Archive of Our Own ^beta

First there was a pair of twins with skin the color of buttermilk. They looked just as good walking away from a man as they did walking toward him.

Then there was a shooting contest in Dodge. 'Course that was no real contest.

Then there was raven-haired Mabel, a trick rider in a traveling show. There were curves a-plenty for a man to hold onto there, yes sir.

Then there was "You ever been out to Californ-ee-ya?" followed by "I tell you some of them pretty little senoritas are as spicy as those itty bitty red peppers they got." This was punctuated with an appreciative "Hoo-ee!" for proper emphasis.

Vin Tanner clenched his hands on the reins and gritted his teeth against the urge to respond—in the name of friendship and the fact that he already had one price on his head.

Then Buck Wilmington said, "You know this reminds me of the time me and Chris went…"

Vin swore a long oath in a language he was certain Buck wouldn't understand and then turned to his traveling companion and said as amiably as he was still able, "How 'bout we take a rest?"

Buck obligingly turned his big grey off the trail.

Vin had meant the damn jawing. But yeah, the horses, too.

He followed as Buck led the way to a shady spot near a stream.

That's when Vin discovered Buck even talked to his dang horse. Not that Vin didn't like his own black. The beast got more treats than was probably wise or good for it. Hell, he even occasionally gave it some affectionate words of praise or less affectionate words of reproof. But, while Vin made efficient work of watering his mount, and loosening up the saddle girth, Buck seemed to be carrying on some kind of conversation over there, taking the occasional flick of the ear or motion of the head as some kind of horsey reply. Vin shook his head.

It was hardly believable that only a few hours had gone by since he and Buck had left Four Corners carrying a satchel of papers the Judge had to have right away. What was so damn important they needed two men just in case some unfortunate event caused a delay, Vin couldn't even begin to guess. But he was beginning to wonder if he couldn't make it look like Peso had pulled up lame and convince Buck to go on without him.

Vin had had ample time to think about it, and he was absolutely certain he had never met a man who could run on at the mouth like Buck Wilmington. He had more stories than a fancy city library. Only Buck's stories were nearly always about the same man: himself. There was a whole series about Buck Wilmington and his amorous adventures with women—all kinds of women, apparently, which Vin didn't believe half of. Then there were some tales of Buck Wilmington and his daring exploits in the wild, wild West. Of these Vin was plenty skeptical, too. The stories of Buck's evidently unsupervised, wild and misspent youth Vin more or less believed, though some of them made Vin cringe for the sheer stupidity.

Vin wondered if he was supposed be impressed. He wondered if people were usually impressed. Impressed was not the term Vin would use. Frankly, between the stupidity and the runnin' around with other people's wives and daughters, it was a wonder Buck had survived this long. Maybe it was enough that Buck impressed himself.

And that got Vin to wonderin' about what kind of man has to impress himself.

Finishing well ahead of his traveling companion, Vin plopped himself down against a tree trunk and promptly pulled his hat down over his eyes. He didn't know if it was even possible for a man's ears to be tired, but if it was, then his ears surely were. He feigned sleep and figured Buck was plenty smart enough to get the point.

It was a short rest. They weren't more than a few minutes further down the trail when Buck said, "Say! I was just about to tell you about the time when Chris and I rode out to…"

"Buck," Vin said finally, "it ain't hardly possible you got a whole story left that I ain't already heard."

That made Buck laugh right out loud, the hardware on his tack jingling merrily along with him.

"Hell, Vin," Buck said smugly, "You ain't even heard the half of it."

Vin glowered at some scrub in the distance and reminded Buck there was always the return trip.

"That your subtle way of tellin' me to shut up?" Buck asked, and Vin tried to read from his tone just how much of an offense it would be if he said yes.

He hadn't known Buck Wilmington all that long yet. Wouldn't have known him at all, 'cept for that chance meeting with Chris Larabee that started with an exercise in utter stupidity in goin' out to that Seminole Village to fight a fight that wasn't none of their business and ended with another piece of stupidity—them all signing on to be "Peacekeepers" in the town of Four Corners.

Peacekeepers, Vin snorted to himself. At the moment, more like messenger boys.

Among the little Vin did know, however, two points seemed most important. First, the man knew his way around the shootin' end of a gun and was damn fast and deadly with that pistol tied down to his leg. And second, he was an old friend of Chris Larabee's and Chris trusted the man. And Vin, for all he hadn't known either man long, still trusted Chris.

"Didn't think I was bein' all that subtle," Vin replied. He doubted Buck would up and shoot him, but if he did, well, then Vin's ears would get a nice long rest.

Buck didn't shoot him, just chuckled amiably and told his horse, "Hear that? Ol' Vin wants me to shut up."

Then surprise of all surprises Buck did just that.

For a time.

Vin had been thinking what a hell of a thing it was to be thrown in among six different men, with a price on his head and all. Vin knew five hundred dollars was a damn sight more than some men would see all at once in their whole lives. But even with that tempting possibility sitting right in their midst, it was amazing how absolutely certain Vin was that none of them—not the fast-talking swindler who loved money above just about all else, not the naïve greenhorn who believed a lot of things he probably shouldn't, not the ex-slave turned healer with a self-righteous streak that might yet be his undoing, not the amiable gunslinger riding right behind him, and sure as hell not the preacher or Chris, 'cause far as Vin could tell neither of them gave two hoots about money anyway—not one of them was about to shoot him in the back for a chance at that bounty. It was a hell of a thing, after laying low so long and watching over his shoulder, to suddenly find himself among friends he could trust.

Crazier still, to find himself working for a federal circuit judge. Sure he was a glorified hired gun. But it was honest work anyway. And nice to know Judge Travis believed Vin didn't murder Jess Kincaid.

Then somewhere between the bird calls and soft clop of horse hooves on the dirt trail, between one step and the next, Vin heard it. Soft as a morning breeze, and indistinguishable from it, except it seemed to hold a rhythm. At first it was just a sound, intermittent and indistinct. Then it grew clearer, until Vin could trace and follow the rising and falling of the notes, verse and chorus, bar for bar.

Buck was whistling.

Quietly.

And probably only meant for his own ears and his horse's.

But it was there. Persistent. Just inside the range of Vin's hearing. Just distracting enough to keep him from listening to the soothing sounds of birdcalls or distant farmyards. Just loud enough to keep him from following a coherent thought. Just quiet enough that he had no real cause to complain.

He felt his neck muscles bunch up nevertheless, and he nudged his horse up into a trot.

The more vigorous pace apparently stoked up Buck's enthusiasm too, because soon enough he left off with the whistling.

But it wasn't silent.

The sound that came next was so unexpected, Vin's ears practically pricked up to figure out if he was really hearing what he thought he was hearing. Just as soft, but more melodic, and with a rhythm matched to the cadence of the big grey.

Buck was singing.

For the life of him Vin hadn't figured Buck could sing. 'Course it would figure Buck would think he could sing. Not that Vin would say it out loud—Lord knew Wilmington thought a hell of a lot of himself already, and it weren't like anyone was ever gonna pay to hear him—but Buck Wilmington had a surprisingly decent sort of voice, pleasant in its own way. He could even carry a tune.

Grudgingly it grew on Vin that it wasn't half bad travelin' along like a rolling breeze, swaying atop a good horse, all surrounded by earth and sky and warm sun and cool breezes, and a little music to top it off.

Hell, for bein' out on the trail it was downright pleasant.

For a time.

It got less pleasant—and even a little worrisome—when Vin figured out Buck might know almost as many damn songs as he did stories. And not all the songs were fit to be sung out loud, at least not out on the road where good folks passing by or out working in their fields might get wind of some of them verses. 'Course Buck didn't know all the words to all the songs, but that didn't appear to bother him over much.

By the next rest stop, Vin had decided he thoroughly hated goddamned Stephen Foster's goddamned guts. "Oh, Susanna", the "Beautiful Dreamer" and old Stephen C. Foster himself could ride their Camptown Racehorses straight to blazes.

Wilmington let out an enormous sigh of satisfaction as he swung down out of the saddle. A few minutes later, after the horses were watered and ground tied, he let out another one, this one even longer and more satisfied, as he wet his bandanna and wiped down his face. Buck remarked on what a pretty little spot this was. Then he was too busy having a drink to say anything at all for the next few minutes.

Singing, apparently, left a man feeling parched.

This time Vin stayed back and spent several extra minutes with his horse. He reflected that maybe Wilmington's kind of crazy was catching because he caught himself stroking his gelding's ears and asking him if the singing was making him crazy, too. Buck's big grey whickered and nodded its knobby head up and down. Vin was pretty sure he could read it as "Imagine how I feel" if he had a mind to.

If he caught himself singing Stephen Goddamn Foster, he'd slit his own damn throat.

By the time Vin went down to the streamside, the horses were standing companionably close to each other and snuffling in the late spring grass, and Buck had those long gangly limbs of his spread out in the grass and his face turned up to the sun. His eyes were closed and his mouth was open in a broad smile.

With a practiced eye, Vin judged they were more than halfway now and likely to make it before full dark. Even if they were delayed, the moon was set to rise just about when evening fell. It was only a day past full and the few drifting clouds would do little to block the pearly light tonight. There was less danger staying in town than out on the trail. Plus, their contract with Judge Travis paid them room and board. A bed and a hot meal on the Judge's dime sweetened the pot.

It was also a good bet he and Buck would part company for the evening.

That was something else Vin had learned about Buck Wilmington in their short space of acquaintance. Buck wasn't coming back to share space in a hotel room with one of his bandy-legged ornery cusses of friends when there was a better offer to be had. And a town generally had plenty of the kind of "offers" that interested Buck.

If he chose, Vin could get that big ol' hotel bed all to himself. And maybe he'd get Buck's breakfast, too, since there was a good chance the man wouldn't show his bleary-eyed face again until it was near enough time to ride out.

His canteen full, and his ears and his backside rested, Vin straightened up out of the grass. "Hey," he said.

Buck didn't move except to alter the size of his grin.

"Time to get movin'," Vin said.

Buck still didn't move.

Vin thought about nudging the man up with the toe of his boot, but instead he said, "We get goin' now, we can be in the saloon in time for the evenin' to get started."

That got Buck moving.

Vin knew how Buck and Chris both liked a good saloon. 'Course to the two of them, "good" didn't have much to do with the quality of the whiskey. It was more about how likely it was that a bunch of twitchy cowboys were gonna start a ruckus. Twitchy cowboys got under Vin's skin, made him itchy, made him keep an eye on his backtrail and the route to the door. Twitchy cowboys made Chris's lips curl up into that little smirk Vin had come to recognize as an omen of potential mayhem. That smirk, Vin noted, never failed to make Buck bust out in a grin born of pure deviltry.

Thick as thieves, Chris and Buck. Vin knew they had known each other for a good number of years, had ridden around some together. Chris would say they worked some jobs together. Buck would say they had left a trail of destruction and broken hearts behind them. Buck had seen Chris settled with a home and family and had been there to see Chris lose them, too. Chris didn't talk about it. In private moments, and the right need or mood, Buck might tell a man a little.

The two of 'em could bitch at each other hard enough that Vin expected blows, which was sayin' a hell of a lot when one man kept himself and his thoughts as buttoned up as Chris did and the other man was willing to goad to the point of violence one of the fastest damn shots Vin had ever seen

Vin supposed there were different kinds of friendship. He'd sure as hell never had a friendship like that. Except for knowing what he did, Vin wasn't even sure he would have called them "friends". Yet even from the very moment Buck rolled out a window and landed in the dust at Chris's feet, in his underwear and with every reason to be spittin' mad—killin' mad—Vin couldn't miss the instant change in Buck's attitude when he spotted Chris. Even then, there had been such familiarity and ease. The reason Chris had been so dead certain this Wilmington feller wasn't going to shoot both of them for pullin' a mean and dirty trick like that. There was history between those two and they worked together easy, like a good double hitch.

That in itself was a wonder. That it had lasted so long was another cause for wonder. Chris, who could be silent as a post and still as the grave. Chris who said little and listened much, who watched and waited and then let his actions do the speaking for him. And Buck who wasted more breath and spit and air and time than anyone Vin had ever known. Buck who laughed at his own bad jokes. Buck who told tall tales and spun yarns and liked to be the center of everyone's attention. Buck who jawed so much it made Vin's face hurt in sympathy. How the hell did Chris stand it?

The bolt of understanding hit him so hard, he yanked his horse's head up when his hands jerked. The gelding voiced his complaint and sidestepped.

Whatever Buck had been saying there behind him, or singing maybe—Vin had lost track—he stopped long enough to ask, "You all right there, Hoss?"

"Fine," Vin answered quickly. He gave the horse his head and patted the long neck in apology.

"Son of a bitch," Vin muttered. If Buck heard, he didn't comment. Vin wasn't talking about Buck anyway.

Chris's last instructions, as he stood on the boardwalk outside the sheriff's office had been, in total: "We'll expect you back in a couple of days. Wire if there's trouble." and "Watch your backs."

But just as Vin took hold of the reins to turn up the street, that crazy kind of smirk lit on Larabee's face. He nodded once at Wilmington's back, heading toward the end of town. "Have a good trip," Larabee said, and grinned a grin that seemed far more amused than was warranted.

Vin wondered about that for about a half a second as he turned up the street, before he got distracted by four hours of nonstop noise from the man beside him. Now he knew just exactly what that grin had meant.

Larabee knew exactly what Vin was in for when he left for Red Fork with Buck. Larabee was a malicious bastard, pure and simple.

While Vin had been having his revelation, Buck had overtaken him, and was now up ahead, swaying along in the saddle. This produced the accidental discovery that it was harder to hear him from back there. So Vin let his horse drop back another length or two and took advantage of the quiet to plot revenge.

They drew up on a hill a ways out of town, long enough to gauge the lay of the land, as it were. Nothing out of the ordinary. Businesses, including a large livery, lined a broad straight main street. Houses and few secondary building formed the neat lines of streets to either side of the main thoroughfare. A few wagons stood about, by which Vin and Buck identified at least one mercantile. A row of patient-looking horses tied to several hitching rails indicated the presence of at least one saloon. They could read the sign for the hotel from the hill. Vin hoped the hotel boasted a decent restaurant. If the judge was payin', there was no need to stick to beans.

An elbow to his ribs jostled him. He scowled his protest, but Buck was pointing down the hill. A small crowd had spilled out the doors of one of the buildings, spitting forth two men who fell onto each other in the street and rolled around in the dust for a spell, kicking and flailing and probably cussing enough to turn the air blue. Two or three women watched from the boardwalk and another one leaned over an upper balcony for a better view. There was no mistaking what kind of woman comes out of a saloon to watch a brawl.

"Looks like my kind of town," Buck said gleefully.

Vin squinted. Another figure was making his way through the crowd. With the help of a pair of tall fellers who might be deputies, the shorter man reached down to the men on the ground and hauled both of them up by their collars.

"Is that Judge Travis?" Vin asked.

"Looks like," Buck replied.

Vin shook his head.

"Like I said," Buck said, turning his horse and his head to give Vin about as smug a smirk as Vin had ever seen, "my kind of town."

Since the judge was clearly occupied at the moment, Vin and Buck skipped the sheriff's office and went straight to the livery. Buck flipped a skinny kid a couple of coins in exchange for making sure his big grey got some extra attention in the straw and grain department. If he did that, Buck promised him another shiny pair of coins. The boy nodded vigorously, repeated Buck's instructions back to him and promised he'd look after the horse "real good."

Vin preferred to take care of his own. Serve Buck right if that big-eyed little boy took it in his head to run off with them coins a-jingling in his pocket and leave Buck's grey to fend for itself, the rest of the money be damned.

Buck leaned on the top rail of an empty stall nearby, grinning insolently and watching Vin work, while the boy came running right back with a barrow of fresh straw. He forked it into the next stall with a pitchfork taller than he was.

Buck jerked his head meaningfully toward the boy. Beat Vin how Buck could do that, take some kid he never laid eyes on before at his word. But looking at the kid work, Buck had bet right. 'Course Vin had trusted Chris right off, too, and Larabee looked a damn sight less trustworthy than this kid.

Vin finished brushing down his horse as the kid climbed up onto the wooden sides of the stall to start brushing down the big grey.

Buck jerked his head again, with a lot less grin and a lot more earnestness in it now.

Confound Buck and the fool ideas he got in his head. Now he wanted Vin to dole out his pocket money, too.

The kid did look kind of skinny.

The boy grinned a wide gap-toothed grin at the new coin in his hand and listened intently, brow furrowed, as Vin gave instructions for the morning and promised him another coin, same as the first, when those instructions were carried out.

"Yes, sir," the boy said earnestly. He slid the money into his pocket. "I'll have them both ready."

"Good lad," Buck said heartily.

Vin waited till the kid wasn't looking to level a black glower at Buck.

But Buck wasn't looking. His smile was all soft around the edges. And Vin didn't know whether Buck was looking at the kid or at his horse.

He didn't ask. He shouldered up his saddle bag and herded Buck toward the street.

"Nice kid," Buck said.

"You better hope so," Vin said. "'Else he done suckered us out of a whiskey apiece."

Buck chuckled and clapped Vin on the back. Vin flinched. That was something else he didn't think he'd ever get used to. A man ought to keep his distance. It was polite. Respectable. Safe. He shouldn’t just thump a fellow or elbow him or put a hand on his shoulder, or get right up next to him and start talking, whenever he had a mind to. Whenever possible, Vin liked to keep a little distance between himself and other people. Unless he did the invitin', he preferred to have plenty of space to draw that mare's leg he kept strapped against his thigh. Just in case.

The human race had given him plenty of reasons to abide by that rule. It was a lesson learned the hard way.

Guess Buck didn't need a whole lot of room to draw his pistol. Or maybe the human
race had been easier on ol' Buck. Maybe ol' Buck was just a slow learner.

At the saloon, Buck veered off.

Vin reached out and grabbed hold of the man's arm, surprising himself. He dropped his hand.

Buck, unoffended, looked back at him questioningly.

"We got to deliver them papers the Judge wanted."

Buck looked pained. "Just how many men does it take to hand over some papers?"

"Two," Vin said, "Or you sure as hell coulda come alone."

Buck's mouth twisted in a sour line. "Vin," he said, "there's a room full of lovely ladies just beyond those doors, and I aim to make their lives a little less lonely tonight."

Vin scowled at him. "Tell you what," he said darkly, "you hand over some of them coins you're so free and easy with for my trouble, and then I'll think about doin' what we get paid to do while you go off and ease some of that loneliness."

Hell if Buck didn't look like he might have thought that was a serious offer.

"Oh hell," Buck said after a moment's hesitation and let his boots scuff in the dirt street. He looked back and growled impatiently. "Well hurry it up then. There's only so much time left before we gotta set out again."

Vin shook his head. "What's your hurry?" he teased, catching up to Buck.

Buck grinned wickedly. "I gotta get started makin' some stories you ain't heard yet."

Buck's loud chortle floated back to where Vin stood, dead in his tracks. Oh Lord, he was gonna earn that price on his head when he killed Wilmington. Or maybe he'd just kill himself. No, by all rights, if someone ought to be killed it was Chris Larabee. That's who Vin was gonna kill. Slow. And painful. With Stephen Foster playin' accompaniment.

Less than half a beer later, Vin had to admit Red Fork sure did seem to be Buck's kind of town. Leastways Buck sure enough looked in his element. He stood with his back to the bar, half surrounded and crowded against the wooden top. It made that warning space between Vin's shoulder blades itch. Buck had his arms draped over the shoulders of a pair of girls, one decorating his left side and one decorating his right, his hands far from his gun and a mug of beer at his elbow. Some drunken cowboys were egging on a scraggly looking fellow who was jeering at whatever story Buck was trying to tell, and Buck kept that big jovial grin while he gave back as good as he got. Vin was hard pressed to decide if it was time to slip out the door while there was an opening, or whether he should stick around in case Buck's mouth got him into trouble. He didn't relish the idea of the Judge collarin' the two of them in the street. He had a nice bed in a nice hotel and he didn't want to trade it in for a cot in a jail cell with them other two drunks.

Sure as shootin', the drunk one got hot under the collar and went after Buck.

Vin's hand twitched toward his mare's leg.

The drunk was unsteady on his feet and Buck caught him, flailing arms and all. "Whoa there," Buck said easily. "I thought we was just havin' a nice friendly conversation."

The drunk staggered a little.

Buck hauled him up by the lapels and off balance. "Friend," he said. "I think you could use a chair."

In one swift move, Buck spun the man toward a nearby table, where a small group was playing cards.

The men looked up startled to see Buck plowing toward them, shoving the incoherently hollering scraggly feller unsteadily ahead of him.

A mousy little man in a bowler hat occupied the nearest seat, and Vin saw his eyes get big and round the moment he realized Buck was pushing his drunken cargo straight for him. The little man leaped to his feet at almost the second Buck plunked his adversary down on the wooden seat.

"Thank you, friend," Buck said pleasantly.

The other men at the table levered themselves right up and away from the table.

The drunken man reeled a moment and looked confused about how he got into a chair when he was just over at the bar a minute before trying to get into a fight.

Buck leaned in and inspected the man's eyes at close range with a look of concern so sincere Vin might almost have believed it.

"You okay there?" Buck asked.

The drunk tried to reply but his tongue wouldn't work. He tried again.

He tried to get up. Buck held him down with one hand. "Tell you what," Buck offered amiably. "You stay put in that chair and I'll buy you another shot of…" he looked around, "…whatever you were having. Does that seem fair?"

The scraggly cowboy moaned something Vin couldn’t catch from his viewing area by the bar, but it sounded more like "Getoffme" than agreement.

Buck's hand pressed down more firmly. "You don't want to get up anyway," he said.

He signaled with one hand for someone to bring him a drink.

Vin grabbed one from the girl next to him who looked him up and down in the space of a heartbeat and smiled a smile full of promises at what she saw.

Vin thumped the glass down on the table next to the drunk.

"Thank you kindly," Buck said.

The cowboy reached for the shot. "Now wait just a minute," Buck said agreeably and waved his hand for another one.

The woman who had been standing next to Vin brought this one and sidled up close to Vin to watch as Buck put one shot in the cowboy's hand and raised the other one.

"To…" Buck looked a little bit baffled. "What's your name?" he asked, giving the cowboy a little shake. His whiskey sloshed a bit.

The cowboy answered, but this time it sounded a lot more like "Gotohell."

Buck looked back to the group the cowboy had been standing with. And Vin noticed how they seemed to be enjoying the show. Obligingly, they shouted back a name.

"To Frank," Buck called out, addressing the bar and looking around to see that glasses were properly raised. "A man of keen wit and questionable morals."

"To Frank!" the gathered crowd roared.

The cowboy grew an inane sort of smile, downed the shot and levered himself clumsily out of his chair.

Somehow he fell over Buck's big foot and ended up on the floor. Where he stayed.

A minute later he was snoring.

Problem solved.

Buck went right back to his spot by the bar and Vin relaxed.

By now the girl was standing right up against Vin, and her perfume had begun to overpower the stale smell of spills and unwashed bodies. She was clearly making her offer and the goods Vin saw were right nice.

On the other hand, the hotel room was well-aired and the bed was plenty big enough for a man to stretch out in. And the linens were clean, which was probably a lot more than he could say for this woman's room upstairs.

And just like that the pull of a fine clean bed was reason to go find a bathhouse and wash off the trail dust. 'Course the hotel would have sent up for him, but Vin didn't like the idea of payin' out that much money for water and soap.

The woman wasn't going to be wanting for customers, Vin was sure. Especially as the moment he politely declined what she was plainly offering, she attached herself right back to Buck's side, tucked under his arm where she had been mere minutes ago.

"There you are," Buck grinned at her. "Now what did we do with your friend?"

Vin shook his head. Just like that, Buck Wilmington was everybody's good old pal. And he'd given them all something to talk about come morning. He had already been stood another beer and a bottle and was entertaining half the saloon by the time Vin finally finished his beer, slid his empty glass away from him and went off to find that bath.

Raucous laughter floated out the Saloon doors behind him. One of the girls called a good night to him before a loud voice sent her sashaying inside to the tune of her high pitched giggle.

Yep, it was a wonder Buck had managed to live this long. But Lord, he put on a good show.

It was a dragging and bleary-eyed Buck Wilmington who finally showed up at the livery. The morning was half gone and the skinny kid was getting a little antsy. Vin figured he was starting to worry that he'd never see the rest of his promised pennies.

Buck looked to have a headache the size of a horse. He didn't even try to hide his wince when he mounted up.

"You look like hell," Vin observed.

"Well that just ain't possible," Buck replied, but it lacked a certain amount of conviction. He squeezed his eyes shut and pulled down his hat brim as they rode out into the sunlight.

For a few moments Vin thought the rolling gait of the horse might make Buck sick, and he planned his retreat strategy if Buck should suddenly lean over and start puking up all of last night's whiskey.

But Buck got a hold of himself again.

He looked a pitiful mess. And Vin almost felt sorry for him.

But the impulse passed.

Instead he opened his saddlebags and held out some bacon sandwiched between two halves of a biscuit he had saved when Buck didn't show up to eat.

"Breakfast?" Vin asked cheerfully.

Buck turned a shade paler and a shade greener and looked away.

Vin pulled up next to him and allowed himself a satisfied yawn and a stretch. "Red Fork's got itself one mighty fine hotel," Vin said. "I tell you I slept like the dead."

Buck squinted one eye at him and then looked away.

"And the restaurant? This morning they brought me a mess of potatoes…"

"Vin," Buck interrupted hoarsely.

"Yeah Buck?" Vin asked innocently.

"Head," Buck guttered out.

"Your head hurts?" Vin asked incredulous. He held out the biscuit again. "Maybe you just need somethin' to eat."

"Vin," Buck said, his voice a little more strangled and a little more urgent.

"All right," Vin said easily, dropping back a few paces so Buck couldn't see him grin.

Buck fell into a slump-shouldered heap, rocking miserably along with his mount. He sure must have had himself a hell of a good time last night to be this hung over and hurting now.

At least he hadn't ended up in jail.

Vin grinned wickedly. Now that would have been a story.

The first ten bars of "Beautiful Dreamer" strung a line of high silvery notes into the morning air.

Buck gave a distinct moan, and offered Vin anything, anything he wanted if he would just not make any more damn noise until Buck's head stopped hurting.

Vin laughed heartily at that. And eventually agreed.

They straggled back into Four Corners by moonlight and firelight.

A shadow detached itself from a wall as they entered the town's main street. Vin heard him before he saw him, but Buck flinched hard.

"That's a good way to get shot, old Pard," he muttered.

The shadow cracked a white smile and stepped farther into the light.

"Vin. Buck." Chris greeted them. "No troubles?"

"None to speak of," Buck said easily.

Vin could see enough of Chris's face that he recognized what sort of a grin Larabee wore when he said, "Good trip?"

Vin glared daggers back at him.

Chris's grin widened.

He held the reins of both horses while Buck and Vin dismounted and a hand from the livery appeared to take over.

Buck let out a groan and stretched his back as Vin handed over his saddlebags.

Chris frowned from Buck to Vin, and Vin knew Chris was reading the signs. Vin didn't exactly feel fresh as a spring meadow after a long day on the trail. But he sure as hell didn't look like Buck. That was something more like tore up dirt goat trail after a thunderstorm and a cattle stampede.

"Red Fork lively?" Chris inquired, looking from one to the other. Didn't seem like he cared who gave an answer. Vin didn't figure he needed to supply it. Chris was quick enough to figure out how the pieces fit together without his help. Besides, it wasn't really his story.

"Let him tell it," Vin said, gesturing at Buck.

Surprisingly, or maybe not, if you knew Buck Wilmington, he perked right up at the very suggestion. Goat trail, thunderstorm, and cattle stampede, hangover and all else pushed aside, vanished, gone just like that.

"Turned out to be a right good thing I went along," Buck said, hooking his thumbs into his waistband and grinning.

Vin squinted over at Buck, wondering just what the hell that meant.

Buck didn't so much twitch an eyeball in Vin's direction, but Vin could see the damn twinkle anyway.

"Ol' Vin would'a been downright bored without me," Buck said.

"That so?" Chris asked then answered his own question in the same dry manner. "On account of you're so entertaining."

Vin rolled his eyes in Chris's direction, and caught the tiniest twitch of Chris's return smirk.

That nailed it. There was no question now. Larabee had known exactly what the trip to Red Fork would be like.

Vin caught the slight hesitation before Chris asked, "Anything else we need to know?"

"Oh Chris," Buck said with a long, dirty chuckle. "You go to Red Fork, you got to ask after Magdalena."

Buck shot one enthusiastic arm out faster than he had moved all day. Chris's eyes flashed wide and he had just enough time and instinct to back one step away as a long arm snared him across the shoulders, while Buck's other hand enacted a diversion by outlining an unmistakably female shape in the air.

It was a paltry escape attempt to be sure, and it didn't seem to bother Buck in the least.

Vin shook his head, and gave Chris a smirk of his own as Buck started pulling him across the street toward the nearest saloon, poking him once in the chest just to make sure he still had Chris's attention.

Vin veered off toward his wagon. He was of no mind to mount a rescue. Served Chris right to have one ear jawed clean off after sending him out without so much as a warning. But then again, Vin figured Chris had enough practical experience that he could get free if he really wanted to.

Besides, now that Vin thought about it, traveling all that way with Buck wasn't so bad once he finally got used to it. He still liked his company a little quieter. Buck overstated it a bit, but at least Vin could honestly say it hadn't been boring. Downright entertaining in spots even. Vin supposed Chris had known that too.

The extra biscuits and bacon were an unexpected bonus.

Vin even got one last laugh as Buck's voice floated back to him from somewhere up the street. "Buy me a beer," Buck was saying to Chris. "An' I might just tell you the good parts, too."