Night Eagle: Homecoming
by ysone
part 3

~~~

The moon had climbed high into the night sky, attesting to how much time had passed while Rafe laid awake, listening to the night sounds. And thinking. The breed…Blair -- he mentally forced the correction -- hadn't yet returned to camp, and Rafe couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt over that. Not that he was sure exactly what he'd said to send the kid off in a huff. Hell, he'd opened up to the bre-- to Blair, telling him more than he should have. Maybe that made him a fool. He dragged a hand over his face. That definitely made him a fool. He had no idea why he'd done it. He certainly hadn't planned on doing it. But what was done was done. Least the kid could do was appreciate the effort.

But no, the damn fool had taken offense and run off into the darkness like a wounded animal. What in the world had prompted that reaction? And what the hell had the kid meant by his remarks right before doing so? He had a hard time believing he could have hurt the Indian's feelings. They were cold blooded, weren't they? How could you hurt their feelings?

You're so quick with your assumptions…far be it from me to shake your perfect little world with the truth…

What truths was he talking about? What assumptions had Rafe made? Before he could follow the logical paths opened up by those questions, he heard Blair returning. The kid entered the darkened camp, laying out his bedroll and settling quietly atop it.

"What assumptions have I made?" Rafe whispered the words into the darkness before he realized he meant to.

Blair was so long in answering, Rafe was convinced he wasn't going to. Then, at last, he heard the soft reply, "You assume the scars were given to me by my people."

"Who else…?" Even as he asked the question, Rafe's imagination supplied the answer, and it wasn't an answer he fancied entertaining. "White men?"

"I'm going to sleep now. I suggest you do the same. Tomorrow's going to be a long day."

Irritation flared through Rafe. "You owe me, kid. I didn't spill my guts just for your entertainment. I thought we were clearing the air. Your idea in fact, as I recall." His voice dropped to an angry mutter. "Just like a damned Injun to make the rules, then not abide by 'em."

A soul-weary sigh answered him, but still no answer. Exasperated and more than a little irritated, Rafe rolled over and pulled the blanket up to his chin, praying sleep would claim him and put an end to this sorry excuse for a conversation.

"You're right."

Rafe opened his eyes, but didn't roll back over.

"Not that I think I owe you anything..."

Rafe allowed a small smile at the belligerence in the tone. It was so obviously forced. "It was white men?"

"White man," Blair corrected. "One man…well, for the most part."

Rafe waited, but when no elaboration was forthcoming, he pressed, "What happened?"

"I stole something. I got caught. I was punished."

"The scars are old. You couldn't have been much more than a kid."

"Ten."

Good God! "What'd you steal?"

"Food."

Rafe rolled over and sat up, looking at the breed. Bright moonlight illuminated the camp, casting flickering shadows that moved with the trees in the soft breeze. "What's your story, kid?" Rafe prompted, intrigued.

Blair sat up, crossed his legs and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Rafe heard him take several deep breaths before speaking.

"I've worked very hard to forget most of this," Blair stated softly, "but I guess you would know how tough that can be."

Rafe nodded in the darkness. Yeah, he knew. He knew that no matter how hard you fought to push down the memories, they would lie in wait in the still hours of the darkness to pounce on you when you were most vulnerable. You couldn't forget, no matter how hard you tried. So, yeah, he knew.

"I've only ever told this story to one man…" Blair continued.

"Jim?" Rafe guessed.

Blair lifted his eyes, surprise filling his voice as he replied. "No, not Jim. I could never…No, it was Acrocoel, my 'adopted' grandfather."

"Oh." Rafe was surprised to learn this wasn't something Blair had felt he could discuss with Jim, and yet the young man seemed willing, after a bit of prodding on Rafe's part, to share the story with him. The distinction wasn't lost on him.

"My father was Indian, my mother, white; but their love, she often told me, was strong enough to overcome the differences and make it work. We lived with his people until I was about three. I don't really remember my father." His voice grew quiet, contemplative. "I remember vague images…but I can't recall his face or his voice."

He stopped and cleared his throat. "I don't imagine it was easy for my mom, living with my father's people. She never said, but looking back, I know it had to have been hard for her." He looked up at Rafe, a small smile barely visible in the moonlight. "White men don't hold a monopoly on bigotry, you know.

"We left after my father died and went to live with white people. It was…it was hard…for both of us."

Half Mexican himself, Rafe thought he knew what kind of prejudices Blair might have encountered, though he suspected he only knew the half of it.

"We worked where we could, for those who would hire us. Little better than slave work, mostly. All my mother wanted was to make a home for us, to provide a little food, a place to sleep, but it was so hard for her. It would have been so much easier if she hadn't had me. She should have left me with my father's people, then she might have been accepted back among 'civilized folk'."

Matching the pensive tone, Rafe ventured, "Is that what you wanted?"

Blair chuckled humorlessly. "Life isn't about what you want, is it? I doubt life for me would have been much different, but my mother would have had it a whole lot easier. She'd have made a place for herself, maybe even remarried." There was a short pause, then, "She'd probably still be alive."

Rafe let the silence stretch on for several minutes, content to let the kid sort through his memories. It didn't really matter if he continued or not. Rafe could easily fill in the blanks with his own imagination. He had been victim of enough prejudice in his own life to understand, though he was certain his own complaints were nowhere near as traumatic as it would have been for an Indian half-breed. Not in this day and age. Not given the climate of the country for the past couple of decades. Hell, he'd dished out his own bigotry, and even though he had more reason than most to hate the Indians, he knew in his heart of hearts that one man couldn't be held accountable for the sins of his race.

"She worked so hard," Blair continued. "And there was never enough food. I tried to help. I did what I could, but when she got sick…there wasn't much I could do. There was only one doctor in the town, an old man set in his ways. I don't know if he could have helped her or not, but he refused to even see her. We were the "Injun trash" who scrubbed floors for pennies. She was the white woman who had lain with savages, and I was the bastard product. Not worth the trouble."

"So…she died?"

Blair nodded. He drew his knees up, wrapping his arms tight around them. "After she died, I hung around the town. I didn't really have anywhere to go. I did what work I could, but mostly I survived by stealing food. Managed for a few months…'til I got caught and turned over to the sheriff."

"He the one that beat you?"

"Yes…" came the whispered reply.

"But the scars…"

Blair took a shuddering breath as he drew his knees closer, tightening his hold. "He beat the shit out'a me and threw me in jail so I could 'learn how to act around decent people'. I thought he'd just leave me there for a little while to learn my lesson. He'd shoved me around before…but nothing like this…"

Rafe unconsciously leaned forward. He could hear the effort it was taking Blair to tell his story, and he didn't want to miss even one of the softly spoken words.

"For the first few days, he was content to taunt me, knock me around a bit with his fists. I still thought it was just a matter of waiting it out. I figured he'd get tired of it soon enough and let me go." Blair gave a bitter laugh.

"No one tried to stop him?"

"Who cared?" Blair raised his head, meeting Rafe's eyes in the dim light.

Rafe frowned as he recognized the simple truth of the question. Who would have cared? Would he, if he had been there? Or would he have figured the little Indian thief was getting what he deserved? He was thankful when Blair continued his story, saving him from pursuing the uncomfortable line of thought.

"He came in drunk one night, and this time he wasn't satisfied with taunts and fists. He took off his belt…"

Blair's voice tailed off, but Rafe didn't really need to hear the details. His imagination, fueled by the scars he'd seen, filled in the blanks for him.

"How did you get away?" he asked.

"He eventually passed out," Blair said quietly. "Too much alcohol, I guess. I knew I had to get out of there before he woke up and finished what he'd started. I got his keys and locked him in the cell. I was in no shape go anywhere, so I hid out in town for as long as I could. He came looking for me. I'd humiliated him, and he wanted revenge. He was going to kill me, and there'd be no one to stop him."

"What did you do?" Rafe asked when the silence stretched on too long.

"I ran. I ran until I couldn't run anymore, and then I walked, and when I could no longer walk, I crawled."

"Jesus, Blair, you were a child!"

"I was an Indian bastard, not even human as far as he was concerned." He stopped and cleared his throat before finishing his story. "It took me awhile, but I found my father's people, and they took me in. That's it. End of story."

Rafe took a couple of deep breaths, thinking over the things he'd just learned. "Guess neither one of us has reason to trust the other."

"You're wrong, Rafe. What happened to me has given me no reason to distrust you."

"I didn't mean me specifically," Rafe started. "I know what you meant," Blair interrupted. "But I don't hold all white men responsible for what some have done."

"And I do," Rafe felt compelled to say. "Blame all Indians, I mean. Is that what you're saying?"

Blair shrugged, a gesture Rafe had no trouble seeing in the bright moonlight.

"How do you deal with it?" Rafe genuinely wanted to know. Maybe if he understood how this redskin was able to get around the demons in his past he could figure out how to do the same.

Blair stared into the glowing embers of the fire between them for a long time. "I don't always. I'm not too proud to admit I have trouble with it sometimes. I'm not a saint."

"Is that a fact?" Rafe laughed. "Glad to hear it."

"What's this?" Blair looked up sharply, but Rafe heard the amusement coloring his tone. "You laughing with an Injun, white boy?"

"Good Lord!" Rafe feigned surprise. "I believe you're right! Who could have predicted this?"

"Jim Ellison, evidently."

"Good point."

The two men's laughter faded away into silence.

"Go to sleep, white boy," Blair said, after a few minutes. He stretched back out on his blankets. "It's your turn to cook breakfast, and I intend to get an early start."

~~~

Jim stood in the doorway, gazing across the open field beyond the barn. It was the direction Blair and Rafe would be coming, though he knew it would probably be closer to sunset before he caught sight of them. Two day ride to Hanners' place, closer to three back with the herd slowing them down…barring any complications.

It was the possibility of those complications which made Jim nervous. When he'd made the decision to send his two best wranglers out, he'd truly felt it had better than even odds of working. Now, five days later, he wasn't as convinced.

Sighing deeply, Jim moved out of the doorway and back into the kitchen, gratefully accepting the cup of coffee Stebbins pushed his way.

"It's doubtful they killed each other, yuh know," the cook commented.

"You're so sure of that, are you?" Jim pulled out his customary chair at the table and dropped into it.

"So's you," Stebbins offered, returning to his scrubbing of the noontime dishes, "else you wouldn't'a sent 'em off like you did."

Jim took a deep sip of the coffee, wincing as it slid hotly down his throat. "Maybe I made a mistake."

"Now, Jim Ellison, you don't believe that fer a minute. Them's good boys, both of 'em. They just needed a push in the right direction."

Jim nodded, sipping again at his coffee. "And if they have killed one another?"

Stebbins grinned over his shoulder at Jim. "Then, boss-man, yuh made a mistake."

Jim relaxed a bit, allowing himself a chuckle. Stebbins went back to his work, leaving Jim to his silent contemplation. After a minute, an idea came to him. Setting down his coffee cup, Jim closed his eyes and mentally ran through one of the latest tests Blair had conjured up for him. He envisioned his hearing as a snake, winding its way from the house over the trail to the edge of the woods, and beyond. He'd ridden the trail many a-time and now had no trouble picturing each and every turn of it.

It was amazing how, if he concentrated hard enough, he could almost "hear" each twist around a boulder, each dip across a ravine. Further and further he let the "snake" roam, taking the trail he knew the boys would be returning on, searching for sounds of their progress. Further still, until…

"Jim!"

Jim started at the shout so near his ear, wincing as it reverberated through his skull. He jerked his eyes open to find Stebbins' worried face only inches from his own.

"Dag nab it, Boss! You scared a year off'a my life, and I ain't got it to spare."

"Sorry..." Jim searched for a quick excuse, one the old man would buy, finally just lamely offering, "Just got lost in thought for a minute."

"Hmmp!" the old man snorted. He eyed Jim for a long moment, then turned away, throwing over his shoulder, "Boss, yuh was sleepin', and for a whole lot longer than a minute." His voice dropped to a grumble. "My coffee ain't near strong enough, if'n you can sit there and fall asleep drinkin' it."

Jim took a couple of deep breaths, letting the slow intake of air calm his heartbeat.

It had happened again…that…that thing that happened sometimes when he used his senses. It had been so long since his last spell, he'd forgotten to follow Blair's advice to always use something to anchor one sense if he was extending another. That was easy enough when Blair was around to help him. Just the sound of the kid's voice or the touch of his hand was enough to anchor him. It was harder when he attempted it alone. Too hard. And that worried Jim more than a little. Was he always going to need Blair's help to make this work? Would he ever learn to control his senses by himself? He knew the kid had to be anxious to light out of here and head back to his own people, though Jim had to admit that the thought of Blair leaving worried him a mite. He'd gotten kind of used to having him around, and well…hell, he admitted, he was kind of fond of the kid.

He reached for his coffee, not noticing until he took a mouthful that it had grown cold. Damn, how long had he been…"asleep"? Disgusted with himself, Jim pushed back from the table. He was halfway to the door when he suddenly remembered what he'd found just before Stebbins had "awakened" him. He'd heard…he stopped himself in mid-thought…not hoof beats, though he had heard them, but heartbeats…a heartbeat…Blair's…the familiar rhythm which had become so common place Jim scarcely gave it thought anymore.

So they hadn't killed one another. Jim allowed himself a small smile. Nice to know, though it still left many possibilities short of their having actually made peace. He was tempted to do the snake thing with his hearing once more to listen for any conversation which might give him a hint as to how the trip went, but the threat of triggering another one of those blackout spells stopped him. He'd know soon enough anyhow.

It was another twenty minutes before the visibly trail-worn duo drove the small herd into the corral and settled them in. Jim watched carefully, searching for clues as to how successful the trip had been, but found nothing. The two men spoke sparingly, offering one word answers to his questions about Hanners, the condition of the trails, the prospects of the herd. Jim stopped himself from jumping to conclusions, hoping it was nothing more than simple exhaustion.

Once the horses were settled, Jim led the way into the kitchen, where Stebbins greeted the two with heaping bowls of the soup. Jim poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and joined them, still trying to reach a verdict on the outcome of the trip.

Stebbins stood across the table from the two, his gnarled hands firmly planted on his bony hips as he watched them shovel down the chunky soup as though they hadn't eaten in a month.

Blair glanced up, giving the cook a tired smile. "This is really good, Stebbins. Thanks." He cast a scowl in Rafe's direction. "I can't tell you how much I missed decent cooking the past few days."

Uh oh…this didn't bode well.

"Just 'cause I like my food actually cooked…" Rafe muttered around a spoonful of the thick soup. "Who are you to criticize anyhow, redskin? Your idea of a good meal is a handful of nuts and some roots."

Blair let out an exasperated noise and turned his attention to Jim. "You've been a good friend, Jim, and I really appreciate all you've done for me over the past few weeks." He threw a pointed glance at Rafe. "But if you ever send me on a trip with this man again…" He glanced back at Jim, his expression as unreadable as his tone. "Friend or not, I'll have to shoot you."

Jim looked between the two men, wondering just how serious Blair was. It was the slight tugging at the corner of Rafe's mouth that gave it away. Jim suddenly found himself grinning broadly.

"I don't know what you're laughing at, white man," Blair said. He sat back in his chair, regarding Jim with a straight faced expression, though his eyes betrayed his serious demeanor and tone. "I'm convinced Rafe thinks I'm a god."

Rafe nearly choked on his food. When he'd finished sputtering, he turned his dark eyes to Blair, whose face was a mask of innocence. "I think you're a what?"

"A god." Blair supplied. "How else do you explain the burnt offerings?"

Jim and Stebbins laughed, relief as well as good humor taking the forefront, but Rafe merely scowled. "Yeah, like I said, us civilized folk prefer our food actually cooked, breed."

Jim quickly sobered at the slur though it hadn't sounded like an insult when Rafe said it. Jim relaxed when Blair chuckled and leaned forward again to finish his meal. Sitting back with a small smile of victory, Jim allowed the friendly banter to wash over him.

~~~

Simon paced the floor of his large living room, counting the steps from side to side as he made his trek. He could hear muffled sounds of conversation from the room at the end of the hall, but couldn't distinguish the words. He had just made up his mind to go see what was going on, when he heard the door to the room open. He looked up, tracking the man who exited with concerned eyes.

"Daryl is resting," the rotund man announced with a forced smile. "He's almost asleep. I gave him enough whisky and honey in his tea to make sure of that. It'll ease the cough some, but I gotta tell you, boss, I really wish the doc was coming."

"That makes two of us, Boyd," Simon agreed. "But I don't think we can count on him coming anytime soon. From what Mike said, Doc's got his hands full there in Union Grove right now. He said he'd ride out this way as soon as he could, but it'll probably be closer to the end of the week."

"Well, I can try to make the boy more comfortable, and I can give him what remedies I have," Boyd paused, rubbing at the back of his neck for a minute. "I just don't know if that's going to be enough. Daryl's got a pretty high fever. He's sick, Simon, real sick, and I just don't know what more I can do for him."

Simon sat heavily on the large couch that dominated the living area. "I don't know what else to do, Boyd," he admitted reluctantly. "I'll send Mike back to Union Grove, try to hurry the doc."

"Boss…" Boyd sounded hesitant, causing Simon to look up. Boyd let out a sigh filled with frustration. "Look, boss, I know you ain't going to want to hear this, but, well, this is your son we're talking about, so I'm gonna say it."

Confused, but curious, Simon just nodded for the man to continue.

"All right, I know how you feel about him, and I ain't saying one way or the other how I feel, but well, I've seen it done before a time or two, back when I was prospectin' in the Black Hills country, so I know there's something to it. Hell, I ain't ashamed to admit I even picked up a thing or two from 'em myself. That black gum root, fer instance. I learnt it from a Shoshone back in '63. Best thing in the world for a toothache--"

"Boyd," Simon interrupted, trying to get the man back on track. "Is there a point to this?"

"Well…I've heard tell, boss, just from some talk I've overheard, mind you, that Jim Ellison's Injun is a healer."

Simon felt his temper begin to boil. "Are you suggesting I ask that…that savage to tend to my boy?"

"Yer decision, of course, Boss," the man said, not overtly intimidated by Simon's tone. "But if'n that was my boy in there, sick as all get out, I'd be willing to swallow my pride and take a chance. Way I see it, you ain't got a lot of alternatives right now." With that, the man swung on his heels and left the room.

Simon angrily pushed to his feet. No! Absolutely not! No damn savage was going to lay a hand on his son with backwoods cures-alls and heathen rituals which would probably kill a civilized man. No way in hell!

Simon gently pushed open the door to Daryl's room. Curled up tight under a mound of quilts, the boy was visibly shivering. Simon tiptoed across the room and pulled the blankets tighter around his son, running a soothing hand over the boy's brow. The heat he felt there melted the edges of his anger, leaving only confusion and sadness in its place.

Pride goeth before a fall…

Familiar words. But they had never cut as deep as they did right now.

~~~

Jim waited patiently in the doorway for the kid to register his presence. Tracking Blair down had been the easy part. When the kid wasn't working, he could usually be found in one of three places: with Jim, pushing him to try new things with his senses; up in the meadow in the hills behind the house, enjoying some quiet time alone; or here, in his room, with his nose buried, almost literally, in a book. Since it was close to dark, that let out the meadow, and they were taking a break from working with his senses today, both too exhausted for the concentration it took. So that left Steven's room, with the books.

Jim had found Blair sitting in the room's sole chair with the table lamp pulled as close as possible. Jim frowned suddenly, as he stood in the doorway, taking in the sight he'd found. Blair held the book very close, squinting down at the page as though he was having trouble reading the words. Realization dawned slowly.

With Blair's help and tutelage, Jim was beginning to appreciate the advantages of his enhanced sight. He could count the feathers on an eagle soaring high above the nearby hills. He could spot a birthing heifer as far away as the northern pasture. Hell, he realized, he could even see things that weren't there, thinking of the damn "shadow cat", as Blair referred to the creature, which Jim caught occasional glimpses of, stalking in the distance. And he stood watching Blair, the one person responsible for the ease with which Jim could now use his newly sharpened vision, scarcely able to read the pages of his treasured books because of poor eyesight. How fair was that? Jim made a mental note to take the kid into town at the first opportunity to see if they could get him some spectacles to correct the problem.

But first…

"Blair…?"

The kid looked up, his long hair falling back from his youthful face. He seldom wore it loose from the tight braid that kept it controlled and out of the way. Jim marveled at the length of it. And the curls! Good Lord, the kid had been blessed with curls women folk would die for!

"Hey, kid," Jim continued, moving a few paces into the room. "Busy?"

Blair closed the book, using a finger to mark the page he was reading. "No, of course not. Problem?"

"I guess you could say that." Jim hesitated, not really sure how to approach the topic he needed to discuss with the young man.

"Is it your senses?" Blair asked into the silence. "I knew we should have worked on that filtering exercise this evening. I'm sorry, Jim, I should have--"

Jim stopped him with an upheld hand, chuckling at how quickly the kid could spill the words when he so chose. "No, it's not my senses," he assured. "It's Simon…or more accurately, Daryl." Jim took a seat on the edge of Blair's bed. "I was just talking to Joel. He heard in town this afternoon that Daryl is sick. Really sick."

Blair set the book down on the table beside him, his marked place forgotten. "I'm sorry to hear that. Daryl's a good kid."

Jim nodded. He knew Blair had hit it off with Simon's son, despite Simon's attitude toward the friendship. It was Simon's attitude that was giving Jim pause now. He had a favor to ask Blair, one he knew would be very difficult for the young man to grant in the face of Simon's previous animosity. But it had to be asked.

"Yeah, he is," Jim agreed with Blair's assessment of Simon's son. "Simon sent to Union Grove for the doctor, but the doc can't come right now. Seems like a lot of the folks there are sick, too. There's talk that it might be influenza." Jim mentally winced at the word. It was one which could strike fear into the hearts of them all. Unlike back East, good healthcare and modern medicines were practically nonexistent out here, and influenza was often, though not always, fatal.

"There's not a doctor in Oneonta?" Blair asked.

"Not anymore. Doc Macarthur died last spring. The town's been trying to find a replacement ever since, but…well, there isn't a lot of incentive for doctors to give up their lucrative practices back east in exchange for a wild country where their pay is liable to consist solely of a dozen eggs or a milk cow."

Blair nodded thoughtfully. "I guess not."

"You're a healer," Jim pointed out. "You did a fine job with my shoulder and leg. There're hardly even any scars."

Blair glanced up sharply, evidently seeing where Jim was leading. "That's different."

"How so?"

"You had no other option. I was all there was."

"Daryl has no other option either, Chief."

Blair's eyes narrowed slightly as he studied Jim. "Did Mr. Banks ask for my help?"

Jim frowned, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I didn't think so." Blair took a deep breath. "Jim, I know Mr. Banks is basically a good man, and your friend, but we both know how he feels about me. He's not going to let me anywhere near his son."

"Maybe not," Jim admitted. "I just thought maybe we should make the offer. Like you said, Simon's my friend; I can't just stand by and let something happen to his son when you might have the ability to do something about it."

"Who's to say I can?" Blair looked away, chewing his bottom lip as he thought. Jim left him to it, knowing the kid was mulling over the request. "They have a healer of their own. Daryl told me. Um…Boyd, I think, he said."

"Boyd is Simon's cook. He's not a healer any more than Stebbins is. They just fill the role sometimes out of necessity. That's the way it is out here. Doctors are hard to come by and spread too thin when you do. So we pick up what we can on our own, make do when we have to. But that's not always enough, Chief. Daryl needs a doctor from what I hear, and you're the closest thing available. True, Simon has some misgivings about you, but he loves his son, and I don't think he's mule headed enough to let his personal feelings stand in the way of getting Daryl the help he needs. All I'm asking is for you to ride over there with me, make the offer, and let Simon make the decision."

Blair was silent for a long time. Jim said no more, letting the kid reach his own decision. He knew it wouldn't be easy for Blair to make the offer knowing how Simon felt about him. Jim hated to even ask.

"Tonight?"

Jim hid his smile. He'd known Blair would grant the favor. It was in the kid's nature to help if he could. "Yeah, I thought it'd be best to go now, in case Daryl really is as sick as Joel heard."

Blair stood and began gathering his long hair into its customary braid. "Guess you'd better get the horses."

~~~

Simon heard the approaching horses and moved out onto the porch to meet the riders, praying it was the doctor. He was disappointed a few minutes later when Jim rode up to the house, followed closely by the breed. His disappointment slowly gave way to resignation as he watched them dismount. Not a particularly religious man under normal circumstances, Simon knew it had to be a sign, their showing up here like this.

He greeted Jim with a handshake, but couldn't quite bring himself to do much more than nod in greeting at the young man behind Jim. "What brings you out at this time of the night?"

"I heard Daryl's sick," Jim replied, his tone serious.

Simon nodded. "I've sent for the doctor from Union Grove, but he can't get out here until the end of the week."

"That's what I heard. How is he?"

Simon looked away, his dark eyes taking in the stillness of the ranch yard in the dappled moonlight. "Not good. Boyd's done what he can, but Daryl's fever keeps climbing." He looked back at Jim, letting his concern for his boy show in his expression. "I'm worried, Jim, I don't mind telling you."

Jim took a half step to the side, bringing Blair to Simon's attention. "Blair is a healer, Simon, sort of a doctor among his people."

"So I've been told," Simon answered, his voice noncommittal.

"When I was shot, Blair took care of me. Took the bullet out, tended the wounds, nursed me back to health. He did a damn fine job of it, too. I doubt there's a white doctor within a hundred miles could have done any better."

Simon wisely bit back his instinctual response, choosing silence instead.

"You trust me, Simon, I know you do. I trust Blair. I trust him with my life, and I'd trust him with your son's."

Simon was startled by the quiet passion in Jim's declaration. He had known Jim Ellison for a very long time, fought beside him, been over the trail with him. A finer, braver, stronger man he'd never met. One thing he had learned early on was that the man was not one to give his trust lightly. If he was the one sick, Simon might be inclined to take Jim's word on it, but this was his son. How could he just turn the boy's welfare over to this Indian, a stranger with who knew what agenda?

"The doctor from Union Grove will be here in a few days," Simon finally said. "I think I'll wait for him."

Jim's jaw tightened visibly at the words. "Your decision. We had to make the offer for Daryl's sake. And for Daryl's sake, I hope you have a few days. You change your mind, Simon, you know where to find us. Come on, Chief, it's a long ride home."

Simon felt his chest tighten unexpectedly as the two turned and stepped off the porch, catching up the reins to their horses. The breed hadn't said a word, just stood quietly at Jim's side, but the young man's eyes had said plenty. He'd made his silent offer, and Simon had all but thrown it back in his face. Did Daryl have a few days? Could he wait for the doctor from Union Grove? Maybe their arrival really was an omen.

"Wait!"

Jim stopped, his foot already in the stirrup.

Simon spoke quickly, before he could change his mind. "I guess it wouldn't hurt none for the kid to look at Daryl." He let his eyes meet Blair's gaze from the back of his mount. Swallowing his pride and his fear in one distasteful mouthful, Simon added, "If he's willing…?"

Blair glanced over at Jim, then back to Simon, nodding once before dismounting again.

Simon led the way to Daryl's room. He opened it carefully, not wanting to wake the boy if he was sleeping. A fever glazed pair of dark eyes peered from beneath the quilts. Simon saw a spark of light in those eyes as they found the two visitors.

"Jim! Blair!" Daryl's voice was rough, hoarse. He struggled to push himself up a bit in the bed.

Simon quickly moved to hold him in place with a hand on his shoulder. "Whoa, take it easy, son. Just lay still."

The boy looked up at his dad with a smile that did Simon's heart good. "Blair's an Indian doctor, Dad. Did you know that?" He stopped long enough to cough, then swung his gaze around to Blair. "A…what did you call it? A bohiti? Is that why you're here? To make me feel better? Can you do that?"

Blair came around Jim, moving closer to the bed. Simon instinctively placed himself between the two, not missing the tightening of the lines around the breed's eyes as he did.

"I don't know, Daryl," Blair admitted softly. It was the first time he's spoken since he and Jim had arrived. "But if I can, I'd like to try." Blair glanced at Simon, his eyes asking for permission to approach the bed.

Jim, also picking up on the silent request, grasped Simon's arm, gently guiding him back a few paces to allow Blair access to Daryl. Simon grudgingly allowed the movement, but kept his eyes trained on the breed's every move. Blair sat on the side of the bed and spoke softly to the sick boy, asking innocent enough questions about how he felt, where he hurt.

After several long moments, Blair pulled the quilts back up around the boy and patted him on the arm. "Try to sleep, Daryl. That's the best medicine right now. I'll be back." Without another word or a glance at either Jim or Simon, Blair left the room.

~~~

Blair tried to hide his face from Jim as he turned and left the room. Acrocoel had told him many times over the years that he needed to learn to mask his feelings, and that his expression always betrayed him. Blair knew that was true now.

He made his way outside to the porch, knowing Jim would follow. As he heard the creak of the floorboards under the older man's weight, he glanced over his shoulder and was relieved to see Jim was alone.

"What's wrong, Blair?"

Blair took a deep breath and leaned against the porch railing, burying his hands in his pockets. He let his gaze shift to take in the wide yard in the bright moonlight. It was the first time he'd been here. It was a nice place. He could see a swing hanging from a nearby tree and could easily imagine Daryl playing there.

"Blair?" Jim prompted.

"I've seen it before," Blair finally stated. "My people call it ehaoho'ta, the hot death. I'm sure your people have their own words for it." He turned then, boldly meeting the gaze of his friend. "The boy will die."

Blair could see the effect his pronouncement had on Jim and felt guilty for stating it so bluntly -- but the truth was the truth.

"There isn't anything you can do?" Jim asked, taking a step closer.

Blair looked away. "I don't know…maybe. But even if I was to try, he might still die."

"At least he would have a chance. Aren't you willing to try?"

Blair hesitated. The white men will not accept your gifts. Do not offer what is not wanted. The bohiti's words played through his mind again and again. Was his gift wanted here? Simon was reluctant to even let Blair in the same room as his son. It was doubtful he would stand by and let Blair offer remedies and medicines that the older man wouldn't recognize or understand.

"I don't understand your reluctance," Jim said, scrubbing at the back of his neck. "If you don't try, Daryl will die, by your own admission. If you do, he might die. Seems to me there isn't much choice."

"I want to help him," Blair admitted softly, his gaze still averted. "I think I can. I know the things to try…"

"But…?"

"If I try and fail, if the boy dies, I will be blamed for killing him." Shame brought heat to his face.

"I won't blame you."

Simon spoke the words softly, but to Blair they were as loud as if they'd been shouted. He turned, locating the man standing in the doorway. Shadows obscured his face, but his arms hung loosely at his sides. His posture radiated defeat and despair.

"Daryl is all I've got," Simon continued, taking a step further into the moonlight, letting Blair see the anguish and fear in his expression. "I can't lose him. If you think you can save him…please, Blair, you've got to try."

Blair hesitated a moment longer, looking deep as he tried to read the bigger man's soul. All he saw was love and worry for his son…no deception, no animosity. "Will you still feel the same way if I try and fail?" he questioned. It didn't really matter. Blair had known from the moment he'd seen Daryl that he would offer his assistance. The only question had been if it would be accepted or not.

"Do your best to save my boy," Simon said, his tone serious, "and I promise not to hold you responsible if…if he…if you fail."

"You won't understand my methods," Blair prodded. He had to be sure the man understood what he was asking from Blair.

"I won't interfere," Simon vowed. "Do what you have to."

Blair studied him for another long moment, then nodded. "All right. I'll be back." With that, he stepped off the porch and into the night.

~~~

Simon was getting impatient. If the man's pacing hadn't given that away, then the quiet muttering under his breath would have. Jim knew he could rebalance his hearing the way Blair had taught him and catch the mutterings, but he didn't have to. He knew Simon well enough to guess at the words. The man was no doubt questioning his decision and Blair's disappearance. It was close to morning. The eastern sky was already brightening in preamble for the coming sunrise, and the young man had yet to return. Jim had already done the snake trick twice with his hearing to assure himself that Blair hadn't wandered far in the dark. Jim settled deeper into the couch cushions and watched his long time friend make yet another circuit of the room.

The pacing was interrupted finally, when Boyd, Simon's portly cook, brought them some coffee. Jim gratefully accepted the steaming mug with a tired smile, but before he could thank the man, there was a soft knock and the front door opened. Blair stepped into the room, his arms full of botanicals Jim couldn't readily identify.

"I had some trouble finding everything I needed," he explained in the face of the questioning looks which greeted him. "But I think I have everything now."

"You need any help, son?" Boyd asked. "I've got a grinding stone out in the kitchen, and jars and bowls and such."

Blair smiled gratefully at the man. "Thanks. That would help."

Boyd nodded and led the way. "Only condition is that I get to watch," he said, "and maybe ask some questions. Wouldn't hurt me none to learn a thing or two."

Jim turned his attention back to Simon in time to see the older man take a step toward his son's room. "He's sleeping," Jim reminded.

Simon stopped short of the door. "I know. I just need to check on him, make sure he's all right."

A man of action himself, Jim recognized the signs of helplessness in his friend and decided it was time to intervene. "Come on." Jim stood and picked up his cup. "Let's take our coffee out on the porch."

"Jim--"

Jim saw the protest coming and interrupted. "I'm sure if they need our help, they'll ask for it. Let's get out the way."

Simon hesitated a moment longer, then let Jim lead him out the front door. Once they were settled in the rockers there, Simon spoke.

"Tell me I'm doing the right thing, Jim."

"You are."

Simon almost smiled at the clipped response. "I was hoping for a bit more reassurance than that."

Jim did smile. "I know."

With a sigh, Simon looked away. "You have the disposition of a jackass, you know that?"

"I've been told."

That actually drew a chuckle from the older man which Jim echoed. "Those wasn't just idle words earlier, Simon. I really do trust Blair. I've seen what he can do. If he can, he'll help Daryl." He stopped short of reminding Simon of his vow not to hold the young man responsible if Blair failed in his attempt.

Simon turned back to face Jim, studying him for a long moment with serious eyes. "What is it with that boy, Jim? Why did you really bring him back with you?"

Jim met the gaze and the question boldly. "He saved my life."

"You could have told him thank you. Or given him a blanket or a horse or something. He's an Indian, what more does he need?"

Jim frowned. "Is that what you think my life is worth?"

"Hell, no, Jim. That's not what I meant, and you know it."

"No, I don't think I do. Maybe you need to spell it out, Simon."

"It's just that…well, you know how most people around here think, Jim. You had to know what you were bringing the boy back to face. I just don't understand how you see that as a way to show appreciation."

Good point, Jim mentally conceded. He had known, or at least suspected, what Blair would have to face stepping into Jim's world. He really hadn't thought it would be so bad, but he had known the kid would have to face some rancor. But what were the alternatives? Could he have dealt with his senses without the kid's help? Jim thought back over the past few weeks, of the myriad of trials Blair had come up with to test and hone his senses. He thought about the…spells…he still occasionally suffered, though Blair's suggestions had helped tremendously in avoiding them. They hadn't been disastrous, and he had come out of them with Blair's help, but they still scared the hell out of him.

So, yeah, Jim could admit, at least to himself, that he'd needed the kid -- still did -- and Blair seemed to be handling the prejudices he'd encountered so far. Jim had heard the sounds of Blair's nightmares those first few nights, but even those seemed to have tapered off -- which was a good sign, wasn't it?

Blair had even made a few friends…Rafe and Henri, finally…Stebbins, Joel, Daryl…Boyd seemed to accept the kid all right…even Simon seemed to be finally coming around. So, life in the 'white man's world' wasn't so bad for the kid, was it?

Besides, Blair wasn't staying forever, just until Jim got a handle on his senses and his "Guardian duties," as Blair called them. Whatever the heck that meant.

"What's the real story, Jim?" Simon's quiet question drew Jim from his thoughts.

"There is no story."

Simon sighed heavily. "Why don't I buy that? I've known you a long time, Jim Ellison. You seldom do anything without a mighty good reason."

Jim heaved his own sigh. When had life become so complicated?

"I hear the kid is pretty good with horses," Simon commented casually.

"Best I've seen in a while," Jim returned, thinking maybe the man was moving on to another subject.

"That could be it, I suppose. Though I don't really see it. You had Rafe, already. And there's always prime hands over at Union Grove looking for work."

"Blair's way with horses was just a bonus," Jim admitted.

"Bonus to what?"

Jim mentally winced, knowing he had just given Simon more fodder. "Blair…is helping me with a problem."

"I see," Simon replied, though his tone clearly said he didn't. "Well, I supposed this verbal dance you're doing is your way of telling me to stay out of your business."

Jim couldn't miss the note of hurt in his friend's tone. "It's not that, Simon. It's…" Jim stopped, not knowing how to finish the sentence.

"Look, Jim, you're right. It isn't any of my business. Forget I asked."

The two men lapsed into silence. Jim knew Simon was put out, but for the life of him, he couldn't think of an explanation that would satisfy the man…short of the truth, and he wasn't ready to share this secret.

Was he?

This was Simon, after all…surely, if anyone could accept and understand this Guardian mess, it would be his longtime friend. But Jim remembered his own reaction when Blair had first explained what was happening to him. He remembered his denial and even anger at the thought of an idea so far fetched as "enhanced senses". And he was the one it was happening to. Surely if he had so much trouble with the notion, Simon, with his sometimes hard headed disposition, would be impossible to convince.

No, Jim decided. He wasn't quite ready to share this secret…not even with Simon.

~~~

"Blair?"

Cracking his eyes the merest slit, Blair struggled to come fully awake. His view confused him, until he remembered where he was. He opened his eyes wider and pushed himself into a sitting position, bemoaning his aching muscles. Sleeping on the ground was one thing, he was used to that, but hardwood floors…that was akin to torture, he decided.

Still sitting on the floor, he looked up, squinting at the light from the open doorway as he tried to make out the dark figure standing there.

"Jim?"

"No. " The figure stepped into the room. "It's Simon. Jim headed back to his place a little while ago. He didn't want to wake you. Said to tell you he'll be back in the morning." He turned to the bed and the sleeping boy there. "How is he?" he whispered.

Blair pushed himself to his feet, biting back a groan as his back protested. "You don't have to whisper. I gave him a draught to help him sleep more comfortably." He stretched, trying to remove some of the kinks the hard floor had instilled in his joints.

Simon tentatively reached over and brushed the back of his hand lightly over his son's brow. "He feels cooler." There was astonishment in his voice.

"Yeah, the fever broke a little while ago. I was going to come tell you, but…" his face colored, "I guess I fell asleep."

Simon glanced up, his expression unreadable. "Is he going to be all right? Can you tell yet?"

Blair allowed himself a small smile. "I think so. His fever is all but gone, the cough is better, and he's resting more comfortably." He paused for a moment. "It's still going to take some time before he's back on his fee. He'll be weak as a newborn foal for a week or so, but I think the worst is behind him."

A broad grin grew on Simon's face with each word. He closed his eyes, mouthing something that Blair couldn't make out. A prayer of gratitude maybe. Blair stepped out of the room, granting the father a bit of privacy with his son. He dearly wanted a cup of coffee, but it was late, and there probably wasn't any made. He headed instead for the porch. Once there, he sank onto the top step with a tired sigh. It had been a long couple of days, tending Daryl, and though he was relieved and pleased that the boy had responded to his ministrations, it had been taxing. Now that Daryl was better and finally sleeping comfortably, Blair needed to find someplace to curl up and get a few hours rest himself. Maybe in the barn…

The door opened behind Blair. He turned to see Simon coming onto the porch.

"My boy's going to be all right…that's what you said, right?"

Blair understood the man's need for reassurance and gladly gave it to him. "Yes, I believe so."

"You saved his life." There was awe in the man's tone.

"I don't know…maybe. Daryl is strong. He's a fighter. Who can say how much of his healing I can take credit for?"

Simon shook his head. "I don't believe that, Blair. And I don't think you do, either. You said yourself, just two days ago, that the boy was…that he was dying." The big man's voice caught on the words, but he pushed on. "Whatever you did, whatever all those strange smells and concoctions were, you saved his life." There was a dramatic pause. "I don't forget my debts. Thank you."

Blair accepted the gratitude with the same grace in which it was offered. "You're welcome, Mr. Banks."

"You can call me Simon…I think you've earned the right." Simon reached a hand down to help Blair to his feet. "Come on, kid. Boyd's holding your supper. I haven't seen you eat a bite in the past couple of days…and then you need to get some sleep. In a real bed."

Blair let himself be lead to the kitchen, where there was not only coffee, hot and strong, but a large bowl of steaming stew. Blair dug in gratefully, finishing off that bowl and half of another before his exhaustion caught up with him. On his third jaw popping yawn, Simon decided to take matters into his own hands. He removed the bowl, muttering something about Blair falling into it face first, then manhandled the half asleep young man to the end of the hall, past Daryl's room and into a large room with an equally large, very inviting bed.

It wasn't until he was sitting on the side of the bed that Blair thought to question where he was. Simon's room, he realized, looking around. Why was he here?

"You need some real sleep," the older man said, as though reading Blair's thoughts. "In a real bed. Nobody sleeps on the floor in my house."

"Mr. Banks--" Simon scowled. "What'd I tell you?"

Blair smiled at the gruff reprimand. "Simon…" he quickly amended. "I'd be fine in the barn. Honest. I think I could sleep might near anywhere at the moment." Another face splitting yawn lent credence to his claim.

Simon's scowl faded, replaced by a grin and a chuckle. "Lay down, kid, before you fall over." At Blair's hesitation, he prodded, "Go ahead. You earned it, Blair."

Too tired to argue, and absurdly pleased by the man's generosity, Blair pulled off his boots and stretched out on the large, wonderfully comfortable mattress. He was asleep within minutes, not aware of the blanket being pulled over him, or of the soft words of gratitude that whispered around him.

~~~

Jim lifted his head from the task at hand, his eyes instinctively seeking the rider he could clearly hear approaching.

"Someone coming?"

Jim didn't spare a glance at the man beside him, merely nodded.

"Who is it?" Blair prodded.

"Don't know. Can't see anyone yet. Joel probably sent one of the hands out to see if we need some help."

"If you can hear him, you can probably see him."

Jim did look at the young man then, barely suppressing a sigh. The kid never missed an opportunity to push Jim to use his senses, and though Jim didn't really resent that, he wasn't overly fond of it, either. He could understand the importance of it, but it could get mighty damn tiresome at times.

As though reading Jim's thoughts, Blair let out his own sigh, releasing the roll of barbed wire they had been working with. "Come on, Jim, stop fighting me at every turn. You know it's for your own good. Think of it this way, wouldn't you like having the upper hand, knowing who's coming before they get here?"

Jim frowned for a minute, mentally conceding the point. As usual. Blair always won these arguments. Jim didn't know why he even bothered protesting anymore. Turning his attention back in the direction of the approaching hoof beats, he let Blair talk him through the familiar exercises.

After several long minutes, Blair said, "Okay, sight clearly isn't going to work. Too much interference." The young man thought for a minute, then said, "Let's try something else. How about smell?"

"Smell?" Jim turned confused eyes Blair's way. "How can I do that?"

"Most people have something distinctive about the way they smell, haven't you notice? Something you associate with them…like Stebbins smells like biscuits and cinnamon; and Henri smells like gun oil, because he's always cleaning that six-shooter of his."

Jim nodded, following what the kid was saying so far. "But how can I focus on just that smell? How do I pin it down?"

"Just like you were trying to with your sight. Close your eyes; I'll talk you through it."

Jim obeyed instinctively, putting himself in Blair's hands without hesitation.

"Okay, start with your hearing…find the rider again. You got it?"

It took only a second to locate the sound again. Jim nodded.

"Great. Now, just like with your sight, imagine your sense of smell as a snake following that same trail. Winding it's way over the terrain, around trees, through the brush, chasing your hearing. The two senses are linked, where your hearing goes, smell is following. Block out everything else along the way, don't get sidetracked. Don't stop until it reaches the rider, then let it take in what it finds there."

Jim followed the soft spoken instructions, unaware that his head was tilting and nodding along the imaginary trail he traced. Suddenly he was there, his sense of smell filling in the picture in his mind, bringing dimension to the shape of the single rider approaching…until the face became as clear to him as if it were before him.

"Simon!" he announced, opening his eyes with a triumphant grin.

Blair returned the grin, sharing in his sense of victory. "Great job, Jim!"

The simple words of praise brought a warm feeling to Jim, widening his grin.

"How did you identify him?" Blair asked, curiosity dancing in his blue eyes.

"Cigars. He's the only one around these parts that smokes those expensive Cuban things."

Blair's smile suddenly faded. "Simon?" he repeated, as though just registering the identity of the approaching rider. "You don't think something's happened to Daryl, do you? He was so much better when I left the other day. Simon said he'd send for me if there was any change. I should have ridden back over there--"

"Chief!" Jim interrupted. "Slow down and take a breath. If Daryl were any worse, I doubt Simon would have left his side. I'm sure the boy's fine."

Blair visibly relaxed at the logic of Jim's words. "Yeah, you're right. He wouldn't have left him, would he?" He looked back at Jim. "So what do you reckon he wants?"

Jim chuckled. "He'll be here soon enough. Why don't we get this wire set while we wait, then we can ask him."

It was almost twenty minutes later when Simon Banks finally rode through the trees, pulling his horse to a halt beside the two men.

Jim spoke without looking up from the wire he was holding for Blair to nail in place. "Morning, Simon."

"How'd you know it was me?"

Jim cursed himself for the lapse. "I…uh…could smell that cigar you're smoking."

"Jim, I finished that up half a mile back."

Blair finished attaching the wire, and Jim released his hold. He briefly met the gaze of the young man, not missing the amused "let's see you climb out of this one" look on his face. He turned to face his friend. "It must still be clinging to your clothes." Hoping Simon would let it go at that, he quickly changed the subject. "What brings you all the way out here, Simon?"

The big man turned his eyes on Blair as he answered. "The doc from Union Grove finally made it out to my place yesterday." Simon dismounted and moved closer, still pinning Blair with a stern expression. "He wants to have a talk with you, young man," Simon continued.

Knowing his friend as well as he did, Jim saw the slight tug at the corners of Simon's mouth, the twinkle in his eyes, but judging from Blair's increased heart rate, the young man hadn't picked up on the subtle signs.

"Did I do something wrong? Daryl's not getting worse, is he?" Blair asked, his tone betraying the same nervousness Jim could hear in his pulse.

Simon's expression finally dissolved into one of deep humility. "Son, you did everything right, from what Doc Pritchard says. In fact, that's what he wants to talk to you about. Boyd told him some of the things you did, and the Doc is curious to know more. He said, and I quote, 'I couldn't have done better myself.'"

Blair grinned at the news. "So, Daryl's still getting better, then?"

Simon laughed, clapping Blair soundly on the shoulder. "Kid, Doc Pritchard assures me Daryl is going to be just fine." Simon sobered abruptly, his gaze reflecting the sincerity of his next words. "He also assures me you most likely saved my boy's life. I owe you, Blair, and I pay my debts. Name your price."

Blair's grin faded. "I don't want money, Mr. Banks. I did what I did for Daryl because I like him and consider him a friend."

Jim noticed the way Blair slipped back to a more formal address for Simon, a sure sign he had taken offence at the offer.

Evidently Simon had noticed the reaction as well. "I meant no harm by my offer, Blair. If Doc Pritchard had done as much for my son I would have expected to pay him. It's just the way things are done around here."

"You got paid for the healing you did for your people, didn't you?" Jim jumped in, hoping to soothe the wounded pride of his friend. "It's the same thing. Simon didn't mean anything by it."

Blair's gaze shifted between the two men as he gave the idea some thought. Finally, he nodded. "On occasion, I accepted tokens of gratitude…when it was appropriate," he conceded. "But that was diff--"

"Good," Simon interrupted. "Then you can accept a token of my gratitude. I think it's definitely appropriate. What do you think, Jim?"

"I would think so, yes," Jim agreed with a smile. "If he won't take your money, Simon, I have another idea."

"Jim--"

Simon's booming voice overrode Blair's intended objection. "What kind of idea?"

"Jim--"

"Well, I told you about that mare Blair's been working with, remember? The biter he broke? She's turning out to be a fine animal, and I've given her to him. With a proper stallion, one who could handle her temperament, she could be the start of a nice little herd of his own."

"Jim--"

Simon's eyes lit up. "And it just so happens that I have the perfect stallion. He's not much to look at, kind of small, and he's as rough they come, but with stamina you wouldn't believe. He'll hold his own with Blair's mare." He shook his head in admiration. "They'll make the start of a damn fine herd, I'd wager."

"Jim!"

Both men turned to the source of that shout, their expressions questioning.

"Yes, Chief?"

"Don't I have any say in any of this?"

Jim exchanged a look with Simon, then turned back to Blair. "Actually…no." He extended his hand to Simon. "Deal?"

Simon laughed heartily, accepting the handshake. "Deal!"

~~~

Digging out the makings, Quinn rolled himself a cigarette. Once it was lit, he leaned lazily against the corral fence, content to watch the goings on in the ranch yard. It was close to dusk, and the hands were beginning to drift in from the range, ready to call it a day. Most of the hands, Quinn mentally corrected himself. The breed was still hard at work.

Quinn took a long drag on the cigarette before snubbing it out against a fence post and stuffing the remains in his shirt pocket for later. He headed to the open doors of the barn. Yep, there he was, still hard at work. Sorry bastard…making them all look bad…which was probably his intention in the first place. The hell of it was, it was working. Ellison and Taggart both were lapping the act up like horses at a desert oasis. And even worse, some of the rest of they guys were starting to fall for the bastard's act. Hell, the redskin was beginning to actually fit in! And that was more than Quinn could stomach. The rest of the world might be losing their collective minds, but Quinn's eyes were wide open. If Ellison wasn't about to throw the kid out, well, maybe the kid would just have to decide to leave on his own.

And besides, messing with the kid was just so damn much fun…especially since they'd found out he wasn't going to run tattling to Ellison.

He stepped into the barn, signaling for Rooker to follow quietly. The kid continued braiding the leather straps, unaware of the approaching men. Quinn smirked to himself. So much for rumors. He'd always been told Injuns had eyes in the back of their heads.

"Lookie, here, Wade," Quinn drawled, snatching the braided leather from Blair's hand, "the boy's made himself a play-pretty." He laughed at the startled jump the breed gave, but his humor faded when he heard a deep sigh of…forbearance?…from the boy. The breed's "here we go again" expression infuriated Quinn. Nope, Quinn definitely didn't like that at all. A cruel smile distorted his lips.

Quinn twisted the braided strap in his hands. "I know…it's a collar. Am I right? For your little pony, no doubt, since you definitely don't need it for the boss-man…I mean with that ring through his nose…you know, the one you lead him around by."

Rooker laughed loudly at the joke, spurring Quinn on. "Well, let's just see if it fits." He took a step toward the stall where Blair kept his mare, only to drawn up short when the boy grabbed his arm roughly. Quinn turned, surprised to see a dark flash of pure anger in the boy's eyes. It was the first time Quinn had managed to get a rise out of him. The realization that this time the breed might just fight back both angered and amused Quinn.

"Don't touch her," the boy spit out from between clenched teeth.

"Well, well," Rooker laughed, "Looks like the boy grew some balls. Who'd'a thought it?"

Quinn snatched his arm away from the boy's grip. "Or maybe we just found us the right provocation. Is that it, breed? We find that burr under yer saddle?" He chuckled at the pure fury taking light in the boy's eyes. It was a lot more fun this way, he decided, with the kid willing to fight back. "Hold 'im, Wade, whilst I see if this here collar fits his pony."

He waited until Rooker had a firm hold of the boy, which wasn't an easy chore, considering how he fought. Rooker took more than one elbow in a vital -- and painful -- area. Quinn turned back toward the stall. He hesitated only a moment at the latched gate when the horse snorted loudly, stamping at the dirt floor. Quinn laughed at his own nervousness and unlatched the gate, swinging it wide. The breed had broken her, that much he was sure of. Hell, he'd been as surprised as the rest of the guys when the boy had come riding up on the mare, but he had to give the boy his due, he'd broke her. Quinn hadn't seen her so much as nip at anyone since that day, either, so there was nothing for him to worry about now. Besides, he wasn't really going to hurt her, just worry the breed a mite.

Smirking at the threats and curses coming from behind him, Quinn approached the mare, swinging the braided leather strap loosely in his hands. The horse was becoming more agitated with every step Quinn took. She backed up until she hit the rear wall of her stall. Quinn ignored it, closing in and reaching out with his right hand to lay the strap across her neck. His hand never made it that far. The mare, feeling cornered and desperate, struck out. It was so quick Quinn scarcely had time to make note of the movement before sharp pain lanced through his hand. He snatched it back with a cry.

"Goddamn horse BIT me!" he shouted in astonishment. "She goddamn bit me!"

He spun on his heels, fury rushing through him when he saw the smug, satisfied grin on the damn Injun's face. "You think this is funny, you goddamn red bastard? She damn near took my finger off!" He took a step toward the breed, but stopped when he noticed the open defiance and animosity in the boy's expression. Kid didn't care. Quinn could beat the shit outa him and the kid would probably stand there and take it. But there'd be no hiding it from Ellison, and he would probably just end up fired. A better idea came to him, one that would give him the satisfaction of getting back at the kid and had the added benefit of being totally justifiable.

"This pony of yours needs to learn some manners," Quinn sneered. "And I think I'm just the one to do the teachin'. Don't you think, Wade?"

Quinn relished the look of fear that crossed the boy's face at his words. Oh, yeah, this was much better, Quinn decided, turning back to the mare and raising the strap he still held. The horse was still backed against the rear of the stall, quivering in fear or anger. Quinn didn't care which. He cautiously stepped forward raising the strap and bringing it down hard across her neck. She jumped away, hitting the wall hard in an effort to escape.

The second blow drew blood, and Quinn, finding a perverse satisfaction in the sight, cautiously closed in for a third blow, heedless of the sounds of cursing and struggling coming from behind him. But before he could bring his arm down, strong fingers closed around his wrist.

~~~

Blair fought for all he was worth, stamping and kicking at Rooker until he felt the man's grasp on his arms loosen just a bit. Taking advantage of the slip, Blair threw all of his strength into a final twist and was rewarded with freedom. Before Rooker could recover his balance, a smashing right took him to the ground.

Blair didn't wait to see if the man was still conscious or not. He launched himself at Quinn, grabbing the man's hand and pulling him out of the stall and away from Mak'ha. A hard left caught Quinn across the chin, spilling him onto his back in the dust. Quinn came up off the ground and rushed, but Blair stepped back in, blocking the right and whipping a fist into the larger man's midsection. Quinn doubled over, and Blair straightened him with a left uppercut.

Quinn recovered much quicker than Blair would have thought possible, coming at him with a shouted curse. Blair took a backhanded blow that split the skin below his right eye and blurred his vision. Momentarily dazed, he swayed on his feet. Quickly, he blinked away the blurriness just as the fist came toward him again. Blair stepped back, but wasn't fast enough to escape a hard fist to the stomach. He scarcely had time to register Quinn coming at him again, and tensed for another blow. It never came.

"What in the hell is going on here?"

Oh, shit! Jim! Blair shook his head to clear it, swallowing hard against the nausea that swelled from his abused stomach.

"I asked a question," Jim's voice snapped angrily.

Blair couldn't quite convince his stomach muscles to relax enough so he could straighten and actually look at the man. He doubted if he could clear the ringing from his head enough to make the effort anyhow.

"The breed and I were just…discussing…things," Quinn answered, sounding a bit winded himself.

With a monumental effort, Blair pulled himself up straight, doing his best to ignore his aching stomach. Jim split his gaze between Quinn and Blair and the slowly rising Rooker, a mixture of concern and anger on his face. Blair wasn't quite sure which of the emotions was aimed at him.

"It's between Quinn and me," Blair said, with more bravado than he felt. He didn't miss the twin looks of surprise both Jim and Quinn shot his way.

"When I catch you brawling like saloon drunks in my barn, that makes it my damn business," Jim growled, annoyance coloring his tone.

Unspent anger surged through Blair, finding a handy source now that the fight was over. "This doesn't concern you, Jim! Stay the hell out of it!" Jim's eyes narrowed dangerously, but Blair didn't care. He was running on pure adrenaline and anger now. "I'm a big boy, Ellison. I can fight my own battles."

Jim's jaw tightened visibly several times. Then, "Get out of here, Quinn. I'll deal with you later." He waited until Quinn and Rooker were gone before continuing. "Clean yourself up." Without another word, he turned and left.

Blair let out a long sigh, wincing as it pulled at sore stomach muscles, then entered Mak'ha's stall. The mare was still stamping nervously, dancing away from his advances. It took almost ten minutes of soft talking before she would allow Blair to approach her. Anger surged through him anew as he examined the welts, remembering the helpless fury he'd felt watching Quinn beat the horse.

Mak'ha pushed at his hands, nuzzling gently until he took the hint and scratched her ears. The action soothed them both, and Blair was finally able to push his anger away. Twenty minutes later, having tended the mare's wounds, as well as his own, he headed for the house, hoping against hope Jim wouldn't insist on interfering.

~~~ Blair quickly took in the faces seated around the table as he entered the kitchen. Two faces were notably absent. His eyes swung around to Jim, his anger rekindling. The older man met his accusing gaze with a look that clearly said, 'let it go', but Blair's anger was too far gone to pay heed to the admonition.

"What did you do, Ellison?" The words were hissed from between clenched teeth, anger dripping from every one of them.

"We'll discuss it later, Chief," Jim returned, his eyes flashing a warning.

Blair ignored it. "I told you to stay out of it. It was none of your business."

The idle chatter at the table stopped. Everyone looked up or around at once, but Blair was oblivious to the attention. His rage had firm control and was showing no mercy.

"It's my ranch," Jim said, slowly rising to meet Blair's rage head on. "What goes on around here is my business."

"It's my life!" Blair seethed. "That takes it out of your jurisdiction. You have no right to interfere!" Blair took a step forward, fury radiating from his frame. There was a collective catching of breath around the room as the hands waited for Ellison to explode. But before he had a chance to, Blair turned on his heel and left the room. Jim stared after him for all of half a minute, then took off after him.

The resulting sighs were a mixture of disappointment and relief. Some were sorry to miss the show. Most were just glad to avoid getting caught in the fallout.

~~~

Jim found Blair leaning on the corral fence, staring off into the setting sun.

"Did you fire him?" Blair didn't turn to face Jim with the question.

"Like I said, this is my ranch. If I choose not to tolerate his attitude, that's my business."

Blair turned, and Jim had no trouble reading the fury in the younger man's flashing eyes, even in the waning light. It was an emotion Jim frankly didn't understand, given the circumstances.

"Did you stop to think about how your decision makes me look, Jim? In the other guys' eyes? 'Sorry breed, can't even fight his own battles -- has to go whining to the boss-man for protection.' I've been working damn hard to earn, if not their respect, than at least their tolerance. I'm not naïve enough to think everyone will come around, but damn it, Jim, some of them were starting to! And now you've undone every bit of that with one blow! How can these guys respect a man who isn't even man enough to fight his own battles? Who has to have someone bigger and stronger do it for him?"

Jim stared at him for a long moment. "I'm sorry, Blair," he said at last. "I never thought about the way it would look to anyone else. Maybe I should have." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Damn! I just…I thought I was taking care of a problem. You know, like…like weeding out a rogue bull or pulling thistle from the wheat field. I didn't think about it from your perspective."

Blair let out a noisy breath, his anger visibly deflating with it. "I guess I know that, Jim. I just wish you hadn't done it. You've got to let me fight my own battles. It's important to me to be able to stand on my own with these guys. I need to prove myself in their eyes in order to be accepted, and I can't do that if you feel the need to fire everyone that gives me a little aggravation."

"Judging by the looks of things," he gestured to Blair's face, "it was more than just 'a little aggravation'."

Blair chuckled, wincing as the movement pulled at the split on his cheek. "Yeah, I guess it was, but it was nothing I couldn't handle. Hell, Quinn hasn't got anything on Sangwe."

"You and Sangwe go at it a lot?" Jim asked, genuinely curious. He'd sensed a certain tension between Blair and the future chief when he'd been in the village, but the two hadn't seemed overly antagonistic toward one another.

Blair snorted. "You don't 'go at it' with the son of the chief, Jim. You learn early on to swallow a lot of garbage and smile like everything's fine." He suddenly sighed. "Which is what I was trying to do with Quinn and his gang. I just…well, I lost my temper when they messed with Mak'ha."

"So that's what happened," Jim smiled. "I wondered. Figured it would take a lot to get you riled up enough to fight."

Blair hooked his thumbs in his pockets and leaned back into the fence. "I'm sorry, Jim. I know Quinn and Rooker were good hands."

"Yeah, they were…but there are plenty of good hands around. I won't have any trouble replacing them. Hell, Chief, you can't take all the credit for them getting fired. I've had trouble out of them before. It was past due."

"Maybe, Jim," Blair sighed again. "But I really wish you could have timed it a little better."

~~~

"Injun bass'tard," Wade Rooker slurred, the whisky taking its toll. "Ain't gon' let 'im get away with it, are we, Quinn?"

Quinn took his time replying. He turned up his own drink, downing it in one swig before signaling to the bartender for another. In the end, it hadn't mattered if the Injun had gone crying to Ellison or not. They were just as fired, and that damn red son of a bitch was still there. Quinn downed the new drink, too, then grabbed the bottle from the bartender before he could retreat with it. He refilled his glass.

Not that Quinn had planned on staying around Ellison's forever. But hell, it was a damn good cover. Or had been. Who would ever dare to question one of Ellison's hired hands? But that was over now, so they were going to have to rethink their whole damn operation.

Rage flared through Quinn with the burn of the whiskey. Goddammit! That goddamn red savage had ruined everything! By all rights, Ellison should have been dead, and it was that half-breed bastard they could thank for that, too. Quinn still couldn't believe their incredible good fortune that Ellison had no memory of the shooting itself, or the events leading up to it. It had been an unbelievable stroke of chance which could run out at any minute. He knew they'd been pushing their luck by hanging around the ranch after Ellison returned, but hell, the man had never seen his shooter, Quinn was certain of that. Besides, it was risk that made life exciting.

He slammed his glass down on the bar, drawing a few curious glances from a small group of men crowded around a nearby gaming table. His glare turned them back to their card game.

"Mebbe it's time to move on, Quinn," Rooker murmured drunkenly.

Quinn scowled. Rooker was a terrible drunk, morose and belligerent at the same time. Sometimes, Quinn was hard pressed to remember why he kept the damn fool around.

"Mebbe we ought'a cut out while we're 'head. I mean, we got enough to buy us an easy life for a few years. And when that runs out, hell, we can always run this scheme again. Worked once, it'll work ag'in."

Not liking the idea one bit, Quinn nevertheless was forced to admit it was, perhaps, time to lay down his hand and claim the pot. They'd had a good thing here. Their little rustling operation had been a deep and devious plan…and a profitable one. It was unlike any rustling scheme Quinn had seen before, and he was more than a little proud to be the father of it. It didn't hinge on some rowdy gang suddenly charging out of the night on a wild raid, nor was it merely some restless cowhands who wanted money for a wild night in some saloon. This was a careful covert weeding of the herds. A few here from this ranch, a few more from another. Never enough to do much more than cause the ranchers to scratch their collective heads come round up time. And over time, Quinn and his men had managed to build a few sizable herds up in the hills where few white men ever ventured and discovery was unlikely. Every few months, they would drive them down south of Verde Basin to the railhead. High profit, low risk. Quinn had known it wouldn't go undiscovered forever, but he had been hoping to play it out a mite longer.

But the scheme was a sound one, and it would work elsewhere just as well. They had a good stash of cattle now that would bring a good price, and they would have been driving them down to the railhead in another few weeks anyhow.

Maybe it was time to wrap up the operation and move on. But there was one thing he intended to do first.

Turning to Rooker, he removed the bottle of whiskey from the man's hand just as he was about to pour himself a fresh glass. "You've had enough. Come on. We're riding out."

"Wh're we goin'?"

"We're gonna ride up and get a couple of the boys," Quinn said, a wicked grin twisting his narrow face. "Then we're going to have a little fun and games with Ellison's Injun."

~~~

Blair trusted Mak'ha. It was easy to do once they had been able to establish who was boss -- an honor which he had finally been forced to concede to her. When they had left the ranch a half hour earlier, heading to the upper meadow for his usual Sunday meditations, Blair had given her free rein, trusting her to find the familiar route, leaving him to his thoughts.

It had been close to four months since Blair had ridden back with Jim. Four months…and while he hadn't found complete acceptance by any stretch of the imagination, Blair could easily admit that he was carving out a place for himself here. But more astonishing than that was the realization he had grown comfortable on Jim's ranch. He liked the men he worked with…well, most of them. He liked Jim's friends, especially Simon and Daryl. He liked, no, loved helping Jim work with his senses. In that task, Blair found an excitement and enthusiasm which he'd seldom known in his life. He was comfortable with his role as Jim's…well…as Jim's guide. It was his mentor's term for the responsibility Blair had undertaken, but it was a term that seemed to fit, and it was a role he felt he had been born for.

Most of all, though, Blair liked Jim. He felt comfortable calling Jim 'friend'. He had found a place he was comfortable with, a friend he was comfortable with…and surprisingly, he realized he wanted to stay.

When he had left his village four months ago, he had had no intentions of remaining with Jim this long. He had promised himself and Jim that he would stay long enough for Jim to get his senses under control, then he would return to his people. There was also his grandfather to consider. Blair had trained for almost ten years to one day take Acrocoel's place as Shaman of the tribe. It was his duty. His place.

Blair closed his eyes, torn. Where was his place? What was his duty? To the tribe? To the Guardian? Did Jim even want him to stay? True, Jim hadn't yet mastered use of his senses, but he was well on his way, and Blair felt it was just a matter of time before the man could do it alone, without Blair's guidance, freeing Blair from his promises. Before that happened, Blair had to make some difficult decisions. He hoped his meditations in the solitude of "his" meadow would perhaps bring him to the place of the Night Eagle, a place of visions and, just maybe, answers to these questions.

A soft snort brought Blair from his musings to notice that Mak'ha had stopped. To his surprise, she had wandered from the more familiar route, veering off to a game trail that Blair thought led into a box canyon. Confused and uneasy, Blair reached down to pat the mare's neck, letting his eyes study their surroundings. He noticed the slight twitching of muscle beneath his hand with surprise.

"What is it, girl?" He spoke softly. "What's got you so jumpy?"

He didn't see anything, but that didn't necessarily mean there was nothing there. Something had spooked Mak'ha, and that something was making the back of Blair's neck tingle.

A bear, maybe? Or wildcat? Blair dismissed the idea after a moment's consideration. It just didn't feel right, somehow. Mak'ha wasn't reacting as if she'd scented something wild. She wasn't skittish, though she was at full alert. It was his ending up at the mouth of the box canyon which worried Blair the most. That could be a coincidence -- she could have wandered off on her own, or forgotten the path, but he was inclined to doubt it. This wasn't a direction Mak'ha would have chosen freely. It made more sense that she'd been pushed this way deliberately. Herded…

Damn! Realization slammed into Blair, sudden and hard.

Quinn!

It could be. It had to be! Shit!

Blair forced himself to take a couple of deep, calming breaths to combat the panic beginning to rise in his chest. This was definitely not good. He swung his head around, eyes trying to pierce the shadows around him, but it was useless. Not for the first time, he wished for Jim's vision…or hearing…or better yet, Jim, himself! Doubtful Quinn would try anything with Jim around.

Keeping his eyes moving, Blair searched for options. Whatever Quinn's intentions, they wouldn't be good. Blair had no doubt the man would be blaming him for getting fired. So he would be seeking revenge. Damn! He should have foreseen this and been ready for it. Too late for that now. What he needed now was a plan. Preferably one that left him alive and relatively intact.

Memories from the past forced their way to the surface. Images of the sheriff's face swam before him, almost choking him with fear, but he pushed them aside. He was older. More experienced. It would be different this time.

Blair's eyes followed the game trail Mak'ha had been heading down. It appeared to lead directly into the box canyon. Blair's guess was that Quinn intended to drive him into the canyon, where he'd be trapped and easy pickings. Not a pleasant prospect.

Blair closed his eyes briefly, trying to picture the trail's path, but it was useless. He'd been over this way only a couple of times, and always with Jim leading the way. He hadn't paid much attention to the trail. He opened his eyes again and studied his surroundings. First thing he needed to do was confirm that someone really was herding him into the canyon and his unease wasn't just a paranoid product of his imagination.

He turned the mare into a break in the brush, heading for a steep rise to his right. Mak'ha made easy work of the rise. Once at the top, he reined in and stood in the stirrups, scanning his back trail. At first, there was nothing, then he saw them. Three…no, four of them, working their way through the brush. They were a couple hundred yards apart, but moving in the same general direction, and…they were definitely herding. Blair had no doubt he was the prey. There was no mistaking Quinn's palomino, even from this distance.

With a sinking heart, Blair realized there was no way he could get past the men; they had him completely bottled up at the mouth of the canyon, which left entering the canyon his only option. Maybe he could find another way out, or maybe he could work his way back around--

There was a sudden shout from below. Blair spurred Mak'ha into motion again, knowing he'd been spotted. The chase was on, and Blair had no choice but to head deeper into the canyon and hope he could find another way out.

Despite the situation, Blair still had reason to be optimistic. He had a decent lead and a mount that was well suited for what he knew would be required of her. Blair was familiar with both Quinn's and Rooker's horses. Neither was half the animal Mak'ha was. In an all out race, as this was fast becoming, he was confident in his mare. The other two horses were wild cards, but Blair was still willing to stake Mak'ha against them.

Mak'ha took the terrain with ease, fighting her way through brush Blair wouldn't have thought passable. He ducked low in the saddle, but still the branches tore at him, leaving fiery trails along his arms and face. Behind him, he heard growing signs of pursuit.

A couple of shots rang out, any one of which could have probably easily taken him out, if that had been their intention. He knew Quinn was a more than fair shot. It seemed the man wanted him alive -- and that scared Blair worst of all.

Blair felt Mak'ha jerk beneath him, but couldn't spare much more than a passing notice of it. The men were bearing down on him now, closing the gap between them. Blair spotted a break in the brush leading to a rocky rise. It was littered with broken trees and shale slides. He headed for it. Mak'ha was a mountain bred horse, and took to the trail without hesitation. It was a difficult climb, with rocks and shale sliding around with each step. Once the mare slipped and seemed about to fall, but scrambled and got her feet under her again. Heart stopping minutes later, they were on top, and Blair dug his heels in, urging the mare into a quicker pace. He knew the incline would slow his pursuers, their mounts not as tough as Mak'ha. Blair murmured words of praise to his mare, grateful for the work he'd put into her. He knew she wouldn't let him down, and if there was an advantage to be had in this situation, she was it.

The ground grew rougher as they went, but still Blair wasn't overly worried. Mak'ha was sure footed and quick. Blair's only concern at this point was finding an alternate way out of this trap, or barring that, finding a way around his pursuit and back to the mouth of the canyon.

Mak'ha stumbled beneath him, scarcely regaining her footing before stumbling again. With increasing concern, Blair noted that her breathing had become labored. Fear squeezed Blair's chest. Despite her growing struggles to stay on her feet, Mak'ha continued relentlessly onward. Blair wanted nothing more than to pull up, give her a chance catch her breath, but he knew he couldn't. Not just yet. Escape became even more imperative as he realized that something was wrong with the mare.

An arroyo loomed before them, and Blair turned into it. It was more open, but he needed to find easier footing for the struggling horse. Mak'ha stumbled once more and this time Blair knew with a fearful heart that she was going down. He rolled out of the saddle as she hit the ground, his eyes and hands roaming frantically over her, looking for what he was afraid he'd find. And find it he did. She had taken the bullet low, just in front of the saddle. Blair closed his eyes in silent grief. Despite the deadly wound, she'd pushed on because he's asked it of her. Stubborn to the end. The thought both saddened and humbled Blair.

He opened his eyes and reached a trembling hand to her neck, rubbing softly. "You did good, girl. Better than I had any right to ask. You've done enough now. Rest."

There was nothing he could do for her. By accident or design, the shot had been too ideally placed. There was just too much blood. She was suffering, and though the idea horrified Blair, he knew he had it in his power to help her now, as she had tried to help him. Blair pulled his gun from its holster, and for the first time, gave silent thanks to Jim for insisting on its presence. The shot would bring on Quinn and his men, but that couldn't be helped. There was no way Blair was going to leave Mak'ha here to suffer for however long it took her to breath her last. He'd prefer to take his chances with Quinn.

Blair moved closer to Mak'ha's head, meeting her pain filled eyes as bravely as he could with his insides trembling like they were. He scratched her ears in just the place that she loved so well and was pleased to feel her trembling calm beneath his hand. A prayer came to mind, one that he'd learned as a child. He recited it now, speaking softly in his native tongue, calling on his spirit guide to protect and guide this valiant soul into the promised rest. As he reached the end of the prayer, he placed the gun against her head and, closing his eyes, pulled the trigger.

Blair allowed himself only a moment more, knowing the shot would bring Quinn. He couldn't stay here. This spot was indefensible, too open. He needed to get to higher ground, where he'd have a better chance. He grabbed his canteen from the saddle and, keeping the gun at ready, scrambled up the rocky side of the dry riverbed.

~~~

Quinn drew up at the sound of the gunshot, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. It was too far away to have been aimed at any of them. So what was the little bastard shooting at? His shadow, maybe? Quinn gave a chuckle at the thought and spurred his horse in the direction of the sound, his men right behind him.

Their horses scrambled over a bed of shale, taking much more time with the uneasy footing than Quinn's limited patience wanted to allow. Quinn saw the arroyo ahead and turned into it. Then he saw it, the reason for the gunshot, and it brought a wide grin of triumph to his face.

"Hot damn!" Rooker exclaimed, drawing up beside him. "We got the bastard now! He won't get far on foot."

Quinn nodded his agreement, his eyes scanning the surrounding area. He dug his spurs ruthlessly into the palomino's ribs. As they moved onto more open ground, Quinn slowed his pace, more out of a strong sense of self preservation than from necessity. The kid had a gun, and Quinn had no doubt he'd use it, given the opportunity. He had no intention of giving the breed the chance.

A sudden movement drew Quinn's attention, and he twisted in the saddle. An eager sneer twisted his face. The boy was scrambling up a rocky grade, headed for a grouping of rocks a hundred feet or so up. It would be an ideal spot to make a stand…if the bastard made it. Quinn quickly lifted his gun, taking an extra second to take careful aim. A quick death was not what he wanted for the breed. Quinn had the satisfaction of seeing the bullet find its intended target, but to his surprise, the boy did little more than stumble, continuing his ascent of the slope.

Angry now, Quinn signaled to one of his men. Understanding what was being asked of him, the man holstered his gun and shook out his rope.

"Jes' like ropin' strays," the wiry man muttered with a laugh. His horse sprang forward at the touch of his heel, and he quickly closed the distance between them before letting the lasso fly. It was a nice throw, landing perfectly around the boy's upper arms. The man's horse stopped abruptly, and he pulled hard, locking the rope and bringing the breed to the ground in a cloud of dust.

~~~

Blair rolled as he fell, coming up on his knees, but not quite making it to his feet before the man yanked hard on the rope again. He hit the ground again with a grunt of pain as fire shot down his left arm where Quinn's bullet had gone in. Before he could make another effort, they were on him. Blair struggled futilely against the hands that pulled him to his feet, securing his hands before him with the very rope that had brought him down. Once he was satisfactorily trussed up, the men backed away, and Blair was looking into Quinn's cold, hard gaze. He knew then that he was looking at his death. This man fully intended to kill him. It was what might be coming first that struck terror into Blair.

Quinn's next words justified his fear. "Let the games begin…"

~~~

Conclusion