Ezra plodded along after Buck. The sun was unfortunately well on it's path across the sky. They hadn't come upon any shade. No outcropping, no trees, nothing. So they kept moving.

As Ezra had predicted, the heat that broiled off of the white sand burned through his boot soles. The sun beat down mercilessly on his sunburn and blisters. He could concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other or he could concentrate on the pain. There was nothing else.

Neither of them was doing much more than staggering forward. They were weaving to a degree that the footprints behind him brought to mind a sidewinder. His mouth was dry and his tongue, that felt swollen twice it's size, stuck to the roof of his mouth. And Buck…

At that moment the other man cried out in pain and twisted at an awkward angle as he fell to the ground. The damaged canteen fell from his hands and rolled. With a sound as close to a sob as he knew he would ever hear from the dark-haired gunfighter, Ezra watched him scramble over to retrieve the canteen.

Buck got his hands on the canteen and held it like a baby. The bandages and splints on the left hand were ragged and useless. The big man was not being nearly as careful of the injury as he should. "nonononono ..." It was like a chant.

With his forward momentum stopped, Standish fell to his knees in exhaustion. Somewhere he found the strength to crawl over to the other man. He started to put a comforting hand on a shoulder. A look at the angry red skin stopped him. Instead he lowered the compassionate touch to the lanky gunman's leg.

"I'm sorry, Ezra, I'm sorry."

Ezra gently took the canteen, "Mr. Wilmington, this has been empty for some time." Wilmington still looked devastated at his lapse.

"Look," Ezra added calmly, logically, "There is no liquid where the canteen fell." His friend looked over and seemed to relax when it appeared he was not guilty of wasting the precious water.

"What happened?" Ezra asked to move the topic away from the water.

Buck looked up but didn't seem to be focusing. The fine sand stuck to his face, the dried blood and hair and worked its way into the open blisters. The gambler was surprised at how thin the man was despite his height and frame. "Buck!" This got the other man's attention. "Did you turn your ankle?"

"What? Oh, no, no. Charlie Horse." He seemed to remember the pain and massaged his right calf. "Damn."

"Are you going to be able to continue?"

"That's the only choice we got."

"I must confess, I am having trouble with this fighting Mother Nature."

"Ain't fightin' nature, Ezra. You're fightin' yourself. Makin' yourself keep goin' when you want to stop."

Ezra thought about what had been said. Resigning himself to the battle, he conceded with self-depreciating sarcasm, "I fear you have more experience at that than I do."

Buck swiped at the sweat and sand on his forehead. "Not a chance, Pard," Buck finally whispered. "But your secret's safe with me." He smiled weakly. Ezra looked a little taken aback by the words, but he smiled, too.

Buck looked at the scattering of boulders he'd been leading them toward since sunup. "We can't rest. We gotta move. It's not much further."

Ezra simply nodded.

Buck took hold of the underside of Ezra's arm to help him to his feet. He ended up using the hold for them to leverage each other up.

"Buck, look, water."

Buck winced and followed his friend's eyes. The wavy liquid was there to see. "Mirage. Let's go."

"No. It's real."

"Ezra, we're going to those boulders and find some shade and wait until dark. Then we're headin' out again. No strayin' after somethin' that ain't there." The story of my life. Flashed through the gambler's mind...Straying after something that isn't there. "But…"

Buck kept his grip on his friend and started walking. He was too weak to argue.

The thought of abandoning the water empowered Ezra; gave him strength to fight to go that direction. He was ready to protest, physically, if necessary. Until suddenly he realized how arid the other man's skin was.

Ezra's own skin was red, hot and clammy. The other man was looking at him, but again, his eyes didn't seem to focus. The pupils were dilated. What worried the gambler the most was that the other man's skin had gone beyond blistered and burned to dry and crepe; as if there was no moisture left. Not a good sign. Damn, they were a pair. Again.

Wilmington looked like he was staying up on sheer willpower. Ezra looked around, wishing he'd see their friends coming out of the same damn wavy reflection as the water. All five of them riding... no, four. Only four could possible ride out of the mirage. That made him think of JD. Aw, hell He had promised to watch out for Buck. He would go with Mr. Wilmington and get him settled in the shade and then come back for the water he was sure was real.

They plodded toward the shade. Their feet slid across the ground that was becoming more hard-packed and plated than sandy. They were both too tired and too weak to lift their legs. No, it didn't seem anyone was riding to their aid this time. As far as the eye could see, nothing. The empty canteen lay abandoned behind them.

Chris Larabee was lost in dark and morose thoughts; the scrap of paper still crumpled in his fist, even as he rode into the desert.

The dark gunfighter couldn't put into words how he felt every time he realized over again and again that Wilmington was absent from his right side. That led to the realization that he had always expected Buck to be there. And it brought a pain-filled insight into himself, a grief that stretched back to who he was before and after Sarah and Adam had died. Even those few times he would look around and realize he had chased the man away; chased away his own humanity and conscience; he expected him to show up again because of a bond forged through war and peace, the good times and the bad. Was that all in the past? Had he truly driven away the man who was always there to watch his back - ironically even as they shared the same town for the first time in months, had they gone their separate ways? And he, Chris Larabee, so worldly, so observant, hadn't even noticed they were no longer the friends they had been? Why, otherwise, did these men who didn't even know them think it would hurt the surprisingly gentle ladies' man more to watch a wet-behind-the-ears kid and a crooked gambler die than for the two war-bonded comrades to be together at the end. Damn them to hell.

The Kid. Reminded him of that trail song, "Little Joe The Wrangler"; tried so hard it killed him. The Gambler. Tried so hard to hide so much. Why did he try to hide all the good? And Larabee wondered why he himself was asking the questions or even cared.

Maybe, Larabee thought, he was learning to be his own humanity again, his own conscience, thanks to Buck and Vin, but now... He quickly shut down on the train of thought, but not as quickly as he usually would have caught himself going down that path. His mind had wandered to places he never wanted to go. He was very good at shutting a thought process down, denying point "A" from leading to point "B", even after they'd once got started. He leaned further over his horse's neck and urged it forward.

Chris rode on with narrow-minded determination. He finally had a course of action to help him distance himself from those unwanted thoughts. He almost didn't register Vin calling his name. He glanced back, then pulled up. Vin was thirty yards behind him leaning over and looking at the ground. The buckboard was coming up much further behind the tracker.

The gunfighter wheeled his horse and trotted back. "What have you got?"

Vin glanced one way then the other. The wind was shuffling his hair. Chris hadn't even noticed it before, but it was coming up and it was past breeze on its way to a real blow. It would quickly conceal any signs that existed. He dismounted to stand beside the man who had become his second conscience and lifesaver even if he wouldn't admit it.

"They stopped here to let that horse go." Vin stated.

"They? Who they?" Josiah tried to get clarification as he and Nathan approached.

Vin ignored the question. "Six or seven horses, Chris." But he was hesitant about something.

"Spit it out, damn it."

"Ezra, Buck and JD. Four kidnappers." Vin moved off of his horse as he spoke. He lay down on the ground. At eye level the shadows cast by the shallow hoof prints were more pronounced. He studied the tracks. Chris fought to keep quiet and be patient; let the man work. "The one horse we've got? All of the other horses but one are carrying weight."

Nathan did the math and got it first. "Two empty saddle horses. One of our men is still with them."

They were all silent for a heartbeat. The ramifications were endless. Where two dead? Why keep one... "The shirts belonged to Buck and Ezra." The healer offered up. It didn't explain anything, just a statement of fact.

"Not two hours ahead of us." Vin volunteered referring to the horses and riders who had left the tracks. "Not trying to make time." He added, not trying to speculate on the whys of the situation.

Chris was striding back to his horse. "Nathan, you and Josiah head on into the desert. Vin and I are going to bring back... whoever they have with them."

Nathan and Josiah both looked at Vin. He vacillated. Chris was already mounted. "Can you follow the tracks?" The tracker asked of the other two, and was referring to the trail that led into the desert.

"Seven horses from now on? Yeah, Brother, we'll find them." No one wanted to speculate what they would find.

"Hurry. We're all fightin' the weather blowin' in." Vin didn't elaborate as he swung into his saddle and spurred after Chris.

Josiah turned to the healer, "I'm thinking to take Buck's gray and move out before the trail's lost." He was referencing the fact that the wind building up could easily erase any sign. "Then I can leave clearer sign - lead you in."

"Go." Nathan stated as an acknowledgement of the logic. He looked into the desert. The dark silhouettes he saw circling on the air currents sent a chill down his spine. He didn't care what Josiah said. There were birds worse than crows.

Buzzards

Ezra collapsed to the ground as soon as they reached the shade. The wind was like the breath of hell and had robbed them of any cooling perspiration. Buck made it far enough to prop himself up against the largest boulder. And they lay there, taking fast, shallow breaths.

Buck had another cramp, this time deep in his belly and it didn't seem to want to go away. It was always strange how the chills overtook his body from a bad sunburn. And tired, so tired... His arms already had some protective tan, but his chest and shoulders hadn't seen enough sun to protect them from this solar attack. He noticed that all of Ezra's body was a solid fiery red. But underneath the burn the gambler was pale and clammy.

Ezra didn't want to move. He had a throbbing headache that threatened to remove his scalp from the rest of his head. He was dizzy and nauseous even though there was nothing in his stomach to lose. He didn't want to move.

"Yeah," Buck sighed, "Chris didn't set out to be this way. JD wants to be Chris Larabee." It was a combination of delirium and saying out loud the conversation he'd been having in his mind with himself. Even now, he didn't seem aware he'd spoken outloud.

Ezra didn't need to have been a part of the mental dialogue that had gone on in the other man's mind. He understood every word. He thought back on the things the two of them had been through together.

Ezra knew the many responsibilities the older man put on himself even when no one else did. Buck knew Ezra knew. It caused a strange distance between them - not when Buck tried to comfort or reassure Ezra of his self-worth, but only when Ezra tried to return the favor; tried get the lady's man to open up. That one didn't know how to talk about his feelings. He only thought people would like him, wanted him around when he was happy, fun and helpful. What kind of childhood made him feel his self-worth only in the happiness of others?

And how, of all people, had he latched onto Chris Larabee as a gauge for how well he was accomplishing his goals? In doing so was he unconsciously setting himself up for failure? No. Ezra knew that Buck meant something to Larabee, but of all people who couldn't show it... no matter. Ezra stopped that train of thought and became even more determined to show the man that people who knew him... scars, warts, ghosts and all... still admired what they saw.

He wanted to give Buck the security of that feeling that, in fact, Buck had already given the pleasantly surprised conman. Besides, he rationalized, it gave him something to think about beyond his current misery.

"Sometimes I have difficulty in identifying the qualities that would keep you loyal to a man like Mr. Larabee all these years." Offered in response to the earlier mumbled words.

Ezra realized he may have pushed as far as he was going to be allowed this time. He was answered with silence. Enough time passed that Ezra began to think he wouldn't get an answer. He was surprised when Buck spoke. "Zach Monahans."

"Sir?"

"That's who you sound like when you say those things about Chris. Zach taught me to ride, shoot, hunt... and says he thought he taught me better than to ride with the likes of Chris Larabee."

"Not a fan of our legendary leader?"

"Shut up and rest."

Ezra blinked. Two father figures. Yep, Buck Wilmington hid a lot. Ezra knew about hiding one's past and reaction to it. He would let it drop. "God, Mr. Wilmington, how can I rest covered in sand and currently under the assumption that I would have to die to feel better?"

Buck didn't move his head from where it rested against the granite or open his eyes. "When we get back, we're goin' fishin'. In a snow fed river that's so clear in spots you can pick the one you want to catch. There'll be pecan trees so big their shade lowers the temperature ten degrees when you're under 'em. Think about that. You can almost feel the breeze. This time of year the Confederate Jasmine has the whole riverbank smellin' like some fancy society lady's garden party. Can you hear the water over the rocks? Mockingbirds and song sparrows. Think on it hard enough, you can go there in them thoughts, go where the hurt ain't... the squirrels fussin' at ya for invadin'..." He felt the smaller man's head slump against his shoulder. "That's right, Ezra, go where there ain't no pain." The lanky gunfighter knew he was alone now and added, "I'll haunt ole Chris 'til he buries us in that river, Pard."

A shadow passed over Buck's eyes, like a cloud scudding quickly in front of the sun. There and gone. He cracked open a swollen eye enough to see that not a single white puff textured the light blue sky. But there had been a shadow. He licked at his lips, but there was no moisture. His tongue caught on the deep cracks that made his lips look as plated and broken and dusty as the barren, waterless desert floor.

When he thought he heard a horse's hooves, he was too tired to open his eyes again. They were moving away anyhow. His exhaustion-slowed thoughts never recalled the mystery man who had shot Ezra from this outcropping or wondered if the horse might be connected to that man.