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.

4. Chapter 4

The thunder of the three horses' hooves rumbled over the desert plains as Chris, Vin and Buck tore back towards Four Corners, leaving clouds of yellow dust behind to dance in the morning sun. Since they had forced the truth from Peters they had been riding, stopping only long enough to dump Peters in the first available jail. Now they were racing to catch the devil.

Chris bent over Valor's neck, his dust-covered face grim as he kept his eyes on the path ahead. This was the fastest way back to town, but Parsons had had a head start of several hours, even if he did go hunting for supplies like Peters had said. If he reached Four Corners first...Chris shook the thought from his mind. That simply would not be allowed to happen, if any of them were alive to stop it.

They had just crossed the border a few miles back; it would not be long now.

He looked over at his two companions, each also dusty and exhausted but driven to reach their goal.

"When we get to town, I'll look for Parsons," Chris shouted over the relentless pounding. "You see that Ezra an' the girl are safe."

Vin gave a curt, wordless nod, never taking his eyes from the trail.

"He'll likely be sneakin' 'round the edges, lookin' for a way in," Buck yelled back. "If we're lucky he'll wait 'til night to try anythin'."

Chris wiped the dust from his eyes as they rode up a small, grass-covered hill. "Got lucky findin' Peters," he observed. "Maybe we'll-"

*BANG!*

The shot startled all three men as they reined in, their hands flying to their guns. At the top of the hill directly before them, eleven forms appeared, all toting rifles and wearing the blue uniforms of the United States Army.

Chris was too furious to even speak as he reined in his nervously dancing horse.

Another figure rode into view, taller and straighter in the saddle than the soldiers. Chris recognized him instantly.

"Stephenson," he spat, his green eyes blazing.

"Well, Mr. Larabee," the officer returned with mock politeness as he rode forward to join his men. "I see you've still got a slight problem respecting authority."

"We ain't got time for this bullshit, Stephenson," Chris shot back, pulling on his reins furiously. "Parsons is headed to Four Corners."

The red-bearded sergeant cocked his head. "And how would you know that, Larabee? By going against the wishes of your Judge and the command of a Federal Army officer?" He shook his head. "You outlaws think you run this whole damn territory, don't you?"

"Stephenson, dammit t'hell, listen to us!" Buck exclaimed, leaning forward in his saddle. "We got to catch Parsons before he kills Ezra an' Contessa Almarez. While we're jawin' he's probably there already."

Stephenson sighed and eyed them all sharply. "Since you're in direct violation of the law here, not to mention on a personal vendetta against Parsons, forgive me if I question your word. For all I know you're sending my men on a wild goose chase so you can find Parsons and work your own bloody vigilante justice on him. But you'll find that mighty hard to do from the stockade."

Chris's mouth twitched as he half pulled his gun from his holster.

Several tiny clicks filled the air as thirteen weapons were cocked and aimed straight at Chris's heart, including the revolver Stephenson held in one gloved hand.

Chris stopped as Vin and Buck sat, tensely watching.

"Careful, Larabee," Stephenson said with the slightest of smiles. "Remember, if I shoot you, I'll be defending my men and ridding the West of one more worthless desperado. You shoot me and you'll face the end of a rope for murdering a Federal officer. If my men don't kill you first, that is."

Chris paused, his breath coming in quick, angry gasps as he stared with hatred at his adversary.

"Easy there, ol' pard," he heard Buck whisper. "Gettin' shot ain't gonna help. Reckon we can figure a way out of this if we just stay alive."

"Good advice," Stephenson added.

Chris thought it was total crap; every minute they sat here was another minute Parsons had to draw closer to Ezra and Contessa. But one look at Stephenson told him that little more incentive would be needed for the officer to put a bullet through his heart. Then it would be jail for Buck, and probably a noose for Vin once they learned he was a wanted man.

Even as he gazed with blind hatred into Stephenson's small eyes, he knew Buck was right. They needed time to think of a way out of this.

With a cold heart, Chris dropped his hand away from his gun.

A slimy smile crossed Stephenson's face. "Good choice, Larabee," he said aloud, holstering his revolver. "Pvt. Billings, take these men and see that they're locked up. I'll be over to question them as soon as I return. And if they give you the slightest bit of trouble, feel free to do what you feel necessary."

"Yes, sir," was the dutiful, enthusiastic reply which implied that the 'necessary' action would be quick and lethal. Stephenson whirled and rode off with one of the soldiers, leaving Chris and the others under the guard of ten men. Within moments they were stripped of their guns. They said nothing but exchanged looks of angry determination: they couldn't allow themselves to be detained for long.

"C'mon, you," Billings said in a gruff voice which told Chris he was every bit as trigger-happy as Stephenson was. The soldiers surrounded them, guns aimed at their heads and hearts as they began trotting towards the army camp.

Chris rode along silently, sizing up the situation. Ten to three-rotten odds, there was little chance they'd all survive if they tried to run for it. Buck was right-the only thing to do was go along until they found a way to safely make their escape.

And that way would have to be found damn fast.



Ezra sighed to himself as he watched the early afternoon sun trace its slow
journey across the wallpaper of his room. It had been several hours since
Josiah had brought him back up here, and during that entire time he had done
nothing but lie against the soft pillows and stare sadly at the walls.

What could he do now, he wondered idly as one graceful hand plucked
absently at the edge of his fancy quilt. If he managed to regain enough
strength to continue his lawkeeping duties, would he do so? A frown tugged
at his mouth as he wondered if he'd ever feel like trying to fight against
the 'bad guys' again. He had seen all too ample proof that it could be a
vain effort.

He leaned back against the pillows, trying to ignore the twinges of his
still-sore back, and put one arm behind his head as he gazed glumly out of
the window. He knew his mother would be here soon, and Maude would doubtless waste no time trying to lure him back to St. Louis. Back to the relative safety of the gambling hall, the con job, the quick fix. He could hear her already, wheedling in her honey-sweet voice: Come on now, darlin', she'd say, surely you've done your duty. Come back east with me. You don't want this to happen to you again, do you?

And right now he knew he wouldn't have a good reason to say no. It would
be so easy to just leave it behind him, the pain, the nightmares, the stares
of the townspeople. Go back to the life he'd known, where you never got
punished for trying to help people because the only person you ever helped
was yourself.

Maybe then the ghosts would go away...

There was a gentle rapping on the door, and Inez's voice floated through
the wood: "Senor Ezra? May I come in?"

Ezra sighed, too bored and miserable to give a damn if he had company or
not. He shifted a little on the pillows and said in a tired voice, "Come in,
Senorita."

The door opened partway, and Inez appeared, looking vaguely nervous. "Are
you resting, senor?"

He gave a small shrug. "That's not exactly the term I would use, Inez, but
I am unoccupied at the moment."

She took another step into the room. "Would you mind a visitor? I have
someone here who is very anxious to see you."

The gambler frowned a little, puzzled. "Is Mother here already?"

"No, no," Inez replied. "Not Senora Standish. It is Contessa Almarez, the
little girl JD and Nathan found. Do you remember?"

A small hole of dread began burning in Ezra's stomach. Of course he
remembered hearing of the young girl, the only other survivor of that hellish
outlaws' hideout. How she had survived that place astounded him; she
certainly had to be a very strong young lady. He knew she wanted to see him, but felt almost ashamed to face her. She had done an amazing thing, escaping from her abusive captors and crossing the desert to find help. He had done nothing but delay the inevitable for those poor women and earn himself two months of agony. What could she possibly want from him?

He looked into Inez's eager eyes. Well, he sighed to himself, maybe it
would be best to see this girl now and get it over with.

"Very well," he said, pulling himself up a little and being mindful of his
stitches. He'd have to be careful and not allow any more undignified
displays, even though what happened to this child almost broke his heart.

Inez beamed. "Thank you, Senor! Will you need me to translate her words for you?"

Ezra settled into his pillows, a slight smile on his bruised face. "That
will not be necessary, thank you. I am quite fluent in your lovely language."

Inez nodded and stepped out into the hallway. After a moment she
returned, bringing with her a slight, pretty Mexican girl no more than thirteen years old. Her dress and hair were clean and properly arranged, but dark, ugly bruises still shadowed her face and arms. She was regarding Ezra with an expression of shy awe.

Ezra swallowed, unprepared for the sudden emotion clutching his heart. She looked so much more fragile than he'd anticipated. How the hell did she
survive? But aloud he simply said in a faint but pleasant voice, and in
perfect Spanish, "Good Afternoon, Senorita Almarez."

Inez stepped back into the corner as Contessa remained motionless, staring at Ezra with her large brown eyes. A few times she seemed about to speak, but then hesitated. Finally, she abandoned the idea and ran to kneel by Ezra's bedside, taking his hand in hers and covering it with kisses as she sobbed.

The gambler was amazed and embarrassed. Unwilling to frighten her by
pulling away, he sat up and reached out his free hand to gently smooth her
hair, trying to soothe her. "Now, now, my dear," he said in mild alarm. "There's no need for this-you must calm yourself-"

She gulped a little and lifted her head, her thin face wet with tears. "I'm sorry, senor," the young girl gasped as she loosened her grasp on his hand. "Have I hurt you?"

"No, no," Ezra assured her with a smile, "but-you are still healing and should not excite yourself. Besides," he added, a trace of self-reproach in his voice, "I'm not the sort of man anyone should kneel to."

Contessa didn't move, still looking up into his eyes with complete,

heartfelt sincerity. "Please, senor, do not say such things. I don't want you to be sad, now that God has saved our lives."

Ezra looked at her, a bitter response on his lips, but the earnest
expression in her tear-filled brown eyes halted the words before they fell.
She was still so young and, incredibly, innocent. How he wished he could
share her simple gratitude at still being alive, instead of wondering if it
was a curse.

He swallowed and tried to smile. "I will try not to be sad, my dear, but
I'm afraid it's very hard for me," he replied as he helped her to her feet. "But I am happy for you, my dear, because you will be going home to your family soon."

The young girl's face brightened a bit at the thought. "Will you be going home soon, too, senor?"

Ezra smiled faintly. "This town is my home, my dear."

"Are your mama and papa here?" Contessa asked quickly, excited. "I would like my mama and papa to meet them."

The gambler stifled a grin at the thought. "My...mama will be here soon, senorita, but I am not convinced a meeting would be for the best. Particularly if your parents have any sort of cash on them."

The young girl only frowned, puzzled. Ezra considered his words, then gave a small cough, shamed by her innocence. "If she arrives in time, senorita, we will see."

She smiled again. "I hope she does. We are having a festival in our village next week, maybe you can bring her."

Ezra's expression turned serious. He looked down as he gently grasped her hand, angry that he would have to disappoint her. "I'm afraid that may be difficult, my dear," he said sadly. "I will not be able to travel for a long time."

Contessa's gaze faltered, and she dropped her eyes. "Yes, I heard they hurt you very badly," she said softly, the tears forming again. After a few moments she lifted her eyes and looked at him, her expression shy and hesitant. "Were...were you scared?"

Ezra nodded a little; there was no reason to lie. "Yes, senorita."

She paused, her eyes falling to her hands. "I was scared, too," the young girl confessed in a small whisper, one hand fiddling idly with the edge of the quilt. She looked up into his eyes. "What did you do?"

He thought for a moment, unprepared for the question. "I thought about my
mother," he said, "and the friends I knew were waiting for me." He
glanced over at Inez for a moment, meeting her eyes. She was watching very closely. His gaze went back to the girl, and he gently smiled at her. "What did you do, Contessa?"

Contessa looked at him solemnly. "I...I thought of you, senor."

Ezra started, shocked, his green eyes widening a bit. "Me?"

She nodded emphatically. "I saw you try to save those ladies from the bad men the day you came. I remembered how brave you were, and I thought if I tried maybe I could fight them too. Then I would be able to go home and see my mama and papa again."

Small tears formed in her eyes as she grasped his hand once more. "That is why I wanted to see you, so I could thank you for being so brave. I would not have had the strength to escape if you had not shown me that it was possible to fight them." She paused and eyed him solemnly. "I owe you my life, senor."

Ezra sat silent for a moment, stunned. This remarkable child, who surely had suffered even more than he had, had survived because of the very actions he had been cursing himself for undertaking. He had been wondering where she had found the strength to escape her captors, never dreaming that the answer was himself. The prospect was overwhelming, but he could not deny the truth of it. A lump of amazement formed in his throat.

"I am truly touched by your words, senorita," he whispered, when he could talk again, "and I am thankful that we have both been allowed to come back to our loved ones again."

The little girl leaned closer. "And are you happy now that you're home?"

Ezra sighed, knowing it would be impossible to explain. "I am very happy to
be home, senorita, but I am also sad for those we left behind. I wish they
could have lived to go home to their families, as you are going to do."

Contessa's expression grew thoughtful. "I'm sad for them too, senor.
Sometimes I have dreams about them, and that place." She looked at him. "Do you dream about it too?"

He nodded very slowly. "Yes."

She paused, then swallowed. "Do you-do you think the dreams will stop one
day?"

He gave her as gentle a smile as he could manage. "After you've been back
with your mother and father for a while, my dear, and feel safe and loved
again, I'm sure the dreams will go away."

She looked at him with a serious expression, then lifted one hand and very
gently touched his bruised cheek. "Will they go away for you too?" she asked
in a somber voice.

Ezra pursed his lips. "I hope so," he replied quietly. "Your visit has
helped a great deal."

A tentative smile touched her lips. "I guess-I just wanted to see that it
was really true that you were alive. I have been praying for you ever since
I saw them take you away."

He smiled. "Perhaps that is what kept me alive, senorita."

This thought seemed to please her. After a moment she leaned forward. "My mama and papa will be here soon to take me home."

"A most fortunate occurrence," Ezra noted.

Contessa nodded. "Yes, senor, but-" she hesitated, then looked up into his
eyes. "If I feel afraid again, will you let me write to you? I know your
words will give me strength, and there is no one else now who knows what we
have seen." She bit her lip and looked away. "Unless-you think that sounds
foolish."

Ezra was silent for a minute as he realized how closely the loneliness in
the young girl's words mimicked his own. She had felt it too, he thought, the
cold isolation their shared suffering had created. And she was looking to
him for strength, when he had been marveling at her own. Perhaps together,
they could put the ghosts to rest.

He gently placed his hand over hers. "Ours is indeed a sad and solitary
bond, my dear child," he said in a melancholy voice. "But if my words can in
any way ease your burden, I will be more than happy to share them with you."

A warm smile brightened her bruised face. "Gracias, Senor Standish," she
said with sincere gratitude.

He returned the smile, feeling a strange, muted joy in his own heart.

Inez stepped forward. "We should go now, Contessa, Senor Standish needs to rest."

The girl sighed, pouting for a moment, then looked back at Ezra. "Good-bye,
senor. And please, if you ever feel sad again, please remember that there is
at least one heart in the world that will always pray for you, and that will
thank God that you were spared to come back to your home."

She rose, and kissed him lightly on his battered cheek. "Vaya con Dios,
senor," she whispered.

Ezra stared at her, slightly stunned, for a brief moment, before saying
"Good-bye, senorita," in a very quiet voice.

She gave him a little smile before taking Inez's hand and walking out of
the room.

Ezra watched her go, his head still spinning from the emotions which had
been running fast and deep through his heart. His body gently trembled as he realized that his suffering had not been in vain. No matter how foolish his escape attempt had been, it had helped to save at least one life-that of this brave young girl. And now he-he, Ezra Standish, gambler, con and sinner, who had called no man friend and no place home in all his life-would find a home in her prayers forever, loved and esteemed as a brave man. The idea was at once awesome and humbling; he hardly felt worthy of it, but could not turn away from its blinding light as its glorious rays cleansed the darkest corners of his soul.

Alone finally, and unbound by any thoughts of maintaining the proper facade
of dignity, Ezra dropped his face into his hands and wept with humble, uncomprehending awe before the vision. The tears fell until, exhausted in mind and soul but feeling oddly cleansed, he settled back upon the soft pillows of the bed, and slipped into the first comfortable sleep he had enjoyed in a very long and painful time.



The heavy soles of Buck's boots thudded endlessly on the hard floor of the jail cell as their owner paced back and forth, unable to be still. His blood felt ready to leap out of his skin.

The army camp had had no jail, so Buck, Chris and Vin had been deposited in the nearest available town, whose one-room prison had suited the need of justice quite handily. Now the three men were behind the single wall of steel bars, staring with mute fury at the scruffy jailer who sat at his rough-hewn desk nearby, holding his rifle in one hand and watching his charges with mild amusement.

The air in the jail was hot and stuffy, the dust hanging in transparent columns as it drifted by the small, barred windows. The three men had been watching that sunlight all day; now it was beginning to slope away and fade. Twilight was coming, and they were running out of time.

Buck had been pacing ever since they had been thrown in there, his mind racing furiously. They could not allow Wolf and Rio to get away-hell, *he* couldn't allow it. If those bastards got hold of Ezra, or Contessa Almarez, or anyone they cared about in Four Corners, Buck knew he'd never forgive himself. But they could stop them, if only they were free.

He glared at Chris and Vin, who were seated on the ground, staring intently at the smirking warden.

"If anyone's got a plan, feel free to speak right up," Buck offered angrily, scuffing his boot on the floor.

"I'm workin' on it," Chris muttered softly, still glaring at the guard.

"Too bad we ain't got Ezra's lock-pick," Vin sighed, rubbing the fingers of one hand together as he studied the bars.

Buck snorted. "Hell, even if we did have it, it'd be hard t'use it with ol' Eagle-Eye there watchin' us. An' you know there's two more soldiers outside."

"Stephenson must think he got a real prize in us," Vin murmured, shaking his head.

"He's just soothin' his damn pride," was Chris's angry reply. "Men like that don't like bein' bested. Just as easy for him to lock us up as listen to us."

Buck sighed and leaned against the wall, dragging his hand through his hair as he looked at Chris. "Tell y'what, Chris, I can't just *sit* here knowin' Wolf an' Rio are headin' t'town."

Chris drew a deep breath, frowning as he thought.

He was still thinking a few minutes later when the sound of several horses' hooves reached their ears. The three men looked at each other as a squad of Federal soldiers stopped outside and dismounted amid a clatter of spurs and swords. A few of them entered the small jail, led by Billings, who instantly fell into conversation with the jailer.

Chris and Vin stood as Buck frowned, watching. "That didn't take long," he said quietly, puzzled.

The other two men said nothing.

"All right," the scruffy jailer said as he took out the key and opened the cell door. "You boys get a move on, these here soldiers're takin' you now."

"That a fact?" Buck snarled, not bothering to be polite as he scowled at the young men in blue. But something stopped his anger; there was an odd light in their eyes, something off in their expressions. There was none of the smug bullying nature in their faces now, as there had been earlier. Now they looked very serious, almost sad.

Billings nodded as he looked at the men. "You're wanted back at the camp," he said without bravado. "Commander's orders."

They were ushered outside, where to their surprise almost twenty soldiers were waiting to escort them.

Buck was amazed. "This guy sure wants us back bad t'send all these men for us," he observed.

Billings mounted his horse and gathered up his reins. "Yes, sir, he does," he said in a somber tone. "He needs your help."



It had been a long time since Chris had been in an Army hospital tent, but as he stepped into the facility set up next to the camp the memories came flooding back in an unwelcome tide. The awful smell was the same, the general air of disease and death similar, if not nearly so intense. But the tents he'd seen during the war were all crowded and noisy, full of bloody, wounded men screaming to die. This tent was very quiet and almost empty, except for the cot in the corner where Chris, Buck and Vin were being directed.

A man sat there, next to a cot occupied by a small figure wrapped in bloody bandages. The seated man had his head in his hands in an attitude of grievous despair, and didn't move as the three men and Billings approached. It was only when they were almost there that Chris realized that the injured figure lying so still on the cot was Pvt. Henry Thomas, and the distraught man next to him was Sgt. Stephenson.

Chris glanced at his comrades, whose expressions were also deeply puzzled.

"Sir?" Billings said finally, after they had stood for a few moments without acknowledgement. "Sir, I brought them."

Stephenson didn't react for a moment, and then the only sign of life was a deep, painful sigh. He didn't lift his head or look at them. "Where did you say Wolf Parsons was going?" he asked in a voice roughened by anguish.

Chris stared at him, recognizing the agony of deep grief. "Four Corners," he replied simply.

"Four Corners," Stephenson echoed, dropping his hands and lifting his head. His face was white, his eyes red and staring off across the cot at nothing. "Then I want you to take your men and as many of mine as you need and go bring that bastard down."

For a moment no one moved, and Chris glanced at Thomas lying on the cot. The boy was barely visible beneath all of the wrappings swathing his youthful frame, but what Chris could see was in terrible shape. His face was white and deeply bruised; the one eye he could see was black. Blood seemed to be seeping through all of the wrappings. It looked as if the boy had been mauled.

Buck leaned towards Billings. "What happened?"

Billings' face was sober as he eyed his former prisoner. "Parsons attacked Henry an' Wes an' robbed their supply wagon," he replied softly. "Tore Wes's guts out an' damn near killed Henry. We found 'em a few hours ago, an' Henry was just alive enough t'tell us who done it. We...we figure it happened not too long after we stopped you."

Chris grit his teeth, furious. They could have stopped this, dammit. If they'd just listened... He was about to voice his bitter opinion when a look at Billings' guilty face stopped him. It was clear the soldier knew this too, and couldn't even bear to look Chris in the eye.

Vin eyed Stephenson with curiosity. "Your Sergeant sure must care for his soldiers, t'take on like this," he observed quietly.

Billings shot the tracker a sharp look. "It ain't just that," he whispered. "Henry's his nephew."

The three men looked at each other in surprise. Damn, Chris thought, Thomas had mentioned his uncle, but he never thought the young man was talking about that ass Stephenson. He looked again at the stricken officer, his drooping shoulders and agonized expression. Stephenson was still an ass, but it was impossible for Chris not to feel a small measure of pity for the man. After all, his nephew was probably dying, and he could have stopped it.

And Chris knew what that sort of anguish felt like.

Chris took a step forward. "Sergeant," he said evenly, "we're mighty sorry about your nephew. Give us back our guns an' horses an' you won't have t'worry about Parsons gettin' away again."

Stephenson heaved a heavy sigh, staring at the mangled boy on the cot. "You've got to find him, Larabee," he said in a broken voice. "Henry is my brother's son, he's all they've got, if he dies and Parsons gets away..." The sentence ended in a choked gasp. Stephenson paused, trying to collect himself, then took another breath and rose, straightening his jacket as he looked at Chris with grim hazel eyes.

"You'll have your guns, and your horses, and whatever you need," he said. "And...my..." he paused, then steeled himself, swallowed and looked Chris square in the eye. "...apology." He hesitated, then broke, his gaze wandering as he began to gasp. "If I had listened to you..."

Chris cut him off. "You paid enough for your wrong, sergeant," he said, as Bllings appeared with their guns and began handing them out. Chris strapped his on with an expression of deadly intent. "Now it's time t'make Wolf Parsons pay for his."



The desert sun was almost down, its dying rays searching in vain for life on the rocky plains outside of Four Corners. This far outside of town, however, nothing usually stirred, except the skittering prairie wildlife. This twilight's glow, however, found a lone figure moving stealthily against the wilderness landscape, being careful to stay hidden by the rocks.

The shadows lengthened, the sunlight slipped into its final radiant guise. In the fading sunlight another form appeared, riding swiftly towards where the first form was hidden. It rose in greeting.

"Did you cut the wires?" the first form asked harshly, in a deep man's voice.

"Easily," was the silky purred response, framed in feminine tones as the rider slid from her horse. "They won't be sending out any telegrams about us, if anyone finds out we're here."

"Perfect," he muttered, crouching down.

Silence.

"Wish you'd let me go to town with you, Wolf," the woman pouted.

There was a sigh. "Dammit, Rio, you know I work best by myself. Two of us'll just attract attention. You got to watch the horses."

"But I wanted to kill that little bitch who got away," she replied in a disappointed tone.

He thought for a moment. "Well, maybe after I kill that fancy fella, I'll bring the bitch out here for you. I'll get what I missed before from her and then you can have her. How's that?"

"Hell, Wolf, you sure know how t'please a gal!" was the delighted response, punctuated with a sensuous laugh.

They were quiet for a while. The sun went down, the sky bursting with the glowing purple-pink beauty of a Western twilight.

"You think it'll be safe t'go into town?" she asked.

Wolf snorted. "Hell, darlin', after midnight it's always safe for men like me. All I gots t'do is find a drunk who's willin' t'spill his guts for a few bits about where they are. An' if he don't know, hell, I'll just look. It's a small town, can't be too many places they'll be."

There was a pause, then she laughed softly. "Too bad y'can't make that fancy fella holler before ya kill 'im. That stubborn son of a bitch never hollered enough for my likin'. He was holdin' back just to vex us, I could tell."

He shared her laugh. "Don't worry, darlin'. When this is over, we'll go to Mexico an' get back t'work, an' you'll get all the hollerin' you want. How's that?"

"That'd be right nice," she agreed, and they settled down to wait for midnight.



Chris, Buck and Vin tore across the plains, riding fast as the night began to gather around them. Behind them rode a small group of Federal soldiers led by Billings, the young men just as grim-faced as the hardened gunslingers they followed.

No words were spoken as they raced along. Every now and then one of them would look up with mute dread at the sky, silently cursing the falling darkness as it spelled the passage of irretrievable time. A full moon would light their path, and that was something to be thankful for, but there was still the dire possibility that their journey would end in the worst possible way.

For the moment, none of the men wanted to contemplate this fact; their only thought was to get to town. They would face what came after when it happened.

They thundered on into the night.



JD guided Hero carefully over the desert rocks as he rode the usual route of patrol. His hazel eyes carefully scanned the surrounding hills, their menacing forms becoming shrouded in the gathering gloom. He looked up with slight impatience, wishing the full moon would come out so he could see better. Well, soon enough, he sighed to himself, and rode on.

His thoughts turned sadly to Ezra again as he continued on his circle, and what Josiah had said to him about finding the strength to fight evil. It had been a lot to think over, and JD had done nothing but that since their conversation. And he still wasn't sure how it all fit together.

Did he have the strength to fight evil? he wondered as he bobbed along on hero's back. Well, he'd always wanted to battle the bad guys, and so far had proven to be rather adept at it, he thought with a small, proud smile. He knew he wasn't the naive, wild-eyed kid he'd been when he got here; he'd seen too much, and felt too much, to remain unchanged by it.

But was he now prepared to make the kind of sacrifices Ezra had made-or any of his other friends, for that matter-in the name of justice? Was that what he wanted to do with his life? Because if it was, he'd have to live with this threat until he retired or died. It was a daunting challenge, but in his heart he knew it was truly what he wanted to do. No other life held any appeal for him.

And if he took up that challenge, could he also bear the idea that it might lead to a horrifying end, as it almost had for Ezra? JD turned the unpleasant question over in his mind, his stomach clenching at the thought. He didn't want to face the possibility of that sort of a fate, but there seemed to be no getting around it. He didn't want to give up being a lawman, but he also didn't like the idea of putting himself into the path of bloodthirsty scum like Wolf Parsons.

JD sighed and looked up at the rising moon, scratching the back of his head as he thought. He was so dang tired of trying to puzzle this out. Maybe there was no real answer. Or maybe it was the sort of question that would only be answered when the situation stared him in the face. Either way, he didn't feel like thinking about it any more tonight.

He rode on towards the dry river bed, and tried to put his thoughts on happier subjects.


The rough soles of Nathan's shoes thudded dully on the wooden steps leading up to Ezra's room, their repetitive rhythm drowned out by the noise of the revelers below in the saloon. It was time to check Ezra's bandages, and as he mounted the stairs he tried to quell the dread in his heart. He hadn't had a chance to ask Inez about Ezra's visit with Contessa Almarez; maybe it hadn't gone well.

Spose I'll know soon enough, he thought, and opened the door.

The room lay quiet, lit only by the dim, small lamp which was always kept burning. The gambler lay huddled in the bed, almost hidden by the quilt as he lay on his side. Nathan hurried in and closed the door, anxious not to startle Ezra awake.

He looks all right, he thought as he bent down closer to examine his face for any signs of anxiety or exhaustion. There were none, but Nathan was surprised to see traces of dried tears on his friend's face. His gut tightened; more nightmares? But Inez would have heard, and Ezra seemed to be sleeping peacefully...He settled into a chair to wait and see if the gambler would awaken on his own.

A short time later, Ezra stirred, let out a deep sigh, and opened his eyes a little. After staring at nothing for a moment, he noticed Nathan, and stared at him instead.

"Hey," the healer said quietly, leaning forward, unsure of the gambler's mood.

Ezra looked at him for another second, then closed his eyes and stirred a bit more extensively, as if trying to shake himself from sleep. "Good evening," he yawned as he pulled his thin arms from underneath the tangling covers. Once in a comfortable position he stopped moving, plopping his arms weakly at his sides and blinking with confusion into the dim light. "I assume...it *is* evening?"

"Yup," Nathan assured him, pulling up his bag, "an' it's also time for me t'look at them bandages."

He braced himself for an angry comment, a lethal look, anything which would denote that the foul mood which had haunted his comrade that morning still had him in its grip.

Instead, Ezra merely nodded in a distant manner and said, "Very well."

Nathan hesitated, then began, beginning with the wrappings on Ezra's arms. As he carefully untied and undid the long linen strips, he noticed Ezra wasn't looking at him, but was instead gazing off at some invisible point. Concerned, Nathan studied him, trying to discern if Ezra was cutting himself off further. His expression, however, was not one of anger or bitterness; rather, it was one of profound contemplation.

"Did you see Miss Almarez today?" Nathan inquired as he took off the bandage. Inside he winced at the red stripes and blue-black marks beneath its healing folds.

Ezra didn't even seem to notice that the wrapping was gone. "Yes," he murmured, still looking away. "It was a most...enlightening visit."

His voice was calm, with a hint of what sounded like wonder in it, and it puzzled Nathan even more. As he looked over the still-angry cuts and bruises, he nodded, trying not to seem like he was prying too much. "Hope it wasn't no bother," he said.

There was a gentle rustle as the gambler turned his head to look at Nathan. "Actually," he said after taking a long breath, "she proved to be quite a remarkable young woman."

Nathan turned the arm a bit to examine it further, and Ezra grimaced a little at the motion.

"Sorry, Ezra," Nathan said quickly. "Just relax an' don't talk no more, that'll help. I'll make this as fast as I can."

His friend obliged, and the healer continued his operations in silence, cleaning Ezra's wounds and changing bandages where needed. His patient seemed elsewhere, sometimes gazing off in thought, other times closing his eyes and lying so still that Nathan wondered if he was asleep. He didn't ask about the tracks of tears as he gently washed them from Ezra's face, thankful only that they did not appear to be tears of anguish.

As the healer worked he could sense that the heavy melancholy which had plagued Ezra had lifted somewhat; whatever Ezra was contemplating so thoroughly, it seemed to be helping him. His expression as he lay thinking appeared to be one of quiet amazement.

"There now, you're all done," Nathan said at length as he began packing up the used bandages and supplies.

Ezra was settling down back into the soft bed, fatigue plainly visible now in his green eyes. "Much obliged," he said in a drowsy voice.

Deftly Nathan tied the ends of the bag closed, smiling a little as he nodded. "You're healin' up proper, Ezra. An' I'm glad to see you ain't as sour as you were this mornin'. The folks downstairs will be glad to know you're feelin' fine."

There was a pause as Ezra regarded his friend quietly. "Not fine, perhaps, just yet," he said softly, "but...better, Nathan. Better."

Nathan looked up, quick to notice that Ezra had addressed him by his first name. That was certainly encouraging.

He stood and looked down at Ezra with a smile as he picked up his bag. "That's right good, Ezra," he said. "You go on back t'sleep, I'll see you in the mornin'."

Ezra nodded, then looked up. "Oh, Nathan?"

The healer stopped and dropped his gaze to his friend's pale face. "Yeah, Ezra?"

The gambler seemed to hesitate, then he sighed and said, "I...merely wanted to express my regrets if I was rude to you this morning. I fear my experience has...somewhat eroded my civility."

Nathan bent a little closer to him. "Don't worry on it, Ezra. Save your strength for gettin' better."

A moment of silence fell, then Ezra took a breath and added, "And despite my cold response, I...did appreciate what you were trying to tell me, with your story. I am aware of its moral, I assure you, even if it is still a mite overwhelming for me to believe."

"You can believe it, Ezra," Nathan replied firmly. "Best to face it now, we just ain't gonna leave you alone."

A slight grin tugged at Ezra's lips. "An annoying fact, Mr. Jackson, for which I am profoundly grateful."

Nathan laughed a little, and opened the door.

"Oh, and one more thing?"

The healer looked at him and waited.

Ezra glanced at the feebly burning lamp. "Would you mind terribly, er, extinguishing that light?"

Nathan was delighted but surprised. "You sure?"

The other man hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. "

"Okay." Nathan walked over and turned down the wick. Darkness swiftly fell in the small room. Concerned, Nathan eyed Ezra as he walked past the bed, but the gambler seemed determined to see this through.

"You get some rest now," the healer warned. Ezra settled down into the bed in response, and Nathan went quickly through the door, closing it behind him.

Outside, he paused; perhaps he should wait a bit, just to make sure.

Five minutes passed. Nathan listened carefully for any sounds which might indicate that Ezra was in distress, but there was nothing. Finally he opened the door a crack and peeped in, to get sure proof that Ezra was all right in the dark.

In the dim filtered light from the hallway, Nathan could see Ezra curled up in the bed, his gaunt face untroubled as he lay in the gentle hold of deep slumber. Satisfied, Nathan closed the door, marveling at the fact that Ezra had not dropped off to sleep so quickly and easily since his return.

Turning, he picked up his bag and went downstairs, hopeful that perhaps now the worst really was over.



"It was quite remarkable, senor. I feel sure it helped Ezra a great deal."

Inez smiled happily to Josiah as she continued to put away the beer glasses. Around them the night crowd of the Standish Tavern flowed and eddied, but the preacher seemed riveted to what the attractive Mexican woman was saying, and it brought a smile to his face as well.

"I'm right glad t'hear that, Inez," he said with a slight nod as he lifted his half-empty glass. "I imagine Ezra was pretty amazed to know he helped save that little gal's life."

"Yes, he was," was the firm reply as she put the last of the mugs away and shelved the tray. "I think it would surprise any man. But it only shows that everything we do is seen by someone, and has more effect than we can ever guess."

Josiah chuckled. "That's downright philosophical, Miss Inez. Not to mention true. How's Contessa doin' now?"

Inez threw a glance behind her. "She had to rest for a while after the visit, but she is fine now. She's playing in the kitchen with some of the children, but it will be her bedtime soon." She shook her head. "It will be hard to get her to sleep tonight. Her parents are coming tomorrow, and she will be going home soon."

The preacher sighed and leaned forward, propping both elbows on the counter. "Good. She needs to be with her folks. Now all we need is for Maude to show up, an' everything will be fine. Should be here any day."

Inez pursed her lips as she leaned over to clear away a few empty glasses from the counter. "I hope she minds herself with him, senor. Senora Standish can be a little...strong. I know she loves her son, but some of the things they do to each other puzzle me."

"Puzzles all of us, ma'am," Josiah smiled. "But don't worry, I think between all of us we can keep Maude from smotherin' Ezra too much."

Inez nodded, occupied with filling a customer's glass as Nathan walked up, his leather bag in one hand.

"How's Ezra tonight?" Josiah asked as the healer set the bag down and leaned on the counter.

Nathan gave a positive shake of his head. "Right fine, actually. Just changed his bandages, an' everything's healin' up like it should." He looked at Inez. "Don't know what that gal said to him, Inez, but it seems to have perked him up some. He didn't say much, but I could tell he ain't as troubled as he was the other day, an' after I was through with 'im he went to sleep easy as a baby. Even asked me to put out the lamp."

Inez smiled as she poured Nathan a shot of whiskey. "It was quite remarkable, senor. She told him he helped saved her life."

Nathan's eyebrows went up. "That a fact?" he said, impressed. "Guess you'll have t'tell me about it over supper. What do you got on the menu tonight?"

Inez sighed. "Sandwiches, I'm afraid, senor. The stove is not working again."

Josiah frowned. "That's the third time this month, Inez. Ain't Mr. Haskell fixin' it right for you?"

Her only answer was a shrug. "Every time I light it, the kitchen fills with smoke. He insists it is fine."

Josiah scoffed and looked at Nathan, who seemed equally disgusted. "That don't sound fine," he remarked, taking a drink. "Mind if I take a look at it? I've fixed a few parish stoves in my time."

"I would appreciate that very much, senor," was the grateful reply. "Perhaps you can ask God for a miracle."

Josiah smiled a little. "With what happened with Ezra today, Miss Inez, I got a feelin' that we've used up our share of miracles for right now. But I'll surely do my best."


The Four Corners post office was a small, dusty building, with little in it to interest anyone outside of the mail-delivering line. A small wooden counters, a few rows of cubbyholes with names scrawled beneath, a couple of musty address books arranged in neat rows behind the window, empty mail bags drooping in one corner. A dull, dry place, and on this dark summer night, completely deserted.

A small clicking sound soon disturbed the quiet, warm air. No one was there to hear the gentle scraping as the lock to the back door was quietly, expertly picked. After a few moments the lock gave way with a muffled click, and the door swung quickly open. A single dark figure slipped in, shutting the door fast behind it. A tall, slim figure with long black hair.

The man moved swiftly to the mail boxes, studying the names of each one in turn. There was no hesitation as he found the one he was looking for; one thin hand plunged in and pulled out the box's contents, studying the address carefully: Ezra Standish, Room 4, Standish Tavern. He wasn't interested in the rest.

The letter was shoved back. The man paused, pulled a discarded newspaper from his hip pocket where it had been jammed earlier, and quickly read again the only part he gave a damn about:

"...Miss Almarez is now recovering under the care of Senorita Inez Roscios, proprietress of the Standish Tavern."

The man crammed the paper back into his pocket, went back to searching the boxes, found his goal again, and repeated his earlier actions, with even greater visible satisfaction than before. Once finished, he slipped back outside as quietly as he had entered, leaving nothing behind to indicate his presence but the minute traces of disturbed dust which glittered and danced as they moved from the darkness into the moonlight and back again.



The Standish Tavern was dark and empty, the chairs turned onto the tables, the drinks put away for another day. The only light in the place streamed from a few lamps in the kitchen, where Inez sat puzzling over the books at the rough table. Nearby, Josiah lay on his back on the floor in front of the partly dismantled stove, sleeves rolled up, both hands buried in its inner chamber. He was covered with soot.

Inez glanced at the preacher as she wrote down a few numbers. "You do not have to stay so late, Josiah," she said in a low voice. "I can do without the stove for another day."

Josiah shook his head, still staring resolutely into the stove. "Think I almost got it, Inez," he whispered. He glanced at her, concerned. "I ain't bein' too loud, am I? Don't want to wake up your guest."

Inez looked over at the closed door which guarded the room where Contessa slept. "No, senor, she is a very sound sleeper," she assured him. "But surely you must be very tired by now. It is past midnight."

Josiah grunted as he twisted something inside the stove. "I'm fine, Inez," he said firmly, gritting his teeth. "I ain't never let a stove lick me yet, an' I ain't gonna start now. I'm gonna fix this for you if it takes all night."

She smiled and went back to her book. "Gracias, senor," she whispered.

He shook his head as he continued to struggle with the stove. "Just fightin' the good fight, sister," he muttered, and kept working.



The full moon bathed the alleyway behind the Standish tavern in a bright, silver glow. Between the shadows of that light skulked a slender, long-haired form, darting from darkness to darkness as it moved towards the back door of the building. It paused only long enough to glance carefully into windows as it passed, searching.

Finally at one window it stopped, long enough to study the sight visible through the dusty glass. On the other side, a young girl lay asleep, her face peaceful despite the bruises and cuts it bore. The figure stopped, hesitated, then moved on. It would return here later, when its more important task was done.

The shadow slid up to the back door of the saloon, long fingers wasting no time in producing and employing a glistening lock-pick. This time the instrument made no sound as it was used. It success was quick; almost before anyone had a chance to notice, the tall man quickly and quietly opened the back door, sped inside, and closed it again, leaving the alleyway once more silent and deserted.

The saloon was dark inside, save for the meager slivers of light escaping from the closed doorway of the distant kitchen. Darkness, however, hardly bothered the slender intruder; he knew it well, and liked it. He paused only long enough to find the stairway, and with ghostly stride he ascended it, making no noise as he made his way towards the rooms on the second floor.

As he counted off the door numbers until he found the one he wanted, the long-haired one-eyed man went through his strategy for this kill. Using a gun wouldn't do, he thought as he found the door he was looking for and began to pick the lock in complete silence. Too noisy; he had to be in and gone before anyone knew he was there. Better to use his knife; with any luck his victim would be asleep and would have no chance to stop the blade before it plunged into his heart. The man knew exactly how and where to stab someone so that death was quick and certain; he'd done it many times.

So, the fancy man would die, he decided as the door swung open without a sound. Then he would go and collect the girl for Rio, and be gone.

It was dark inside; Wolf quickly closed the door to block the waking light, leaving it open only enough for a fast departure. He studied the motionless figure slumbering soundly on the bed; his position was perfect. On his side, facing the door, one quick thrust between the ribs and no one the wiser.

As he silently drew the large, glistening knife from his belt, Wolf failed to notice the one flaw in his plan.

Ezra was awake.



The gambler had been annoyed as he surfaced from his healing rest; he was rather enjoying it. The day had been very tiring.

But as he began to gather his wits about him, a series of realizations alerted him to a potentially dangerous situation. It had been a very long time since his instincts had drawn him from sleep, and as they did so now he recognized the message they were trying to send to him. Trained from an early age to be a light and cautious sleeper, this habit was now returning, and Ezra knew at once that something had to be very wrong. So, as he had always done in such cases, he roused every sense and quickly assessed what was happening.

He opened his eyes; the room was dark, nothing seemed amiss. The small ticking clock beside his bed indicated that it was only a little after midnight. All was still; why had he awakened?

Then he heard it, a slight scraping at his door. His heart began to quicken its pace; then as quickly as he realized the danger, the door swung open. Ezra quickly closed his eyes to a slit and lay in wait, studying the situation so as to gain its best advantage.

The intruder entered, and Ezra recognized him immediately. The hateful form was burned deeply into his soul, and for a brief instant the gambler was afraid. Was he dreaming? he wondered, as One-Eyed Wolf Parsons drifted into his room and closed the door behind him. But Ezra knew this was no dream, and his heightened awareness made perfect sense out of what he saw: the bastard had merely returned to finish the job.

His mind worked quickly as he lay motionless in pretended sleep. Wolf was here, and after him; that meant Contessa Almarez was in danger too. Or had he killed her already? Anger swiftly replaced the fear. He had been helpless before, but he wasn't helpless now, even if he was still weak from his wounds. He had recovered enough strength, he was sure, for at least one decisive blow.

He knew he had little chance against Wolf, but if he made enough noise it would surely alert others to the menace in their midst. Inez would still be awake, as she rarely retired before one o'clock. Perhaps she could get Contessa away and alert his comrades before it was too late. Perhaps, too, he could hold Parsons here, just long enough for someone to take him, and put the cretin to the miserable end he deserved.

In any case, he was not about to let Wolf Parsons skewer him like a pig in his own bed.

The knife was lifted, its blade flashing in the moonlight. Ezra watched it carefully through barely open eyes, a plan swiftly forming in his mind.

A pause, and the knife was brought back to begin its plunge downwards.

Ezra sprang to life, throwing himself with all of his strength from the bed and wrapping his arms around Wolf as he threw him to the floor. The fall took them, as he had intended, right into the nearby washstand and its fine porcelain china basin and ewer; both crashed to the ground, along with the men, with a thunderous explosion of noise. As they fell, Ezra twisted the knife from Wolf's hand, and it spun away out of Wolf's reach.

Wolf let out a yell of surprise and began grappling with his opponent amid the water-soaked debris. For a moment Ezra stared into his tormentor's face, and the old fear surged back, the icy terror which was forever linked to this man in Ezra's mind. Seeing him face to face again brought a host of unwanted memories flooding back, the pain, the isolation, the endlessness of it all, until the gambler almost buckled from the horror.

The moment swiftly passed, however, and it was replaced by a fierce determination to prevent this monster from ever plying his evil trade again. He knew he had no hope of winning, only of keeping Parsons occupied until he could be arrested. Terrific pain and numbing dizziness assaulted him, but they only fueled his efforts; the bastard who had caused this agony for him and others was in his grasp, and he'd be damned if he let him get away now. From somewhere deep inside of him poured all of the helpless fury which had plagued him during his captivity, giving the wounded man the power to defend himself against the pounding fists of his adversary.

Time seemed to slow as they fought, giving the gambler occasion to gain keen awareness of the passing of every second. He did not feel the blows Wolf aimed at him, did not hear the threatening curses and cries. He heard only his own shouts of anger, and felt only tremendous release as the agonies of the past two months were repaid as much as his healing body would allow.

Then, slowly, the struggle grew more difficult, the pain increasingly intrusive. Ezra's cries of warning grew weaker as the surge of emotion which had sustained him began to ebb away. Sweat poured down his face as he tightened his grip on Parsons, determined to hold on to his last ounce of strength. But his head was swimming violently, his heart pounding, his vision dimmed by sweat and looming unconsciousness. All of his strength was gone now. Parsons recognized his opponent's growing frailty, and his efforts to escape grew more violent. Despite the increasing agony of doing so, Ezra held on, desperately hoping that someone, anyone, would soon come.



Josiah looked up from the stove, glancing at Inez. "You hear that?"

She said nothing, staring in puzzlement at the closed door. The concerned look on her face was his answer.

The distant sound of more crashing followed, punctuated with shouts and cries for help. Ezra's cries.

"Perhaps he is dreaming again," Inez said, putting down her pencil.

The noise increased. Josiah quickly stood, not bothering to wipe off his hands.

"You stay here with Contessa, Inez," he said, pushing his way out the door. "I'll just go make sure he's all right."

The preacher half-ran into the empty, dark saloon; dear Lord, he thought as the cries continued, he sounds scared to death. Maybe putting out the light was a mistake. Then, as he began climbing the stairs, the horrified realization: there were *two* voices shouting!

"Ezra!" he cried, hurtling up the stairs two at a time, a vague, horrifying possibility suddenly coming into view. But it couldn't be... "Ezra!"

He reached the top of the stairs; the noise stopped, and there was a loud thud as something heavy was thrown to the floor. Josiah was halfway to Ezra's room when its door flew open, and a tall man with long black hair shot out and dashed for the back stairs.

"Hey!" Josiah screamed; dammit, why didn't he bring his guns? "HEY!"

He lunged after the man, grabbing his arm as he reached the top of the stairway. His opponent whirled and kicked Josiah fiercely in the stomach. As the preacher gasped for air a fist slammed across his jaw, sending him to the ground. As he tried to gather his wits about him, Josiah heard the back door bang against the wall as it was thrown open with tremendous violence, and the retreating footsteps of the intruder as he fled down the alleyway.

Josiah got to his knees, panting and rubbing at the blood trickling from his cut lip. Burning frustration seared through him as he stared at the open door.

"What's happening?" Inez called from the gloomy recesses of the saloon.

Josiah got to his feet, ran to the top of the stairs and looked down at her dim form as it stood half-lit on the landing. "Inez, go see after Contessa," he gasped. "I think Wolf Parsons just tried t'kill Ezra."

He turned, not waiting to see her run back to the kitchen. In three steps he was at Ezra's door, and in four he was inside the room.

The place was in shambles, broken pottery strewn across the floor, water soaking the floorboards and carpet. Ezra lay gasping by his bed, white-faced, covered with sweat and shaking violently from his exertion. A strange knife lay nearby, discarded in the struggle.

"Ezra!" the preacher exclaimed, kneeling by the half-conscious man and lifting him up. "God in Heaven-"

Ezra took a gulping breath and forced his eyes open; they were dim and glassy. "Wolf Parsons," he choked, one hand limply grabbing at Josiah's arm. Josiah could see blood seeping through his bandages from reopened wounds. "I...tried to hold him..."

His body trembled with one large shudder, and his eyes rolled upwards, his head falling back as he fainted.

Josiah quickly gathered the unconscious gambler in his arms and rose, carefully placing him back onto the rumpled featherbed. As he did so, a few of the other patrons came to the door, blinking and confused.

One of them, a thick-set blonde-haired older man, turned wide-eyed with shock. "What the hell!"

Josiah turned and recognized one of them. "Mr. Fahler!" he said quickly. "Go get Nathan Jackson. Hurry!"

Mr. Fahler took one look at Ezra's limp form, and Josiah's furious expression, and ran to obey.

Inez appeared, her eyes wide with horror as she took in the scene. "Contessa is fine, senor," she finally said in a voice strangled with shock. "There is no sign of the attacker." She looked at Ezra, let out a small gasp and went to his side, gently touching his face. There was no response. "I'll get some water and linen," she said, and hurried out of the room and down the stairs.

Josiah turned to the remaining man, and realized with a start that it was Mr. Gardner, the man whose father had died.

The older man seemed to see his surprise. "The hotel only had room for Josie an' the kids," he explained. He looked at the terrible scene before him. "Anything I can do to help you, Josiah?"

Josiah nodded quickly. "Yeah, you got a gun?"

Gardner bobbed his head once. "Yup."

"Then, Mr. Gardner, I'd be much obliged if you'd keep an eye on things here til I get back," he said quickly, walking out of Ezra's room into the hallway. "Nathan should be here soon, an' he'll be busy seein' after Ezra."

Mr. Gardner watched him head for the stairs. "I'll be happy to, Father," he said. "Where you goin'?"

Josiah only had time to throw him a brief glance. "To get my guns," he said, "and go after Wolf Parsons."



JD sighed to himself as he finished stabling Hero for the evening. Another quiet, boring night on patrol, he thought as he gave the horse a good-night pat and bent down to put away his tack.

Wonder how Buck's doing...

He was trying to decide whether to get a late dinner at the hotel, or just go up to his room to bed, when the noise of distant shouts caught his attention. They were very far away, but quite distinct against the stillness of the night. He looked up, puzzled; they sounded like they were coming from the direction of the saloon.

Ezra, he thought, a cold wave of concern quickly washing over him. More nightmares? He crouched down and hurriedly began to gather his tack, his mind wildly veering between going to help Inez with Ezra, or going to get Nathan. Nathan lived just above the livery; he could easily run upstairs and they both could head over to the saloon.

The shouting stopped. JD hesitated; maybe everything was okay now. Should he still get Nathan? God, he was too tired for this. Maybe it all had nothing to do with Ezra.

He finally decided to go to the saloon, just to make sure everything was all right, and was almost done packing up his tack when his ears caught the sound of footsteps running very fast towards the livery. He stood, surprised, and watched as someone tore into the stable, pulling the door closed behind him. The only light now was from the lantern hung near the door.

JD ducked down; he was in the corner stall and invisible, for now, to the intruder. Peering through a gap in the stall boards, he saw a very tall man with long black hair go quickly to one of the horses and begin to untie it. A horse thief! JD realized, one hand dropping towards his gun. Then, on studying the man, his blood began to run cold. JD had put together the 'wanted' telegram which had been spread to all the nearby towns, which had included a description of One-Eyed Wolf Parsons.

The man JD was now staring at.

A hundred thoughts tumbled through JD's mind at once, chief among them being: this was the man who had done all those terrible things. If JD was ever going to see a truly evil man, here he was, in the flesh, bathed in the glow of fire as he hastily tried to untie one of the horses from its stall.

Footsteps pounded on the wooden steps outside of the livery, leading up to Nathan's clinic. Still hidden, JD watched as Parsons drew his gun and crouched down, his one eye glittering in the darkness as he waited. There was a pounding noise, and voices, muffled by the wood, soon drifted down.

"Sorry to wake you, Mr. Jackson-Mr. Sanchez wants you to come to the saloon right away."

"Just lemme get my bag, mister. What's wrong?"

"Sanchez said some guy named Parsons tried to kill that gambler that's in the room next to mine. Guy's passed out, he looks real bad."

JD saw Parsons smirk.

"Damn!" Nathan said. "Where's Parsons now? Did they catch him?"

"Dunno. I think he's still in town somewhere."

Nathan swore again; more footsteps thundered down the stairs and down the street towards the Standish Tavern. Parsons seemed to relax enough to put away his gun and went back to untying the horse.

JD silently drew his guns. He knew he should probably be scared; the thoughts of what Parsons had done had haunted him ever since the day they stepped inside that fort. Now the man who had done those things was here, in front of him, in the flesh instead of inhabiting his nightmares. But as JD thought of the fort, and all of the suffering this man had inflicted on those people, on Contessa, on Ezra, he wasn't frightened.

He was angry.

Angry, and determined to stop Parsons if he had any power to do so. As he looked at the outlaw in the full light of reality, the nightmare aspect of the man vanished. He wasn't an all-powerful demon, after all, just a skinny, crazy man who liked to hurt people. And JD now had him in his grasp.

With quick, agile steps he swiftly padded over to the door, and before Parsons could notice him he stood up, aimed both barrels at the outlaw and said in a loud, firm voice, "Drop your guns!"

Parsons dropped to a crouch beside the horse, drawing his gun and squeezing off a quick shot in JD's direction. JD ducked it, and the bullet exploded in the dry wood behind him, sending small splinters flying in all directions. JD looked up; Parsons was gone, having hidden himself in the livery somewhere. There was only one door in or out, and JD was standing in front of it.

"Might as well give it up, Parsons," JD said, trying to find the desperado in the dim, flickering lantern light. "I got you covered. You're gonna pay for all them evil things you've done."

A muffled laugh erupted from nearby. JD looked in its direction and took a step towards it.

A shot rang out, grazing JD's head and nicking his ear. The young man dropped quickly to the ground, firing madly as a form shot past him. The figure stumbled once but kept running, barreling out the door and into the street. For a few moments JD sat, stunned and dizzy, until his senses returned.

"Dang!" JD cried, leaping to his feet and ignoring the stinging pain of his wounded ear. Dashing out into the street, he looked down into the dust and noticed a thin trickle of blood. Parsons had been wounded. Palming both guns, he followed the trail, impressed that the outlaw could run so fast with a bullet in him.

The trail led into an alleyway; JD's steps quickened.

"JD!"

The young man looked behind him to see Josiah way down the street, his shout reaching him only as a very small sound.

"Josiah!" he cried, waving one gun. "He went down this alley!"

He turned and continued to run; if this alley was as he remembered it, they had Parsons now. It was a dead-end, terminating in a high brick wall.

JD turned the corner which led to the dead end and was greeted with another round of gunfire. He ducked back quickly, gasping as another bullet barely missed him. Parsons was trapped, but like all cornered rats, still plenty able to fight.

JD waited a moment, then poked his head around the corner. A shadowy form was moving by one of the buildings. Parsons was trying to pick the lock; blood was pouring from a wound in his right leg. Absorbed in his task, he didn't see JD.

Quickly JD raised both guns and stepped into view. "Parsons!"

The man looked up, and with his free hand drew his gun, prepared to fire again. Someone ran behind JD, someone whose arrival made Parsons hesitate.

"Good job, JD," Josiah said. "There's four guns on ya now, Parsons. Might as well give it up."

Parsons straightened and stared at them, but didn't drop his weapon.

Instead, he chuckled.

"This town got anybody besides little boys an' old men guardin' it?" he chuckled.

"You got nothin' to laugh about, Parsons," JD said, his voice deep with emotion as he aimed his gun at the outlaw's head. "Unless you think gettin' hanged for what you done is funny."

"Drop your gun an' come on," Josiah added. "You ain't goin' far on that shot-up leg."

Parsons looked at them both and didn't move. "Now, boys," he breathed, eye flicking from one man to the other, "this don't got to go like that. Lemme go an' there'll be a hundred in gold for each of ya."

JD shook his head and took a step closer. "You ain't buyin' us off, Parsons."

Parsons glared at JD, his hand twitching around his gun.

"Careful, JD," Josiah muttered.

The young man shook his head, staring resolutely at Parsons. "I ain't scared of him no more, preacher," he said angrily, looking Parsons up and down. "This guy's just like Buck said–nothin' but a scrawny coward who likes beatin' up people."

Parson's eye narrowed. "Buck? Buck Wilmington?" he muttered.

JD didn't move, both guns still trained on Parsons. "He told us all about you," he said. "So you best just-"

In a move too fast for their eyes to follow, Parsons whipped his gun up and squeezed off three shots. Josiah and JD ducked down, returning fire as Parsons reared back and burst through the door of the shop, charging inside and closing it behind him. As the two men rose and ran for the door they heard a crash inside. JD tried to open the smashed door, only to find it jammed against a heavy object on the other side; Parsons had barricaded the door and was running through to escape out the front.

"Damn!" Josiah breathed, and they ran as fast as they could to head him off.

As they emerged, they found no signs of Parsons, only the battered remnants of the store's front door. There was no blood trail now; Parsons, it appeared, had found a way to staunch the flow.

Several townsmen appearing on their doorsteps nearby, blinking blearily.

"Get back inside!" Josiah yelled. "Wolf Parsons is on the loose."

"Wolf Parsons!" exclaimed one man, a thin red-haired storekeeper. "That guy that got Standish?"

"Yeah," JD replied, dancing in agitation, both guns at the ready as his hazel eyes studied their surroundings. "So you all best just get inside. We'll catch 'im."

Some of the men went back into their homes and shops and bolted their doors. A few, however, remained behind.

"Inside, hell!" one of them spat, a middle-aged man with a balding blonde head. "Look, I don't mind formin' a posse to help bring that Parsons in, if you want the help. We know what Standish went through cause of that outlaw, an' figure we owe him that much."

Josiah nodded quickly, realizing that some of the men who'd stayed had been among those who'd criticized Ezra. A guilty conscience is a wonderful motivator, he decided. "Much obliged. But move fast."

They scattered to get their clothes and guns, and Josiah and JD ran up the street. As they trotted quickly towards the east end of town, they heard gunshots and shouting in the distance.

"That came from Digger Dan's saloon!" JD cried.

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when Parsons came charging around the corner on a stolen horse, barreling right for them. Both men dove for cover as he opened fire, returning it in kind. JD heard Josiah let out a shout, and the young man got off two more shots as Parsons wheeled the horse around and plunged between the buildings. There was a crash as he jumped through a low fence, then a series of fading hoofbeats as the outlaw disappeared into the surrounding desert.

JD jumped to his feet from behind the water barrel where he'd found shelter. "Josiah!" he shouted, looking around. From nearby he heard Josiah groan, and after further searching found him getting groggily to his feet from behind the water trough, holding a profusely bleeding arm.

"Jeez, preacher!" JD gasped.

"S'all right, JD, just tore the flesh up a bit," Josiah assured him, looking out after Parsons. He drew a deep breath and exclaimed, "*Damn*!"

The townsmen, led by the blonde man, appeared. "Don't worry, Josiah, we'll go after 'im," he said.

"Yeah, he won't get away from us," JD promised, holstering his guns. "You better go have Nathan fix you up, we'll take care of things out there."

"Be careful, JD," Josiah cautioned him, patting the young man on the shoulder.

JD nodded, a serious expression on his face, then he turned and faced the men behind him.

"C'mon, boys," he said to the posse, and they quickly ran to the livery to saddle up and head out.



Rio paced anxiously next to the horses outside the south end of town. Every now and then she turned her beautiful, cruel eyes towards the dark structures which loomed far away in the moonlight, wondering what Wolf was doing now. Maybe he'd killed that fancy fellow by now, she thought, and smiled, imagining the suffering her lover might have inflicted before dealing the final blow. Just as she'd do once she got her hands on that little Mexican wench who'd dared to slip from their grasp.

The thudding rhythm of hoofbeats reached her ears, and she ducked behind the rocks, startled and reaching for her guns. As she cocked her Colt and peered over the protecting boulders, she was stunned to see Wolf riding towards her, alone, a bloody length of cloth wrapped around one leg.

"Wolf!" she cried in disappointment as she stood up.

"We've got to ride!" was his reply when he got near enough to be heard. "There's a posse after us."

She snorted and went to mount her horse. "Shit, Wolf, we've handled posses before," she said, swinging into the saddle, the long tails of her dirty duster trailing behind her.

"I know that, gal," Wolf replied, swinging from the stolen horse onto his own. "Got to find a good place to hole up an' shoot it out. We'll come back here later an' finish our work."

She smiled in anticipation, and they tore away, leaving the stolen horse behind.

"Did you at least kill the fancy fella?" she asked as they rode.

Wolf nodded and smiled. "Think so. Lord, Rio, you should seen him. Gotta hand it to those boys, they really did a job on him. Too bad we had to shoot 'em."

She shrugged. "Not *that* bad."

They rode up a slight incline and reached the top.

"Oh *shit*!" Wolf cried.

Heading straight for them, and plainly visible in the bright full moonlight, were several horsemen, many of them clad in dark uniforms of Army blue. At the front rode three men in civilian clothes, one all in black.

"That's them!" they heard a distant voice shout. The horsemen began pounding towards them as the popping sound of gunshots rent the air.

Wolf and Rio quickly turned their horses, only to meet with another unwelcome sight: almost a dozen riders coming out of the town headed towards them as well. They were being hunted, it seemed, from all sides.

Without another word the two fugitives sawed their horses viciously around and tore off towards the nearby hills.

"Army! Damn!" Wolf hissed through clenched teeth. "How the hell did they find us?"

"Peters," Rio said as she leaned over the mane of her horse. "Bet he talked, that little bastard!"

Wolf growled. "I'll give him something to talk about, when I get my hands on him," he muttered.

More gunshots; they turned and sent a few in return.

"Wolf!" Rio cried suddenly, looking behind her, "I think that guy's with them-that guy, um, Buck! Wilmington, from Kansas City!"

"Really," was the hardly-surprised response. Wolf's eye was hard. "I imagine he's more after you than me, my darling, considering your past relationship with him."

She snorted in disgust and turned back around. "Damn, I thought he'd given up bein' a lawman."

"I'm thinking he just might want to wring your pretty neck, my dear," Wolf replied smoothly. "And I'm also thinking that, as it might slow them down on my trail a little, he should have it."

Rio whipped her head around to look at him, and saw the shining barrel of Wolf'd gun aimed straight at her gut. Furious at the betrayal, she lifted her own gun, but before she could squeeze the trigger Wolf's gun went off in a blaze of fire and an ear-shattering report. White-hot agony consumed her as the bullet ripped through her chest, and with a loud cry she toppled from her horse in a tangle of blood-smeared leather. She landed in the hot dust with a muffled thud and lay there, motionless.

Alone now and unencumbered, Wolf dug in the spurs and tore into the hills.



Buck's mind was going as fast as the horses as they pounded across the desert in pursuit of Rio and Wolf Parsons. Throughout the long dark ride the gunslinger's heart had been torn by a thousand awful questions. What if they were too late...What if Ezra and Contessa Almarez were already dead...What if he never got a chance to right the horrible wrong he'd committed all those years ago...

Every mile drew them closer, and the dread mounted in his soul. He was almost afraid to get home, terrified at the possible reality they'd find there. It was getting so damn late, Parsons had been hours ahead of them. Surely, surely he was there by now, there and gone.

Other nightmare scenarios took the chance to slide across his mind as well. What if Parsons didn't stop at just killing his intended victims? JD, Josiah, Nathan, Inez, Mary-no one was safe as long as Parsons was alive. Buck wasn't sure he could bear it if they suffered at that bastard's hand as well. He'd just plain go crazy.

They'd tried to warn them, sent the Army boys off to every nearby town with a telegraph. They all came back with the same answer: the Four Corners telegraph was down. No messages could get in or out. That's when Buck knew.

Parsons was there.

So they rode like madmen, charging towards the small frontier town which lay oblivious to the evil in its midst. And Buck's heart sank lower with every passing hour: Surely it was too late by now. It seemed almost too much to hope for, that they'd get there in time.

Then, almost there, clearing the rise just outside of town, and seeing in the moonlight those two forms desperately riding away. Even from a distance Buck recognized Wolf's tall, lean form. Vin whipped out his spy glass and confirmed it: a one-eyed man and a red-haired lady. They weren't too late to catch them.

And the chase was on.

Chris led the others, Buck at his side, as they rode after the outlaws. The scene was eerie, like a vision from a nightmare, the dark landscape lit by the brilliant white moon, the clouds of silvery dust kicked up by the horses, the urgent pounding of his heart as they closed in on the killers. They had to catch them and end all this.

Suddenly another surprise appeared in the night air, coming up to ride beside them. JD and men from the town had joined them, were matching their speed in pursuit of their prey. Buck took enough time to glance at his young comrade in mute greeting; the young man looked back, not smiling, his eyes glinting with determination. They had a serious job to do, and his expression revealed that he knew it, and was ready to face it unafraid. Buck nodded and bent back over his horses' neck, and they rode on, stronger now.

Gunshots exploded around them; the Army boys were firing at the pair.

"We want 'em alive!" Chris cried as they rode. Buck hoped the soldiers understood a bullet in the back was too good for Parsons and Rio. Only the hangman's noose could properly end their lives.

His hands tightened on the reins; they were getting closer, closer. Just let us get near enough for one good crippling shot, he prayed. Just to get 'em off their horses...

Then, another shot, from up ahead. Buck ducked a the sound, certain that Wolf was firing a them. A thrill of surprise ran through him as he watched one of the riders stumble, then topple from the saddle as the other continued at a much faster pace into the hills. Left behind, the injured figure hit the dirt and lay perfectly motionless as the trailing dust from its former comrade drifted silently over its still form.

"Damn!" he heard Chris spit. In seconds they were upon the victim, and Buck had no trouble recognizing the voluptuous form of Rio as she lay crumpled and bleeding in the hot dust. They reined in quickly, Vin and some of the soldiers and the posse shooting past to continue the chase. JD paused only long enough to glance at the fallen outlaw, his face revealing more surprise than sadness, before he goaded his horse to follow the others.

Billings leaped down and examined the heap of dirty leather and red hair.

In a few seconds he looked up. "She's dead," he said without sorrow.

Buck stared, confused, unsure how to feel. It was wrong to feel grateful that a woman had been brutally slaughtered like that, but damn if that wasn't just how he felt. He'd held that beautiful woman in his arms, enjoyed her infinite talents, but now as he looked at her tangled, lifeless body, all he could feel was relief. She couldn't hurt anyone anymore.

"Buck?" Chris was eying him, concerned but impatient, the great black horse Valor champing to follow the others in the hunt.

Buck took a breath and looked seriously at his old friend.

"One more to go," he said quietly, gathering up his reins. Billings swung back into his saddle, and they rejoined the pursuit, leaving Rio where she was. They would return later for the remains, if anything was left.