Author's notes here. Revenge by Katie Prologue: Mine Eyes Have Seen Mary Travis stared down at the pad of paper on the desk before her, her quill pen poised to write.  Stephen had taught her always to write out everything before she set the type, no matter how simple the story might be.  It was easier, he said, to buy more scratch paper than to reprint an entire edition of The Clarion.  She'd spent more hours than she could remember sitting here, the words flowing as she tried to reconstruct the events that she was recording. Today, her pen refused to connect with the paper, refused to write the headline that should have been so different.  The unfairness of it mingled with her grief and all but immobilized her, leaving her trapped as the memories assaulted her again. It had started when they got back from the prison outside Jericho.  She had seen that something was wrong when they rode into town.  She'd known them long enough--and watched them often enough--to know that Chris never rode at the back of the group unless they were being chased.  Yet there he was, trailing along behind the other men by a few yards, his unnaturally dark, unshaven, gaunt face a cold mask.  Vin Tanner and Buck Wilmington, looking like mismatched bookends, rode just ahead of him.  Their frequent, worried glances were cast backward with the ease of much practice. Chris had dismounted at the saloon and walked straight past her through the batwing doors without even a glance in her direction.  As near as she could tell, he had crawled in a bottle and stayed there, firmly shutting out everyone who tried to approach him.  He'd erected a cold, impenetrable wall around himself, and it didn't shrink at all as time went on.  If anything, it got worse.  The bleakness in his eyes was replaced finally by a distance that was frightening to see, and slowly, they all stopped trying to breach it. Vin was the first to leave.  As if it had only been Chris's will holding the tracker in Four Corners, Vin just quietly drifted away when it became obvious that Chris wouldn't--or couldn't--reconnect with them.  Mary had been angry with him, disappointed that he hadn't tried harder to bring Chris back. As time went on, though, she came to understand why he'd left.  It wasn't that Vin didn't want to help.  Chris had slipped so far away from them that no one, not even the man he'd most connected with, could help him until he was ready to return. That had become obvious the day Buck, his concern finally overcoming both his patience and his good sense, had taken matters into his own hands and tried to get Chris to talk, to leave the saloon, to eat something--anything that showed signs of life.  Chris had endured him for only a few minutes before he exploded, jerking out his gun and pointing it, hammer cocked, in Buck's face.  Mary only knew what the bartender had seen, so she had no idea what Chris had said to his old friend, but whatever it was had, in the words of Billy, "left ole Buck with the options of killing him or getting the hell out've town." The next day, Buck had ridden out with, strangely enough, Ezra Standish.  She could still remember the scene: it had been early morning, still quiet and fairly cool.  Buck had stomped out of the jail, his expression tighter than it had been when he'd left the saloon the night before.  Ezra had been waiting for him, holding his horse, his fancy red jacket a direct contrast to Buck's simple, dusty denims and cotton shirt.  They'd exchanged a few words as Buck mounted, then turned rather abruptly and headed toward the town limits.  Buck's back had been rigid, but Ezra had turned and looked one last time at Four Corners with an expression that Mary, pausing to watch on her morning rounds to drop off a handful of papers at the Potter's store, couldn't help but think of as disappointment. Thinking back, Mary couldn't remember if Chris or Josiah was the next to leave.  The ex-preacher hadn't gone far.  His church in town almost finished, for some reason he'd felt the call to go back out to the mission he'd been rebuilding before he'd met Chris.  He still came into town from time to time, but he no more stayed than did Nathan, who'd taken to spending more time at the nearby Seminole village. Chris had disappeared at some point, although Mary wasn't totally sure when.  One night he'd been at his usual spot in the saloon, staring at nothing and casting a pall over the customers.  The next day, he'd been gone. Only JD was left, his determination to stick to his duty as sheriff as touching as it was foolish.  With only the occasional support of Nathan and Josiah when they were in town, JD couldn't handle the rougher of the bad element who'd started to wander back into Four Corners.  He'd tried, Mary thought with a sad smile, he'd tried as hard and as bravely as he knew how.  He just wasn't old enough, wise enough, or big enough to take on four or five men at a time whose main source of pleasure was seeing how much trouble they could create. It wasn't that either of the older men wouldn't have helped him, not if they'd known how bad things were getting.  JD's pride had been his undoing.  He'd refused to admit the problems he was facing, so no one knew he was in over his head until it was too late. With a sigh that was suspiciously close to a sob, Mary closed her eyes briefly.  She didn't know if she could write the necessary words, but that was all she had left to honor someone who deserved it more than anyone she'd ever known.  It wasn't a headline she should ever have had to write.  She should be writing "Peacekeepers Continue to Bring Law to Four Corners" or something similar.  Instead . . . With a rapid blink and another shaky sigh, she blotted her pen and wrote in a clear, firm hand, "Sheriff Shot; Murderers Unknown." One: The Glory of the Coming Buck Wilmington, ex-soldier, ex-cowhand, ex-lawman, ex-peacekeeper, ex-everything, lay among the silk sheets that swathed the bed of Miss Emmaline Cordulais, one arm trapped pleasantly under her body, and frowned at the ceiling in discontent.  His feelings had nothing to do with the lovely Miss Emma, who'd spent the last few days completely and repeatedly disproving any statements to the effect that blondes were more fun.  She was energetic, imaginative, and had a quick sense of humor, and he'd had as much enjoyment in her company out of the bedroom as he'd had in it. No, meeting Emma when he'd arrived in New Orleans had been a blessing, and not one he'd ever regret.  The problem was, he'd finally decided after a few too many shots of whiskey last night, that he was homesick.  Pure and simple, he missed Four Corners.  More importantly, he missed the people he'd come to know there. He was used to being a drifter.  He avoided being tied down as strenuously as he avoided angry husbands.  But somehow in Four Corners, he'd found a place he was happy to stay.  He'd liked having a room that was not only his, but was slowly collecting more things than he could carry easily in a saddlebag.  He'd liked working with Chris again, at least until Chris had gotten such a bug up his butt that there was no reasoning with him.  He'd liked having friends he could depend on, enjoying Blossom's favors, the occasional smile that tickled Mary Travis's lips when he flirted with her.  He'd liked sitting of an evening outside the jail or in the saloon, teasing JD and listening to Josiah's stories and watching Ezra keep his fingers limber with that pack of cards he always carried. Not wanting to disturb the lady next to him, Buck sighed softly.  He'd had a home for a bit, and a purpose that he could take pride in.  He missed it.  He thought of going back more than once, even if it had only been a few weeks since he'd left, just long enough for Ezra and him to get to New Orleans and for the gambler to set himself up among the others of his trade who worked the riverboats and gaming houses.  Buck figured that was why they'd stayed in contact after they'd arrived, seeing each other every day or so.  Ezra seemed no more ready to give up the friendship they'd had in Four Corners than he was. A sudden, sharp knock on his door interrupted his thoughts, and he carefully extracted his arm from under Emmaline, receiving a soft murmur for his efforts, before getting out of bed.  His jeans were in a pile on the floor, along with the cotton shirt he'd been wearing the day before.  When he'd taken them off last night, he'd had other things on his mind than wrinkled clothes.  Standing on one foot and then the other, he pulled the jeans on, grimacing as he nearly overbalanced. The knock sounded again, and he muttered, "I'm coming, don't wake the dead," as he slid his arms into his shirt and found his gun on the dresser.  Tucking the gun into his pants and leaving the shirt open to cover it, he padded out into the tiny living area and opened the door, a scowl ready for whoever had ruined the peace of the morning. The scrawny teenager at the door flinched when he saw the frown aimed at him, and held out a piece of paper as if it were a shield.  "T-telegram for Buck W-wilmington, sir.  S-sorry to wake you, sir." The kid looked like he was expecting his head bit off at any second.  Buck found himself grinning, even if he was out of bed far too early, and fished a coin out of the pocket of his jeans to give the boy as he took the telegram.  "Thanks, kid." "Th-thank you, sir."  The boy left with as much speed as his dignity allowed him. Buck chuckled as he shut the door, walking over to the window to have some light as he opened the telegram.  The words he saw stopped him in his tracks, shooting a bolt of soul-deep cold through his heart. "JD shot, stop.  Murderers not found, stop.  Josiah Sanchez." Vin Tanner lay on his back on the bank of the creek, listening to the hushed sounds of the water easing over the rocks and the wind shifting through the trees.  Normally, he loved the solitude of the wilderness.  The time he'd spent in Four Corners was the most he'd devoted to "civilization" in a long time, and it felt good to be back out in the wild.  If it weren't for the lingering sense of unease, the feeling that maybe, if he'd stuck around a little longer or tried a little harder, he could have fixed the things that had gone wrong back in the town, he would have been happy. A man had to pick his own path.  Vin had always believed that.  When Chris Larabee had made it clear that the path he was bent on was destruction, and it wasn't one he was going to allow himself to be turned from . . . well, Vin had to respect that decision, as much as he hated it.  He still held out the hope that Chris might somehow find a reason to turn from the path he'd chosen, but Vin couldn't make that decision for him.  If Chris didn't find his own reason to live, there'd be nothing on this earth that would keep him alive. Vin just hadn't had the courage to sit around and watch him destroy himself. The ex-bounty hunter had left Four Corners with a sigh of relief.  Yet it had only taken a few days before he'd found himself missing the little rituals that had become a familiar part of his life.  Early morning coffee with Chris outside the café, having JD tag along when he went out for rides and explaining to the kid what the different plants they encountered were good for or how to read a spoor, playing the occasional game of checkers with Nathan or Josiah of an evening; simple as they'd been, those activities had lodged themselves in his mind.  Lately he'd wake of a morning thinking it would be nice to set himself into that routine again. He'd spent some time with Kojay's tribe, which eased some of his loneliness.  Loneliness, when he'd once been happy spending months living off the land with barely a sight of another human being.  He'd made deeper friendships in Four Corners than he'd made in his entire life, and now he found he couldn't give them up easily.  Trying to fight the feeling, he'd pushed deeper and deeper into the wild.  It'd been well on a month now since he'd left the tribe, and he still listened to the not-quite silence around him with the feeling that he was missing something vital. A sharp crackling in the underbrush had him sitting up and reaching for his mare's-leg without conscious thought.  A second later, a dark head emerged from the bushes.  Vin smiled.  Chanu could move as quietly through the woods as Vin himself could, if not more.  The young man had obviously just given him some warning that he was about to have company. "Chanu," Vin said quietly in greeting, and set the mare's-leg aside. The younger man came to squat beside the creek, pausing to drink a handful of water before he turned to face Vin. "There's trouble in the white man's town," Chanu said briefly, his distaste for the place evident in his voice.  "One of your friends was killed." Vin felt his gut clench.  He'd expected it, but . . . "Chris Larabee?" Chanu made a negative gesture.  "Not that one.  The one who the elders say disturbed our sweat lodge.  The one who was sheriff." Vin shut his eyes.  Not Chris.  JD. Nathan Jackson leaned the rickety wooden chair back against the jail wall, rocking it restlessly on two legs as his hand stroked the barrel of his rifle.  His eyes flickered up and down the street.  Tension crackled in the air.  It hovered like an approaching storm, just on the verge but never quite breaking in all the long weeks since JD had died. The entire town was on edge.  The townsfolk were uncomfortable with their precarious seating on the fence post.  Soon a fight would come, one that would end in death for someone.  Neither Nathan and Josiah, nor Colter Evans and his gang, were quite ready to commit.  But when they did, Nathan intended to make sure Evans paid for JD's murder. Ever since Bruce Conway, the young man who'd been helping out at the Potter's store, had ridden breathlessly into Raings village with the news that "Sheriff Dunne's been shot," Nathan had been at war.  At the time, he just hadn't known who the enemy was.  A rage had started growing in him then, fueled by the thought that he might have been able to protect the boy if he'd stayed in town more and not given in to the seductive call of home and family that Rain offered him. He wasn't used to feeling such hatred for anyone.  There were those who might have said he had more reason to hate than most white folk, what with his early years being spent as the property of a man who thought nothing of punishing minor transgressions with a bullwhip.  But Nathan was a healer.  He'd chosen to live his life making people better, not tearing them or himself up with anger. He'd never allowed himself to feel true hatred until now.  Until thinking about an innocent boy who'd wanted to be a hero, who didn't deserve to have his life blown away in a back alley while the men who'd taught him just enough to make him brave were nowhere to be found.  The thought stirred such a cold fire in his heart that he could easily have faced down JD's murderer and torn him apart with his bare hands.  He didn't have evidence yet that Evans was behind the murder, but he knew.  He hated the man more than he'd ever hated anyone in his life. He used the rage, though, as strange as it was to him.  He let it take over the need to heal he'd carried in his heart since he was a child.  The only wound he cared about now was the gaping hole left by a bright-eyed, eager kid on the edge of turning into a fine man.  That wound, he'd never be able to heal. A movement at the edge of town, startling after the stillness of the streets all morning, drew Nathan's attention away from his thoughts.  He squinted down the street, a vague hope stirring in his heart.  The horse, easier to see than its rider at this point, looked familiar . . . yes.  Nathan waited quietly for the man to approach and dismount, nodding to him as he came up the stairs to the walkway. "Vin." "Nathan."  Vin returned the nod as he leaned against the post next to the steps.  "Where is he?" Nathan gestured toward the cemetery with his rifle, but didn't look that way.  "Got him a nice spot near where you all buried Judge Travis.  Mrs. Travis made all the arrangements."  His jaw tightened, and his voice was a bit rougher as he continued, "Imagine he'd think that was mighty funny." Vin looked away for a moment, then turned his eyes back to Nathan.  "Think I'll go pay my respects.  I'll be back after 'while.  You can tell me what happened."  He straightened slowly, as if he were tired.  "Anyone else here?" "Josiah's at the other end of town, keeping an eye on things.  He sent a telegram to Buck and Ezra in New Orleans, but I don't know if they'll be coming or not."  Nathan paused before answering the real question he knew Vin was asking, not sure how to say it.  "Chris . . . ain't nobody heard of him since he left.  Don't know where he's at to let him know." Vin nodded slowly.  "Buck and Ezra'll be coming soon as they can.  Buck's gonna take this mighty hard." Nathan nodded, the truth of that adding another log to the fire burning in his heart.  He didn't watch as Vin strolled up the street to the cemetery.  He'd been there once to pay his own respects.  The thought of the burying, without any of those who knew the boy best to hold him in their hearts as his body was laid in the ground, tore at him.  He hadn't been back since. He knew from Mrs. Travis that there'd been those there who cared about JD.  Mrs. Travis herself, as well as the Potters and Nettie Wells and some of the other townsfolk.  But neither he nor Josiah had been anywhere to be found, and the others were too far away to come even if their location had been known.  Somehow that hurt almost more than the thought of JD's death itself.  The boy hadn't had any of the men he respected so much there to see him to his final rest. Two: The Grapes of Wrath Vin squatted on his heels next to the still-fresh mound of dirt, resting his elbows on his knees as he gazed at the simple cross that watched over the grave.  "JD Dunne," it said, and below that, "1867".  Nothing more. The chill of the desert night was starting to set in, and Vin shivered slightly as a cool breeze wafted past.  It didn't seem that long ago that he was standing in the sun not too far away, lowering another coffin into the ground. "What did you put in here?" "Rocks." "You didn't have to put so many in." "It had to look right!" The young voice rose slightly with indignation. Vin grinned faintly.  Only JD would put that much effort into burying a coffin full of rocks.  Somehow, somewhere, the kid had gotten enough enthusiasm and energy to keep someone three times his size going for days.  It never failed that he'd throw all of it into whatever he was doing.  JD might sometimes have lacked in common sense, but he'd more than made up for it in courage and determination. "Shouldn't we say something?" Vin closed his eyes, his throat tightening.  The familiar voice almost sounded as if it were beside him. "It's a coffin full of rocks, JD." "I know, I put them there, but shouldn't we look like we're doing something? A prayer?" "I ain't much for praying, kid.  Never have been."  Vin spoke softly, dropping one hand down to rest his fingers on the grave.  "Just wanted to tell you, it was an honor riding with you for a piece.  I'm looking forward to meeting up again down the road." Standing abruptly, he turned and walked back toward the town.  Toward the retribution he was going to make damn sure was waiting for the man who'd killed his friend. Ezra Standish eyed the approaching town with an odd mixture of trepidation and anticipation.  His sojourn in the Crescent City had been lucrative, yet he'd found himself missing the unique, if rather rustic, charms of Four Corners. He wasn't normally one to get attached to people or places.  He prided himself, in fact, on being an observer and a manipulator, not a participant.  However, Lady Luck had taken a hand when she led Chris Larabee, Vin Tanner, and Nathan Jackson into the saloon where Ezra was attempting to gather enough capital to obtain passage on the next stage going anywhere.  He had become, for better or worse, a part of something more monumental than anything he'd ever been involved with before. He'd regretted the demise of their venture as much as he'd regretted the deterioration of their leader.  Chris's slow, deliberate self-destruction had affected the gambler more than he would have thought possible, so that when Buck had decided to leave, Ezra had surprised himself by offering to accompany him.  The gunslinger's company was pleasant enough.  Ezra found it comforting--provided he didn't contemplate the implications of the feeling--to have someone around whom he could trust to watch his back.  The most astonishing aspect of the whole situation, however, was the lingering wish to return to Four Corners and to the life he'd been developing there. Even so, he'd never anticipated returning under circumstances such as the one they were facing at the moment.  Buck had stomped into his room far too early one morning several weeks before, thrown a slip of paper on the desk where Ezra had placed his breakfast, and said in a cold, intense tone that sent a shiver down the gambler's spine, "I'm leaving as soon as I get passage on a boat.  There's money to cover my room in the drawer of the nightstand, if you'll see that Mrs. Tremontaine gets what's coming to her." He turned and started to go.  Ezra, caught somewhere between curiosity and alarm, put a hand on his arm.  "Hold on, my friend.  What could possibly be so bad as to warrant such a precipitous course before breakfast? Did Miss Cordulais's father discover your little tryst?" Buck actually looked at him for the first time.  Ezra had seen that expression on his face before, when they'd found Chris's guns at the mercantile in Jericho.  It was not one he had the courage or fortitude to face for any length of time.  Buck opened his mouth, then shut it and shook his arm free. "Read the telegram."  The gunslinger's voice was hoarse, doing nothing to ease Ezra's trepidation. Ezra took the slip of paper off the desk and scanned it rapidly, his hand clenching around it in a tight fist as the import of the message penetrated. "Dear Lord," he murmured, closing his eyes against a sudden vision of a young face glowing with pride at being named sheriff . . . pale in the flickering lamplight as he rode out waves of pain from the knife in his shoulder . . . gleeful as he told that dreadful joke about the three-legged dog . . . "Buck."  Ezra hadn't made a conscious decision to speak, but he felt no urge to hold back the words.  "If you'll permit me the use of your funds and a day's grace, I'll see to it that we have more than enough capital to fund a speedy return to our former residence." Buck didn't even raise an eyebrow at the news that Ezra was accompanying him.  In truth, Ezra wasn't sure the fact had penetrated yet. "I'm going now, Ezra.  Shouldn't've left in the first place, but it's too late for that." Ezra sighed, but kept his voice at its most patient.  "If you wish to expedite our arrival, it would be counterproductive to stop every day to hunt or work for our meals, and the steamship to Galveston is not precisely inexpensive.  Give me a day, Buck, and we'll arrive sooner in the long run." Buck shook his head as if he were going to argue, then said abruptly, "Tomorrow, then." They'd left bright and early the next morning after a night during which, Ezra suspected, neither of them got much sleep.  The trip across the Gulf from New Orleans to Galveston had been ten days of alternating silence and rage from Buck.  Ezra had attempted to improve their financial standing, but had found himself playing with all his skill and none of his heart.  After they'd disembarked in Texas, they'd quickly purchased mounts and had been riding hard ever since, making the trip to Four Corners in record time.  The closer they'd gotten, the quieter and more morose Buck had become, until the last few days he'd quit talking altogether. Ezra had left him alone, partially out of respect for the other man's grief, and partially because he hadn't yet come to terms with his own feelings on the matter.  He'd often thought of JD as an annoying, overly enthusiastic greenhorn with more hair than sense.  But at some point--sometime after he'd been let out of jail to help bring Lucas James to justice--he'd discovered an exasperated fondness for the boy that had edged towards real respect as JD's decisions began to be less and less foolhardy.  The thought of returning to a Four Corners that didn't sport a young, shaggy-haired sheriff with more courage than was good for him left Ezra with a strangely empty feeling.  For a time, Four Corners had been home, but now, bereft of the boy and quite likely of Vin, Chris, and even Josiah and Nathan, the gambler doubted it could ever be home again. The intense feeling of déjà vu that had shivered down Ezra's spine at his first glimpse of Four Corners earlier that morning intensified as he and his companion rode into town.  All the buildings were exactly as they should be.  In fact, it seemed almost as if the absence of change was what created the feeling of disorientation in the gambler.  Surely, after the disastrous events of the last few months, something should have been different. It wasn't until they arrived at the jail that Ezra saw something he couldn't recall having seen during his previous habitation of the town.  Though Nathan Jackson had been a vital part of their team of peacekeepers, he had rarely taken a lead position among the men in public.  Few people, even in the relatively egalitarian atmosphere of the west, were willing to accept a former slave as an authority figure.  In private, Nathan's good sense and gentle morality had swayed the men to follow his advice more than once, but he'd never claimed the role of leader, even when Chris Larabee was absent. To see him now, sitting in front of the jail with a shotgun across his knees and the back-holster that held his knives in plain view, clearly depicted how times had changed.  Suddenly, the sleepy, almost dreamlike peacefulness Ezra had felt in the town dissolved into a strangling feeling of disquiet, as if the town was on the verge of exploding. Pulling his mount to a stop at the steps, he met Nathan's gaze with a quiet nod, feeling a thrill of unease at the mixture of anger and weariness he saw in those normally cheerful brown eyes. "Y'all made good time," Nathan said without preamble, his deep voice emotionless. Seeing that Buck wasn't going to answer, that, in fact, the big man was still withdrawn into that silent world he'd existed in for days now, Ezra responded, "It's a pleasure seeing you again, Mr. Jackson, though not under the present circumstances.  We did indeed have an expeditious journey, although not one I would recommend to those wishing to enjoy the finer sights of the southwestern plains."  Dismounting, he brushed some of the dust off his coat, then decided it was a lost cause.  "However, circumstances did necessitate speed rather than the expansion of cultural horizons.  Perhaps you would be so kind as to bring us up to date on the current crisis?" Nathan glanced up at Buck, the flicker of concern in his eyes the first sign of familiar emotions Ezra had seen since their arrival. "Don't know what happened, exactly.  First I knew, the Conway boy came to tell me JD been killed and they had the burying already.  I got back here and rounded up Josiah, but we ain't been able to prove who done the shooting yet." "Where'd it happen?" The disturbingly soft question from Buck drew sharp looks from his friends. Ezra's instincts, keyed as they were to danger as well as manifestations of chance, began an insistent clamor in the back of his mind as he registered the look in the gunslinger's eyes.  He'd never had any doubt that Buck was devastated and out for revenge, but Buck's expression now promised a horrible death not only for his friend's murderers, but also for anyone who happened to be in the vicinity at the time. "The back alley over yonder."  Nathan indicated the one that ran along the side of the jail with the muzzle of his shotgun. Buck turned cold eyes toward the opening of the alley and stared at it for a long minute before turning back to the healer.  "Chris in town?" Nathan shook his head.  "Disappeared not long after y'all left." Buck laughed, the sound short and harsh.  "Figures." Nathan gave him a questioning look, but said only, "Vin's back, though.  Came in yesterday." Ezra wasn't quite sure if the emotion that stabbed through him was relief or disappointment.  More than anything now, they needed Chris Larabee's leadership to pull them together again and direct them in their search for the boy's killer.  However, if Larabee hadn't affected a change in his demeanor from the drunken, abusive front he had been showing the world after his rescue from prison, he would be less than worthless. "May I suggest, then, that we make plans to meet together after Mr. Wilmington and I have arranged lodgings and cared for our horses?" Ezra turned from his inner musings to more practical considerations.  "Once we are all advised of the status quo, we'll be able to organize our efforts to apprehend the murderers." "Apprehend nothing," Buck said in that same quiet, arctic voice.  "When we find him, I'm gonna take him off someplace private and explain to him the error of his ways."  The smile that curved his lips was one of predatory anticipation.  "When I'm done, he won't be needing a trial."  With that, he rode off toward the stable. Ezra looked at Nathan, and for once found himself in complete accord with the healer as his own uneasiness was reflected on the other man's face. "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me," murmured Josiah Sanchez, former preacher of the Word, former believer in the divine compassion and justice of God, and he was not comforted.  "Then where were You when the boy needed You? He sure as hell had evil to fear, and he wasn't just in the shadow of death, he stared it straight in the face." Josiah took a long swig from the whiskey bottle that was one of many he'd been keeping handy lately.  He slouched down on the bench he'd set outside the church to rest on as he kept watch over this end of town.  Drinking had never spoiled his aim, and it was his gun he'd been putting most of his faith in these past few months.  It was a lot more reliable than the Lord had ever been, even back when Josiah had been able to state without a shadow of doubt that his father's God not only existed, but ruled the universe with a loving yet strict hand. He swirled the amber liquid around the bottle, watching the sun glint off it.  He'd come to depend on the whiskey, too, even though he knew what a fickle mistress she could be.  Still, she did help him to forget, and that was worth whatever price she demanded.  He needed forgetfulness right now.  Not so much of JD's death.  Dying was no more unnatural than living, and the boy had put himself on the path to dying young the day he'd signed up with Chris Larabee.  Josiah wasn't about to deny the boy his chosen destiny. No, what Josiah needed to forget wasn't JD's death.  It was his own failure.  Once again, he'd failed to protect his own, and this time, he hadn't even had the luxury of vengeance to ease his guilt.  The time would come, though; the time would come. "Vengeance is mine, sayeth the preacher," Josiah murmured, and smiled widely. Three: Loosed the Fateful Lightning Buck paced the path from the door of the jail to the door of the cell and back again, and again, and again, not letting his eyes drift out of the straight line he was walking.  Ezra was leaning against the sheriff's desk, idly shuffling a deck of cards, his eyes tracking Buck's progress across the floor.  Nathan was still outside watching the street, and Vin and Josiah still hadn't made their appearances. Buck had been patient.  He'd waited till the horses were stabled comfortably.  He'd gone along with Ezra's insistence that they hook up with the others and find out what'd happened before going raring off to find the murderer.  He'd even waited in this damn jail, where there wasn't any air to breathe and too many reminders . . . "Damn it, where in hell are they?" Ezra sighed, running his thumb along the edge of the cards.  "I am certain our colleagues are endeavoring to . . . " "Just once, I'd like to hear you say something like a normal person, Ezra." There was a long pause.  Buck was aware of Ezra watching him and didn't know if he wanted to apologize for snapping at the man or wanted Ezra to say something so he could hit him. "They're coming, Buck.  They're coming." The touch of sympathy in the gambler's voice was almost more than Buck could tolerate.  With a growl, he spun around again, heading for the door.  He'd waited long enough.  There was a murderer out there, and a kid that needed vengeance.  If he had to tear this town apart with his bare hands, he was going to make sure justice was done. "Buck . . ."  Nathan straightened up as the gunslinger came out the door, his eyes widening as they focused on Buck's face. Buck held up his hand, warding off the words he knew were coming.  Nathan, Ezra, all of them could talk all they wanted.  He needed action, needed to know that the bastard who'd ripped the kid's life from him was destroyed as well.  He stomped down the steps into the oddly empty streets.  He had a vague thought of heading to the saloon to try to wheedle--or beat--some information out of the bartender, but it derailed when he ran into something bigger than himself. "Going somewhere, Buck?" a low, smooth voice asked calmly.  "I thought we was all meeting at the jail." "Time's a'wasting, Josiah," Buck answered shortly.  "I aim to find me a murderer before nightfall." "There's things been going on you don't know about, my friend.  Best you come back and find out the lay of the land before you go shaking things up." The tall gunslinger squared his shoulders and met Josiah's calm gaze straight on.  "Josiah, you know I got more respect for you than I do for most men, and I know you can bend me in half without half trying.  But if you don't get outta my way . . ." "Easy there, pard." Buck broke off, looking down at the man who had interrupted him.  "Back off, Vin." The bounty hunter didn't shift from his relaxed slouch.  Fearlessly, his eyes met Buck's, as if he had no worry that Buck might not listen to him.  "Josiah here's just trying to save us all some trouble, Buck.  You want to get the men that killed JD, don't you?" Something in Vin's slow drawl eased Buck's frayed nerves enough that he didn't haul off and hit either of the men in his way.  Trying to clear his frustration, he shook his head.  "You don't even have to ask that, do you?" The corner of Vin's mouth crooked up as he shook his head.  "Naw." Moving as slowly as if he were dealing with a spooked horse, he reached out and put a light hand on Buck's shoulder, turning the bigger man back toward the jail.  "But we're more'n likely gonna spook them if we just go stomping around without knowing what's been happening.  Josiah and Nathan know more 'bout what's been going on than we do, so we'd best be listening to them, don't you think?" Somehow Buck found himself clumping back up the steps to the jail past Nathan and Ezra, who had come down into the street after him.  With a defeated sigh, he collapsed into the abandoned chair next to the door, wondering how the hell the world had gotten so wrong without him noticing. Vin let an unnoticeable sigh of relief escape his lips as Buck settled down into the chair and covered his eyes with one hand.  He hadn't had a plan for dealing with the big man if he didn't listen to reason.  Josiah could have held Buck back, sure, but the bond between all five of them was about as strong as a puff-weed as it was these days.  Without Chris's will or JD's faith to remind them of what they were aiming for, any hard feelings between them were likely to break them apart for good. Josiah clomped up onto the porch and went to lean against the doorframe of the jail, pausing to squeeze Buck's shoulder as he passed.  Vin could see the tension in both men ease.  They could both be as stubborn as a mule being led away from its feed trough, but the job they had to do was more important than their pride, and they obviously both knew it. As Nathan and Ezra came back onto the porch, Vin asked quietly, "Nathan? Josiah? It don't take me two days in town to see things ain't right.  What's going on? How'd this happen?" No one asked what "this" was.  The empty jail, the chair sitting at the desk that no one made a move to pull outside even though four of them were standing, each was enough of a reminder in itself to keep them from forgetting, if they ever could. "I was out visiting Rain," Nathan started, resting the butt of the rifle he was still holding on the walkway.  "The Conway kid from Potter's store come riding out to tell me . . . about JD.  Till then, I knew Colter Evans was trouble, but I thought . . ."  Nathan sighed.  "I thought he'd move on to better pickings." Nathan rode into town that muggy afternoon with a pressure in his chest he'd only felt a few times before, when he knew he'd be facing something he'd give everything he owned to change.  He'd come to know the town well in the months he'd lived here, and even if he hadn't known what had happened, it would have been obvious something was wrong.  Clumps of people gathered all up and down the street, talking excitedly.  Businessmen who normally wouldn't be away from their counters during daylight hours moved up and down the street, pausing at one group or another to pass on a bit of information before moving on.  At the hitching posts, the horses milled restlessly, sensing the tension in the air.  Little kids darted around unchecked, obviously enjoying the adults' distraction. It'd been an entire day, at least.  Nathan hadn't wasted time getting the whole story from young Bruce, so he didn't know exactly how long, but Bruce had said they'd already buried the body before Mrs. Travis sent him to find Nathan.  Most of the faces he saw still had a look of avid excitement to them.  He'd seen it before on his master's face and the overseer's when he'd been whipped.  He'd seen it in some of these same faces, watching intently as he was strung up on a tree in the cemetery. Feeling a sudden urge to spit the sour taste out of his mouth, Nathan urged his horse toward The Clarion building, intending to find Mrs. Travis and get the full story from her.  He hitched his horse to a rail and walked up to the door of the newspaper office, hesitating with his hand on the knob.  Somewhere in the back of his mind, he'd hoped that the whole thing was a mistake, that JD was still alive.  Once he talked to Mary Travis, he'd have to accept the kid's death. With a sigh, he opened the door and stepped into the room, pulling off his hat and squinting into the darkness as his eyes adjusted from the brightness of the street.  It took him a second to see Mrs. Travis sitting behind her desk, a strained smile on her face. She set down the quill pen she'd been holding and brushed a strand of pale hair out of her face with an ink-stained hand.  "Nathan.  You got back quickly." "Mrs. Travis."  Nathan rubbed his free hand across his face, feeling the grit of the dust and grime.  He had to force out the question around a suddenly tight throat.  "How'd it happen?" Mrs. Travis hesitated, leaning back in her chair and picking up the pen again to roll it between her fingers.  "I don't know, exactly.  Mr. Corbin from the livery found him--his body--early Sunday morning in the alley by the jail.  He'd been shot . . ."  she took a deep breath, her hand clenching on the pen.  "If it wasn't for those eastern clothes he wore and his height, I'd never have known who he was.  He'd been there for a while, but there'd been two trail herds and the Bar T hands in town the night before, so no one was paying attention to all the shotguns going off." Nathan turned away, staring sightlessly out the window.  "No telling who done it?" "There were so many strangers . . ."  Mary's voice trailed off.  "From what Gloria Potter told me, he'd had words with one of Colter Evans' men, Arnie Sykes.  Sykes was getting a little rough with one of the saloon girls who came into the store to buy some fabric.  That was the day before, though, and it was never more than words." Nathan stored the name away for the future.  Colter Evans had ridden into town with a small group of followers not two days after Chris disappeared.  He was a fancy-dressed, fine-mannered man with eyes that reminded Nathan of a snake looking for a meal.  Nathan hadn't figured he'd hang around long.  Men like him didn't usually find much of interest in a backwater town like Four Corners.  For some reason, though, the man had stayed, and it seemed like more and more of the trouble that was working its way back into town was caused by one of Evans' growing number of men.  Nathan wouldn't be surprised to find out that Evans or one of his followers was connected to JD's death. "We had to go ahead and hold the services."  Mary's soft voice broke into his thoughts.  "We wanted to wait until you or Josiah could be located.  It didn't seem right to have JD laid to rest without . . . well, without anyone there for him.  With the heat, though . . ." "Nothing to be done about that, Mrs. Travis.  It's good he got a service," Nathan answered.  He hadn't thought about the boy being buried without any of his friends nearby.  The thought tightened his throat even more, until it was a wonder he could breathe at all. "Mrs. Potter and her children came.  She's always appreciated him standing up for her husband.  And Mrs. Wells was there, and Mr. Conklin, of all people." "That's real nice, Mrs. Travis."  Nathan turned from the window, swallowing heavily, hoping he didn't sound as sharp as he thought he did.  "I'd best be finding Josiah now.  The murderer, he's already got a head start.  No point letting it get bigger." He barely gave her time for a goodbye before heading out the door again, planting his hat firmly on his head and straightening his shoulders against the stares he felt coming from the townsfolk. Nathan took a step toward his horse and found his way blocked.  A stubby man with a shock of faded red hair and a crooked mouth stood in front of him, stretching on his toes to get his face closer to Nathan's. "What're you doing back, darkie? Come to pay your respects to that pissant little sheriff what got his head blowed off?" Nathan shoved past him, jaw clenched against the words that wanted to escape.  He couldn't afford to get in a fight with a white man when he had no backup, not now when he didn't know how the townsfolk were leaning. The little man took a step after him.  "You better watch it, boy, if you don't want to end up as dead as your friend." Nathan turned, glaring down into the man's sneering face.  "You got something to say?" The man grinned sharply.  "The kid kept pushing, too.  Maybe you better learn from his example." "What's that supposed to mean?" Nathan grabbed his arm as he tried to turn away.  "What do you know?" Empty brown eyes met Nathan's, a cold smile lurking in their depths.  "I know you'd better watch your step around me, or there's gonna be more than one new hole in that graveyard." With that, the little man jerked his arm free and stalked off.  Nathan took a step after him, then stopped.  He needed to find Josiah, get someone at his back before he tried to find out what had happened when JD was killed. "The little feller . . . who was he?" Vin asked into the silence that followed Nathan's story. "Arnie Sykes," Josiah answered.  "And a man less deserving of the Lord's mercy, I've never met.  He doesn't just look for trouble, he spawns it." Buck stood abruptly, shoving his chair back into the wall.  "That's it, then.  We got ourselves a killer.  Let's go find him." "Mr. Wilmington, if you'll pause just a moment in your precipitous rush toward danger," Ezra said smoothly, stepping forward so that he was almost blocking Buck's path down the stairs, "there are perhaps some significant details of which we should apprise ourselves before we attempt to exact the retribution that our adversaries so richly deserve." As Vin watched, indecision played across Buck's face, warring with the grief and rage that hid just under the surface.  Once again he backed down, his large frame trembling faintly with the strain of holding himself in check. "What details you talking about, Ezra?" Vin asked. "This miscreant who threatened Mr. Jackson is, according to Mrs. Travis, in the employ of Colter Evans.  Assuming that he does, in fact, possess knowledge of Mr. Dunne's death and was not simply attempting to rouse Mr. Jackson's ire, it might be safe also to assume that attempting to interrogate Sykes as to the origin and veracity of his information might lead to conflict with the esteemed Mr. Evans." "Well said, Brother Standish."  Josiah touched the brim of his hat with an ironic grin. Ezra looked at him blandly before continuing.  "It seems logical that we might wish to ascertain the size and strength of our potential adversaries before, if you'll pardon the cliché, bearding the lion in its den." "We also need to know for sure we got the right man," Josiah added.  "We've made at least as many enemies as friends here, and I know of a few cowhands and a gambler who didn't take too kindly to JD exercising his duties as sheriff those last few weeks." Nathan shook his head.  "I'd bet everything I own on Evans and Sykes being behind it.  That little man was just dying to rub my face in it." Josiah shrugged.  "I'm just saying, no point in having a closed mind." Vin got the feeling they'd had this argument before.  He moved to head them off before Buck's tightly held patience deserted him. "We won't convict nobody without evidence, Josiah.  But we will find out who's behind this."  He rubbed his chin, thinking.  "Seems like the first thing to do is ask around town, find people who might have something to say about why someone would go after JD.  And like Ezra was saying, we need to find out how many men Evans has on his payroll." "I've counted at least twenty men," Nathan said.  "I'm willing to bet there's a lot more, too.  I don't think they all come in town at once." "We've faced worse odds," Buck growled.  "There was more of them Johnny Rebs in the Seminole village, and we got rid of them." "Yeah, but we had a few more guns then, too," Vin said quietly, not adding what he was thinking.  They'd had Chris Larabee. The stage had pulled into Possum Bend just as the sun was hitting the tops of the trees on the western edge of town.  By nightfall, the saloon that had been nearly deserted the night before bustled with people.  The stage passengers--three salesmen, a cowboy, and two soldiers--were all enjoying the hospitality of the barkeep and the working girls.  A fair number of townsmen had come in, too, wanting to hear the latest news and happy for the excuse to have a night out. A festive air had taken over the saloon.  One of the salesmen had commandeered the old piano in the corner, and several of the tables had been pushed aside to make a dance floor.  The pungent combination of whiskey, sawdust, perfume, and hot bodies tinged the air.  A faint breeze worked its way through the batwing doors from time to time, flickering the lanterns that lined the walls and beams.  Laughter and the stories of the travelers vied with the piano for attention. One corner of the bar was isolated from the gaiety.  In spite of the press of bodies throughout the saloon, only one man stood there.  On either side of him, a space large enough for two bodies spread out.  The man was dressed in a pair of filthy black jeans and a shirt and duster that matched them in color and cleanliness, his blond hair hanging lank in his unshaven face.  He had been drinking steadily since early afternoon, but his hands were only marginally less steady than they had been when he'd walked in.  Something about him exuded an air of menace that kept the other saloon patrons away. Several feet down the bar from him, one of the salesmen was regaling the bartender and a few of the townsmen with various bits of news and gossip he'd picked up on his run. " . . . so the sheriff, he up and left with the mayor's daughter, and the posse never did find 'em."  The salesman paused, giving his audience time to appreciate the story, and then started up again before they could drift away.  "Of course, that ain't near as interesting as what happened to the sheriff up in Four Corners." The man at the end of the bar looked up from his whiskey, his eyes suddenly intent. "Oh, yeah?" the bartender asked disinterestedly, rubbing absently at a wet spot on the counter.  "You mean that gang signing on as lawmen? That's old news, mister." "Yeah, but did you hear they'd split up? Don't know what happened, but I guess gunslingers like that don't got much loyalty to anything but the almighty dollar."  The salesman took a sip of his whiskey, aware that he had an audience--hell, even the lone wolf down at the end of the bar was listening now.  The salesman was more than willing to play to it.  "Anyway, they split up, and left some greenhorn kid holding the bill as the only law in town.  Damn stupid thing to do, if you ask me." "Why's 'at?" a man dressed as a farmer asked.  "Kid's got to start somewhere.  Better a sheriff than a bank robber." "In Four Corners? Better a bank robber," the bartender said sourly.  "Four Corners ain't no town for law-abiding folk." The man in black twirled his shot glass around, his eyes never leaving the salesman's face.  "So what happened to him?" he asked impatiently. "The kid sheriff?" the salesman asked, straightening so that he could see down the bar to where the man in black was standing.  "Well, from what I heard when I was passing through, and that was right after it happened, mind you . . . " "What.  Happened?" the man in black gritted slowly, his hand tightening on the shot glass. The salesman stiffened, offended at losing the chance to draw out his story, and said shortly, "He's dead.  Killed in some back alley, not that that should surprise anyone.  When I was there, they didn't know who'd killed him." "You sure about this?" the man in black asked sharply. "I said I was there right after, didn't I?" Without another word, the man in black slapped down some coins onto the bar and stalked out the door into the night. A lone cricket broke the silence, calling out its passion to the clear, star-speckled sky.  A cool breeze drifted lazily across the plain, rustling the sparse leaves that clung tenaciously to a small grove of mesquite.  Faintly glowing embers marked a tiny campfire, a compromise between the safety of darkness and Chris Larabee's overwhelming need not to be alone in the night. He lay with his back to the mesquite, facing the vast expanse of prairie.  His hand rested gently on the grip of the gun he'd placed beside him.  His eyes automatically, obsessively scanned the range for threats, but his mind was elsewhere. He's dead . . . killed in some back alley . . . don't know who'd killed him. Shit. Chris rolled over onto his back, staring up at the clear sky, the beauty of the stars completely lost to his burning eyes. It wasn't his problem.  JD had made the choice to stay, after all the rest of them had bailed out in one way or another.  Even Buck, Chris's supposed best friend, had gotten his back up and stormed out after a little argument.  Hell, it wasn't like they hadn't fought before.  And Vin, Vin had left first, before even Buck and Ezra. That was fine.  Nothing said they had to stay together.  Judge Travis's contract with them had been for a month.  No one had ever agreed to longer, even though the pay had kept coming and they all kept doing their job after the original thirty days was over.  If any one of them had wanted to ride on, there was nothing stopping them.  Chris didn't have any more obligation to them than they had to him. Damn kid, what was he thinking, anyway? It had been all seven of them could do to keep the town in order most of the time.  Why in hell did JD think he could handle it himself? And where were Nathan and Josiah? Why hadn't they looked out for the kid? Chris growled, rolling back onto his side and tightening his grip on his revolver.  He didn't owe anything to the kid or any of them.  He damn sure wasn't going to go storming back into Four Corners, seeking revenge for a kid who didn't have enough sense not to get himself killed in the first place.  Hadn't he told the boy to go home when he first came out here? Hadn't he told him he'd get himself killed? The memory of that day was so strong, Chris could almost smell the dust and the faint scent of some sort of stew simmering over a campfire.  The sun had been hot and the air thick with tension as the Seminoles viewed their rescuers with "hospitality."  The boy had been so eager, so certain of his immortality . . . "Go home.  You're not the type." No, there's no hatred in you, no hardness, no understanding that death is real and as quick as a bullet exploding out of the barrel of a gun.  Your eyes are still too innocent, untouched by the hell life's going to bring you all too soon.  Go home, go away before it's too late, and you end up like me. The boy, uncomprehending of the gift Chris was offering him, tightened his jaw and stomped up to the gunslinger, standing as tall as he could as he met Chris's eyes unflinchingly.  "A man comes to you because he respects you.  Because he'd be proud to work with you.  This is how you treat him?" There was a curious dignity in the boy's words.  Chris had to admire his gumption, if not his good sense, but it was that same admiration that made his eyes go cold and his voice flat as he said, "Go home, kid." A mixture of hurt and anger flashed across the kid's eyes as he whirled and stomped away.  From beside Chris, the Seminole chief said quietly, "He's young.  Proud." Hearing the implied criticism behind the words, Chris stiffened and growled, "Carve that on his tombstone." Chris closed his eyes tightly, as if that would make the images go away.  Damn kid.  A boy without any more sense than that was asking to be killed.  It wasn't Chris's problem. He wondered, suddenly, if anyone had seen to it that the boy got a proper burial.  With Buck, Vin, and Ezra gone, and no telling where Nathan and Josiah were, there wasn't much of anyone left to care that the kid even got a tombstone.  It wasn't Chris's responsibility, but Four Corners was as good a town as any to drift into, and it didn't seem right that the boy not have something to remind people he'd lived. A small grove of mesquite. The coals of a banked fire, flaring once before dying.  A cricket calling out its lonely longing to the uncaring stars. A black-garbed man on a black gelding, riding into the darkness, heading home. Four: Sifting Out the Hearts of Men It is dawn, and still cool without the heat of the sun to bake down upon the earth.  He huddles in the hollow behind the tree roots, aching with more than the cold, listening.  Always listening.  He knows they're out there, and his only hope is to hear them in time to hide.  He can't fight them, and he certainly can't run. He had been asleep until a noise had jerked him, heart pounding, into wakefulness.  They've finally found him.  They'll take him back, hurt him more, and he's not sure he can bear it.  Death would be easier.  He's almost given up dreaming of being free of them. Maybe, if he's very, very quiet, they won't find him. His heart still pounding, Nathan dragged himself out of bed.  Shaking hands made it hard to pour water into the washbasin, but finally he managed to fill it enough that he could wash his face.  The water woke him a bit, dragging him further away from the nightmare that had woken him up. He didn't dream often of the days when he was a slave or of the long journey north to freedom.  On the rare occasions when he did, it left him shaken and confused, feeling as if his life now was the dream.  He would catch himself thinking that any second, he'd wake up and find himself still a slave. Tonight, he'd dreamed of his old plantation.  Somehow the overseer had turned into Sykes.  Over and over he escaped, but no matter how far he ran, Sykes always found him.  And when he was burning from the lash of the whip, Sykes would drag him to the slave cemetery down past the chapel, past the white folks' cemetery where the master's family has been buried for generations. "This is the punishment for trying to run," Sykes would say, his mouth twisted in a sneer. Nathan would look, even though he didn't want to.  He'd look, and see a torn, bloody body.  Sometimes it was his mother or his father, sometimes Rain, sometimes Josiah or Chris or one of the other guys.  Often, it was JD, staring at him with dead eyes. Taking a deep breath, Nathan dried the water off his face.  He had a busy day.  He'd promised to ride out to the Oversham place and check on little David's burned leg; Mrs. Oversham thought it was getting infected, so he needed to remember to take some of the gum weed solution with him.  Then he had to get back into town to help the boys talk with folks and try to figure out who had reason to go after JD.  He didn't have time to sit around moping. Pushing the dream from his mind, Nathan went over to his medicine chest and started pulling out what he needed to fix David Oversham's leg. Josiah leaned back in the rickety wooden chair, idly turning his shot glass between two big fingers.  The saloon wasn't very busy this afternoon.  Aside from himself, only a few ranch hands, two men with the duded-up look of traveling salesmen, and of course the working girls were seated here and there throughout the room.  Billy, the bartender, was wiping the bar unenthusiastically, pausing to chat from time to time with one of the girls.  The two salesmen were keeping to themselves.  Apparently they'd sensed the tension in the town and were determined not to get involved. It was a philosophy adopted by most of the citizens of Four Corners.  While everyone agreed that the murder of the sheriff was a terrible thing, absolutely terrible, very few people seemed inclined to do anything about it.  Even Josiah and Nathan had hesitated.  Josiah wasn't as convinced as Nathan that Colter Evans was behind JD's murder.  Too many other people had reason to want JD dead, either as revenge against the young man himself, or as a way to get at his friends.  Josiah wanted to make sure he was killing the right man when the time came for the hanging. Raising the glass to his mouth, Josiah took a slow sip, enjoying the familiar heat as the whiskey slid down his throat.  It was a hell of a lot easier to swallow than the proddy looks and comments Evans' men shot at him whenever they were in range.  Josiah might not be ready to swear that they'd had a hand in JD's murder, but he couldn't deny that they were a problem.  They swaggered around town like they owned the place, narrowly avoiding crossing the line that would have put them outside the law.  As much as there was a law in Four Corners anymore, with Nathan and Josiah all too aware that they were two against twenty or more. But now the two were five, and judgment day, Josiah thought with a wolfish grin, was at hand.  No more tiptoeing around, going through the motions of preserving the law, hoping all hell didn't break loose, because there was no way he and Nathan could handle it if it did.  No more hiding . . . Too damn big to hide behind anything anyway, he thought wryly, pouring himself another shot.  It was about time they finished things up, cleaned up the town and laid the boy to rest.  That business has been left hanging for too long. He gulped down the whiskey, sighing in satisfaction as the liquid burned down his throat.  Nothing like good whiskey . . . but it would do till better came along.  He caught the eye of Ruby, one of the working girls lounging at the bar, and gestured for her to bring him another bottle.  All this waiting was thirsty work. Ruby walked over with the bottle, leaning a little closer than was absolutely necessary as she set it on the table.  Josiah grinned appreciatively at the view. "Care for a drink, Miss Ruby?" She looked at him consideringly, her dark eyes flashing from him to the few other prospects in the room, then she shrugged philosophically.  "Might as well.  Doesn't look like it's gonna be a very lively afternoon." She was one of Josiah's favorites, a dark-haired, pale-skinned lady with a southern accent to rival Ezra's and, Josiah suspected, a lot more intelligence than she liked to let on.  She was just past her prime, but she didn't have the pinched, almost desperate look of many of the older ladies of the night Josiah had met in his travels. "Sure doesn't," Josiah said agreeably.  He poured them both a drink, then raised his glass in a toast.  "To quiet afternoons?" She smiled, raising her own glass.  "As long as the evenings don't follow suit." "Amen to that, sister." Sipping the whiskey, Ruby sat back with a sigh.  "Don't seem like there's been much happening but trouble since that Mr. Evans brought his bunch in.  They ran out all the other troublemakers, but they're enough to make up for it.  And trouble's bad for business." Bad for anyone trying not to be dead, too, Josiah thought.  "That it is." "Some people are saying he's done the town a favor, finally running off the riff-raff that Sheriff Dunne couldn't handle."  Ruby trailed off, her eyes widening as she realized who she was talking to.  "Oh, honey, I'm sorry.  Sheriff Dunne, he was a friend of yours." Josiah finished off his whiskey in one gulp and poured himself another.  "He was a good man," he said finally. Ruby reached over to squeeze his hand.  "He was always fair to us.  Never tried to take a percentage or tell us to shut down like some lawmen do.  He treated us good.  A lot better than that Evans man and his bunch." "He been giving you trouble?" She smiled humorlessly.  "Something like that.  He don't try to keep control of his men when it comes to how they treat us."  She sat back, taking another sip of her whiskey.  She lowered her voice as she continued.  "The real problem's more with Mr. Robman.  Either Evans or one of his boys shows up every day, offering to buy the saloon from him.  Only thing is, they don't want to pay anything like a fair price, and they don't take no for an answer too good, if you know what I mean." Josiah frowned.  "They been threatening Robman?" Ruby nodded.  "Nothing outright, mind you.  Just little things, like 'It'd be better for your health if you moved back east,' that kind of thing.  Mr. Robman don't want to sell, but those boys got him pretty nervous." "You don't say."  Josiah shoved the bottle in her direction and stood.  "Why don't you just finish that off, Miss Ruby.  I got to go have me a talk with some people." "Why, thank you, honey."  Ruby gave him a bright smile.  "You feel like it, you can come back later tonight.  We could have a real lively evening." Josiah grinned.  "I might just do that, ma'am.  It's been a pleasure talking with you.  A real pleasure." Ezra followed Vin into the dim, pungent interior of the stable.  Stepping away from the entrance, he automatically scanned the room.  His own horse stood in a stall next to Buck's mount, tail swishing lazily at the flies buzzing over his back.  Ezra recognized Nathan's gelding a few stalls down next to the nag Yosemite rented out to shop keepers needing to make deliveries.  Yosemite himself didn't seem to be in the barn, but a sudden loud cursing from the back gave a hint as to where he might be. Yosemite kept his forge and anvil in the back stable yard.  As Ezra and Vin stepped out of the stable into the sunlight, Yosemite set his hammer down and ran his arm across his forehead. "Hey, fellas," the big man boomed.  "You ain't leaving again so soon?" "Just hoping we could get some information."  Vin leaned against the rail of the corral, tilting his hat back. Open and direct, Ezra noted absently.  The man could make a fortune with his face and manner.  It was truly a shame he had such a problem with his morals. Leaving trustworthiness to the master, Ezra settled on giving Yosemite his friendliest grin.  "Given your legendary capability of knowing what's going on in this town prior to it actually happening, we thought perhaps you could shed some light on the demise of our colleague." Yosemite's expression sobered.  "Yeah.  JD.  He was a good 'un.  Knew his horses, that kid." "You hear anything about how he was killed?" Vin asked. Yosemite frowned.  "Rumors.  Lots of gossip floating around.  Nothing I could put my hand to a Bible that it's true." "What rumors?" Ezra asked. "Well, Stuart James ain't none too happy with you boys, and neither's Guy Royal.  Neither of 'em's scared to say so, either.  Some folks figure one of them just got back their own.  Or hell, maybe both of 'em, though it don't seem likely either one would bend his stiff neck enough to work with the other."  Yosemite scratched his beard.  "Some folks even mentioned that crazy preacher that killed his own daughter, the one that almost started the war with the Indians?" "Mosely."  Vin spat into the dirt.  "Still in prison, ain't he?" "Last I heard," Ezra replied.  "It seems unlikely he would have been freed in such a short time." Yosemite shrugged.  "Didn't say that's what happened, just what folks are talking about." "What about this Sykes fellow I keep hearing about?" Ezra asked. Another shrug.  "The whole town saw JD butt heads with Arnie Sykes a couple times.  Sykes is one that likes to throw his weight around, act like he was the man in charge, you know?  And JD, he didn't take kindly to that at all." Yosemite paused, and Ezra stifled a sigh.  The blacksmith was the biggest gossip in town, but he did like to spin out his stories.  While Ezra could appreciate a good yarn as much as the next man, at the moment he'd rather just have the straight facts.  Enough time had been wasted already.  And then there was the matter of the heat and the fine dust granules sticking to the rivulets of sweat pouring under his collar.  His wardrobe hadn't missed Four Corners at all. "We'd heard Sykes was trouble."  Vin interrupted Yosemite's dramatic pause casually enough that the blacksmith didn't take offense. "That he was," Yosemite agreed.  "When JD turned up dead, a lot of folks started whispering about how Sykes must've had a hand in it.  'Bout as many people figured Sykes for the murder as figured James or Royal." "That right?" Vin drawled.  "Don't seem like a few hot words would be cause for a murder." "No, but anyone aiming to run this town could do it a might easier with a tame sheriff in his back pocket." "Are you insinuating that Evans is making a bid for control of Four Corners?" Ezra asked intently. Yosemite snorted.  "Evans, James, Royal.  Hell, take your pick.  That's why I said I couldn't swear to nothing.  All three of 'em have a reason, and none of 'em are the type to let a little thing like murder keep 'em up at night." "Well, at least we have a starting point."  Ezra sighed.  "Yosemite, we appreciate the information." Yosemite nodded.  "No thanks needed, fellas.  Just make sure that murderer gets found." Nathan followed Buck toward Potter's store, keeping one eye on the big gunslinger and the other on the people they were passing.  Buck was holding himself in that same tightly controlled fury he'd shown the day before.  Most of the folks they passed had the good sense to step out of the way, but a few were foolish enough to offer a greeting.  Buck acknowledged those with a growl, leaving Nathan to tip his hat and say something polite to smooth it over. They'd almost made it to Potter's when Nathan saw what he had been dreading: Arnie Sykes, swaggering up the boardwalk like he owned it.  Behind him were four men Nathan recognized as Evans'.  The group passed Buck without a second glance, but Sykes stopped in front of Nathan with a sneer already curling his lips.  Nathan had a sudden, sharp image of the Sykes in his dream, smirking over the bodies of the people Nathan cared for.  He shoved it ruthlessly away. Sykes eyed Nathan up and down, his eyes narrowing contemptuously.  "You're in my way, darkie." Just on the other side of Evans' men, Buck stopped as if someone had stuck a brick wall in front of him. Something hot flared in Nathan's throat.  He swallowed, forcing a pleasant expression on his face.  They couldn't afford a confrontation, not yet.  "Excuse me." He started to go around, only to be stopped as Sykes shifted back into his path.  The men with Sykes were smirking.  They hadn't noticed Buck turning toward them with a thunderous expression on his face. "This walkway is for white men."  Sykes shoved Nathan to the side.  "Darkies walk in the dirt where they belong." Nathan's burning urge to smash Sykes' face in was only held in check by years of hard-won self-control.  Slaves didn't survive if they couldn't take whatever their masters dished out.  Neither did a free black man in a world controlled by white men. "I don't see any signs saying you're in charge," Nathan said evenly.  He tried to push past again, intent on grabbing Buck and getting out of there before trouble started. "Don't need signs.  Everybody knows what's right."  Sykes' eyes were bright with a predatory look Nathan had seen before.  "Get out of my way, boy, before--" Abruptly, Buck grabbed the two men closest to him and knocked their heads together.  Nathan tried to grab for him and found himself staring down the black hole of Sykes' gun barrel.  In another second, Buck's gun was pointed at Sykes, and the guns of Evans' other two men were pointed at Buck. "I'd just put that gun down," Buck said, his voice hard with fury.  "Right now." "This ain't your fight, mister," said the taller of the two men holding a gun on Buck.  "Why don't you just walk away?" "That's my friend, seems like that makes it my fight." "Why don't you all put your guns down," Nathan suggested.  "There's no need for anyone to get killed here." Buck grinned.  "I don't see why not." "Shut up, both of you!" Sykes bellowed.  His eyes were darting from Buck to Nathan and back.  Any second, he was going to do something stupid, Nathan could see it as clearly as he saw the gun pointed at his face. "Got a problem, boys?" The familiar drawl came from behind Nathan.  He couldn't see Vin, but he could picture the tracker's steady gaze and deceptively casual grip on his rifle. "Got a bug that needs stomping on," Buck answered. "No problem," Nathan broke in.  "Not as long as these gentlemen don't make one." "Then I'd suggest that these gentlemen take the opportunity to find a different and more hospitable locale."  Ezra stepped up behind the two men who had drawn on Buck, covering them with one gun and the two who were still unconscious with the other. "Let's go, Sykes.  This ain't worth it," the taller of Evans' men said. "Wise man," Ezra commented.  "Don't forget your colleagues down there." Slowly the two men holstered their guns and reached down to grab their friends.  For a moment, Nathan didn't think Sykes would follow them.  He almost hoped Sykes would stay. "This ain't over," Sykes growled, and shoved past Nathan to follow his friends. Vin came up behind Nathan, squeezing his shoulder.  "So that was Sykes." Buck holstered his gun with a sharp shove.  "I should've shot him when I had the chance." "Your hindsight may prove prophetic, my friend."  Ezra turned his gaze away from the departing gunmen.  "In the meantime, might I suggest a libation?" "We were headed over to talk to Mrs. Potter," Nathan said.  He'd rather get a drink.  Something hard to burn away the hate in his throat. "I have a few necessities to purchase anyway," Ezra said.  "Why don't you precede me to the saloon, and I'll join you after I interview Mrs. Potter." "Thanks, Ezra."  Vin gave Nathan a gentle shove before he had a chance to argue and grabbed Buck's arm as Buck started in the direction Sykes had gone.  "Come on, Buck.  I'm buying." Mrs. Potter's store hadn't changed.  Each item still sat neatly in its place, down to the glass jars of rock candy and licorice next to the cash register.  Gloria Potter gave him a welcoming smile before turning back to the gray-haired matron who was comparing fabrics at the counter.  Ezra found some soap and a jar of bootblack, then went to the counter to wait for Mrs. Potter to be finished. "I like the gingham, but the blue might be more practical," the matron said. "The gingham is nice," Mrs. Potter agreed. "I just don't know, Gloria.  Can you set them aside for me for a few days?  I need to think on it." "Of course I can, Elizabeth.  Just come back when you know which one you want." The matron turned and stopped suddenly as she spotted Ezra, her nose wrinkling as if she smelled something bad. "I thought your lot was gone for good," she snapped. Ezra tipped his hat.  "I was unable to remain away from a town filled with beauties such as yourself, madam." She sniffed.  "This town doesn't need troublemakers like you running around ready to start shooting at anything that gets in your way." "No, ma'am," Ezra agreed blandly, "I'm sure it had quite enough troublemakers without the presence of myself or my colleagues." "We might stand a chance of being civilized one day if your kind would leave."  The matron sniffed again, then turned back to Mrs. Potter, "Good day, Gloria.  I'll be back about the fabric before the end of the week." "Good day, Elizabeth." Ezra was pleased to hear a slight coldness in Mrs. Potter's tone that hadn't been there before her customer's diatribe.  He'd heard similar sentiments too often to let the matron's words bother him, but Mrs. Potter had been a friend from the beginning.  He would have regretted the loss of her regard. "Mr. Standish, it's good to see you."  Mrs. Potter gave him a bright smile that didn't quite remove the tired lines around her eyes.  She still dressed in full mourning, but Ezra thought that she looked more drained now than she had in the months after her husband's death.  "What can I help you with today?" "I need to purchase these."  Ezra set his items on the counter.  "I would also appreciate some information, if you don't mind." "Of course.  I imagine you're here to find out who killed JD?" "That is our goal," Ezra agreed.  "What can you tell me of what happened?" Mrs. Potter sighed.  "To be honest, Mr. Standish, I don't know if I can tell you much that's of any use."  Absently, she rang up his purchases as she thought.  "Fifty-three cents."  After handing Ezra the soap and bootblack, she pulled a rag out of her pocket and started dusting the counter, frowning slightly.  "Things started getting bad after you all left.  At first, it wasn't too terrible.  Ranch hands carousing on Saturday night, a couple of the saloon ladies being treated roughly, some bar brawls.  Nothing even as bad as it was before the judge hired you, and JD did his best to deal with each problem as it came up.  He did fairly well." "Was there anyone in particular that he had difficulty with?  Someone who might be angry enough to kill him?" Ezra asked. "That's hard to say."  Mrs. Potter frowned.  "I remember a pair of cowboys he locked up for shooting up Main Street one Saturday night.  They were drunk and hollering all sorts of threats when he took them in, but they were civil enough when they left.  I've heard some of Stuart James's boys talking about what they'd do if they got any of you in a dark alley, but most of those boys are all thunder and no rain since Lucas was put away."  She shrugged.  "Whether any of those men would actually try to murder JD, I don't know." Ezra nodded.  Her answer wasn't much different from Yosemite's take on the situation.  He'd much prefer that someone point a finger at a specific suspect, but at least they were getting a place to start.  James, Royal, and perhaps . . . "What of Mr. Evans and Mr. Sykes?  Their names keep coming up." "Oh, yes.  Them."  Mrs. Potter's expression clearly indicated her opinion.  "Ruffians, the both of them, even if Colter Evans does try to act like he's a gentleman." "I've heard JD had altercations with Mr. Sykes."  Ezra kept his voice neutral, but the memory of the man rankled.  If JD had encountered difficulties with the little bastard, Ezra was absolutely certain that the blame lay at Sykes' feet. "Mr. Sykes likes to think he runs this town," Mrs. Potter said darkly.  "He and JD certainly had words on more than one occasion."  She bit her lip, staring down at the counter for a long moment before continuing.  "Mr. Standish, you know the debt I owe that young man.  He was one of the few people in this town willing to make sure my husband got justice, and he stepped up to the task when no one else would.  And Arnie Sykes is the lowest form of low-life ever to crawl out of a cesspit and pretend he was someone important.  He pushed JD every chance he got.  In my heart, I wouldn't be surprised to find out he was behind JD's murder."  She looked up.  "But I can't tell you that he was.  I don't know of a single thing that proves he was involved, except what my heart tells me is so." Ezra nodded.  "I understand.  We have no wish to hang an innocent man, and every desire to make sure the miscreant behind JD's demise is brought to justice." Mrs. Potter gave him a firm look.  "You do that, Mr. Standish.  And be careful.  This town isn't what it used to be." The sunset blazed across the sky like someone had set the horizon afire.  Vin tipped back in his chair, leaning against the wall as he enjoyed the view.  There was something comforting about the sunset; it happened every day, no matter what troubles had taken place in the world beneath.  Many a night Vin had spent here in front of the jail, chewing the fat with his friends or just watching the town wind down for the night. Tonight should have been like these other nights.  Nathan sat in the chair beside him.  On the step, Ezra idly shuffled a deck of cards.  Voices down the street called to one another, a horse stomped at the hitching post in front of the saloon, and young Bruce Conway made his way up the street, lighting the watch fires.  Nothing appeared different from any given night five months before. Nothing except the empty spots on the porch.  Josiah would be along when he got the mind to, but Buck had left the saloon after several drinks and Vin had no idea where he'd gotten himself to.  Then there was Chris, disappeared into whatever hell he'd crafted for himself. And JD. Vin sighed, letting his eyes stray in the direction of the cemetery.  Things were just too damn quiet now. Beside him, Nathan shifted in his seat, crossing his arms and leaning back to glare at the street.  It was rare to see Nathan without something in his hands to work on.  Ever since the run-in with Sykes that morning, Nathan had been silent and still and smoldering.  Vin wanted to say something to ease the anger in his eyes, but as usual, the words got tangled up inside his mind and wouldn't come out.  He'd had to settle for staying close and buying a few rounds of whiskey, which in the long run was probably about as useful as any speeches he might be inclined to give. Ezra was quiet as well, although he seemed more thoughtful than angry.  He'd told them about talking with the townswoman and Mrs. Potter, and about Mrs. Potter's belief that Sykes might be behind JD's murder.  Nathan had broken his silence with a bitter laugh before going back to his angry contemplation of the space in front of him. Vin broke out of his own thoughts as Josiah came around the corner with Mary Travis at his side.  Vin rose quickly to his feet, Ezra and Nathan joining him a second later. "Gentlemen," Mary said as she came up the steps.  "Vin, Ezra, it's good to see you back." "It's a pleasure to see you again, Mary, although the circumstances are regrettable," Ezra answered. "Would you like to sit down, ma'am?"  Vin stepped away from his chair. "Thank you."  Mary sat, her eyes moving from one face to the next.  "Josiah tells me that you've begun investigating JD's murder." "We've been asking some questions," Vin agreed.  "Getting some interesting answers, too." "I want to help in any way I can."  Mary frowned.  "Didn't Buck come back also?" "We returned from the Crescent City together," Ezra replied as he settled back on the step.  "I believe he is visiting the cemetery at the moment.  He said something about paying his respects." "How is he?" Ezra looked down at the cards in his hand.  "He seems to be finding this experience particularly trying." "You reckon he should be down there by himself?"  Nathan looked down the street toward the cemetery as if he thought he could see Buck from there. "Some things, even the presence of friends can't make easier," Josiah said, dropping a hand on Nathan's shoulder when the healer looked as if he were about to start out for the cemetery.  "Give him time, Nathan." Nathan nodded, but the frown didn't leave his face as he sat down beside Ezra.  Josiah turned to Mary. "You were telling me a mighty interesting story while we walked over here.  You mind filling the boys in?" Mary nodded.  "I don't know that it has any bearing on JD, though."  She looked at the other men.  "We were discussing the changes the town has been through these past few months." "Such as this Evans fellow?" Ezra asked. "I suppose you could say he is at the root of it," Mary agreed.  "When he arrived with his men, it was supposedly to build a small ranch west of town.  He seems more interested in buying up every piece of property he can get his hands on in town." "Ruby at the saloon said he was trying to scare people into selling," Josiah added. "Why would he want all that property?" Vin asked. "The railroad," Mary answered.  "Orin wrote me about it.  Tracks are set to be laid down sometime next year.  This town will absolutely explode when that happens." "And whoever owns all the property . . . " Vin started. Mary nodded.  "Will be in position to become very, very rich."  She laughed, but it didn't sound particularly humorous.  "It's ironic, really." "What is?" "How much trouble the railroad has caused this town, and yet it was only confirmed that they would come through here within the last month."  Mary looked down at her hands, folded tightly in her lap.  "The--the land deeds.  The ones Steven was investigating.  There was a man named Jonathan Case who was interested in them.  He always believed the railroad would go through those tracts of land.  Wheeler and Elliot ran him out of town so they could get the deeds before he did."  She sighed.  "Steven wouldn't run." Nathan shook his head.  "I forgot about that.  I thought the whole town would go up in flames before Case finally left." "Sounds like a charming fellow," Ezra commented. "Jonathan Case was a businessman and an opportunist.  He would do anything to get ahead, but he did have exquisite manners."  Mary smiled faintly.  "I believe he viewed himself as something of a founding father for the town.  Many people in town felt that he was in the right during the dispute because at some point or another, he had helped them out.  But Wheeler and Elliot were powerful men, too, and they had powerful friends.  Jonathan was eventually run out of town in disgrace.  Steven, of course, was following the story.  That's how he discovered the land deed scam." Ezra frowned, and Vin could almost see the thoughts racing behind his eyes. "Perhaps history is repeating itself.  Perhaps Evans is hoping to acquire property, and JD, like the late Mr. Travis, learned too much," Ezra suggested. Vin nodded.  "Makes sense.  Think I'll ride out to Evans' place tomorrow and have a look around.  Anyone want to come?" "I'll go with you," Nathan answered. Something in his voice made Vin look at him sharply, but he had gone back to his contemplation of the street. "Mrs. Potter mentioned a pair of cowboys who made threats against JD, as well as some threats from Stuart James' men," Ezra said.  "Josiah, would you care to accompany me to interrogate those suspects?" "I'd be happy to," Josiah answered.  "And maybe swing by Guy Royal's place, too." Now Vin gave him a sharp look.  "You just stay out of trouble.  We don't need no more battles than we already got." Josiah grinned.  "Now why would you think I'd be getting into trouble?" Vin closed his eyes and sighed. The earth still had a raw look, darker clots torn from the gray soil and piled on the grave.  Buck could see wispy clumps of scrub grass tossed in with the dirt, waving listlessly in the breeze.  He stopped a few feet away from the grave, unable to complete those last few steps.  It was crazy, the thought that if he didn't go any closer, didn't see the name on the wooden cross, that somehow it wouldn't be real.  It was crazy, but he thought it anyway, and clung to the idea for a long moment before cursing himself for a coward and stepping forward. JD DUNNE 1867 Buck shuddered as he stared at the words.  Real, yet so wrong.  Of all of them, the kid should have lived the longest.  He was the youngest, filled with a life and enthusiasm that had burned out of the rest of them years before.  He should still be alive. And would be, if you hadn't left, the insidious voice at the back of Buck's mind whispered.  If you hadn't abandoned him.  He depended on you. Closing his eyes, Buck shook his head tiredly.  Not to deny the words; they were truth as surely as if they'd been etched in stone and handed down by the Almighty himself.  No, he just wished for quiet, a moment to remember his friend in peace.  Just a moment, and then he'd go back to the business of self-recrimination and revenge. But his own conscience played traitor, refusing him even those few minutes of simple mourning.  Savagely, it threw images at him that were all too familiar: Sarah and Adam Larabee waving as he rode out with Chris, never to see them alive again.  JD in the sheriff's office, so earnest as he tried to explain why he wouldn't leave with Buck and Ezra.  The charred remains of a lovingly built home.  Before him now, a simple wooden cross carved with accusing words. Cursing, Buck turned away.  He really needed a drink. Five: Trampling Out the Vintage He hid just in time, and is hiding still.  He is so tired.  They were almost upon him before he noticed.  If he had not stumbled and fallen to the ground, they would have seen him as they rode by. His heart pounds, shaking his whole body.  A sweet, familiar voice calls his name.  He looks up into the beautiful dark eyes of his mother.  Aching, he reaches for her. She is not there. The tears come, but instinct keeps him silent. Another sunrise, this one resplendent with pink and gold.  A fork in the road leading on the one hand down a wide, wagon-rutted dirt road and on the other, down a narrower, almost overgrown path. A man in black on a black gelding, contemplating the two roads. And, after a time, a plume of dust rising off the road less traveled. Josiah had been an early riser since boyhood.  His father had insisted on it, denouncing the sin of sloth as he pulled his offspring from bed before the first streaks of sunrise had cleared the horizon.  In time, Josiah had come to appreciate the serenity to be found in the early morning, before the toil and conflict of the day arrived to distract his thoughts. He liked to stir up the fire and boil water for his coffee while he performed his morning ablutions.  His father had always made him recite Psalms as part of the ritual, but this morning, Josiah felt the strains of "Clementine" rise to his lips.  He hummed it quietly while stropping his razor blade. Squinting into the little mirror hung on his wall, he scraped the blade through the lather on his cheek.  Vanity, a deep voice whispered in the back of his mind.  He nodded with a certain satisfaction.  Vain it surely was to worry over standing in front of the always-dapper Guy Royal looking like a vagabond.  Even so, Josiah was wearing his cleaner shirt today.  As for the rest, he would leave it to Ezra.  Ezra could out-dapper the entire Territory even on a bad day. The coffee had brewed by the time he finished his grooming.  Taking the pot and a couple of mugs, he went out to sit on the porch.  Ezra would be a while yet. The town was barely awake.  Josiah sipped at his coffee, listening to those first stirrings that told him he wasn't alone in the world.  Usually, Mrs. Potter was the first person he would see as she stepped out her door to sweep her stoop.  She would give him a friendly wave and sometimes call him over to help her lift something or to give him a few slices of fresh-baked bread or pie.  Mrs. Potter seemed convinced that any male in town not living with his wife or mother must be on the brink of starvation. Today, even before Mrs. Potter had made her appearance, Josiah saw a lone figure ambling down the street.  Josiah raised an eyebrow.  Given the way Buck had been drinking the night before, Josiah wouldn't have expected to see him until noon, at least. "You're up early," Josiah commented as Buck came into earshot.  "Busy night?" "Bella don't like anybody lingering on washing day," Buck answered shortly.  There was no hint of the lascivious grin that would usually accompany such a statement. "She's a hard woman," Josiah agreed.  He'd had his own run-ins with Miss Bella, who ruled the second floor of the saloon with an iron fist.  "Coffee?" Buck took the mug Josiah held out to him and sat down on the step.  He didn't seem inclined to talk, so Josiah let him be for the moment.  The coffee tasted better hot, anyway. It wasn't until after Mrs. Potter swept her stoop clean and he'd drained the last dregs in his cup that Josiah decided to poke around a little. "You look like something's weighing on your mind, my friend." Buck gave him a long, cold look.  "Not much in the mood to talk about it." "You got to clean out a wound before it'll heal." Buck snorted.  "I ain't the one who got hurt." Josiah gave him a sharp look.  "We all got hurt, Buck.  Like having an arm cut off.  It won't ever grow back, but maybe we can learn to live without it if we try." "It never should have happened in the first place."  Buck swilled the coffee around in his mug.  "I'll worry about living when I'm done making sure the people responsible are all dead." "Hating's a hard habit to break." Buck laughed bitterly.  "Then maybe I won't break it." That was exactly what Josiah was worried about.  "JD wouldn't want . . ." "If I'd worried less about what he wanted, he'd be in New Orleans with me and Ezra right now."  Buck stared down into his cup.  "I should've hauled his scrawny butt out of here even if he kicked up a fuss the whole way.  Or stayed myself and just told Chris to go to hell.  Ain't like he don't know the way." Josiah still hadn't come up with an answer for that when he saw Ezra approaching from the hotel. "Good morning, gentlemen." "Morning, Ezra," Josiah answered, a little relieved at the interruption.  "Have some coffee?" "Having partaken of your finely brewed turpentine before, I do believe I'll pass, thank you," Ezra answered, absently straightening his cuffs.  "Buck, will you be joining us this fine morning?" "Where you headed?" Buck asked without much interest. "We're going to pay a little visit to Guy Royal and Stuart James.  We'll probably swing by the Dorough place on the way out," Josiah answered.  "Every one of those folks might have reason to want JD dead, so we thought we'd poke around a bit and see if we can get some answers out of them." Buck frowned.  "Seems to me it'd make more sense to corner that Sykes fellow." "Vin and Nathan are endeavoring to learn more from that quarter," Ezra replied.  "We thought it wise to check out all our potential opponents' decks, as it were, before we played our own hand." Buck shrugged.  "You do what you want.  I'm going to have me another chat with Sykes.  I think it's about time he started telling what he knows." "Man like him, I'd be surprised if he knew where his own feet were."  Josiah stood with a grunt, wincing at the creak in his knees.  "Going to be midnight before we get there if we don't get going soon." "Lead the way, my friend," Ezra replied. They headed for the Dorough place first.  It was a small spread set out on the scrubby land left over after Royal, James, and the other big-name ranchers had staked their claims.  The log cabin where the two brothers lived was well built and obviously cared for.  The older of the two brothers, Robert, was standing out on the porch, sipping a cup of coffee as he watched Josiah and Ezra ride up. "Morning, boys," he called when they drew near.  "Something I can do for you?" He had a faint Irish accent that went with his black hair and blue eyes.  His expression was friendly, no signs of guilt that Josiah could see. "It's a fine morning for a ride," Ezra said blandly.  "I haven't been out this way in some time.  You've done quite a bit with the place." Robert nodded, looking around with a proud smile.  "It's nothing fancy, to be sure, but me and Sam put a lot of sweat into it.  It's coming along." Behind him, the door opened, and a slightly shorter and wider version of Robert came out. "Hey, Robbie, you didn't say we had visitors."  Samuel Dorough gave them both a friendly, if questioning, smile.  "We don't get many folks out this way.  What brings you out?" "We were just going for a ride, enjoying the fine weather," Josiah answered.  "Haven't seen you boys in town for a while, so we thought we'd check and make sure everything's all right." Robert shrugged.  "We don't get into town much.  There's only the two of us, and it takes us both to keep the place running smoothly.  We only go to town about once a month or so for supplies." "And a bit of fun," Sam added. He gave Robert a sly look.  Josiah couldn't help but notice the sudden redness in Robert's cheeks. "Robbie here likes his liquor," Sam continued cheerfully.  "And singing." "You made just as much a fool of yourself as I did," Robert snapped, then glanced at Ezra and Josiah as if he'd forgotten they were there.  "We celebrated a little too much last time we made it to town.  Ended up spending the night in jail, which was no more than we deserved.  Our Sam likes to tell the story like I was the only one drinking." "Hell of a way to end your night on the town," Josiah commented sympathetically. Robert shrugged again.  "Like I said, no more than we deserved.  Probably should have gotten worse, if the truth be told.  The sheriff just made us sleep it off and pay for our breakfast.  He could have done a lot more, and we both knew it.  He's a decent fellow and a good sheriff, even if he's not much older than our Sam." Ezra gave them both a sharp look.  "You haven't heard, then?" "Heard what?"  Sam asked.  "Like I said, we don't get visitors much.  We haven't heard anything but cows bawling since the last time we were in town." "The sheriff was murdered a couple of weeks ago." Both brothers looked shocked.  As he studied their faces, Josiah was pretty sure they weren't faking. "The Blessed Virgin keep him," Robert murmured, and Sam crossed himself.  "How did it happen?" Josiah sighed.  "No one knows.  Lots of people had reason, but no one saw the shooting to say who did it." Sam shook his head.  "That's a terrible thing.  You'll be looking for the murderer, then?" "That's our intention," Ezra agreed. "I hope you find him soon.  It's not right, a decent man like the sheriff being shot and the man who did it going free." "That's the truth," Josiah said.  "We'd best be moving along.  Good to see you boys again." Sam nodded.  "You too, Preacher.  Come by any time." When they were out of earshot, Josiah looked over at Ezra.  "You thinking what I'm thinking?" "That those boys aren't guilty of more than youth and the occasional bout of boorish behavior?"  Ezra nodded.  "Unless they are consummate actors, I am positive that neither knows anything of JD's death." As the crow flew, Stuart James' compound wasn't too far from the Dorough's cabin.  The place was quieter than the last time they'd been there, with only a few men in evidence by the barn and one keeping watch up on the ledge above the entryway.  Apparently a runner had been sent to the main house, because Stuart James came out onto the porch as they approached, flanked on either side by men Josiah had seen before, but didn't know by name.  He suspected that he might have held a gun on at least one of them, given the way the shorter one on the left was glaring at him. "Gentlemen," James said without much warmth.  "I'd invite you in, but I don't like you that much.  What do you want?" Josiah could appreciate a man who took the direct approach.  He favored it himself.  "You know JD Dunne was murdered a few weeks ago." "And you think I had a hand in it." "The thought crossed our minds," Ezra said dryly. James laughed, a short, hard sound.  "If I did, what makes you think I'd be fool enough to admit it?" Josiah shrugged.  "Don't need a confession if we got proof." "Which you won't get, because I didn't have anything to do with it."  James spat onto the ground.  "Not that I mind the kid being dead.  I had no liking for him after what he did to Lucas, and I never made a secret of that.  But I pride myself in being a man who doesn't make the same mistake twice.  I went up against you boys and that pig-headed judge once and lost my nephew to a cell in the penitentiary.  I didn't hate the kid enough to risk losing everything else just to see him dead." "Can you prove that?" Ezra asked. James' eyes narrowed.  "You calling me a liar on my own property, mister?" Ezra gave him a cool smile.  "I'm merely attempting to ascertain the veracity of your statement, sir." "And I'm merely going to ask these boys to blow your asses out of those saddles if you're not off my property in the next two minutes." "Then you have no proof?" "My word is the only proof I've ever needed."  James turned back toward the house.  "Good day, gentlemen." Josiah turned his horse and rode out without any great haste, even though his back itched with the thought of the rifles pointed at it.  Beside him, Ezra kept to the same pace, his hand resting on his revolver. "I don't think he likes us much," Josiah commented once they were out of the compound. "You don't say."  Ezra shook his head.  "I wish I could be as certain of his innocence as I could be of his dislike." "You think he was involved?" Ezra was silent for several minutes.  Finally, he said, "I'm not sure.  I didn't see anything that convinced me he was involved.  On the other hand, I would hardly expect him to confess the moment we arrived." Josiah nodded.  "I wouldn't put him at the top of the list of suspects, but I wouldn't take him off, either." "Precisely."  Ezra squinted up at the sky.  "I believe we have enough time to visit the Royal spread if we hurry." Josiah grinned in anticipation.  "That sounds like a good plan to me." Ezra shot him a worried glance.  "Perhaps you should let me do the talking?" Guy Royal wasn't any happier to see them than Stuart James had been.  Josiah considered the feeling mutual. "You think I murdered that boy?" Royal asked.  He laughed sharply.  "If I were to kill any of you, it would be that big ape over there, not a boy playing at wearing a badge." Josiah bared his teeth in an insincere smile.  "Why don't you try it." "Perhaps when we don't have a previous engagement," Ezra said smoothly.  "Mr. Royal, do you have any proof to offer that you were not involved in Mr. Dunne's murder?" Royal gave them a scornful glare.  "If I had wanted Mr. Dunne dead, he would have been dead months ago." They got nothing further out of him.  Riding away, Josiah entertained himself with visions of beating the smirk off Royal's face until Ezra interrupted his thoughts. "I'm afraid I'm somewhat inclined to believe the reprobate." "That he didn't have JD killed?"  Josiah shrugged.  "I wouldn't put it past him, but he's arrogant enough that he probably wouldn't bother hiding it." "So we're back where we started."  Ezra sighed. "We'll just have to hope Vin and Nathan got further than we did." In Chris's mind, his home still burned.  The sight of the charred, still smoking timbers had etched itself on his brain, blotting out the memory of happier times. Nature had a shorter memory.  Already grass grew up through the blackened floorboards.  In the yard, scrub bushes were taking over the area Chris had cleared for Sarah's garden.  A bird's nest peeked out of the house's partially exposed rafters. Chris closed his eyes, swallowing irrational anger.  Nature was what it was.  It didn't mourn, but neither did it deliberately set out to eradicate all traces of Chris's family.  That crime lay on other shoulders, and someday Chris would see justice done. Turning away, Chris walked the short distance to the spot where he had dug their graves.  There, too, grass had grown up, but at least the wooden crosses he had erected still stood.  Kneeling, Chris rested the palm of his hand first on Sarah's grave, and then on Adam's. His beautiful girl.  His boy, so earnest one moment and so gleeful the next.  They had changed his life, changed him.  Before he fell in love with Sarah, he had been a carefree gun-for-hire who never thought past the next good time.  Sarah had turned him into a man who enjoyed nothing more than a night spent in front of his own hearth, Sarah humming as she sewed something in her rocker across the fire, and Adam giggling on the floor between them, like as not leading his wooden Indians on a charge against Buck's cavalry men.  All that had been stolen from him in an act of cowardice he would never forgive. The last time he had been out here, he'd thought he might finally be closing in on the killers.  Fowler's death had destroyed Chris's hope, leaving him feeling like he had failed his family again.  He had fought the feeling as long as he could, throwing himself into his job as peacekeeper during the day and making sure he had enough whiskey in him of a night that he could sleep without dreams. Days in the hole at the prison outside Jericho had stripped him of all that.  With nothing to distract him, the memories stampeded through his mind.  Each one only pounded the truth in harder than the last.  He had failed his family, left them alone to die and hadn't even brought their murderers to justice.  He should have been the one to die, not Sarah and Adam. "I'm sorry," he said to them, his voice rough from disuse.  "I'm so sorry." Chris wasn't superstitious.  The wind that ruffled his hair just then, brushing across his forehead just like Sarah's fingers used to, was nothing more than an everyday breeze.  But the thought of Sarah standing nearby, seeing him like this, made him abruptly ashamed.  She would not have been proud. Not of his drinking, not of his brawling, not of his furious attempts to push away anyone who tried to help him.  Most of all, not of his abandonment of the town into the hands of a greenhorn kid who deserved more than to die young just because the men he called friends weren't around to back him up. "You made a promise," she would have said, her eyes snapping angry fire, "to watch out for those folks and lead those men.  And if there's one thing I can't abide, Christopher Larabee, it's a man who won't keep his promises." Chris bowed his head.  The one thing he couldn't abide was Sarah's scorn.  He would have walked through hell on a Sunday to avoid it.  And yet, here he was. "I'm sorry," he said again.  With one last, lingering look, he stood and went back to his horse. As he rode away, the wind danced again through the trees, sending a shower of brightly colored leaves to cover the graves. Nathan let Vin lead the way toward Evans' ranch, following the tracker's chosen path without question.  It wasn't that Nathan didn't know his way around the woods.  The need to avoid slave catchers' dogs had taught him well.  But all the knowledge in the world couldn't compare to Vin's natural instincts, so Nathan followed, putting his feet where Vin pointed and avoiding the areas that Vin didn't walk. Soon enough, Vin led him to a small, tree-covered rise that looked down on Evans' ranch house.  From that vantage point, they had a clear view of the front and side of the house, but couldn't be seen by the men working around the barn and corral, or by the sentries on duty on the front porch and a short distance up the road. "Looks like they're ready for a war," Vin whispered into Nathan's ear. Nathan nodded.  Though the distance made exact details hard to make out, it was obvious that a large number of well-armed men were working down in the yard.  They were unloading boxes that, from the size, stood a good chance of carrying rifles and ammunition. "How many men you figure are down there?" he murmured. Vin shrugged.  "Could be ten, fifteen.  Hard to tell with them coming in and out of the barn like that.  But those two bunkhouses over there could each hold twenty men, easy." Nathan squinted in the direction Vin had indicated.  He'd been too busy watching the men to notice, but there were two bunkhouses and another barn up against the trees on the far side of the yard. "You could probably fit thirty in a pinch," he agreed.  "Guess we'll have to get a closer look to know for sure.  You want to split up?" Vin gave him a look that Nathan couldn't read.  For a moment, he seemed like he was going to argue, but in the end, all he said was, "Watch your back." Waiting until Vin had disappeared into the shadows in the direction of the main barn, Nathan headed off in the other direction.  Trees encircled Evans' yard, leaving the route toward the bunkhouses fairly concealed.  Nathan moved as quietly as he knew how, but even so, twigs and leaves crackled under his feet.  Cautiously, he skirted wide around the areas close to where Evans' men worked. He could hear voices, orders and curses mixing with ordinary conversation.  Moving away from them, he circled along the perimeter of the trees until he finally reached the bunkhouses.  Small, glass-covered windows dotted the walls of the closest building.  Keeping low to the ground, Nathan crept up to the nearest window and raised his head to peer inside. The glass was grimy, but enough light came through from the open front door to see into the bunkhouse.  From Nathan's perspective, he could count at least twenty-four bunks, all showing signs that someone had inhabited them recently. That didn't look promising.  Even if the other bunkhouse was empty, Evans had obviously assembled a strong force.  Bringing them down wouldn't be easy.  The thought lit a fire in Nathan's belly.  He was more than ready to get started. Moving on to the second bunkhouse, Nathan found an identical set-up.  More than twenty bunks, all obviously used.  And the barn, when Nathan slipped in the back door, contained in addition to the horses, a storeroom full of the same long boxes that the men had been unloading into the other barn. During the War, Nathan had seen the supply wagons bringing in fresh ammunition for entire companies.  He could remember thinking how much death had been carried in those wagons.  He had hoped, once the War was over, never to see it equaled again. Today, he did. A sudden creaking from the front door sent him slipping into the shadows.  Peering around the corner, Nathan watched as two men entered the barn.  He didn't know one of them, but the other made him clench his fists and swear softly under his breath. "I signed on to take on the town, not those gunslingers," the taller man was saying as he walked over to one of the stalls.  "I ain't sure . . .  " Arnie Sykes snorted.  "Hell, Slim, you know they ain't no match for us.  We outnumber them almost ten to one." "Yeah, but if they find out about . . .  " "They ain't gonna find out."  Sykes grabbed the blanket hanging off the nearest stall door and entered the stall, clucking at the roan that walked up to meet him.  "That's what those rifles are for.  That, and scaring the backbone out of Royal and James." "Rifles don't do much good if they come up from behind looking for pay back." "They ain't got no reason to think they need pay back.  And that type likes things all proper and lawful.  They ain't gonna shoot anyone in the back."  Scratching the nose of his horse, Sykes laughed shortly.  "They ain't no smarter than that damn fool kid sheriff was." "Kid caused us enough trouble, smart or . . .  " "One kid, five gunslingers, a posse of Texas Rangers, it don't matter.  We got them out-gunned and out-manned.  They won't be any trouble." "I sure as hell hope not, Arnie." They finished saddling their horses in silence.  Nathan stayed still until they were gone, then left the same way he had come in. During his bounty hunting days, Vin had found that the best place to hide was often in plain sight.  He wanted to get closer to the main house and barn, but both sat out in the middle of the yard with no cover to speak of.  If he went sneaking up to the house, he was sure to be seen.  However, there was a lot of activity going on, and if he went in looking like he was just another hand doing his job, there stood a good chance that no one would notice him. He scouted around a bit, finally spotting a wheelbarrow half-filled with grain bags near the barn.  Walking as if he belonged, he went over to it and shoved the bags around, taking the opportunity to glance inside the barn.  It was a large barn, with more horses than he could count in such a quick glance.  The men at work unloading the ammo boxes were carrying them through the main section of the barn into a room in the back. Wary of drawing attention, Vin didn't stay there long.  He finished arranging the bags and started pushing the wheelbarrow toward the main house.  Two men stood on the porch now, both smoking cigarettes as they watched the men work.  They both looked better dressed than the hands; Vin figured it was a good bet that one of them would be Evans.  If so, he wanted to hear what the man had to say. Pulling to a stop near the porch, Vin knelt and started playing with the wheel as if it had come loose.  He focused most of his attention on the voices drifting toward him. "I must admit, I had expected to be further along at this point," the older of the two men was saying. "Yes, sir." Vin risked a look up.  The first speaker was a man of about fifty, tall and distinguished looking with black hair turning to silver at the temples and a silver mustache.  He dressed a lot like Ezra, his clothing obviously tailored to fit him.  The other man was likely in his thirties, with brown hair and a darkly tanned face that spoke of time spent weathering the elements.  He wore a black ten-gallon hat and the denim pants and cotton shirt of a typical cowhand.  If Vin had passed him in the street, he wouldn't have taken special note of him, except to see that he carried himself with the confidence of a man who had faced trouble and lived through it. The younger one was Evans, Vin decided.  He fit the descriptions given by Josiah and Nathan and by the folks in town that Vin had talked to.  But who was the man Evans answered to? "The men have encountered problems that we didn't anticipate, sir," Evans continued.  "Dunne proved more stubborn than I expected, and his death seems to have drawn back the rest of the gang like flies to a corpse.  Some of the townspeople are taking their return as an excuse to refuse our offers." "Then you'll just have to make the offer more compelling, won't you?  What of the ranchers?" "They're not proving open to negotiation, but we had anticipated that.  We'll have to run them off." "Not until I have control of the town," the older man said sharply.  "And these gunslingers?  How much trouble are you suspecting there?" "They were working for that federal judge before they all took off," Evans answered.  "Even if they're not working for him anymore, he might notice them all disappearing from the same place at the same time.  I want to poke around a little to see how close they are to the judge before I make any firm plans, but most likely we'll have to stage something that gives a good explanation for them all ending up dead.  Maybe a run-in with a band of renegade Apaches or bank robbers.  Something that can't be attached to us." The older man sighed.  "Just remember we're on a schedule, Evans.  Take too long, and all your work will be for nothing." "Yes, sir.  It'll be done on time." "See that it is." As the older man turned to go back into the house, Vin picked up the handles of the wheelbarrow again and started back the way he came.  He was almost at the barn when he heard someone come up behind him. "Hey, you, that grain needs to go over to the other barn, not this one," a voice called. Vin glanced back, wondering if he was going to have to go for his gun.  Luckily, the man talking to him had a box of ammo on his shoulder and seemed more interested in balancing it than in noticing that Vin didn't belong. "Sorry.  I'll get it right over there," Vin said.  His back prickled as he altered his course, expecting at any second to hear someone shout after him.  Or worse, to feel a bullet plow into him.  Every step made the prickling stronger, but nothing happened. Finally, he reached the second barn.  Without looking over his shoulder, he parked the wheelbarrow next to the door and kept walking around the barn and back toward the trees.  Only when he had reached their relative safety did he dare turn and look.  Business continued in the yard as if he had never been there.  With a sigh of relief, Vin slipped into the shadows and headed back to the horses. Buck had spent most of the morning hunting for Arnie Sykes.  By noon, he had to concede that Sykes wasn't anywhere to be found in town.  He had also walked off most of the effects of the previous night's alcohol, leaving him unpleasantly clear-headed.  The saloon beckoned, but he had one more place to go first.  After a quick stop at the stable to collect his belongings, he headed down the street to the boarding house. The widow Spencer ran the boarding house with a poker in one hand and a feather duster in the other.  The entire house stayed clean and silent, and woe betide anyone who disrupted either.  But good food and comfortable beds more than made up for Mrs. Spencer's iron hand.  Buck had rented a room here before; he hoped she had a vacancy now. "Mr. Wilmington," Mrs. Spencer said as he walked up to the front desk.  "You'll be wanting your room again?" She was a short, round woman with graying blonde hair and an expression that never slipped from stern.  Her eyes showed the only hint of softness about her.  Before he'd left, Buck had made a game out of trying to get her to crack a smile.  As best he could recall, she was winning. "Any room would do, ma'am." "The room you were using is empty.  There was another man who took it for a short time, but he left town some weeks ago." "Then I'll take it."  Buck reached into his pocket and pulled out some coins. "Thank you."  Mrs. Spencer paused, taking a deep breath.  "Mr. Wilmington, there's a matter I could use your assistance with." For a normally straightforward woman, she seemed hesitant.  Frowning, Buck said quietly, "I'll do anything I can, ma'am." She motioned for him to follow, then led the way back to the small storage room at the end of the first floor hall.  Unlocking the door with one of the keys hanging from her belt, she paused again with her hand on the doorknob. "I didn't know, you see, if he had family somewhere.  There was no one around to ask, so I just kept his things here." Buck's stomach had already tightened even before Mrs. Spencer opened the door.  Placed on a shelf along the back wall, the pile of belongings seemed pitifully small: three dog-eared dimestore novels, a pair of neatly folded pants and a shirt, and a wooden box about the size of a cigar box. Abrubptly, the room wasn't big enough.  Buck needed air.  Almost against his will, he stepped forward and picked up the box.  He gently eased open the latch and lifted the lid. There wasn't much inside.  A couple of envelopes bound with a faded hair ribbon, a small penknife Buck was pretty sure had been Casey's at one time, the stub of a ticket bearing the mark of the Overland Stage Company.  And carefully wrapped in a woman's handkerchief, a black leather dauggereotype case containing the image of a dark-haired woman with JD's smile.  Buck folded the handkerchief around the case again and set it back into the box, then gathered up the clothes and books with hands that threatened to tremble. "I'll . . .  "  He had to swallow against the dryness in his throat.  "I'll take care of them." "Thank you, Mr. Wilmington."  Straightening her shoulders, Mrs. Spencer turned and bustled back down the corridor.  "If you'll come along, I'll just check and make sure your room is ready for you." Buck followed, resolutely not looking at his burden.  It seemed too light, even lighter than the saddlebags slung over his shoulder.  Hardly a fitting legacy at all. Mrs. Spencer continued on, oblivious to Buck's complete lack of attention.  "The room is clean, I can guarantee that, but I don't recall if I put oil in the lantern, and I'm sure there's no water in the pitcher.  There hasn't been anyone in the room since that gentleman who took it after you left, and he pulled up stakes right after young Mr. Dunne was killed." That got Buck's attention.  "Who was this fellow?" Mrs. Spencer glanced back at him, frowning slightly.  "An eastern gentleman called Blake.  Simon Blake.  I wasn't sorry to see him go.  He was too secretive for my comfort.  He never said what he was in town for, just 'business.'  Every time I asked, it was always 'business.'  I always felt he was up to something.  Mr. Dunne seemed to like him, though." "He did?" "They certainly spent time together.  I wondered at first if Mr. Dunne was trying to discover what Mr. Blake might be up to, but nothing ever came of that, did it?"  She stopped to open the door to Buck's room.  "It was probably nothing more than my imagination running away with me, anyway." Buck stepped inside, moving absently to place the kid's belongings in the drawer of his bureau.  With a gentle tug to straighten out the wrinkles in the shirt, he shut the drawer and turned back to Mrs. Spencer. "This Blake fellow.  When did you say he left?" Mrs. Spencer pursed her lips thoughtfully.  "It was right around the time of Mr. Dunne's death.  A day or two before, I believe, although there was such a tizzy after the shooting that it's a bit hard to remember." "Why did he leave?" Mrs. Spencer snorted.  "Business, I suppose.  Funny thing, though.  I thought I saw him in town the night Mr. Dunne died, even though I know he had been gone at least the day before." "From what I heard, there were a lot of people in town that night.  Might have just been someone who looked like him." "I suppose," Mrs. Spencer said slowly.  "But he had a very distinctive rifle.  Very expensive, and made for long-distance hunting, he said.  I've never seen one like it before, but the man I saw that night was definitely carrying that rifle."  She paused again.  "To tell the truth, Mr. Wilmington, I wondered if there might be a connection until I overheard the undertaker say that Mr. Dunne was shot with a shotgun.  And Mr. Blake and Mr. Dunne were such friends." Buck thought for a moment.  "Was there anyone else Blake was friendly with?" "Why, everyone, after a fashion.  It seemed like he talked to anyone who crossed his path.  Very friendly as long as you didn't want him to talk about himself."  She studied him, her stern expression softening slightly into curiosity.  "Do you think he had something to do with the murder, Mr. Wilmington?" Buck's gut told him yes, but he wasn't ready to say so to Mrs. Spencer.  Buck shrugged.  "I don't know, ma'am, but I sure hope to find out." Mrs. Spencer nodded.  "I'll be leaving you to your room, then.  I'll bring up some water and a fresh lamp shortly." "Thank you, ma'am." Left alone in his room, Buck busied himself shoving the contents of his saddlebags into drawers.  The top drawer called to him, but he refused to open it.  He would, when the time was right.  But not yet.  And in the meantime, the voice of the saloon could drown out anything. Six: Writ in Burnish'd Rows of Steel "Enough rifles and ammunition to stock a war," Nathan said wearily.  "I don't know what we're getting in the middle of here, Vin, but it sure don't look good." Vin pulled up his horse to wait for Nathan's.  "Looks like an invasion, from what I saw.  Trying to take over the whole area." "All those guns, they just might do it."  Nathan sighed, then laughed humorlessly.  "At least they don't have all the advantages they think they do." "Yeah?" "When I was in the barn, Sykes and another fellow came in and were talking.  All about how they'd have more problems if we knew about something.  That army they're building, I figure." Vin frowned.  "I sure hope they don't have something else up their sleeves we ain't found out about yet." "Bastards.  I wouldn't put it