XIII.

"Crown…"

The voice, harsh and grating, weaved through his brain and brought him up from the murkiness enveloping him. He tried to respond to it but his tongue was heavy in his mouth, and his throat was closed over. He rattled himself, cursed the heaviness of his head crammed down onto his neck. His neck…something was choking him, cutting off what little air he could find. He tried to flex but his limbs only weakly responded – they were caught fast against poles, no bars…

"Crown – wake up, damn you! You're not hurt, not by far…Crown!"

Something struck his outstretched ribcage, caved him inward as the pain flowed; his head bounced, his brain hazy and hurting. He lost air again, scrabbled to pull himself up on boots seemingly stuck to the floor.

"Come on, Crown, wake up." The tone increased in pitch, close to his ear. "Wake up!"

The water caught him full in the face, slapped past his teeth, barreled down his throat, worked up his nose. Crown coughed, spluttered, got himself up, sucked in a watery breath, blinked furiously. Slowly his vision arrived, awakening the rest of his senses along the way. His memory bounced in – he'd been searching for Hastings, left the livery, made it to the old sheriff's office…

His cheek throbbed hot and hard over the bone. There was a rope coiled around his neck; he felt the noose knot snug against his left ear all but strangling him already. Crown rolled his head, shoved his heels against the floor, tried to straighten. Slowly he raised his gaze, saw that the line was slung over a sturdy beam, exposed by a jagged hole in the ceiling. It was just high enough to choke him if he slipped down or sideways.

It was the sheriff's office, all right. A glance to either side told him that he was tied to a section of the cells. His wrists were tightly bound to a cross bar, half-outstretched and just short of shoulder height; ankles, too, though one seemed looser than the other. Crown chanced a look down, had to squint; the rope did sag, with one loop dropping toward his heel. His arms were already starting to tingle from lack of circulation. Damn, just how long had he been out?

"Marshal…" came a garbled voice.

Francis was to his right, arms and legs lashed around the lower section cell bars that left him in a crouch. He was gagged and hatless, but seemed otherwise unharmed, though his blue eyes held a full measure of worry. Crown managed a nod at him.

"Where is…?" he began but a hand wound into his hair and yanked his head around.

Matthew Hastings' face leered close to his. "It's time, Crown. You're going to die."

"All right," Crown said to the younger man swaying before him. He pulled himself back up to ease the coil around his neck, held in his grimace though his shoulders were aching with strain. He could not show any weakness; already it was easy enough to sense the kid's instability. He had to keep Hastings' attention on him and not Francis, lest he be hurt.

"How do you like it, Crown?" Hastings hissed, letting go of him. "How do you like knowing you're going to die and I'm going to do it?"

Crown swallowed back a wave of nausea, fought for focus. "Just who did I gun down to make you so full of hate?" He squinted through the pounding pain and rippling vision to a door laid on top of two sawhorses just beyond them, and an array of items laid neatly out on top – rags, kerosene, chain, knife, a box of matches. The same things on the list Francis had made. Francis' Winchester and his own .44 had been added to the collection.

Hastings began striding back and forth before him, smiling excitedly. He had a hammer in one hand, kept smacking the iron head into his palm. "Do you remember Luke Harper? Do you? Luke Harper, Crown. Do you remember?"

Luke Harper – El Paso… Crown studied Hastings. Yes, now he knew… this kid, a wild, scruffy whelp back then, already full of hate. And Luke Harper probably taught him everything he knew…

"Harper, that belly crawling bug?" Crown scoffed. "Sure, I remember – he a relative of yours?"

"He was my brother!" Hastings shouted, his voice far from the polite tone he'd arrived in town with. His lean body fairly trembled, his eyes were over bright. "My brother, Crown, and you killed him. You killed him slow – your shot wasn't clean. He spent two months dying. You don't even remember, do you?"

"I remember," Crown replied harshly. Past five years and it was still clear in his mind. "I remember that family he burned out, and that cowboy he shot in the back, and those two brothers that got their heads bashed in because of him. And the horse he raked to bloody shreds trying to get away."

Hastings stepped up, leaned in close, his face now ugly. "He told me about you, Crown. Told me what I could do to get you. And now I have you."

"All you've got is a gut full of hate and a mind full of poison," Crown told him flatly. "Luke Harper was a thieving killer and he got what he deserved."

"And you'll get yours, Crown," the other man replied smugly.

"I'll take you with me, I guarantee you," Crown vowed. "Harper, right? Little baby brother, Mark Harper. What'd your brother ever do for you? He filled you full of vengeance to make sure you finished his murdering work." He had to pause because the pain was rolling up through him, making his vision swim. Swallowing hard, he pushed on. "Mark Harper – heard tell you spent time in prison because of your hate. I'm sorry to hear it was because of me. I'm sorry my shot wasn't clean – it would've been better for you if it was."

"Gave me time to plan what I'd do to you," Mark Harper told him. He walked to his makeshift table, laid the hammer down. Crown let out a little breath; a swing of that iron head could brutally damage muscle and bone. "I'm going to kill you slow, Crown. Slow – like you killed my brother. You're going to suffer like he suffered."

"I figured." Crown yanked at his bindings but his arms were stuck fast. "Just tell me one thing first – why get Conroy involved?"

"Conroy," Harper laughed. "That dumb lout. I trailed him for days – waited for him, then used him… How'd you figure it out?"

"Give credit to the doc." Crown gave up trying to follow the kid's weaving gait – it only made him dizzier. "He told me you shot yourself."

"I did!" Harper whooped gleefully. "It was part of the plan – who better than a witness for a bank robbery? A perfect witness for the new Marshal in a new territory."

"That was my mistake," Crown ruefully stated. "I should've checked you out better."

"Fooled you, didn't I?" Harper laughed. "Luke told me you were thorough, but I watched you – I knew you were distracted." He leaned in. "She is pretty though, isn't she? All blonde and young – nearly lost my own attention a couple times…"

"Shut up," Crown growled straining against the bindings again. The rope dug into his wrists. Dammit, why didn't he haul Harper off when he first suspected? Dammit! "Just how do you think you'll get away?" he asked, giving himself a moment to cool his inner rage and utter a silent blessing that Dulcey was safe and that MacGregor would keep her so. "You going to murder everyone you've met in town? They'll know it was you. They'll come after you, boy. Not just a posse, but the best lawmen in this part of the country. They'll hunt you down, finish you off."

"That's just fine with me," Harper responded, running his fingers over the items on the table. "It's you I want. I don't care what happens after that."

Crown watched him, trying to beat back the pain drumming up into his temple from his damaged cheek. Harper was too excited, too enraged; he'd make mistakes. Not that there'd any way to dodge a bullet, staked out like this. Lead plowing into muscle would drive him down and he'd strangle himself easy. But a bullet would make the dying go too quick. No, the boy wasn't going to start with a gun, unless he only meant to ruin a limb or two. Got four of them, Crown reminded himself. Ought to think of something before he wrecks them all….

Harper picked something up from the table – a truncheon, Crown saw, studded with nails. The boy'd been doing more than simple carpentry and wooing Dulcey, then-

His breath caught as Harper whirled and rammed the blunt end of the club against his ribs. The pain was sharp, made his eyes tear. The noose tightened. Crown wheezed hard, straining for air, heels furiously seeking purchase. Harper rammed him on the other side, setting up a matching pain that had him sinking again. The younger man then flipped the thing like a circus man's baton, caught it, waved it menacingly. "This rips skin nicely," he said. "Shreds it…" And he whacked at Crown's left hand, digging in. Crown instinctively tried to close his fist and protect his palm, but his numbed fingers were too sluggish – he felt the rip of skin, saw blood flow…

"Be a man," he ground out, relieved to find his fingers, though pulpy, were still attached to his gouged palm. He shifted his hand, let the blood run toward the rope, slick it. "Untie me and use your fists."

Harper laughed. "Big law dog like you would like that, wouldn't you? No, Crown. Not your way – mine."

"All these plans are just feeding your cowardly guts," Crown retorted.

"I want to see you beg, Crown. I'll beat you and rip you until you do."

"You want me, fine," Crown replied. The blood was working under the rope; he wiggled his hand, trying to coat it, slide it free. He rolled his head toward his silent deputy crouched nearby. "Let him go – unless you're planning a double murder."

"Don't tell me what to do!" Harper shouted. "This is my plan – mine!"

"If you think I'm afraid of dying then you don't know me as well as you think," Crown told him. "I'll take whatever comes with this badge. So get to it, Harper. Pick up your toys over there and do it. But you'd better hurry before they come looking for me."

Harper slung the truncheon on the table with a clatter, selected a slender torch, the end already soaked in coal oil. He shook a match out of the box of them, struck it; the light flared and quickly settled into a steady burn. Beside Crown Francis made a soft choking sound and shifted – and moved.

Harper had tied the deputy to the cell door, and though somewhat bent with damage from the building blast, it still swung forward. Young Wilde sucked in an audible breath and dropped his rear to the splintered floor to stop himself. Crown could hardly blame him, what with Harper coming on with that lit torch.

Hastings waved the torch excitedly in front of Crown's nose – the heat from the flames swept across his skin, fanned his cheek. He watched as the kid drew his arm back, going for the outstretched left arm again, readied himself for defense, thin though it was—

Just as the flame dipped in Crown spat him full in the face. Harper howled and clawed at his eyes. The torch drooped toward Crown – too close, right toward his vitals. He sucked himself up straight, felt the rope slip under his heel. Savagely he wriggled his foot free and brought his leg up, used the toe of his boot to kick the flaming club from Harper's hand. Quickly he flipped the end up so that it caught the kid in the leg. Harper shrieked and danced back. Crown yanked on his bindings; his other leg loosened, but not enough.

Harper was coming back on; he'd doused the torch and now a blade winked in his grasp. Not a gun, Crown thought gratefully as he fiercely wiggled his lashed ankle. The rope held, but his foot worked up inside his boot. Keeping his eyes on Harper, he yanked his foot up – a little farther. He rammed the heel of his other boot down on top of the toe of this one and pulled hard; his foot popped free. Using his wrist ropes for balance, he swung both feet up just as Harper rushed him. He caught the younger man full in the groin. The knife clattered out of Harper's hand as he went flying backwards, landed beyond Crown's foot – but not far from Wilde.

"Francis!" Crown growled. Harper was rolling, all sucked up. "Get that blade!" There was some time, a few seconds. Just one hand free, that's all he needed…

Francis frantically thrust his weight forward. The cell door moved, and then scraped to a stop, stuck. He made a desperate sound, scrabbled, put his shoulder to the bars and shoved. Crown shot a look back to Harper – the kid was folded tight, pale and gasping. Crown swung his stare back to Francis. His young deputy had shifted himself around, rump in the air, cheek pressed tight against a bar, shoulders working, fingers straining as he pushed against the iron bars to reach the fallen knife.

"Now!" Crown thundered as the other man's thumb grazed the hilt. "Cut me free!"

Francis scooped up the knife and got to his feet, hopped forward, bringing the door with him. Quickly he put the blade to the rope at Crown's wrist and began to saw from the bottom up, the best he could do with his own bound hands and the reach he could make. The first fibers split – Crown wiggled his hand. "Keep going!" But his eyes were on Harper again, now dragging himself to his knees, trying to crawl to his array of weapons. The gun – all the kid would need was that gun—

Francis made a sound of muffled alarm just as the pain bit – going at it this way he'd sliced into skin. "Keep going!" Crown commanded, gritting his teeth. He flexed, let the blood run, worked it against the shredding rope, felt the remaining hemp snap.

He grabbed the knife from Francis with still numb fingers, cursed as he almost lost it, grasped as tight as he could manage and shoved the blade under the rope lashing his other wrist. The blade was sharp enough, but his deadened fingers made him clumsy. He heard Francis utter a garbled warning, put an eye over and saw Harper coming on unsteadily, gun in one hand, a length of chain in another. Metal or lead would reach him in seconds—

The hemp snapped hard; blood spattered from his already damaged fingers. Fiercely Crown clawed at the rope around his neck, loosened the noose, and forced it up over his sweaty head – free! He adjusted his grip on the knife hilt with tingling fingers, went to a crouch and rammed himself forward. Harper adjusted his aim downward – there was a shot – the length of chain smacked him on the back of a shoulder just as they connected.

The younger man was all wiry strength, but Crown had more, plus height and weight – and experience. He tackled Harper and they went down, Crown slashing with his bleeding right hand and grappling for the gun with his mangled left one. They rolled, clubbing and kicking, straining to gain advantage. Harper came in with the length of chain – Crown plunged the knife into muscle; the other man cried out. Crown twisted the blade, tore the chain from the other man's shaking fingers, flung it —

Heard the hammer of the Colt click into place.

Somehow the kid got his finger onto the trigger.

Crown redoubled his strength, shoved himself on top of the younger man, let go of the knife to get both hands around the gun, trapping the flexing fingers, his own blood slicking the metal barrel. Harper's might was maniac in return; he turned, angling the gun toward Crown's chest, knowing he could hit bodily mass and wreak fatal damage at close range…

Crown got his knee up between Harper's legs but the kid felt it coming and worked back; hanging on, Crown drove an elbow into the slender midriff. Harper grunted but kept his grip, edged himself back against the wall. His fingers tore at Crown's shirt collar, his hair, reached for the damaged cheek, grasping, pinching, ripping. Crown ducked, thrust himself forward, slammed Harper into the wall, whacked the gun hand against brick – again and again, heard the Colt clatter to the floor, went for it.

Harper got there first and kicked it away, came back with the chain, rained it down. It struck Crown hard on one ear; he slipped, reached blindly for the discarded knife – it had to be here, it had to be – even as his other hand dug into two links of chain and yanked – Harper's fist connected with his chin, sent him sprawling back with a headful of brilliant, streaking pain. It smothered him even as he worked to pull himself over, drop palms and knees to the floor to protect his core. He heard Harper's approaching gasps, smelled his sweat; finally saw the slight form looming, and thrust himself up on shaking arms to greet it.

"You're dead, Crown," Harper rasped, a weird light glinting in his eyes. "Dead-"

The shot was loud – the bullet whistled past him, watched with watery vision as Harper stiffened and shook, eyes widening with surprise, mouth working to utter something. He hung there on his toes in a slash of afternoon light, then twisted and slumped down. There came the unmistakable slap! of flesh against the floor.

Crown heaved himself back and looked up – Francis crouched awkwardly, the gag down under his chin, the gun clutched in both hands. His face had paled; his blue eyes were round with the realization of what he'd done. Then his gaze went to Crown, locked on tight. "Marshal…"

"It's all right," Crown raggedly called back. Francis eased a little but his grip on the Colt was still white.

The knife was sitting in a smear of pooling blood from Harper's stabbed arm. Crown found his knees, crawled over and grabbed it, then shoved Harper face up. The body flopped over. The face stared unseeing, blood welling from a hole made in the shirt. Crown shook his head – a perfect shot, made by a kid who was still off target more than he was on. Saying a silent prayer to the angel protectors of U. S. Marshals, Crown slowly got to his feet.

"Let me take that," he said to Francis, closing firm fingers over the Colt.

Francis gulped and let go. "He jumped me…He must've heard me coming…Never killed anyone before," he mumbled, watching as Crown cut first his hands then his feet free.

"A man always has a choice," Crown told him, tossing the both the knife and the rope aside, then taking an arm to help him straighten. He tapped the badge pinned to the other man's chest. "When you wear this you do your job, no matter which decision he makes."

The younger man nodded; some of the first shock was leaving his gaze. "Guess I never thought of it that way."

Jim gave him a heartfelt clap on the back. "Takes time. Thanks – I owe you." He nodded to the cooling figure on the floor. "He was out for a kill. You saved my life."

"He trailed you all the way to Cimarron for revenge?"

Crown nodded. "Looks that way."

Francis looked over to the inert form, then back to Crown. "It'd make a great story…" he began, feebly trying for a smile.

Another Doc Crown tale…with a righteous photo to accompany the whole sordid story. But Crown withheld his reprimand and instead lifted his own bleeding hand. "Would you mind if I got this tended before you start asking me a lot of questions?"

But his heart was already growing heavy with the duty of having to explain what'd happened to the young lady waiting over at the Wayfarer's Inn.