Disclaimer: The 'Magnificent Seven' and other characters from the series are the property of MGM, Trilogy and the Mirisch Company. I just borrowed them, played with them for a while and then very regretfully gave them back! The original characters within this story are mine and should not be used without permission. No infringement of copyright is intended to whoever holds any legal right to the works of Robert Burns. Sadly, no money will be made from this work of fan fiction — I just wrote it purely for my own pleasure and entertainment!
Genre: Old West - H/C/angst/action. This story contains graphic, ADULT material.
Main characters: Vin, Chris and Ezra.
Rating: NC17 — Mainly for language, violence, elements of torture/physical abuse and a descriptive sexual scene. If you are not comfortable reading about Ezra being involved intimately with a woman, then this story is definitely not for you. There are several references to my story Under the Aegis of Seven and, although it isn't necessary to read that to understand this storyline, it was a stand alone piece that I specifically wrote in order to lay certain foundations and set-up characters for Sins of the Father. Also, I'm a Brit and, as my storyline involves a Scottish family, I have used phrases and words relative to their background and the Victorian era.
I want to take this opportunity to assure everyone that the convoluted plot, OMCs/OFCs, the conceptual ideas and writing for Sins of the Father are, in their entirety, all of my own work. Apart from hundreds of grammatical corrections by my super-beta, Jean B, no one else has had any input into my story.
Heartfelt thanks to my husband, Mike, for being such a supportive fella, during the highs and the way too many lows of writing this epic. I think he was joking when he threatened divorce, naming the 'Seven' as the reason for our marriage break-up! Huge, huge thank you to Jean B for doing such a great job in beta'ing this for me — Jean, you deserve a medal for so ably dealing with my comma fixation! You're one of the Best! Aside from Jean's many corrections, any other grammatical boo-boo's or plot flaws are mine and mine alone! An extra special thank you is due to Elizabeth, one of the tireless helpers on Lady Angel's website, for all of the hard work that she put in making my story look so good on the website. Elizabeth, you are a true professional — thank you for being so understanding, and graciously making all those pernickety amendments that I kept sending through to you.
If you enjoy this story, please let me know at susieburton999@yahoo.co.uk — I just love feedback!
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It had taken longer to reach the Cummings' ranch than Will Tanner had estimated and, as the two riders approached the track leading to the main house area, the older man gauged the time to be approaching eleven o'clock.
The tracker's condition hadn't improved by morning and, following a short discussion between the experienced Tanner and Davey Mason, the men had collectively agreed to abandon the hunt. The Americans had left at first light but the two Scots had remained behind to break camp, allowing the blond security boss and his sick companion to travel ahead.
With a fervent sigh of relief at the sight of the mile-long worn track, the older Texan tapped his heels firmly into his horse's sides. He urged the dun coloured mare on faster, knowing that the even and well-travelled road would allow for better progress. In his right hand Tanner gripped the lead rein from Vin's mount and, glancing back worriedly at the other man, he clicked his tongue in encouragement to the lathered black gelding carrying the stricken tracker.
Vin sat miserably hunched over in his saddle, totally unaware of the surrounding countryside or the knowledge that the pair were only minutes from their destination. The long numbing ride from the overnight camp had been a tortuous journey of intense pain, nausea and fatigue for the sick man although, for the first couple of hours, the tracker had been reasonably alert and had managed to keep apace with the older Texan. It was during the last leg of the arduous trip that Vin had lapsed into semi-consciousness, slumping forward slightly and staying on his horse only from the combination of excellent riding skill and sheer willpower. He was not even aware that Tanner had taken his mount's reins.
Tanner guided the two horses close to the front porch steps and, sliding from his saddle, he quickly scanned the deserted yard and corrals. He had completely forgotten that the entire Cummings and Fielding families, plus all of the ranch hands, had gone to Ridge City two days previously, to collect the herd of Galloway cattle that had arrived by rail from Boston. Letting out an exasperated sigh, he ran up the wooden steps, banging loudly on the door to the house before throwing the entrance wide open and calling for assistance.
"I need help out here! MacIntyre! Soames! MacIntyre! Where th' hell are ya'll?"
Without waiting for any acknowledgement from within the confines of the house, Tanner hastened back to the side of Vin's horse, securing the black before attempting to get the unresponsive tracker down.
"Will! What's wrong, man?" Soames had quickly exited the house, shooting an alarmed look at the older Texan and his obviously ailing countryman as he jogged down the steps.
Giving the Scotsman a glance but ignoring the question, Tanner began to unhook Vin's feet from the stirrups, worriedly noting the younger man's ashen, tight features and his rapid breathing. Now that his horse had stopped the tracker slumped forward in his saddle, almost coming to a rest against his gelding's neck and, although his eyes were half open, he didn't seem able to focus on anything.
Stretching up to get a firm grip on Vin, the older Texan paused as he saw that Andrew MacIntyre had finally appeared and was already running a professional gaze over the motionless tracker. "Lord! Am I glad y'were still getting over that chill and didn't go wit' t'others, doc!" Tanner stated fervently.
MacIntyre gave his colleague a wry smile, reaching up to lay a cool hand on Vin's clammy forehead. "Has he had an accident, Will? Are Mason and Fraser okay?" The doctor was fully aware how many hidden perils lurked in this new country; gunplay seemed to be second nature to most Americans.
"Yeah, they'll be coming in later. He ain't bin injured, doc. Vin started to get sick yesterday, real sudden like, but he got worse in the evening, so Davey 'n' me reckoned it'd be best t'bring him back s'quick as possible. He's in a lotta pain and bin like this fer an hour or so." Tanner beckoned to Soames to help him get the younger man from his horse as he gave the doctor a sketchy account of what had occurred.
The two men gently pulled the tracker sideways and down, supporting his slack form as they got him to the ground. Soames stepped back, seeing that Tanner was easily able to hold the slim Texan upright.
The necessary movement roused Vin from his stupor and, with a panicked gasp, his eyes widened as he felt his body falling. Unable to comprehend what was happening, he instinctively lashed out with his fists, at what his pain-filled mind could only perceive as being some kind of threat.
"Whoa! Take it easy, son. Yer safe, an' with friends!" Tanner firmly grabbed the flailing arms, drawing the younger man's back closer into his own chest, as he braced the tracker against him.
Vin's face suddenly drained of all colour and perspiration dotted his upper lip and forehead as he began panting heavily. The three older men could only look on in consternation as, without warning, the tracker threw up violently. Having felt the abrupt spasms shudder through the young Texan, Tanner held the man firmly, tilting him forward slightly until the vomiting ceased. As he carefully straightened Vin up, the peacekeeper gave a low moan and started to crumple, sagging limply against the older man. The security boss had been half expecting his son's collapse and, scooping the dazed man up easily in his arms, a grim-faced Tanner followed his two work colleagues as the doctor ushered them into the house.
The three entered a large room at the side of the property that the Scottish physician was using as his office cum treatment area. Gently laying the exhausted man on the bed that MacIntyre had hastily readied, Tanner proceeded to pull off the tracker's hat, gun belt and boots, stowing them in the corner as the doctor went to scrub his hands.
Vin was beyond speech and barely aware of his surroundings, not even knowing if he was in a potentially dangerous or vulnerable situation. He felt sick and dizzy and was unable to process any articulate thought or give any kind of resistance to what was occurring around him. The relentless, burning agony tore into him, pulsating and grinding through his stomach, causing him to hug his forearms into his abdomen as he curled up into a foetal position on the bed.
Having lit a lamp and placed his medical bag on the bedside table, MacIntyre grabbed a high backed chair, and positioned it level with Vin's torso. Sitting down, the doctor unfastened the tracker's bandana, putting two fingers to the pulse point in the younger man's neck as he studied his patient for several minutes. "Mr Tanner? Can you hear me?" the physician asked, although he could see that the younger man was barely conscious.
Looking up at the blond Texan, the doctor ran a hand through his thick dark hair. "Hmm. I'm not going to get much information out of him just yet. Will, I need you to tell me everything you can about his symptoms and what's he's been like for the last few days."
Will Tanner nodded sombrely. Pulling a stool to the end of the bed, he stared at the man huddled on his right side, and started to give the doctor all the information he could about Vin's condition.
MacIntyre licked his lips worriedly as he listened to the older man. "Can you show me on your own stomach, exactly where he said the pain was centred, Will?"
"Yeah, he described the pain as burnin' an' sharp, like a knife in his guts, 'bout here," Tanner stood upright, indicating an area on his own abdomen, "but earlier today he said it'd moved lower, an' to the right. From what I saw yesterday, he ain't eaten nuthin' — hell, I was hard pushed t'get 'im t'tdrink any water! He's a mite feverish but I couldn't get his temperature any lower, 'though I sponged him down throughout the night. So what d'ya thinks wrong wit' him, doc?" The older man gazed at the physician and MacIntyre was surprised by the edginess in Tanner's voice.
The doctor didn't reply to the question, but glanced over to where Bruce Soames was kneeling in front of the fireplace, expertly nudging the small fire into life. The astute steward had also recognised the anxiety in the security boss and he shrugged imperceptibly in bafflement as his eyes locked briefly with his fellow countryman's. The Scots were sure that the older Texan had never met Vin Tanner until the tracker had arrived at the Cummings' ranch to help hunt the wolf pack, but it now appeared as if their friend cared for and even felt strong protective emotions for the sick man in the bed.
Furrowing his eyebrows in puzzlement, MacIntyre began untying the fastenings to the tracker's buckskin jacket and then deftly undid the three top buttons on the man's shirt. Reaching across for his stethoscope, he hooked the instrument's listening pieces into his ears and, gently pulling Vin's arms down, he then attempted to listen to his patient's heart rate.
At the doctor's touch Vin's eyelids fluttered several times and, with a groan, he dragged his arms back again, curling up into a tighter ball. The tracker dropped his head down further into his chest in an effort to protect his aching stomach, and tried to shrink away from the clinically impersonal touch; his whole world consisted only of constant pain and all he wanted was to be left alone to escape into a warm, comforting cocoon.
MacIntyre clicked his tongue in frustration, hanging the stethoscope around his neck as he gazed at the young peacekeeper.
"Well?" Tanner rubbed his chin wearily, as he prompted the doctor.
"I need to examine him, Will, and until then I'd rather not speculate." MacIntyre already had his suspicions on what was wrong with Vin Tanner but was unwilling to voice his concerns to the older man until he was absolutely certain. Rising to his feet, the doctor opened a cupboard and busily rummaged through his medicine drawer.
"Can't ya give him some laudanum or summat fer the pain? It's wearing me down jes' seein' him suffer, so Lord knows what it's a'doin' t'him!" The worry and frustration in Tanner's terse comment, made MacIntyre glance sharply at the older man.
"You seem rather fraught, Will. I know he's a fellow compatriot, but you only met him yesterday and hardly know the man. That must have been a very enlightening and eventful trip that you took."
Tanner stared thoughtfully at the tracker but ignored the other man's questioning comments. Bruce Soames had just gone to make fresh coffee but the blond Texan had caught the perplexed look the steward had directed at him as the Scot left the room. It was obvious that he would need to make some explanations soon but, for the moment, he was more intent on hearing what the doctor had to say about Vin's condition.
MacIntyre had found the small bottle he had been searching for, plus a small glass phial holding something long, slim and shiny. The final item he got out was a small black leather case and, snapping up the hinged lid, he carefully extracted a hypodermic syringe which he placed in a small metal pot. Giving the older man a reassuring smile as he caught Tanner's intrigued expression, he started to explain what he was about to do.
"I can't use laudanum, because he will most likely throw it back up, and I don't want to give him anything by mouth until I know what I'm treating — that includes water. Can you get his jacket and shirt off while I sterilise this syringe? I've got morphine that I can inject into him and then hopefully I'll be able to do a full examination." The man then hurried from the room with the pot and the glass phial.
It was some time before MacIntyre returned and Bruce Soames, who carried a heavily laden tray, followed closely behind him. Setting his burden down on another table by the window, the steward joined his two colleagues at the tracker's bedside.
Will Tanner had managed to get the semi-conscious man stripped to the waist; not an easy task as Vin had been combative during the entire procedure and had thrashed out desperately, catching the other man several times in the chest with his hard fists. Eventually the older Texan had accomplished his chore and, after calming the tracker down, he had draped a lightweight blanket over his charge. Tanner had also unfastened Vin's fly buttons on his pants, pulling the heavy material down well below his hipbones, and the covering was as much for concealing his son's nudity as it was for warmth.
Sitting down on his seat once again, MacIntyre grasped Vin's right arm and, pinning it to the bed, he tapped the inside forearm several times as he searched for a suitable vein. Without looking up, he informed the two of what would be happening.
"This is a very small dose but it will take the edge off the pain without knocking him out and should make him more comfortable. It won't take long to work. Will, could you come this side and hold his arm, please. That's it. Now on no account let him move it!" the doctor instructed Tanner, as he first wiped an area of skin with alcohol and then held up the syringe, expelling air from the glass ampoule.
Tanner couldn't help but be fascinated as the doctor expertly slid the needle into Vin's arm, and he unconsciously held his breath as the man evenly turned the screw to discharge the drug. The tracker had let out a small gasping moan, flinching a little as the sharp point pierced his skin but, otherwise, kept completely still during the procedure, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. After swiftly withdrawing the needle, MacIntyre pressed a small dressing to the puncture hole before settling back to wait.
Soames handed cups of coffee out and, for a time, the three men sat quietly drinking whilst casting the occasional glance at the motionless tracker.
It was Bruce Soames who eventually broke the silence. "D'ye think someone should be riding into town to let the lad's folks know that he's been taken poorly?" he asked of no-one in particular.
MacIntyre leaned forward as he was about to reply to the steward's question, although his attention was on the man in the bed who appeared to be rousing. The lines of pain that creased Vin's face were fading as the powerful drug took effect and his breathing had levelled out to a more normal pattern. "Hmm? Erm..I think I'd like to check him over first. It's a long ride and I believe his friends would rather have all the facts before coming all that way," the doctor said absently, as he pulled his silver fob watch from his pocket. Flicking up the casing protecting the dial, MacIntyre picked up a slack wrist and began counting his patient's pulse rate.
Vin could hear the murmur of several unfamiliar voices and, taking a long slow breath, he opened his eyes, blinking and frowning in confusion as he tried to work out where he was. The terrible pain that had gripped him inside had lessened to a degree and, whilst he could still feel the awful throbbing on the right side of his stomach, it was now more bearable. The rigid tension that had knotted up his shoulders and back had also receded and, carefully straightening his legs, he shifted over in the bed a little as he visibly relaxed.
Tanner dragged his stool closer, leaning over the bewildered-looking tracker. "Vin? It's...Will. Yer at the Cummings' place. Ya'll bin sick, an' the doc wants to check ya over. Can y'hear me, son?" He spoke softly to the pain and drug befuddled man, and was rewarded with a wan smile from Vin, which quickly disappeared as the words sunk in.
"Chris! Where's Chris?" Panic flared in the tracker's drug-glazed eyes and, wrenching his hand away from the doctor's hold, he tried to sit up. Another intense spasm speared through Vin's gut but he ignored the pain, twisting his head around frantically as he sought the familiar presence of his closest friend.
The blond Texan had taken a damp cloth offered by Bruce Soames and, gently restraining the younger man, he begun to mop sweat from Vin's face as he spoke in a calm, soothing voice. "Take it easy, son. I'll go and get yer friends later, but fer now jes' lay nice an' quiet while Doc MacIntyre has a good looksee. He cain't help ya 'til he's examined ya, but it won't take long. That's better, yer doin' fine now!"
The firm hand on Vin's shoulder was reminiscent of the times that Chris Larabee had given comfort and support to him on occasions of injury or illness and, somewhat mollified by the older man's proximity, the tracker leaned back wearily against the pillow. He wanted to get back to town and be with people he knew, but the plain truth was that he just didn't have the energy to try and get out of the bed; all he could do for the moment was submit to whatever medical treatment the Scottish physician was going to administer and hope that he was able to return to Four Corners later.
MacIntyre had begun his examination and, holding the stethoscope listening plate to Vin's chest, he frowned in concern as he heard the tracker's fast, erratic heartbeat. Finally satisfied, he hung the instrument around his neck and, pulling out a small notepad and pencil from his shirt pocket, he scribbled down some numbers. Vin was subdued as he watched the doctor record his findings; everything the man had done thus far was consistent with medical techniques that Nathan Jackson used and the normality of these actions gave the Texan a little comfort. However, as MacIntyre reached across for the small phial and shook out the pocket thermometer, Vin couldn't stop the alarmed curse tumbling from his lips. "Aw damn! What th' hell's that thing? Y'ain't sticking it in me!"
The doctor shook his head, smiling in reassurance at his anxious patient as he held up the unfamiliar implement. "Mr Tanner — Vin, this is a thermometer and it won't hurt, but I really need to know your precise temperature. Could you just hold it under your tongue for a few minutes, please? Splendid." After popping the thin tube into the tracker's mouth, MacIntyre then busied himself with folding the blanket down, revealing the younger man's bare torso, waist and groin area. Vin squirmed in the bed self-consciously, unsure of what the man would be doing to him next, and his blue eyes flickered wildly around the strange room until they settled on Tanner's similarly azure colour gaze.
"The doc's gonna have a feel of yer belly in a minute, and then ya can have a rest, son. I know this ain't easy, but try an' relax. Vin, if it helps, jes' keep yer eyes fixed on me while Andrew does his doctorin' bit." The gently confident tone emphasised Tanner's instructions and, as he squeezed Vin's bare shoulder, the tracker gave the man a look of gratitude.
Will Tanner had closely observed everything MacIntyre had done and, having seen these symptoms before, he was certain in his own mind what ailed his son. If the doctor came to the same diagnosis then the man would need to do something promptly, or his patient would die.
Taking out the thermometer, MacIntyre shook it and tilted it towards the lamplight, squinting at the tiny etched numbers on the side. He wasn't at all surprised to see that the tracker's temperature was several degrees above the norm and, sliding the fragile instrument back into its holder, the doctor then addressed his patient. "Vin, firstly can you tell me when you started to feel unwell and, if you can recall, how many times you have vomited since becoming ill. I also need to know if you hurt anywhere else, or if you have had any accidents recently."
Vin swallowed noisily, and his hand came up to scrub tiredly at his face as he considered the doctor's words. The thought of lying helplessly sick in a house full of strangers filled him with dread and, even though one of those present was his own father, he didn't know the man at all.
While his instinct was to trust Will Tanner, the tracker couldn't be sure of his true feelings at the moment and his emotions constantly seesawed after the startling revelations of the previous night. Additionally, his normal defences had been obliterated by the pain still coursing through his stomach and he guessed that some drugs must have been given to him to ease the agonising spasms, meaning that he was no longer in a position to keep his natural guard up. The ferocity and speed of his sudden sickness made him feel exposed on several levels; he now knew how an injured or age-weakened animal felt when trapped by a predator. Powerless.
Taking a deep breath, he looked worriedly at MacIntyre. Vin knew deep in the core of his being that there was something seriously wrong with him and, with an inward sigh, he realised that he had limited options. He would have to trust his life to this man.
"No injuries. I ain't bin feelin' too good fer a few days. Thought it was summat I'd eaten, but I've only bin sick the once. M'belly was hurtin' real bad yesterday, but early this morning, jes' when I thought it was goin' away, the pain came back, even worse, an' it moved to the right. That's it, doc," the tracker said quietly.
MacIntyre nodded briefly, his dark eyes locking with his patient's nervous countenance. "I see. Now Vin, I need to feel your abdomen and, it will hurt, so I can only say in advance that I'm sorry for causing you discomfort," he said sympathetically.
The tracker closed his eyes in resigned acceptance, flinching a little as the man began to press his stomach. The throbbing ache flared anew, and Vin panted rapidly, his hand spasmodically clutching at the blanket for any small measure of relief. When he thought the agony couldn't possibly increase any more MacIntyre pushed down on the right side, and despite his resolve, Vin groaned as a searing white-hot fire burned deep in his gut. With a shuddering cry, he jerked his knees up, curling inwards again, while desperately trying to fight off his tormentor's hands. All reason and self-awareness fled from his mind; the young Texan was completely ensnared and his only companion now was wave after wave of intense, stabbing pain.
Moving to perch on the side of the bed, Will Tanner gently rubbed Vin's taut back, placing a cool hand on the tracker's sweaty forehead, as he tried to soothe the distraught man. "Steady, Vin. Y'jes' rest easy fer a moment. I know it hurts, but try an' relax, son. That's good. Let's cover ya up fer now, while the doc an' me go have a parley. We'll not be far away."
Straightening the rumpled blanket over the tracker, the older Texan gestured to the door. "Andrew?"
The three men went out into the corridor, and leaning against the wall, Tanner looked expectantly at MacIntyre. "What is it then, doc?" he asked, although he was sure he knew the answer.
Andrew MacIntyre chewed his lip for a second or two before replying; he was uncertain how the Texan would react to what he was about to say. The doctor had known the man for almost three months now, and they had built up a reasonable amount of friendship and trust for each other, during the time spent in Kansas City and when travelling to Four Corners. Accidents and sickness were an everyday hazard, more so when on the open trails and ranges, and the few medical problems that had arisen, MacIntyre had dealt with efficiently, which had earned him Henry's grudging respect.
While the Scotsman admitted that the man was not unfriendly, it seemed that Will Henry didn't easily make acquaintances or form any type of close relationship. The two ranch hands who had been hired by the family before leaving Kansas City, kept the older Texan at a discreet distance, which obviously suited the taciturn man. However, Henry had struck up a rapport with Robert Cummings and, likewise with Soames, Fielding and Mason, and he was only too eager to hear about the family's plans and projects for the future. But there was something different now in the older man's manner that piqued the doctor's curiosity. It evidently concerned the seriously ill young man and he was puzzled that Henry displayed such open anxiety about the health of a virtual stranger.
Finally MacIntyre spoke. "Well, I cannot be one hundred percent certain, but he is showing all the signs of acute appendicitis."
Tanner sucked in his breath sharply. This is exactly what he had surmised but hearing it confirmed by the clever young doctor still sent a shiver of fear through his body. "Damn! I thought that, but I was really praying I was wrong! So yer gonna take out his appendix now, huh?" It wasn't really a question; Tanner expected nothing less from MacIntyre, and his firm tone clearly conveyed that.
"No, Will. It's customary to wait and observe the patient for a period of time. This operation is a difficult and extremely dangerous procedure and I won't take that type of risk if there's a chance his condition could improve. It isn't unusual for an appendix to flare up periodically, although I must admit his symptoms are very severe." MacIntyre flinched a little at the angry glare the Texan shot his way and for a fleeting second he thought the other man would strike him — or worse.
"Wait! That boy can't wait, doc! I've seen this sickness before and a kid died 'cos there warn't no medical help to be had. This can turn deadly real fast and yer sayin' that yer jes' gonna sit and wait 'til it's too late. What's wrong with ya, doc? Are ya a coward or summat?" The furiously scornful tirade fairly spat from Will Tanner's mouth and even Bruce Soames looked worried, as he saw the Texan's hand slide down to his gun butt.
"Hold on now, Will! Calm yourself, man! Doctor MacIntyre isn't saying he won't help the lad just that he wants to be absolutely sure. Look, even I can see that Vin's in a bad way, but yer saying that ye'll operate if necessary, aren't ye MacIntyre?" The steward had fended off the incensed security boss and he made his final question to the doctor almost sound like an order.
"No I'm not, Soames! I don't try and tell you how to run this household, so don't interfere with my medical decisions," MacIntyre muttered testily, a little put out by the attitude of his colleagues.
At that, Tanner leapt forward and grabbed a handful of the doctor's shirt, pushing the smaller man to the wall. "So ya'll jes' stand by an' watch a boy die! Doctor? Yeah, that's real funny. Y'jes' ain't got the balls to admit that ya can't or won't do anything!"
Soames hauled Tanner away from the younger man once more, his heavier weight and strong grip keeping the enraged Texan at bay, while MacIntyre fastidiously pulled his clothing straight.
Finishing tucking his shirt back in, the doctor shook his head in bafflement. "I can't understand what's got into you, Will. You barely know Vin Tanner, yet you're acting like he's your long lost son."
"That's 'cos he is my son, y'damned charlatan!" the older man grated out, not caring any longer who knew this fact.
"Your son? Good Lord!"
"What the devil?"
Two voices echoed their surprise but Soames was the first to recover from the shock. Releasing the blond Texan from his firm hold, he stared in disbelief first at Tanner, then MacIntyre, and then back at the older man. "Vin Tanner's yer son? So Henry isn't yer real name then?" The steward threw a look at the doctor's office door, nodding vaguely as he visualised the facial features of the sick peacekeeper and made a comparison with his colleague standing in front of him. Now that this fact had been made known to him, he could see a family resemblance between the two Texans! This definitely clarified the situation, and the Scotsman now fully understood Will Tanner's unexpected empathy for the tracker's serious condition.
Turning his attention back to the silent security boss, Soames crossed his arms, whilst he studied the American for a few minutes. "So, how long have ye known he was living in Four Corners? Is that why ye signed up with Lord Robert? And does the lad know?" The flurry of questions' spilled out before the steward could stop them.
"It's personal, Bruce. I don't want t'say too much, 'cos it ain't jes' me that's involved. But I promise ya, m'boy does know who I am. All I will say, though, is that I've bin seeking him fer a long time and I don't want to lose him now. So, MacIntyre, why don't ya tell me again why ya refuse t'help my son?" This final icy comment to the doctor well and truly flung the gauntlet down and the two Scotsmen could almost taste the venom in Will Tanner's words.
Taking a shaky breath, MacIntyre pulled himself more upright. With a glance at the partly open door to his office, the man began to quietly explain. "In Great Britain, it's not really common practice to remove an appendix, although I am aware that here in America your surgeons are doing the procedure on an almost daily basis. Will, it is a very risky undertaking and requires a great deal of surgical skill. I have never done this operation before and have only observed it being performed four times, one of which was when I arrived with the Cummings' in Boston. Three of those four patients subsequently died, so I don't think I have much choice when I say that I would rather wait and see."
Tanner punched the wall forcefully and then turned his flinty blue eyes to MacIntyre. "I'm aware of the risks, dammit, but I ain't gonna stand around and watch Vin suffer and die. I'll find someone else that's willing to try an' save him. Iffen ya know what's good fer ya doc, I wouldn't interfere with whoever I manage t'get out here. Otherwise the next person ya'll be operating on is yerself — to remove my bullet from yer body!"
Pushing past the two astonished men, the Texan went back into the room. Vin hadn't moved during the fifteen minutes that the three had talked and, as the older man gazed down at his semi-conscious son, he wondered if he would be wasting his time by trying to find another doctor. It was clear that the tracker couldn't hold on much longer and he would need a skilled healer, and not a small amount of luck, if he were to pull through.
Maybe he should stay, talk to his boy, attempt to find out more of what the young man had done with his short life, before he...Tanner shook his head, angrily dismissing the thought. No! They must have the chance to get to know one another and a bad appendix was not going to stop that from happening. He had waited and searched for Vin for too many years to give in that easily. They were both Tanners, both fighters, and they would wage this battle together. Bending down, he smoothed the younger man's hair back from his face in a tender gesture but, apart from a slight movement of his head, Vin showed no sign of wakefulness.
"Y'hang on fer yer pa, son. I hav'ta go for help, but ya gotta stay with me, y'hear? I promise ya, I'll be back real soon."
Tanner gently pulled the blanket over the tracker and, with a heavy sigh, he went out to speak to his colleagues. He had already decided on his best course of action and he was only too aware that he had yet another long, hard ride ahead of him.
"Bruce, can ya help me get a fresh horse ready? I'm gonna need summat fast and strong if I have any chance of savin' m'boy. Doc, I'm gonna bring Nathan Jackson here. All I ask is that y'do what y'can fer Vin 'til I return." The two older men headed for the front door, leaving a very perturbed-looking Andrew MacIntyre to care for the tracker.
The two men quickly reached the main stable block and, pausing briefly to refill his canteen at the well, Tanner looked on in puzzlement when he saw Soames disappear into the separate stall which housed Robert Cummings prized English thoroughbred stallion. The Texan's eyes narrowed in suspicion at first but, on seeing his friend lead out the bay horse, his face lit up with relieved delight.
"I know if his Lordship were here he would offer ye the best and the fastest for this errand. Yer son's life is very important, Will, and if Turk can give ye the extra time you need, then ye must take him with my blessing." Soames handed over the reins before going back inside for the horse's English style saddle.
The Texan didn't know what to say of the generous offer. The animal was the finest piece of horseflesh he had ever seen and Bay Turk was destined to be the sire of the Cummings' new bloodline. The horse was strong and ran like the wind, which gave Tanner renewed hope as he knew that he would be able to cut his journey time to the town by at least forty minutes. It didn't sound that long but, to Vin, it could be the difference between life and death and he would have to make the saving count for something.
The Scotsman had thrown the more lightweight saddle on the horse and both men now readied Turk for what was probably the most important race of his life.
After strapping his canteen over his shoulder, Will Tanner turned gratefully to his friend, holding out his right hand. "I can't even begin to explain what this means to me, Bruce. If Vin doesn't make it, then it won't be because he lacked effort from you. Thank you. Look out fer m'boy, won'tcha? He's all that's left o' m'family." The two grasped hands warmly, and then Tanner climbed atop the friskily prancing stallion. With a farewell nod, he kicked the horse into motion.
Chris Larabee was sitting at the desk in the jailhouse, busily occupied with writing up the log, when he heard the pounding hoof beats of a fast moving horse progressing down the town's main thoroughfare.
Leaping to his feet and snatching a rifle from the wall rack, he carefully went through the front door, instantly alert for any type of danger. He looked along the dusty street and saw the back of a horse and rider cantering towards the livery. With a frown, he strode after the still unknown rider although, even from the rear and at a not inconsiderable distance, he recognized what the horse was, even if he couldn't identify the rider. It would be hard even for the untrained eye not to see that the animal was a pure thoroughbred, the perfect conformation of the stallion openly broadcasting its heritage.
There was only one place in the area that such an animal could have come from—the Cummings' ranch. Chris instantaneously processed all this information as he hurried to the livery and, as he got closer, he suddenly recognised the rider who was now hurtling up the steps to Nathan's clinic. The gunslinger went cold and a shiver ran down his spine as a fearful apprehension gripped his mind; he'd been experiencing a niggling uneasiness all morning, following a night broken by weird and disturbing dreams. The disjointed and shadowy images had faded from memory by the time he'd woken, so the black dressed man had convinced himself that the nightmares had been triggered by the disagreement he'd had the previous day with the tracker.
Now on seeing Will Henry arrive so precipitously, he was certain that his worries bore some credence. With an eerie flash of prescience, Chris knew that the Cummings' security boss was coming to tell them that Vin was in serious trouble. This feeling of foreboding gave the man additional impetus and he picked up speed, running flat out for the last hundred yards or so.
Flinging the clinic door open, Chris breathlessly confronted Nathan and the man he knew as Henry.
"Henry! What's happened? Where's Vin?" Chris unwittingly echoed the questions that the healer had just asked and the two peacekeepers stared in mutual alarm at the man before them.
Holding up his hands in a gesture of forbearance, Tanner shook his head a little as he tried to get his breath back. The stallion had given his all, cutting nearly an hour off the journey time from the ranch, but the stress on the rider was almost as great as that on the horse. Hastily crossing to his storage dresser, Nathan filled a cup with water, passing it to the exhausted Texan. Tanner's hand shook as he lifted the cup to his lips and, as he gulped down the cold liquid, his blue eyes met Chris' worried hazel gaze. The two men could hardly be considered friends, although the gunslinger couldn't honestly say what it was about the older man that he so intensely disliked. But now as their eyes met, it was as if an unspoken message had arced between them and Chris knew then that something had happened to Vin Tanner.
Seeing the raw fear in Chris Larabee's face, Tanner hurriedly put down the empty cup, taking a slow deep breath as he prepared to explain the problem.
"I need ya to come out to Cummings place. We had to abandon the hunt 'cos Vin started to get sick yesterday. I took him back to the ranch this morning when he started t'get worse and Doc MacIntyre says he's got appendicitis." Tanner ignored the healer's hissing intake of breath as the man began to make his own medical assessment of the dangerous complaint.
Chris had paled a little but stayed silent as the Texan continued. "Thing is, the doc refuses to operate — say's he'd rather wait an' see, but I've seen this afore an' I know that boy ain't got much time. Nathan, he's in a real bad way. Y'gotta go out there an' help him, else he'll die." There was almost a note of pleading in the man's voice but neither Chris nor Nathan fully assimilated that curious fact, as worry for their sick friend overrode all other concerns.
Nathan nodded wordlessly, although he didn't know if he would be able to help his friend at all. The healer had never had a patient with appendicitis before and, even during the War Between the States when he was a stretcher-bearer and sometime medic, he had never witnessed any of the Army surgeons carrying out the complex procedure. The only knowledge he had of the serious condition was what he'd read in one of his textbooks, but that was nothing like having first hand knowledge, or even the consolation of seeing the operation performed by another doctor.
Accepting the existence of all the difficulties he knew he was up against, Nathan was still determined that he would provide his friend with whatever medical help he could. Pushing his trepidation aside, he began to think about what he would need to take with him.
"Chris, I need your help to pack my medical kit. We'll split it up between the two of us, 'cos we're gonna have to travel fast if..." the healer was interrupted by Will Tanner.
"Three, Nathan. I'm coming back with ya."
Chris could feel the anger rising in him. What did this man think he was playing at? He was no friend of Vin's; the two had only met the day before but here Henry stood, acting as if he was the tracker's life-long partner and even exhibiting signs that he cared for the younger man.
"We know the way, Henry," Chris growled. Glancing to where Nathan was already sorting through his medicine cupboard, the gunslinger dismissively turned away from the older man.
Tanner's eyes glittered dangerously and he grabbed Chris' arm, spinning the black dressed man around to face him. "I'm going back, 'cos I promised that boy I would. Y'can ride with me, or y'can eat my trail dust, the choice is yers, Larabee."
"Get your stinking hand off o' me, Henry!" the gunslinger hissed, his right hand now hovering close to his gun butt.
The tense atmosphere in the room could nearly be cut with a knife as the two hot-tempered men faced each other. It was Nathan who hurriedly broke the deadlock.
"Stop it the both of ya! We need to get going an' neither of ya are doing Vin any good if all ya can do is paw dirt an' spit at one another! Chris, pack these in here," Nathan indicated a satchel and an assortment of bottles, dried herbs and two heavy books. "Will, go to the livery an' tell Tiny or Chas to ready our hosses. Explain that ya need a fast mount, an' yer riding wit' Chris an' me." At this last part the healer glared at the gunslinger, almost daring the man to contradict his order.
Chris forced himself to relax as he began stowing supplies in the bag. He couldn't put his finger on the reason why, but the Texan made his hackles rise as soon as he came anywhere near him. It went beyond a lack of trust but Chris was at a loss as to why he kept reacting to Henry the way he did. The gunslinger could sense that his friends knew about his increasing animosity to the man, but they all seemed to be able to get on with him and, in fact, Buck had admitted to Chris that he actually liked Will Henry. Watching as the security boss left the clinic, Chris tugged the satchel straps closed and then carefully slung it over his shoulder as he went over to where Nathan was checking his medical kit.
"You ready, Nathan? The sooner we get on the trail the happier I'll feel." Chris was focussed on only one thing now. He wouldn't be able to relax until he knew that Vin was safe and he was not keen on his friend being alone with a house full of strangers, especially if the tracker was as sick as Henry had intimated.
Nathan picked up a full canteen of water and hoisting his kit in the other hand, he nodded to his friend. "Yeah. We need to find Josiah or Buck an' let 'em know what's happening. Chris, we can't jump to any conclusions jes' yet. Andrew MacIntyre seemed to be a knowledgeable and skilled doctor, so mebbe I can talk t'him an' persuade him to operate. Ya know that's Vin's only chance if it really is his appendix, don't ya Chris?"
The gunslinger nodded sombrely at the healer's cautionary words but didn't say anything as he strode out of the clinic door.
Nathan was desperately worried himself, so he could only imagine what was going through Chris' mind about the condition of the young Texan.
A chain was only as strong as its weakest link and, if the tracker died, then the circle of brotherhood that the seven shared would be shattered. It would be impossible to repair the break, even more so because another link in that hitherto strong ring would also be lost. The death of Vin Tanner would have a profound impact on Chris Larabee and the healer didn't believe the gunslinger would ever overcome that kind of grief.
Time was of the essence now, so Nathan pushed his fears to one side and, with a final look around his small clinic, he strode through the door after the departing gunslinger, praying that Will Henry was ready and waiting with the horses.
At about the same time that the three rode out of Four Corners on their life saving mission, a man sat at the base of a rocky outcrop one hour's ride from the town of Eagle Bend, carefully feeding sticks into a small campfire. The middle-aged ranch hand had been waiting patiently for some time, and just as he rose to refill his canteen, he heard the rapid approach of many horses. Straightening up, he turned expectantly to observe a party of fourteen riders coming into view.
The men had evidently ridden hard and long judging by the generally unkempt and unshaven appearance they all displayed, although they all wore good quality gun belts and the assortment of revolvers and rifles they carried were well cared for. But it was the curious assembly of the group that made the American ranch hand wary as they could only be considered a mixture of what was probably the worst of several different Indian peoples and Mexican bandidos. The men all looked to be savage fighters; some having gruesome scars to the face, an overt testimony to the number of knife fights and battles they had participated in. They all showed the characteristics of being brutal men and not to be underestimated in a skirmish.
Looking to the unmistakeable leader, the ranch hand, called out a greeting. "Howdy, Ramanos. If you fellas' want'a light down fer a spell, then I can give ya the boss' orders regarding the hit. Ya need to strike tonight, but it's only three t'four hours ride from here, so yer men can take a breather while I give ya the low-down."
The riders dismounted and, after the leader and the ranch hand had helped themselves to coffee from the pot resting in the fire, they hunkered down to discuss the details of that night's assault.
Picking up a twig, the American drew out a map of the Scotsman's ranch house and outbuildings, as he began to explain to the evil-looking desperado. "This's the house, but ya ain't gotta worry 'cos there's only two o' them Scotch bastards out there fer now. Cummings an' his hands have gone to Ridge City, an' th' remainder've left for a wolf hunt. None of 'em ain't expected back fer a few days, so taking those hosses should be a cinch. They's stabled in the smaller block of stalls, away from the other stock, but if ya get a chance to clean Cummings out then do it. But the thoroughbreds are yer main priority, comprehende? The boss ain't fussed how many folk get killed, in fact, I know he'd be real pleased if ya left none alive, and said he'd pay a bonus to any man who bagged a Cummings hand — an' that includes any womenfolk." At that remark, Ramanos grinned lecherously, licking his lips in anticipation as he nodded slowly.
"Gracias. That is most generous, señor. We don't leave witnesses but it is good to get rewarded for doing this thing."
The ranch hand tossed the stick away. "The ranch is three hours ride south from Four Corners. Follow the main trail 'til y'see the small track."
"Sí. Where and when do we meet to get our money?"
"We meet close to the border, at a town called Formentorio. Ya'll only get paid when my boss has those hosses in his hand. He has a buyer fer 'em, an' if ya try an' double-cross him, then he will hunt ya down an' make ya pay. We'll expect ya in two days' time."
The Mexican spat on the ground and, getting to his feet, he re-adjusted his twin holstered gun belt. "Do not worry, we have no need of the horses but the money can buy us much tequila and many whores. We will see you in two days, señor."
Without further comment, the American emptied his coffee pot and, stowing it securely in his saddle pack, he prepared his horse for departure. His employer would want a full report on the outcome of this meeting, and with a satisfied smile he quickly mounted, unwilling to keep his viciously quick-tempered boss waiting any longer than necessary.
As the American galloped off, the group began to prepare a meal, knowing that they had some time available before the planned ambush tonight.
Bruce Soames had spent the majority of the past hour alternating between Andrew MacIntyre's office and the front porch while he waited for the return of Will Tanner and, perhaps more importantly, the arrival of Nathan Jackson. It was clear that the doctor had become increasingly concerned for his patient's condition as the long afternoon stretched into the approach of early evening, and the stoic steward had spent much of his time bolstering the flagging spirit of MacIntyre, supporting the younger Scotsman as he cared for the worsening Vin Tanner. He had finally given up trying to persuade the doctor to commence the vital operation that could save the tracker's life, his initial subtle comments giving way to anger and frustration as his colleague stubbornly refused to take any decisive medical action. All the steward could do now was sit and offer up prayers to a God whom he hoped was listening.
The Scotsman was a deeply religious man and had been a staunch member of the Scottish Presbyterian Church when in his homeland, happily devoting any free time he could to the local community, which included the people of the Earldom of Strathclyde. It was this sense of loyalty and commitment that he now bestowed upon Robert Cummings whom he had known from birth, having worked for the old Earl since his early teens. When the adventure-seeking second son had decided to make a new life in America, Soames had been happy to make the journey with the enterprising Lord, and he saw their safe arrival in this land of great opportunity as a sign of the family's continuing good fortune and happiness.
Now he was not too sure of that previously strong supposition. With limited medical expertise to be had in the west, the Cummings' had been adamant that they would have a qualified doctor accompany them to set up his own medical practice or even a small hospital, giving them the luxury of being self-sufficient and rendering much needed aid in times of illness or injury.
Andrew MacIntyre had been highly recommended to Lord Robert by many distinguished physicians and the brilliant young doctor, seeing the chance of being in control of his own facility with the ongoing support of a generous benefactor, had readily agreed to travel with the Cummings' entourage.
On being presented with his first serious medical case in the form of the ailing Vin Tanner, it looked as if the doctor was going through a personal crisis, with his self-confidence rapidly fading, almost in conjunction with the diminishing strength of the young Texan. Soames could only hope that when the tracker's father and friends got to the ranch they would be able to convince MacIntyre to carry out the necessary course of treatment.
The sound of riders approaching the ranch, dragged the steward from his sombre thoughts, and leaping to his feet he hastened down the porch steps.
Chris Larabee slid off his lathered black gelding, carelessly throwing the reins over the rail, before un-strapping a large satchel from the saddle. Glancing up, the gunslinger saw Davey Mason come out of the main stable block and, raising a hand in casual greeting, the ghillie loped across to take the three sweating horses.
"Will! Lord, am I happy to see ye back! Chris, Nathan." Bruce Soames gripped the hands of the Americans and there was no mistaking the relief in his voice.
The four started into the house, although Chris had edged his way ahead, pausing as he got into the large reception hall. Following Soames as he gestured to the corridor to the right, the steward hurriedly gave the three an update on all that he knew.
"I imagine Will has told ye everything, so I'm afraid I've not got good news for ye. The lad is even worse, but I've not been able to convince MacIntyre to do the operation. He's adamant that he can still afford to wait. Stubborn he may be, but I can tell that my colleague is very worried—and terrified as well."
Tanner frowned, and his growled out warning made Soames go cold. "That's the first bit o' sense that quack has shown then, 'cos if he let's that boy die, I swear I'll make the incompetent bastard suffer — long and painfully!"
Chris stayed silent, glancing in surprise at the older Texan, although for once he was in complete agreement with what the other man had just avowed.
Giving the two older Americans a sharp look, Nathan knew he would need to ensure that the pair kept a firm grip on their tempers. "Chris, Will, I know yer worried but I don't want ya both charging in like a pair of bulls, 'cos that won't help things any. Let me speak to Doc MacIntyre, y'hear?" The healer sighed inwardly, as both men gave reluctant nods of assent.
They had reached MacIntyre's office now and Soames carried on past the door to get refreshments for them all as the other men quietly entered the room.
Although the light was still good outside, several lamps had been lit and a fire glowed warmly in the large grate set in the far wall. The two peacekeepers took no notice of the room or the doctor sitting in a chair at the desk, as their attention was fixed solely on the man in the bed.
Chris immediately sat down on the chair at Vin's bedside. Reaching out a hand he lightly smoothed a stray lock of hair from his friend's face, noticing the almost grey colour of the tracker's skin and the furrowed lines of stress around his eyes and mouth. The gunslinger didn't need to be a medical expert to see that the tracker was seriously ill, and could see by the placement of Vin's tightly clenched hands, that the man was in agony, even though he appeared to be unconscious. Closing his eyes briefly, Chris felt his own guts suddenly knot up—not just in fear, but also with a strange echo of the torrent of pain that raged within his friend.
"Vin? C'mon, pard. Vin, its Chris and Nathan," the gunslinger softly urged, frightened now by the younger man's lack of response. "Vin?" Chris' second call had a more insistent tone to it and the firm hand he put on the tracker's shoulder backed up his voice.
Vin had no conception of the passing hours; he had accepted the continuous agony that coursed through his stomach and his mind had retreated to a safe corner where nothing else penetrated. He'd barely been aware of the two pairs of hands that had held him some time earlier and he'd had no strength to react to the onset of more discomfort when a clinically probing touch stripped away his last vestige of dignity, leaving him more miserable then he could ever have imagined. Death shouldn't be like this, should it? Maybe. It didn't matter though, as he was ready for what he knew was coming and had lapsed back into the almost welcoming embrace of pain.
A persistent call now slowly filtered through his jumbled brain and, with a huge effort, he homed in on what he realised was the familiar presence of his closest friend.
"Cc..ris?"
The gunslinger was heartened to see Vin's eyelids flutter several times and, hearing the weak call, Chris smiled broadly. "It's gonna be alright, pard. Me an' Nathan're right here, and we'll get you fixed up in a whiles. You just hold on for us, huh?"
Vin relaxed, content in the knowledge that whatever happened to him now he was not alone and would have the reassuring company of this man whom he trusted above all others. With a quiet sigh, he closed his eyes once again, not even flinching when Nathan briefly felt his forehead and then placed two gentle fingers to the pulse point in his neck.
The healer glanced at the grim look on the gunslinger's face, biting his lower lip in worry as he ran a practised eye over the sick man. Nathan could see how weak Vin was and, if the appendix ruptured, his friend would have no chance of recovery and most likely be dead within several days. He must talk to Andrew MacIntyre immediately — and alone. Despite the promises his fellow countrymen had made, Nathan had his doubts that Chris Larabee and Will Henry could contain their tempers if they confronted the doctor and the healer honestly believed that, if the Scotsman spurned either man, then gunplay would certainly be their ultimate solution to the problem.
While Nathan fully understood Chris' attitude, he was perplexed by the oddly similar viewpoint shown by Henry; a riddle that had been increasing in his mind since the older Texan had raced into Four Corners with the alarming news of Vin's illness. Pushing his confusion away, the healer got to his feet and crossed to where Andrew MacIntyre had sat silently but not without a feeling of anxiety, observing the men gathered around his patient's bed.
"Andrew, I've gotta talk t'ya. Shall we go out fer a short breather?" Nathan gave the doctor no chance to object, grasping his arm tightly and leading him out of the door.
The two went out to the porch and MacIntyre sat on a bench while Nathan leaned against the front railing, facing the other man. With a long sigh, the healer rubbed his chin for a moment as he debated what to say.
"Will gave me the bare bones of Vin's condition, but I need to know more. Andrew, setting aside the diagnosis of appendicitis fer now, have ya been able t'check him for other similar ailments?" Nathan was sure that a qualified doctor would know where this query was leading and was pleased when the Scotsman nodded vigorously.
"Aye. An hour or so after Will left, I was able to check him again more thoroughly. The morphine that I gave Vin earlier made him quite drowsy and Soames held him while I did a rectal examination," he paused momentarily as he saw Nathan purse his lips, whilst nodding in agreement at the necessity of doing the intrusive procedure.
With a quick nervous gulp, MacIntyre continued with his narrative. "I couldn't feel any indication of a bowel blockage or growth and his reasonably good skin colour rules out a problem with his kidneys or liver. Following that, I triggered the pressure point in his groin, and he emptied his bladder. The urine was clear and blood-free so I don't believe he has anything wrong with his stomach. Nathan, I'm certain that we are looking at inflammation of his appendix."
"You must operate then, Andrew. Now!" There was no mistaking the urgency in the dark-skinned healer's statement, but the other man looked away forlornly.
"I..I can't! I could kill him! You don't know what you're asking, Nathan. I've never done this operation before and he could die on the table!" MacIntyre jumped to his feet and began pacing restlessly up and down.
The healer strode over to the other man and grabbed his arm forcefully. "If you don't, then he will die! There's no question about it and you know it as well as I do."
"I was always taught to wait and observe. I've seen it happen before when an appendix gets inflamed but, after several days of rest and fasting, it can return to normal and the patient recovers. Vin has responded very well to morphine, so I can continue to use the drug to ease his pain," the physician said doggedly.
"So in yer 'professional' opinion, givin' a man an addiction to morphine ain't risky then?" Nathan demanded angrily.
"Not in a strictly measured and controlled regime — no, it isn't! Whilst the risk of cutting him open is far greater! More so when you add to the equation Vin's weakened and exhausted state!" MacIntyre said heatedly.
"Waal, that ain't gonna improve none while yer bein' Doctor High an' Mighty! Ya seem t'think that m'friend's yer own personal medical experiment, 'cos all yer prepared t'do is evade the real issue an' play 'round wit' Vin's life!" The healer instantly regretted his harsh words and forced himself to keep calm. This wasn't helping his sick friend at all. He'd warned Chris and Will Henry to keep control of their tempers and here he was ranting on like a bad-tempered schoolboy!
With a sigh, Nathan placed a sympathetic hand on the Scotsman's tense shoulder, giving the doctor a rueful smile of apology. "I'm sorry, that was unforgivable," the peacekeeper murmured. "Andrew, I don't like the odds we're up against any more than you, but I honestly believe that Vin's only hope of survival is if ya remove his appendix. I'll be here, and we can do this together."
Nathan gestured with his head to the house, as he carried on talking. "Look Andrew, jes' now I couldn't help but see all the equipment in yer office. Y'got medical things in there that I would willingly sell my soul for, 'cos ya not only got 'em, but you've also got the skill and training to use 'em. Vin needs yer expertise right now, but when yer hospital's built ya'll have others lookin' to ya for life-saving treatment. Don't ya see how ya can make a difference to folks? Lord, I would give anything t'be in yer boots!"
The other man gazed at Nathan, seeing in the healer's dark eyes the almost consuming thirst to attain proper medical training and knowledge. "No you wouldn't! I feel like everything that I've worked and studied for is slipping away. The idea of doing something that I know will fail and cost a man his life fills me with dread. Nathan, you're trying to force me to operate when I know I'm not ready."
"Waal, I ain't got any practical experience for treating this ailment an' I'm no trained doctor neither. But fer all them fancy tools, I would still be willing to risk cutting into that man with jes' a Bowie knife, rather than do nuthin' and watch him die. Andrew, I believe that God gave me a gift — a gift to bring help to those sick or injured. I don't pretend t'be like our Lord Jesus but I know that every time I bring relief t'someone, then I've fulfilled part of my destiny. Don't ya feel the healing power in yer hands, too? Isn't this what it's all about? Skill, faith and commitment, yes, but also havin' the courage to take a chance!" The healer had held up his own large hands as he spoke but, as he finished his impassioned plea, he looked away, no longer able to put into words how he felt.
MacIntyre shuffled his feet, as he deliberated over what the healer had said, and he had to admit the man was right. He did feel the calling of his chosen profession; he had always assumed it was similar to how a priest felt and he knew in his heart and mind that it was something he was born to do. Would he be compromising his Hippocratic Oath if he didn't even attempt to try and save Vin Tanner's life? Nathan had said in no uncertain terms that he would help with the operation and the untrained, but talented healer had also admitted that he had no experience of treating the condition. Yet he was still prepared to gamble, for the sake of the close friendship he shared with the tracker.
The Scotsman took a slow deep breath, and going over to where Nathan stood watching the orange red sun dip behind the distant hills, he touched the healer's arm. "If we are to do this together, Nathan, then we had better make a start. I need to get Vin ready for surgery and also prepare a suitable place to carry out the operation."
Nathan momentarily closed his eyes in sheer relief, offering up a silent prayer of gratitude at the doctor's unexpected capitulation. The two had talked for nearly twenty minutes and, having made the decision to act, they both suddenly felt the imperative need to begin, now fully united in a professional capacity as they started the formidable task of saving the life of Vin Tanner.
Chris sat staring at his unresponsive friend, his hand lightly resting on Vin's bare shoulder, although he was at a total loss for something to say or do. He trusted Nathan totally, but even the gunslinger knew how serious the tracker's condition was and such an intense feeling of terror gripped him, he felt certain that all those around him could easily detect his mood of utter desolation.
Bruce Soames had brought a tray of coffee into the office not long after the healer had left with MacIntyre, and the three had helped themselves as they waited to hear the outcome of the earnest discussion that the absent men were no doubt having. Standing close to the window and gazing out as if something really interesting held his attention, stood a tight-lipped Will Tanner.
The man had not said a word since his earlier angry outburst but the steward could tell by his stance that the Texan was a volcano waiting to erupt—with catastrophic consequences. With a puzzled frown he glanced back at Chris Larabee. The perceptive Scotsman could feel the equal level of antipathy between the two Americans and, although he wasn't prepared to ask or speculate, he wondered if the cause of the hostility was linked to the stricken tracker.
Chris' concern for Vin Tanner was so tangible that a blind man would have had no trouble seeing it and you could almost hear the silent pleas emanating from the immobile gunslinger, as if he were trying to will good health into his friend. Looking over once more to the security boss, Soames felt a different kind of disquiet in the older man.
The steward had spoken at length to Davey Mason after the two Scotsmen had got back to the ranch and he had informed the observant ghillie that Will Henry, or rather Will Tanner, had finally discovered the whereabouts of his long lost son. As the two firm friends exchanged details of what had occurred, they began to realise that it was as recent as last night that the older Texan had made the astonishing disclosure to Vin, whilst the four were at the overnight camp.
This piece of knowledge had begun to nibble away at the intuitive steward and he now guessed that the two peacekeepers from Four Corners were completely in the dark about the relationship between the Texans. There was more though; Soames couldn't clearly identify the mixture of emotions that the older Tanner was exhibiting and, although concern for his son's welfare was evident, it didn't read the same as that of the gunslinger or even the tall healer.
There seemed to be an element of frustration that the older man directed at Vin as if he were somehow blaming the young man for his illness, although there was no denying that Will Tanner had done everything any caring father would do if in the same position. Of course, the enormous strain from the current situation had not helped; the pair had only just been reunited and, although family bonds ran deep, the two men were effectively strangers with no mutual knowledge of the other's past life or personality.
With a slight shake of his head to clear his contemplative thoughts, Soames got to his feet as the door opened and the two medical men reappeared.
Three pairs of eyes fell on the two and, with a self-assured smile, Andrew MacIntyre started to give out instructions.
"I'm going to operate as soon as possible and Nathan will assist me. Soames, I'll need to use the kitchen. Could you scrub thoroughly, and then rub down with neat carbolic the two trestle tables. I want the smaller one as a place to clean Vin up on first, and the other will be used for the actual procedure. Put them side by side for now, it'll make it easier to transfer him across. Cover both with doubled up sheets, and I'll need extra towels as well. I want a constant supply of boiling water and more lamps. Will, can you help him? Nathan, I need you to sterilise the surgical tools, and then we must get ourselves cleaned up." The man was concise and businesslike as he rattled out orders, astounding his fellow colleagues with his new-found confidence. No one knew what had transpired between the two physicians but, whatever Nathan had said to the Scotsman, it had obviously affected him in a positive way.
Nathan went over to Chris as he saw the gunslinger's look of confusion at being excluded from the preparations.
"Chris, I think it'd be best if ya jes' sat with Vin fer now. Andrew gave him a shot of morphine a while back, which is makin' him drowsy. He's not really unconscious as such, jes' outta it with the pain, so he may have some awareness of what's going on." Nathan began unpacking his medical kit as he spoke to his friend, paying no attention to the two who filed out of the room and headed towards the kitchen. Bending down briefly, the healer placed a cool hand on the tracker's sweaty forehead, his dark eyes meeting Chris' worried countenance. "Mind," Nathan continued, "if he does wake up an' he seems reasonably lucid, then I reckon ya should try an' explain what's gonna be happenin' to him. I ain't sure he'll understand fully, but the more he's told now, the better chance we'll have of keeping him still an' calm. An' Chris, that's summat that's real important, 'cos if he starts fussin' an' movin' around, he could aggravate his condition."
Putting his own stethoscope on the side table, Nathan then joined MacIntyre at his large cupboard, frowning as he read the label on the bottle the man held.
"Ether? Ain't ya gonna use chloroform?" Nathan enquired.
"I generally use this, Nathan. It works just as well, and I have an inhaler to administer it with." The doctor waved vaguely to a strange piece of apparatus on the top shelf.
Nathan had never seen a machine like it before but what concerned him more was the Scotsman's favoured form of anaesthesia.
"Waal, I'd read that chloroform works better, 'specially for major surgery, and it helps to keep the muscles relaxed, while taking the patient under more deeply. 'Sides, I've used chloroform on Vin afore, an' I know he ain't gonna have a bad reaction to it, 'ceptin' some nausea o' course. Andrew, I know yer the qualified man but I'd feel happier if ya took my advice on this."
The doctor looked at the bottle thoughtfully before glancing over to where Chris sat intently listening to the conversation. With a nod, he put the ether away and reached for a different bottle. "Very well, Nathan. He's got a hard enough struggle ahead of him, so if we can eliminate one possible problem then we should grab it with grateful hands."
MacIntyre had gathered all his surgical instruments on a tray, adding several more bottles to the growing pile before handing it over to the healer. Reaching up, he hefted the heavy inhaler from the high shelf, and opening a drawer at the bottom he pulled out a tightly wrapped brown paper package. Chris leapt up to open the door as the two medical men left with their burdens.
Going back to sit with Vin, Chris gazed at the immobile tracker, licking his dry lips as he considered the enormity of what would soon happen. The gunslinger had faced many dangerous men in his life and fought in battles during the War Between the States, going against the might of cannons and swords, but even evading the hail of many bullets didn't compare with the fear that now encompassed him. Nathan hadn't needed to spell out the danger of the operation, but the gunslinger knew that there was no other option and all they could do now was pray that the younger man survived.
Chris didn't know how long he had sat in melancholy quietness and he jumped a little when the door opened to admit Nathan. Seeing the expression on the older man's face, the healer put a sympathetic hand on his friend's shoulder, suddenly wishing that he had the encouraging back up of Josiah or Buck. Nathan knew that if Vin died, then the gunslinger would be inconsolable, probably lashing out at those around him and it would most likely be the doctor and possibly Nathan himself who would be in real danger. Chris' grief would know no bounds and all reason would be temporarily gone as he wreaked an avenging force upon the men he would blame for his friend's death.
With an involuntary shiver, the healer offered what comfort he could to the worried man. "Chris, he's strong, and I've got a good feeling about the outcome of this operation. Y'know he's in good hands, don't ya?"
Chris leaned across and smoothed Vin's hair back from his forehead, not looking up as he replied in a distraught tone. "No I don't! I'd rather he were safe in your hands, Nathan. We're stuck all the way out here, and if Vin..."
Nathan heard the raw emotion in the gunslinger's voice as the man stopped, swallowing hard as he bowed his head, unable to say what was undoubtedly running through his mind.
"Don't even think it, Chris!" the healer angrily reprimanded his friend. "Ya most of all have gotta have faith that he'll be alright. Vin will pick up on yer fears — an' there ain't no question 'bout that! An' if he's worryin' on yer account, then how can ya expect him to carry on fighting? We must have hope an' courage or he may jes' give up. Now c'mon, help me wrap him in this blanket. Everything's nearly ready, an' Bruce'll be comin' in shortly t'carry him through." As he spoke, Nathan pulled off the Texan's thick socks and very soon the virtually unresponsive tracker was securely bundled in the blanket. The two peacekeepers had just finished the chore when Bruce Soames came into the office with an expectant look on his face.
The powerful steward carefully carried Vin into the kitchen, but as he gently laid him on the smaller table the tracker roused, and began to get agitated and fretful. Letting out several weak cries, the Texan tried to get free from the firmly wrapped covering.
"Easy, Vin. Not much longer, an' then y'can have a sleep," the gunslinger soothed, his hand gently squeezing a bare shoulder.
"Noo! Get off me! Lemme go!" The drug in his body was making the tracker confused, and the newly awakened agony following the transfer to the hard, unyielding surface had increased his anxiety.
Despite Chris' efforts to calm him down, Vin threw his arms about wildly, catching the gunslinger in the face as he tried to untangle himself from the blanket. Nathan let out a surprised yelp as a hard foot suddenly caught him in the chest but, undeterred, he firmly grasped the tracker's frantically kicking legs and immobilised them on the table.
Alarmed that his patient would do himself harm, Andrew MacIntyre stepped forward, his professional gaze resting briefly on the labouring form on the table, before he scanned around the large kitchen looking for Will Tanner.
"Will, perhaps you should hold Vin while Nathan washes him. Chris, Soames, I think it would be better if you left us now." The doctor started to hook his stethoscope in place, and didn't see the furious glare that Chris gave him.
"Go to hell, MacIntyre! I want Henry outta here! Vin's my friend, and I don't take kindly to him being laid out on show to some no account drifter who he barely knows." The heated retort left no doubt of the gunslinger's feelings for the older Texan.
"Now then Chris," the doctor began in a placating voice, "I realise that they've been apart for many years and Will's only just found him but, at the end of the day, he is the young man's father, so he has every right to stay. Will kept him calm before, which makes me think that Vin has some element of trust for his own family." MacIntyre had made the blithe comment and was now concentrating on listening to the tracker's heart rate, relieved that his patient seemed to be quieter now.
Vin had lapsed back into semi-consciousness, his remaining energy almost drained after his agitated struggles and he was completely unaware of the tense scenario that was unravelling around him.
"What!" Nathan couldn't quite believe what he'd just heard but, as he looked at the ashen face of the stunned Chris Larabee, his reeling brain somehow assessed the facts before him and he felt the missing pieces of a puzzle slot into place.
Staring hard at the motionless Vin Tanner, the healer then studied the features of the blond Texan. There were quite a few similarities and, if the tracker had had his eyes open, then Nathan would have seen that their colour and shape matched the older man's exactly. Why hadn't he noticed it before? Nodding wordlessly, the former slave put a hand on Chris' forearm, sensing the other's raw anger and denial simmering just below the surface.
The gunslinger hurriedly shook off his friend's conciliatory hand. "Nathan, you see to Vin. Henry, I need to speak to you outside. Now!"
"Chris.." the healer began, unsure of what action his friend would resort to if alone with the older man.
"Don't worry, Nathan. I just want a quick word. I'll be back shortly," Chris interrupted. With a curt nod to the Texan, he strode out of the kitchen closely followed by the other man.
Chris could feel the rigid tension in his shoulders as he walked to the front of the house, and his neck prickled as if physically feeling the icy look that the security boss aimed at his back as he strode behind the gunslinger.
Once outside Chris whirled around and, virtually throwing himself at the older man, he propelled the two of them to the outer wall of the house, pinning a strong arm across Tanner's throat.
"You lying bastard! How dare you come out with that bullshit in front of everyone! What the hell is your game? Spit it out, Henry!"
The pair were comparable in size, strength and temperament, so Tanner was not surprised by Chris' assault; in fact he was more astonished that the two were not either slugging it out on the dirt or facing each other with guns. Bringing his arms up, the Texan broke free from the gunslinger's firm hold, pushing Chris backwards, and then swung the staggering man around so that he was now similarly pinned to the wall. Lashing out a hard bunched fist, Chris caught the older man on the chin, giving a satisfied growl as the man stepped back a pace or two, and he was about to follow it up with another blow when the towering bulk of Bruce Soames intervened.
Having seen the shock on the two peacekeepers' faces at the doctor's ill-timed disclosure, the steward had watched in annoyance as Chris called Tanner from the room. Making sure that the two medical men had the washing water and towels they needed, he had then gone to find the irate Americans, fearful that he might hear the sound of gunfire at any second.
"That's enough! Will! Chris! Back off, or leave this ranch now!" The burly Scotsman came in between the two enraged men and, to his credit, the Texan was the first to relax and back away.
Breathing hard, Chris settled for glaring at his fellow countryman, although the anger was still there but tempered with disbelief at what he'd heard in the kitchen.
"You're a fucking liar, Henry! I don't know what you're up to, but until I see proof, then you're just a nobody! I'm going back inside, and I suggest you stay away from me — and Vin!" Chris spun around at his final angry comment and, without a backward glance, he strode into the house.
Will Tanner rubbed at his chin, his cold gaze roaming around the empty yard as if deciding what to do next. Finally he spoke to his waiting colleague. "I didn't mean t'bring trouble here, Bruce. I can prove that Vin is m'son, but it's hardly the right time is it? Larabee's had it in for me from the moment we met, so maybe I ain't doing Robert any favours by staying on here. With the threats we've had, we might have to rely on the law in Four Corners an' if I can't get on wit' him, then it could put folks in danger."
Soames squeezed the Texan's shoulder in a gesture of support. "Dinna be too hasty, Will. Ye've found yer lad and he's going to need much support in the weeks ahead. I'm not interested in the past, but I can see ye want to go forward with a family. Chris is worried, there's no question of that, so maybe it would be best to just let him have some space for now. Ye'll have time to get acquainted with Vin, because he'll need to recover from this operation, and I can't see MacIntyre allowing him to return to town until he's fully fit. I think even Nathan Jackson would agree with that. Let's just focus our energy on pulling yer lad through this, eh?"
"Thanks, Bruce. Yer a good man — even if ya ain't a Texan!" Tanner grinned, and held out his right hand to the Scot.
The two went back into the house, but instead of heading for the kitchen, they went to wait in MacIntyre's office, knowing that the doctor would return there at some point in time.
Chris Larabee had gone down the long inner corridor but paused outside the partially closed kitchen door. His emotions were reeling with the astounding information that had so innocuously slipped from the doctor's lips and he leaned against the wall, closing his eyes as he thought things through.
The gunslinger had seen the accepting look of recognition in Nathan's eyes as he had stared first at Henry and then Vin and, Chris could tell that the healer believed what MacIntyre had told them.
So if the man really was the tracker's father, how long had Vin known? The gunslinger wondered how his friend was coping with the alleged kinship; it wasn't every day that a long lost, and presumed dead, parent appeared and to someone like Vin Tanner, who had such a strong need for family, the revelation must have been an incredible shock.
Chris frowned as a suddenly pertinent thought came into his mind. Was this why he himself felt such animosity against the older Texan? No! The gunslinger had a deep affinity with the tracker and, if the young peacekeeper's father were on the scene, Chris felt sure he would see enough of Vin's personality in his friend's sire to at least have a respect for the man.
There must be another reason for the ever-increasing hatred—and he admitted that the word applied for how he felt about the Cummings' security boss—but for the life of him he couldn't put a finger on the cause of his loathing. The sudden anguished cry of his name being called in an all too familiar rasping voice broke Chris' train of thought, and pushing away his own problems he dashed through the kitchen door with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Andrew MacIntyre and Nathan Jackson were both garbed in white cotton coats over the top of their normal clothes, and had washed the tracker thoroughly with soap and carbolic, before sliding him across to the larger table. With an open book on a small side table, and an assortment of gleaming surgical instruments lined up on a tray, the two medical men had begun the process of dispensing the chloroform.
Vin was much more alert as the effects of the morphine were starting to wear off and, although pain still ravaged his body, it was a primeval fear that gripped him now. The doctor was using an inhaler device to administer the anaesthetic and it was this unusual piece of apparatus that caused the tracker's terror.
The rotund copper body of approximately eighteen inches in diameter was shaped roughly like a kettle, but without a spout or handle. A large valve was on the flattish top and two long rubber hoses stuck out of equal and opposite sides. One of these 'arms' had a soft oval bladder halfway down it and the other hose had a large cupped shape mask on the end. It was this end that MacIntyre was attempting to hold over Vin's nose and mouth and the tracker had panicked on seeing the black leather covering descend towards him.
"Chris!" Vin had screamed this time, thrashing his arms out to knock the instrument away again as the physician closed in for a third time. All rational thought had gone from Vin's mind, and he bucked so violently on the table that he was in danger of tumbling to the floor. The sheet that had been covering the tracker was in total disarray but the peacekeeper's abject fear was fuelled by the idea that MacIntyre was trying to smother him and this overrode any feeling of modesty he may have had about his nakedness.
"Take it away, doc! Whoa, easy Vin! Vin! Vin!" Chris' last forceful call had the desired effect and the tracker stopped struggling, clamping a trembling hand onto the gunslinger's arm but not taking his eyes from the mask that MacIntyre held at his side.
Nathan had been trying to restrain the tracker and, seeing his exhausted friend calm down, he readjusted the sheet over the man's shaking body. He couldn't blame Vin for being terrified; the last hour or so had been bad enough for the healer who knew exactly what was occurring, so a semi-conscious man who was incoherent with pain could hardly be expected to act as if nothing were happening.
Vin could feel his heart pounding against his chest and his already dry mouth felt like it was stuffed with sand, but all his fearful mind registered was the sight of that strange black thing trying to suck the breath from his weakened body.
"Get me outta here! Please, Chris!" There was such a note of longing in the tracker's final plea that Chris thought his heart would break in two.
Bending down to smooth his friend's tousled hair, Chris gave Vin a sorrowful look. "I'm sorry, pard, but you have to stay. Vin, you're real sick and your appendix has to come out. Nathan an' the doc need to operate and that machine will make you sleep while they help you."
The tracker swallowed audibly as he took in this information and his eyes worriedly scanned the tray of surgical instruments on the small table. There was no mistaking what the assortment of different sized scalpels was to be used for and he shuddered at the sight of the various shaped clamps and probes. Very little in life scared Vin, although only the reckless or foolhardy ignored danger intentionally; but this clinical situation was outside of the Texan's sphere of experience and the idea of giving total control of his body to the two physicians unnerved him completely. "Aw hell!" he breathed, and his blue gaze locked on Nathan's compassionate features as his hand gripped even tighter on Chris' arm.
Fighting back the rising hysteria once more, Vin took a few steadying gulps of air. "Yer gonna c.cut..." — he closed his eyes momentarily, as he drew in another juddering breath — "cut me open? Nate, I cain't do this! What if...what if I don't wake up ag'in? How will I know if m'dead?"
There was such a plaintive tone to the Texan's voice as he asked the irrational question that the healer felt his throat constrict and tears welled up in his eyes in sympathy for his frightened friend. "Vin, ya ain't gonna die, but that appendix is bad, and taking it out is the only way ya'll recover yer health. Andrew's an experienced surgeon, an' I'll be with ya all the way making sure yer alright. I won't lie t'ya — this is a risky operation and ya'll be in pain for a short while afterwards. But if we don't take out yer appendix, then... waal, we jes' don't got much choice, Vin."
Vin bit his lip as he considered Nathan's words and MacIntyre, interpreting his patient's ongoing silence as acceptance to the procedure, lifted the inhaler arms again and gave two experimental pumps on the bladder. The tracker's eyes widened in alarm as air noisily whooshed out and, as the black mask loomed closer once more, he wriggled across the table inching his body nearer to the gunslinger. Chris said nothing but squeezed Vin's tensely rigid shoulder several times, leaving his hand in place as he tried to give reassurance to his friend.
Nathan knew how claustrophobic the younger man was, but the modern inhaler allowed for a safer and more controlled way of anaesthetising a patient and right now Vin needed any advantage he could get. The dark-skinned peacekeeper leaned over to MacIntyre and whispered in the other man's ear. "Andrew, he feels trapped by all this. Look, Vin trusts Chris implicitly, so mebbe ya should let him do the pumping."
"Well, we need it done right away, because the way that vapour keeps escaping into the air, pretty soon we'll be the only ones asleep around here!" The doctor rolled his eyes in exasperation, although he fully understood his patient's apprehension.
Pulling the gunslinger several yards from the table, MacIntyre pointed to a basin hot of water as he started to quietly explain what needed to be done. "Chris, scrub your hands thoroughly, twice, and then I'll show you how to work this inhaler. If he still won't let even you do it, then we may just have to pin him down. I'm sorry, but that may be the only way forward." As the doctor roughly explained the principles of how the instrument worked, he then demonstrated to the gunslinger what he would be required to do.
Having finished cleaning up, Chris took the mask in one hand and loosely held the pumping bladder in the other before taking up a position by Vin's head.
Nathan had his stethoscope in place on the tracker's bare chest, frowning worriedly as he listened to the rapid beating in his ears. It was going to be part of his job to keep checking their patient's heart and breathing rate during the operation, leaving MacIntyre free to concentrate on the procedure, although the doctor had warned him that he might call upon the healer to assist him further — it just depended on what the two found once they had begun.
"Vin, I would never hurt you. You know that don't you?" Chris asked, carefully studying his friend's pain-lined features.
The tracker's eyes darted to Nathan and then to MacIntyre before locking onto Chris' face. He gulped nervously, but nodded imperceptibly. "Yeah. Course I know. It's m'guts that're sick, not m'head!" Vin muttered gamely.
The sarcastic comment elicited a quirky grin from Nathan and, although he still kept checking Vin's heart rate, he gave his younger friend an exaggerated wink of encouragement.
"Well, that's a relief!" Chris chuckled, although the humour sounded a little false as he too tried to deal with the harrowing situation. Clearing his throat, he carried on in a reassuringly positive tone. "Vin, I won't let you suffocate. In fact, I'll be giving you air, but it's mixed with medicine that'll make you sleep. I promise, pard, I won't let you die. D'ya trust me with this?"
Chris had held up the mask so Vin could see it and, seeing the other nod again, he smiled broadly. "Good. The doc says this stuff works real quick, and you won't feel a thing. Now, just breathe as normal as y'can, and let me do the rest. Alright?"
Chris was about to put the mask in place when Vin twisted his head a little to the side. The fear was still evident in his features but his blue eyes showed his total faith in the older man. "Promise?" he whispered, his hand lifting to lightly touch the gunslinger's chest.
Chris nodded slowly, his voice and face sincere as he gave his solemn pledge to his closest friend. "You don't have to ask. I'll always watch your back, Vin."
Moving his head back again, Vin deliberately thrust his own face into the inhaler's mask. Keeping his eyes fixed on Chris' confident gaze he took a deep breath, smelling the slight sweetness of the chloroform vapour as it mixed with the air circulating within the body of the apparatus.
MacIntyre had instructed Chris to pump twenty times in tandem with his patient's normal breathing pattern and, as he silently reached number three in his head, he saw Vin's eyelids start to flutter as he succumbed to the drug. At seven pumps the tracker went completely limp, eyes now fully closed, and for the benefit of the two medical men the gunslinger continued the count out loud.
Nathan had been listening to Vin's steadily decreasing heartbeat and, as Chris reached twenty and took the mask away, the healer checked the tracker's breathing pattern. "He's right out, Andrew. His breathing's nice an' regular too."
The doctor gently placed his hand to the Texan's wrist, feeling the strong, even beat under his fingertips as he felt his patient's pulse for himself.
Chris coiled the inhaler's hoses around the main body of the machine, stowing the ends on a small hook near the top valve, and then for a few seconds he merely stared at the soundly sleeping tracker. The gunslinger had never met a more courageous and gutsy man than Vin Tanner; the young Texan had an enduring toughness and inner strength that somehow always pulled him through every hurt or calamity, physical and emotional, that life threw his way. But tonight was very different. This unseen enemy wasn't one that could be faced with a weapon and Chris felt the helplessness of the situation pervade his entire being. Apart from offering his moral support, there was little that he could do to help his friend; the tracker had to fight this foe alone.
MacIntyre was busily occupied re-reading a section in the open book to the side, but Nathan caught the tortured look on the older man's face and he had a fair idea of what was going through the gunslinger's mind. "Chris, Bruce left some whisky in Andrew's office, an' y'look like ya need one. I'm with Vin, an' we'll do everything we can fer him. I'll fetch ya when it's over. Go on Chris, we need to start!"
Nathan's insistent order penetrated Chris' whirling thoughts and, with his face an unreadable mask, the man in black nodded vaguely. Taking a deep breath the gunslinger bent over the tracker and, putting his mouth close to the sleeping man's ear, he murmured a few words to his friend. "Don't give Nathan any sass, y'hear? An' if you're thinking of running out on me...waal, you'd better not even try! I'll be here waiting for you, Vin." Straightening up again, Chris gave Nathan a small smile. His private and personal message to the younger man still echoed through his mind and he drew a small measure of comfort from his words as he prepared to leave the room.
"Take care of him, Nathan." Not trusting himself to say any more, Chris walked from the kitchen.
The two medical men had taken up positions on either side of their patient and, folding back the sheet covering the sleeping man, MacIntyre placed the instrument tray on the table close to Vin's leg. Picking up a carbolic soaked cloth, he then competently swabbed a large area of skin on the tracker's abdomen and groin, paying particular attention to the right hand side. Tossing the cloth into a bowl on the small table, he gave the healer a supremely confident look before selecting a scalpel. Taking a deep calming breath the doctor began to make his incision.
Nathan concentrated on checking the Texan's life signs but, as he watched the Scotsman work, he wondered if his colleague realised that he held in his hands the lives of not one, but two men. If Vin Tanner died then a part of Chris Larabee would die as well and, ultimately, the appendix would be responsible for destroying two good men. There was no turning back now and the healer could only pray for a successful outcome.
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