stood rooted to the spot, staring as he began to shiver. God, what did they do to him?

And what if it had been me?

Ezra began to murmur fretfully in his sleep, stirring a bit.

The young man swallowed as he came to himself with a start, a small gasp of surprise puffing from his mouth. His heart began to hammer, and he suddenly felt like getting as far away from seeing Ezra in pain as he could. But there was no one else to look after Ezra now; Inez was busy downstairs, and Josiah and Nathan weren't there.

The murmurs grew louder and more agitated.

"Uh, Ezra?" JD said, thinking it best that he try and wake Ezra up and let him know he was there. "Take it easy-I-"

A feeble, strangled cry wrenched itself from Ezra's throat, and he began tossing more violently.

Oh geez, JD thought, and impulsively he reached out and placed his hand on Ezra's shoulder, wincing at how bony it felt beneath his fingers. "Ezra?"

Another wail, louder than before, rent the air, and Ezra tore himself away from JD's touch as he covered his face with his hands and began sobbing aloud.

Terrified, JD stumbled backwards, his hazel eyes wide. Not knowing what else to do, he raced out the door and down the stairs, Ezra's screams following his every step. The screams he couldn't bear to hear.

He stumbled onto the landing of the saloon, and witnessed the miracle of Nathan coming through the doors, followed by Josiah.

"Nathan!" JD cried, waving behind him. "Quick! Ezra-he's-"

Nathan and Josiah shot past him and up the stairs before his tightening throat would allow him another word. He heard more shouts, mingled with Nathan and Josiah's voices, but he was too dizzy and frightened to try and make anything out. His legs were trembling fiercely, and he made his way to the nearest table and collapsed into a chair, his head dropping into his hands.

He had no idea how long he sat there, gasping for air, trying to regain control of himself. He was barely aware of his surroundings until he felt a touch on his shoulder. With a slight yelp he whirled, to look into the concerned blue eyes of Josiah.

"What's wrong, son?"

JD blinked, embarrassed, and unconsciously backed away a bit. He was still shaking a bit, and his eyes felt wet, but he did his best to hide any signs of discomfort. "How's Ezra?" he gasped.

Josiah didn't take his eyes from JD's face. "Nathan's takin' care of 'im. He was just havin' a bad dream."

"Oh," JD gulped, looking away, knowing how worried he looked but not caring much. He could think of nothing else to say.

After a few moments, he looked over to see Josiah still sitting beside him, watching him very closely. He swallowed. "Uh, what?"

"I can see you're troubled, JD," was the patient response. "Just wonderin' if I could help, is all."

JD sighed sharply and looked away again, suddenly ashamed of himself, although he didn't really know why. "I'm fine, just-well, worried about Ezra, I guess."

Josiah lifted his brows a bit and cast a backwards glance up the stairs. "Ezra'd be mighty touched t'know you were this concerned for 'im."

The young man felt his heart thump a little; something in the tone of Josiah's voice told him that he knew JD's anxiousness was not for Ezra alone. He looked over at Josiah, afraid he'd see condemnation there. There was none, only concern and a touch of sadness.

JD looked away, his heart pounding again. He didn't want to tell anyone how frightened he was by all this, he had to be tough and callous if he wanted to survive here and be a lawman. Lawmen weren't scared by evil, they fought it, and you couldn't fight something you were afraid of. He couldn't let any of them see him afraid.

A motion beside him caught his attention. Josiah was preparing to stand.

"Since you're fine, guess I'll be goin'," the preacher was saying.

Something caught in JD's throat, and before he realized it he said, "Wait!"

Josiah hadn't even cleared his seat. He looked at JD, an expression of patient expectation on his face.

JD stared back, thinking rapidly. Why did he want Josiah to wait? He couldn't tell him what was eating at his heart. But another thought occurred to him, saying that he was sick of all this, sick of trying to pretend nothing was wrong when it felt like his guts were being tied into knots. Maybe talking to Josiah would help. He seemed to know something was wrong anyway.

Josiah settled back into his seat and leaned forward a little. When he spoke, his voice was soft. "You ain't fine, are you, JD?"

JD sighed and slumped in his chair, gazing miserably at the table. He took a deep, shaking breath and shook his head. "I shouldn't have run out on Ezra like that."

"Ezra's in good hands," Josiah assured him.

"Yeah, I know, but..." JD pursed his lips, trying to organize his confused thoughts. Finally he brought his hazel eyes up and looked squarely into Josiah's face. "It tears me up seein' him like that, Josiah. I've never looked at someone so bad off so close before, an' the fact it's one of us makes it even worse."

Josiah's eyes were full of sad knowledge. "You mean you've never seen evil so close before," he said quietly.

JD sighed and sat back, taking his hat off and plopping it onto the table. "Not like this," he replied with an agitated voice. "I mean, we've fought some pretty mean folks, but none of 'em shot whole groups of people or-or whipped and beat them. When we took up this job, I never expected to see that."

The older man nodded a little, sitting back with a sorrowful expression. "Seein' evil ain't never easy, JD. Especially when you ain't used to it."

JD looked at him, surprised. "You ain't used to it, are you, Josiah?"

Josiah considered the question and leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table and folding his hands. "Not used to it, JD, but-it doesn't surprise me as much as it used to. Which affords me no end of sadness."

The young man swallowed, hoping to relieve the heaviness on his chest. "I keep thinkin'," he said softly, not daring to look Josiah in the eyes, "if it happened to Ezra, it could happen to any of us. An' I can't stop wonderin'...what if it was me?" He cast a quick, shamed look at Josiah. "I know it sounds dang selfish, but it's all I can think about."

His friend eyed JD with a somber expression. "That's somethin' every lawman had to ask himself sooner or later, JD," he replied. "Takes a lot of courage to fight this kind of evil, an' only you know whether you got enough."

JD sighed and looked down at his hands. "T'tell you the truth, preacher, I ain't so sure I got that kind of courage. Every time I think about all this, my heart goes clear to my boots."

"That ain't nothin' to be ashamed of, JD," Josiah remarked, putting one hand on the young man's shoulder. "A man like Parsons'd scare even the hardest lawkeeper. Now you got to decide what t'do about that fear-run from it, or use it to give you strength for the fight."

"Hm." JD nodded a bit, his eyes distant. Then he looked at Josiah. "Well-what do *you* do?"

A small smile crept across Josiah's lips. "Pray to heaven an' fight like hell, I guess. Seems to be workin' so far." he rose, placing one large steadying hand on his young friend's shoulder. "Now you got to find what works for you, JD. An' you just might surprise yourself at how strong you really are."

The young man nodded, grateful for the advice, and watched Josiah as the older man walked back upstairs. All seemed quiet up there now; Ezra was probably asleep again, or Nathan had simply succeeded in calming him down. A small voice told JD that maybe he ought to go see how Ezra was, but he knew he couldn't do that just yet. He had a lot of hard thinking to do first.

He stood, put his hat back on, and slipped quietly out into the warm desert night.



Buck stepped out into the bustling, filthy street of Purgatorio and downed the last of the warm beer from the mug he held in his hand. The sun had just set, most of the sky still afire with its dying light, and as he looked up and down the muddy thoroughfare he scowled with frustration. He'd hit every bar in town except the one Chris and Vin had gone to, and found no sign of Parsons and Rio.

Damn!

He tried not to let himself get too angry as he leaned back and set the empty mug on a table just inside the door. Parsons could be anywhere by now, but he'd find him. Even if Chris and Vin gave up, even if the army gave up, Buck never would accept defeat. He'd already decided to resign from the lawkeeping job and ride out on his own to look, if need be, until he was too old to ride any more.

If only that damn rain hadn't washed away Parson's tracks, Buck mused bitterly as he straightened himself and wiped his lips. Parsons might be a hundred miles from here an' we'd never know it. Damn.

He began to walk slowly back to the cheap rented room and his rendezvous with Chris and Vin. Wonder how ol' Ezra's doin', he thought sadly as he walked, always keeping a sharp eye out on the crowd swirling around him. He hated to think how long it would be before he saw his friend back in the saloon, joking and playing poker again. If it ever even happened-it was possible the Ezra he knew had been killed long ago in that damned cell, even though his body was still alive. He'd seen it often enough during the War.

Buck felt his fists tighten involuntarily at the thought. *Hangin's gonna be a mercy for you, Parsons, when we finally find you*, he vowed. And if Ezra had been doomed to suffer for the rest of his life for what Parsons did to him..well, damn the Judge, Buck would be hard pressed not to kill the bastard himself. But hanging would be too merciful...

"Psst! Hey, you! Mister!"

Startled, Buck looked up and stopped. He was coming upon another of Purgatorio's cantinas, and in front of it stood a weaselly-looking little fat guy with a bushy blonde mustache.

He frowned and looked the man over suspiciously. "Don't much take t'bein' whistled at, friend, unless it's by a pretty lady, which you ain't," he said in a sour voice.

The other man shrugged. "No time for niceties, stranger. You lookin' for some quick money?"

Buck's frown grew wider, and he began to brush on past. "Sorry, mister, not interested."

The man grabbed Buck's sleeve as he passed. Buck halted and shot the man a fierce look, but the harsh words died on his lips at the man's next whispered utterance.

"Not even so's you can say you're the man who killed Chris Larabee?"

Buck blinked; what the hell was *this* all about? He kept his face perfectly straight as he backed up a little, his eyes riveted to the stranger's ugly face. "Go on," he said quietly.

"Heh, thought that'd get ya," the other man cackled. "Name's Peters. I'm lookin' t'hire some guns t'take out Larabee an' this long-haired tracker he's with."

"Uh-huh," Buck said patiently, folding his arms and trying to look interested, even though he was dying to slam the guy against the wall. "Why you lookin' t'kill Larabee?"

"Ain't me, friend," Peters replied. "It's–well, call him a friend of mine. Name's Parsons, an' you'd be doin' right good t'have him owin' you a favor. Larabee's on his tail, but that don't concern you. I just need a few guns t'help me out. Want in?"

Buck's mind was whirling, although outwardly he merely appeared to be assessing the situation. Parsons must have hired this little creep.

His heart began to pound.

"Yeah, mister, I'm in," he sniffed, throwing an arm around Peters' shoulder. "In fact, I got a few friends who'd just love t'join too."

"Yeah?" Peters grinned. "That'd sure help me out. More guns the better. Hey, you know, the tracker's even got a bounty on his head, I hear. Don't tell your friends and I'll split it with ya."

Buck grinned as he began walking towards the west end of town where the rented rooms were. "I won't say nothin'," he said with a smile, "but I got a feelin' one of 'em might know about it."



Before long they arrived at a set of squalid, filthy rented rooms on the edge of town. Drunken drifters and bandits wandered by but paid no attention to Buck and Peters as they approached. twenty feet away from the building, they stopped.

"You wait here," Buck said. "My friends, they're a mite skittish around strangers, so I got t'go tell 'em what's goin' on. Otherwise, hell, they might just shoot you."

"Oh, okay, fine," Peters said. "You sure they're gonna want t'know about this?"

Buck grinned. "I can personally swear to it," he said, and slipped quickly into the rented room, closing its wooden door behind him.

Try as he might, Peters could hear nothing beyond a few whispers from Buck. After a few minutes, Buck opened the wooden door a bit and motioned Peters over.

"C'mon in," he said with a smile as Peters approached the door.

"They interested?" Peters asked, stepping up to the threshold.

There was a thunderous crash as the door was thrown open, and before Peters could tell what was happening, two huge fists closed tightly around his collar and hauled him into the room. Gasping and choking, Peters felt himself slammed roughly onto a hard wooden table, the noise of breaking earthware filling the air as it tumbled from the table to the ground. After a few dizzying, terrifying moments the world righted itself, and Peters found himself in a dimly lit rented room, staring into the insanely furious eyes of Chris Larabee.

"Aw SHIT!" he cried.

Unimpressed, Chris lifted him a little and slammed him back onto the table. Buck and the tracker appeared behind him, watching calmly.

"Where's Wolf Parsons?" Chris cried.

"God!" Peters rasped, his hands clawing ineffectually at the iron hands around his throat. "I-don't know-who-"

Buck folded his arms. "Might as well give it up, friend," he said, "if y'want to live, that is."

Peters' small eyes widened. "You gonna kill me?" he squeaked.

Chris's grip tightened violently. "He won't, but I might," he said through clenched teeth, his face demonic in the flickering yellow lamplight. "Parsons hired you t'kill me, didn't he? Where'd he go?"

Peters stared at them all, but stayed silent.

"Sounds like he's gonna be stubborn, Chris," the tracker said without emotion.

Chris took a deep breath and drew his gun, keeping one hand tightly around Peter's throat. "Good," he whispered, and put the cold barrel of the gun against the man's temple.

Peters' eyes widened. "Hey-uh-"

"Feel like talkin' now?" Chris said in a louder voice. "Y'know, we could always do some of the things t'you that Parsons did to Ezra Standish an' his other prisoners. Maybe you'd like t'know what kind of scum this friend of yours really is."

The other two men stepped closer, scowling.

"Hey, wait!" Peters cried, trembling. "I-uh-"

"Ready t'talk?" the tracker demanded.

Peters hesitated. "You think I'm afraid of you guys?" he blustered. "If Wolf ever found out-"

"Fair enough," Chris said softly. There was a loud metallic *click* as Chris cocked his gun.

"For God's sake!" Peters screamed. "He's goin' t'Four Corners! Don't shoot me, I hardly know the guy!"

There was a shocked pause, then Chris shoved his cocked gun harder against Peters' temple. "Why's he goin' there?" he snarled.

"Jesus!" Peters cried. "He's goin' after that gal an' that guy. The ones he didn't kill. Now let me up, I can't breathe!"

Chris looked up into the wide, horrified eyes of the tracker and Buck.

"God'lmighty, Chris," Buck whispered, "that sonofabitch is goin' after Ezra an' Contessa."

Chris was motionless for a moment. Then he snapped back into motion, his eyes ablaze as he pulled Peters up from the table.

"He ain't gonna get there," the gunslinger vowed as he shoved the hired gun towards Vin. "Tie this weasel up, we'll drop 'im at the nearest jail."

"I'll go get the horses ready," Buck said, and sped out the door, his face pale and anxious.

Peters coughed as Vin roughly trussed his hands behind is back. "Y'ain't never gonna catch Wolf," he spat, catching his breath. "He's been ridin' for hours."

Chris eyed the man for a second, then yanked him up by his collar and stared right into his eyes.

"One more word an' I'll just blow your worthless brains out right here," he said in a cold and deadly tone. "I don't think the neighbors will mind. What do you think, Vin?"

"I think Wolf shoulda picked himself some smarter friends," was the drawled response as Vin tightened the knots around Peters' hands.

"OW!" Peters wailed. Chris shook him once by the collar, regaining his attention. They were staring eye to eye again.

"We'll catch up to Parsons," Chris told him, his green eyes full of lethal confidence. "Even if we have t'break our backs-and' yours-t'do it."

Peters gulped to himself, cursed his rotten luck, and said nothing.



Private Henry Thomas surveyed the surrounding grassy plains, and sighed. Another boring day in the Army.

The young man squinted at the sun overhead; the sun had only just come up, and he supposed he should be breathtaken by the beauty of the rolling desert hills before him. But to him it just signified the fact that he and his comrade were stuck out in the middle of nowhere, guarding a supply wagon on the road halfway back to camp.

Speaking of his comrade...He threw a glance behind him, beyond the wagon to the sheltering boulders at the edge of the road. "You 'bout done, Wes?"

"Yup," was the reply as the other soldier, a skinny red-haired young man with a thin mustache, came back into sight, straightening his jacket.

Thomas smirked and stood up from where he had been leaning on the wagon's wheel. "Told ya not t'drink so much coffee."

The other private laughed. "Go on with ya. Only had two cups."

"Yeah, well, we're gonna be late already," his friend observed as he walked back to the front of the wagon where Wes stood. "Wanna split some rations before headin' out again? Stephenson'll prob'ly make us go right on to picket duty when we get back, we won't even get no breakfast."

Wes grunted. "Yeah, wouldn't be surprised. See if we got somethin' besides hardtack an' jerky."

"Okay." They began to open the several boxes stored in the back of the wagon, surveying their meal choices. "Hey, I tell you 'bout them gunmen I met up with few days back?"

Wes barely glanced at him. "Yeah, think so. Damn, there ain't nothin' good in this box. Lord, I could sure go for my ma's collards right about now."

Thomas chuckled. "Know what ya mean. Think there's some dried beef in here. Dang, them men must have fun ridin' out there facin' down outlaws. Sure wisht I coulda done that. Maybe when my enlistment's up."

Wes grinned as he looked in Thomas's box and saw cans of dried beef stew. "That'll do fine. You really wanna be a frontier lawman, Henry?"

Thomas shrugged as he pulled out a few cans of food. "Sure. Looks more excitin' than the Army, an' I bet they eat better, too!"

The two young men pried open the cans with their bayonets and prepared their meal, carping about Army food and any other subject which came to mind. Neither of them noticed the dark forms which crouched in the grass nearby, a man and a woman, eagerly studying the heavily laden supply wagon and waiting for the opportunity to strike.



The morning sun was warming the desert air as Nathan stepped carefully out onto the porch of the saloon, a cup of tea and a cup of coffee carried carefully in his hands. Beneath one arm was a folded copy of the latest Four Corners Clarion. He looked around a bit; the streets were not too crowded, which relieved him. It wouldn't do for Ezra to have too much excitement on his first day outside since his return.

He turned his steps and his attention to the figure huddled beneath the thin blanket on the porch of the saloon, watching the scene before him with apparent disinterest. Josiah had set up the invalid's chair with a minimum of trouble, and now the injured gambler was reclining in it. Nathan had to admit, the chair sure seemed to be a remarkable invention, but it did not seem to be impressing Ezra very much.

He's still too pale, Nathan thought as he approached. Here in the sunlight, the gambler seemed even whiter, his bruises more pronounced. And there was something else, a heartbreakingly familiar expression lurking behind those melancholy green eyes. Nathan had seen it before, in the faces of his tormented fellow slaves. It was the look of mute resignation, a decision to let the soul die without a fight.

And damned if he was going to let Ezra go that easy.

"Got your tea, Ezra," he said out loud as he sat down next to his friend's chair.

Ezra's only response was a slight turn of the head, and a strained voice saying, "Thank you, Mr. Jackson."

Nathan eyed him sadly as he set the cups and newspaper down on a nearby table. Mr. Jackson, he noted sadly. Not Nathan. He's shuttin' himself off already, hidin' away. Damn.

To Ezra, he just smiled a little and said, "Don't got to be all formal, Ezra. Just plain ol' Nathan'll do. Like it did before, remember?"

Ezra blinked a bit and seemed to pull the blanket tighter around himself. "You must forgive my rather rusty social skills," he replied in a dull voice, without meeting the healer's eyes.

Nothing else was said. After Nathan waited a few moments, he licked his lips and picked up the tea.

"You got t'let me hold on to it for you," he said as he leaned forward to help Ezra drink the brew. "It's sort of weak, but Inez put some sugar in it for you. Not like they serve at them fancy places you go, I bet, but it's still plenty good."

After a few moments, Ezra shifted in the chair enough so that he could take a few hesitant sips from the cup held in Nathan's hands.

Nathan smiled a little, encouraged. "That's it. You'll be back t'whiskey in no time."

Ezra took two more swallows and pulled back, turning his head away. "That's enough."

Nathan scowled, looking down into the still-full cup. "You got t'drink it all if you want it t'do any good, Ezra."

The gambler sighed, still staring down the street. "I have had a sufficient amount, Mr. Jackson," was the response, the feeble words tinged with anger. "Drinking an entire barrel of it would likely have the same effect as a few swallows, at any rate."

Nathan paused, trying not to let his anger at Ezra's stubbornness overrule his judgment. He didn't want to excite the still-fragile gambler; such an exertion as arguing might be dangerous. So he gently set the cup down and picked up his coffee, his mind working all the while to find a way of easing his friend's pain.

"Got you some readin' material," he said, nodding at the paper. "Mary wrote a mighty big story about what happened at the fort. Everyone in the territory's gonna be lookin' for Parsons now, he won't get far."

Ezra winced a little and glanced over at Nathan in a very tentative manner. "She...didn't mention me, did she?"

Nathan frowned and picked up the paper, scanning the front page. "Nope, don't think so. Just Contessa Almarez. Oh–it does say here, 'Ezra Standish, one of our brave lawmen, has returned to town following a long absence, and we welcome him back with thankful hearts'."

There was a slight rustle as Ezra shifted in the chair. "How wonderful," he muttered flatly.

Nathan studied him with a worried frown. "Y'know she means it, Ezra," he insisted.

The gambler didn't look at him. "I am sure she does, Mr. Jackson, but I would have preferred to return in as quiet a manner as possible. I'm afraid..." His voice trailed off, and he swallowed. "I am not feeling particularly 'brave' at the present time."

Nathan sighed to himself in frustration. "I'd say standin' up to them men was brave, Ezra."

Ezra eyed him bitterly. "If torture is the reward for bravery, Mr. Jackson, I will happily spend the rest of my life as a coward." He sighed and looked away. "It...accomplished nothing."

They fell silent. Nathan hesitated to carry the discussion further; Ezra clearly was in no mood to listen, and he didn't want to wear the gambler out. Hopefully, a better opportunity to ease his friend's dark mood would present itself.

"How you like that chair?" he asked, taking a drink. "Sure looks mighty comfortable."

Ezra looked down at the contraption. "Yes, I suppose it is," he muttered. "If only my fellow prisoners could enjoy such comfort now."

Nathan felt a cold knife go through his gut. His brown eyes looked at Ezra seriously as he said, "You best not be thinkin' on that, Ezra. You got t'put your mind t'gettin' better so you can ride with us again an' win all our money in that saloon."

Ezra gave a short, bitter laugh. "Yes," he said, still looking away, "and the families of the dead can come and ask me why I remain alive to cheat and swindle, while their loved ones were put to death. And at night the faces of the innocent dead can continue to grace my dreams as they did last night. A remarkably attractive existence, wouldn't you say?" He finally turned to face Nathan, his pale face distorted with grief and shame.

Nathan studied his comrade for a few silent moments, their eyes meeting until Ezra blinked and turned away once more.

After a pause Nathan bent forward, his words soft and low enough for only Ezra to hear. "Look, Ezra, God above knows you don't got an easy road ahead of you," he said. "But there's a fork in that road, an' I ain't aimin' t'let you go down the wrong way."

Ezra didn't move, so Nathan swallowed and leaned closer, his voice low and full of sad recollection.

"When I was eleven, me an' a few other slaves tried t'run off. Didn't get far, an' when they caught us I thought for sure they was gonna shoot us dead right there. But them patrollers, they said dyin' was too good for us. They wanted us t'be...examples."

Nathan paused; God, how he hated to talk about this. So far Ezra was not reacting, but he didn't seem to be growing any more distant either. Might as well tell it all, Nathan decided.

"Never knew what happened to the others," he admitted with a sigh, folding his hands. "They took 'em into a barn while I was bein' tied up to a tree. Had t'stand an' listen to their screams all night long. In the mornin' it was my turn. I can still hear the overseer tellin' me I was lucky t'be so young. All they was goin' t'do was whip me."

He stopped, rubbing his hands together nervously. It was so long ago, but the pain of telling it was agonizing. But it would be worth it, if it would help Ezra at all. A slight smile crossed his lips; now that was funny, that here he was reliving his sorrow to help a white Southerner like the ones who had caused them.

But Ezra wasn't like them, not really. That was why he was doing this.

"I can still feel every lash," he said quietly. "Passed out after a while. When I finally woke up all I wanted t'do was die. Had a lot of time t'lie in bed an' think about it, an' feelin' mighty low that I had t'live knowin' how my friends suffered. My pa tried t'help me, but I was too scared an' angry t'want anyone else close t'me again. I was ready t'die inside. But my pa, an' my family, were too stubborn t'let me do that. They couldn't give me no answers, but they made me see that they cared too much t'let me slip away from them. An' they gave me the hope that I might be able t'find the answers myself someday, if I just got up the gumption t'look."

Nathan looked up at Ezra. "I've stared down that dark road you're lookin' at, an' it might look nice an' safe, but it ain't. I seen too many folks go down it, an' they never come back. An' there ain't no peace there, only more pain. An' for myself, I think you done suffered enough."

Silence fell between them. Then slowly Ezra turned to face him, and Nathan could see some softening in those gaunt features as the gambler lifted his haunted eyes.

"A harrowing tale, to be sure, Mr. Jackson," Ezra whispered. "I admire your courage in sharing it."

Nathan gave a small shrug, trying to hide his disappointment that Ezra still seemed so distant. "Just wanted t'let you know you ain't alone, Ezra. You got folks here, just like I did, who ain't gonna just let you slip away."

His friend's eyes flickered, and he looked over at Nathan, an intense light in his pale green eyes. There was an urgent sorrow in his expression, as if he were wrestling with an agonizing question. Nathan bent closer, hoping that Ezra had heard his words and understood the full weight of their meaning.

Ezra took a deep breath and said in a quiet, halting voice, "Nathan, I..." The words faltered, and he stopped, as if suddenly reconsidering his actions. There was a pause, then he pressed his lips together and turned away. "Thank you," was all he said, in a cold, impersonal tone.

Nathan sighed to himself as he sat back, fighting a feeling of discouragement. The barrier was there again, and Ezra's soul was in too much pain to surmount it. Ezra had heard him, he could tell, but it was still too soon for him to truly come back to them.

He was about to say something else when Ezra leaned back and closed his eyes. "I would like to return to my room now, if it would not be too much trouble," the gambler said in a weary voice.

The healer hesitated, then nodded slightly. "Sure, Ezra. Josiah's just inside. I'll let 'im know."

"Much obliged." The eyes remained closed, the face turned away.

Nathan sat still for a moment, sadly eying the still, weak form of his friend. Finally he stood and sauntered into the saloon, walking straight to the bar where Josiah and Inez were speaking softly.

"How's he doin?" Josiah inquired, observing Nathan's troubled countenance.

Nathan folded his hands and leaned on the bar. "He's askin' to be took back upstairs."

The preacher gave a short nod. "I'll take care of it," he said, downing the last of his whiskey.

"Does he still shut himself away?" Inez asked, her eyes sad.

"Yup," was the regretful reply. "Thought for a moment he might feel like talkin', but..." His voice trailed off into wordless dejection.

"Y'can't blame yourself, Nate," Josiah said, turning towards his old friend. "A man who's been through what Ezra has ain't gonna come back all at once."

"Yeah, I know," Nathan replied softly, leaning forward on the beer-stained counter and staring sightlessly beyond Inez. "I know. Reckon it's just that I always hoped that if he came back, he'd be fine an' everything'd go back to normal. Now I'm startin' t'think that ain't gonna happen for a long time, an' it's eatin' at me." He paused, then grinned a little at himself. "Guess I missed that ol' gambler more than I thought."

A melancholy silence fell for a few moments.

"Senor Nathan?"

The healer looked up to see Inez eying him carefully. "Hm?"

Inez licked her lips. "I was just wondering...perhaps Ezra is feeling alone because he feels noone here knows what he has suffered. But there is one here who does. Do you think he is well enough to see Contessa?"

Josiah and Nathan looked at each other.

"It is just that she is so eager to visit him," Inez pressed, "and she is the only one alive who has seen the true horrors of that place which still haunts him. Perhaps if he could see her, and talk to her, it would help to finally free him."

Nathan pondered the idea. "He's still mighty bruised up," he muttered. "Don't want his appearance scarin' the poor gal."

The pretty Mexican woman sighed. "I am afraid such a sight would no longer frighten her too much, Senor. And I promise you I will prepare her. But I believe just seeing him, and speaking to him, will help her as much as him."

Josiah shrugged and raised his eyebrows as he looked at Nathan. "Couldn't hurt."

After another moment's thought, the healer nodded. "All right, Inez. I'll let you know when you can bring her up. He'd better rest a while first."

Inez allowed a relieved smile to cross her face. "Gracias, Senor. Contessa will be so happy to see that he will be all right."

Nathan sighed a little as he turned to look out of the saloon window at the motionless figure sitting on the saloon porch. "He's gonna live, ma'am. But I wish I felt for certain that he's gonna be all right."