Oak '05: The Slow Dance

A chilling wind flew across the desert, pushing and pushing to whistle though hollows and whine over ridgelines. Tack and coats ruffled indignantly under the constant punishment, exposed skin pinked before subsiding to gray-blue, horses shifting restlessly against the unnerving aggravation and to avoid the bite of churned up dust.

Neither rider felt it - the wind, the cutting chill, the maddening shrill shrieks as it tore over them and on and on into the land.

They were shadows of men now - shadows only - gaunt and pale and sinister hard. Their anger was so deep it was only fathomless cold, settled far into that place where the fire of spirit and soul would once reside.

It had overtaken Vin completely, without choice, without mercy. Chris had submitted willingly, reveling in this proxy to his long held vengeance.

He well knew this red pulse vibrating his body, an easy, familiar companion. It appeased the restlessness that saturated his innards with its unremitting persistence. It had started up again in earnest near a week ago now, flaring to scorching life from the place he usually kept it buried within, wrested from hibernation the day he'd woken to find Ezra dead and Vin saddling up with murder glinting in the startlingly blue eyes.

The bruising pace through whipping dust and blinding sun and frigid nights hadn't dulled it.

It throbbed in him, delicious anger at last finding an equally delicious vent.

It lived in Vin, permutated and singular to the man but every bit as merciless.

It thrummed between them, driving them on and on, without sleep or food or forgiveness.

Pony stumbled and Chris drew up, momentarily shortening in his seat to take the weight from the stirrups. The horse grumbled but didn't falter in pressing on.

There was no good answer to Ezra's death. No gunfight, no blameless accident, no heart stopping in sleep for a well-aged man. Just three ignorant wretches who got too drunk and stretched too thin at the poker table, come back in the cover of those hours that aren't night and aren't morning, robbing Ezra of what they'd lost and teaching him a permanent lesson for good measure.

The last Chris had ever seen of Ezra alive the man had demurred from another angrily demanded game, hip sidled against Vin's at the bar, low conversation hummed between them. The dismissed opponents had skulked from the saloon, sullen and defeated.

It was a tableau that caused Chris no concern; he'd gone to his bed without a second thought. Ezra and Vin were capable, certainly, and would see to one another, even more certain.

Chris shook his head but didn't sigh.

By this time the Seven all knew what Ezra and Vin were to each other and no one gave it overmuch thought or mind. It just was, like everything else between the lot of them. None of them had sought confirmation or details to their knowing; none had any doubts as to why Vin had sold his wagon to some needy homesteaders going on years now.

Years.

The word rattled around inside, making the sting of Ezra's loss bite deeper still.

He glanced at Vin and wondered again, wondered without asking. What had happened that night after he'd gone to bed. What had left Ezra vulnerable. What burden of blame had Vin taken on that was undeserved and wholly understandable.

Chris hadn't asked those questions the morning of. He hadn't asked them as they'd ridden out of town, hell bent on this execution of justice almost at its end. He wasn't about to start asking now.

Still. He wondered. Wondered but would never ask, just as no one had of him.

Wondered but would never be told, for it wasn't in Vin's ability to tell it.

The wind broke into his pondering, a hot laceration of cold against his cheek. He rubbed the well of water from his squinted eyes and shifted in the saddle while Pony ambled dutifully along, the two an ever-present shadow to Vin's unerring lead.

Chris was a good accompaniment to Vin in this time; he was no stranger to the vengeful rage that was now Vin's sole companion, taking the place of Ezra in Vin's broken heart.

Buck had demanded to go, filled with his unique brand of ire and beautiful rage. A wrong had been done, a personal wrong, and there was a mighty price to be paid.

Chris had talked him out of it. In the end this was better, eventually and grudgingly agreed.

Buck had stayed behind, that loyal, compassionate fury put to better use seeing to a devastated JD and Josiah on a long and longer bender and helping Nathan put on a good front for the shell-shocked town, waiting for the cable sent to Maude to be answered.

Besides. Chris would need Buck's particular learned wisdom once back home again; the red pulse would seethe in burst fits uncontrollably otherwise.

There was one left. One that would be brought to an end before sunlight kissed the earth. Chris salivated for this final reckoning.

The first two had been taken out was from afar after they'd caught scent of the trail and made the three, picked off by Vin's sure aim a day apart. After each Vin had mounted back up without pause, the two setting off again with that untrammeled grim determination.

Chris well knew they were continuing on an errand of murder.

It didn't bother him at all.

After each kill they'd ridden close to inspect Vin's handiwork. There were things to be retrieved, flesh to be taken the full measure of a pound. He'd glared at the dead men as Pony sidestepped the corpses. Gotten off easy, to his thinking, one bullet lodged in the base of the skull. But Vin's revenge was of a different color than Chris', calculating and certain with glimpses of tribal savagery.

The faraway kills ensured the survivors' elongated suffering, the turmoil of knowing they were marked and hunted. He sneered meanly. It was an aspect he condoned.

All said and done it didn't really matter to Chris. They'd just keep haunting the fleeing bastards' steps. Close contact or dropped like a foaming dog - either way, the men were certain to die. So long as they did, Chris would breathe a satisfied man.

He'd considered being repulsed by the scalps that had been taken, the bloody pelts unmistakable as human that flopped against Peso's rump, but the revulsion never came.

He knew one more would be added. He was looking forward to seeing it, flopping there with the others.

They'd buried Ezra in the hills above the Seminole village, freed him in the place he'd run off into so long ago. But this time Ezra wouldn't be making a dashing, reckless return. Shit - if only Chris could ball him out for it.

It was a spot they could all get to and pay their respects. A place Vin could slip in and out of without being seen, if he wanted. Chris doubted he would; death in a box held nothing for Vin. The generous lock of dark hair bundled in the small, burgundy silk purse hanging from his neck would be enough.

Chris didn't know if he'd ever go to the grave again either. He was settled to the notion that Ezra wouldn't hold it against him.

Vin pulled Peso to a short stop. Chris tugged Pony's reins so they stopped a step later. He followed the direction of Vin's gaze, neatly focusing in on the dark bulk of a horse's outline and the bump of a man sleeping almost beneath it.

He met Vin's eyes and nodded, his left hand keeping the reins, his right falling onto the butt of his gun. Vin was already riding ahead, leaving Chris to trail behind and lay in wait, take the man out if need be.

Ideally Vin would dispatch of him. In whatever way Vin saw fit.

Chris' breath ghosted around him, icy billows that shrouded his face. They continued forward, patient, sure gait following Vin's pell-mell swath. From Pony's back he watched Vin fly, leaping from Peso with a curdling scream that taloned over the waking desert, shattering its way through the wind.

Then arms and the silver highlights of the long, unsheathed knife went to their mad work, tearing through the last man before even a desperate plea or oath of surprise could be whimpered.

Chris came about and slid from Pony, adrenaline unspent but answered, his muscles and nerves standing on end as he watched.

Vin cursed and showed his teeth; the only word Chris understood was Ezra. The rest he easily understood without need for words.

He waited for the final gasp of air, pushed close enough to ensure he heard it. The wet rattle skittered over him; Chris' lips split and he savored the sound.

The last man was deservedly ended, face a paralyzed mask of terror, the dust beneath him thickening to a darker cast with the continuing spread of his spilt blood.

Vin's breath slowed where he sat, poised on his bent legs, straddling the body. His fingers unclenched and the man's head thunked into the dirt, then he stood and remained motionless over the body, staring without seeing.

Chris let him be; this cold comfort wouldn't outlast the coming tendrils of dawn's ushered sunlight.

Endless seconds passed then Vin was moving, body sharp with deadly efficiency and surety of action. He rifled over the body and through the clothes, checking it, seeking.

Vin found things he was looking for, thin line of his bleak expression pulling tighter, eyes silently dying that much more. He pocketed something, a small flash of gold that brought a sudden insight of disquiet to settle in Chris' gut.

Chris dropped his head and closed his eyes, remembrances of Ezra's pretty face ravaged, unrecognizable and bloody floating past his shuttered gaze.

When he looked again Vin was waiting, holding something for him to take. Chris opened his hand and closed his fingers around the smooth weight that snugged into his palm. He accepted the pocket watch, not arguing with Vin's choice for him to keep it. Chris had always admired it, had made no secret of that admiration, and he was glad to have it.

Glad for the remembrance, glad for the article itself.

Chris stepped away to face the sunrise. Vin finished the job of searching the body and saddlebags; Chris heard the wet rasp, Vin's guttural exclamation of vengeance and victory. Blond curls would be joining gray and brown.

He felt at his shoulder when Vin came alongside. He didn't look over.

They stood in wordless sentry for a long time, light from the sun creeping over the land to gild the tops of the buttes surrounding them, the shadows beneath warming to purple. The wind pushed them, keening in harsh wails over the desolate dust and rocks, an actively mourning counterpart to their starkly held silence.

Then he felt it. He knew. It was time.

Chris turned on his heel. Blood stained Vin's nails and buckskins. He wouldn't have minded a few stains of his own, but they weren't his to earn.

Vin looked at him, hollow and cold, still his friend.

They shared a long handshake - that old familiar warrior's grasp - fingers tightening and tightening like vices to express all they couldn't bring themselves to say.

Eventually Vin pulled away with a nod. Chris had known all along he'd return alone.

They mounted up then sat, waiting, as if this moment could be more than was possible.

Finally Chris fingered the brim of his hat.

Words came to him - avoid Tuscosa, don't get caught; we'll always be friends, all of us and you and me; I'm sorry, so very sorry; I know this pain, it will never fade; find someone else, but there is no one else; I'll remember Ezra, I'll remember you; maybe someday, someday - but he spoke none.

Vin knew it all anyway.

The words were useless, despite wanting to be said. Chris understood too well what would dance around Vin's every step from here on. It was a fate they now shared.

A last look then Vin half-smiled, sorrowful and resigned, lightened with acknowledgement and kinship and thanks, slow blue gaze beaten without utter defeat.

Then Peso spurred forward and they were riding away.

Chris didn't raise a hand, just let them go.

He wondered if Vin's self-imposed exile of cold oblivion would ever find an end. His lips curled, a rueful grimace more than a smile. As if his ever would.

Vin's solitary form continued to blend with the far horizon, light cloud of dust from Peso's hooves lifting in dull clouds before being dragged across the land by the ceaseless, chasing wind. The rising sun shimmered in low, undulating waves of heat as it banked the earth in a blinding display of white-yellow, distorting horse and rider.

Chris watched until they were nothing more than a blur he thought he could discern against the rocks without being certain.

Long before his eyes closed as he whispered a final somber, silent goodbye they'd been gone.

He leaned into Pony and they turned away, heading southeast, a pole apart from Vin's empty pursuit.

He pushed back the red pulse, calming it for now, an ability honed over the years. He had a final job left for putting Ezra to rest.

Chris would return home for both of them, tell the boys what they already knew of this past week, of Vin, then he'd figure out what next on the dawn of a new day.

End