Hunter's Moon

By: Joe Lawson

The wolves are out tonight
Under the hunter's moon.

(Tuesday's Child, by: All About Eve.
In: Scarlet And Other Stories, 1989.)

PART FOUR

Chapter One

Morning found Vin Tanner slowly riding towards Chris' shack, bearing gifts.

Well, 'gifts' was a bit of an overstatement. It was more like breakfast. The tracker hadn't been able to sleep much, too antsy after the events of the previous day to find rest, so he'd given it up and left the clearing before the first signs of dawn made themselves known. Remembering the condition of Chris' cupboards, he thought he'd better bring a little something to help feed the pack. Ezra, especially, could get downright nasty if he didn't start the day with strong coffee, and he'd need something to cushion the impact of Vin's killer brew.

So the Texan made a detour to catch two rabbits and a befuddled grouse. He even stopped at the river to wash, but decided against adding one or two trout to his collection of edibles. By the time he was done, the sky was growing a little lighter, so Vin mounted his still half-asleep horse and made a beeline for Chris' lodge. He felt odd - calm and giddy at the same time. Things had changed, and he was both eager and hesitant to meet the others again and find out what kind of change it was.

Peso seemed to sense his rider's exceptional state of mind, and -- being fairly smart for a hard-headed mule -- behaved himself. It was a wise decision. Vin was not in the mood to face off with his grumpy mount.

They arrived at the shack at sunrise, finding Pony and Steele dozing peacefully in the corral. Vin unloaded his offerings and carefully deposited them on the porch. He was just unsaddling Peso, expertly dodging the big teeth that kept trying to pinch him, when the gelding's head shot up, alerting him to the arrival of another horse. Carefully peeking over the back of his horse, the tracker reached for his mare's leg, only to relax almost immediately upon recognizing the slender bay making his way towards the shack. Dancer and J.D.

Satisfied that the newcomer was a friend, Vin pulled the saddle off Peso's back and threw it over the rail beside Buck's. He led his horse to the corral and let him go, watching with a grin as the gelding at once moseyed over to Steele. The big gray greeted him with a friendly snort, then quickly threw his head to the side to avoid getting nipped. Far from being discouraged, he ambled closer to the black, stretching his long body to nibble softly at the dark neck. And Peso, despite being the mean-tempered son of a bitch that he was, bowed into the touch like a cat getting its belly scratched and half-closed his eyes in contentment.

Vin shook his head in amazement. "You, too?"

His contemplation of Peso's downfall was interrupted by a cheerful greeting. "Hey, Vin!"

The tracker turned around, smiling at J.D.'s enthusiasm. "Good morning, kid. Up already?"

"Yeah, well, I woke up when it was still dark and couldn't fall asleep again," the younger man admitted sheepishly. "And Buck said to be at Chris' for breakfast. So I saddled up and came here. - I brought fresh bread," he added, grinning cheekily. "To soothe Chris, in case he didn't get enough sleep. It's his favorite."

"It better be," a familiar flat voice threw in from behind, causing the kid to yelp and spook his mount into a startled jump. Larabee waited until the two had calmed down, then hit J.D. with his infamous shark's smile. "I slept well, thank you very much. And until two minutes ago, I did feel quite mellow. Did you bring jam?"

The abrupt change of topic didn't help to gather J.D.'s scattered nerves. Before his first cup of coffee, the Seven's leader was every bit as unsociable as their con-man. And Vin was laughing too hard to be of any assistance. Luckily, the young Sheriff was saved by the timely arrival of the other three.

"He brought jam," Josiah said, pointing at Ezra, who was sleepwalking a rather dazed-looking Maverick between the preacher's big sorrel and the healer's long-limbed bay. "I think he also brought some bacon, but I'm not sure - he might've been talking in his sleep."

Vin's jaw dropped at the sight of Ezra P. Standish up and about -- well, *up* anyway -- before ten o'clock. Chris, just as impressed, gave a low whistle of amazement. "What did you do? Set his bed on fire?"

"We didn't have to," Nathan said, sounding awed. "He must've gotten up even before us, 'cause we met him on the way here." He poked the gambler with a finger to check if the man was still with them. Ezra growled and swatted at him with all the energy of a dying buffalo in the desert at noon. Nathan evaded the waving hand easily and shared an amused glance with Josiah. "Oh, look, it's alive," he commented.

J.D., who couldn't help but feel sorry for the Southerner, quickly finished taking care of Dancer and hurried to assist Ezra off his horse. "C'mon, Ez," he coaxed, tugging at his friend's pants leg. "Get down. We'll get you some coffee."

"Coffee," Ezra sighed, without opening his eyes. "What a heavenly beverage. I'll take a pot, please." He slid from the saddle bonelessly, landing with unexpected grace on his feet. Green eyes risked a wary glance at the surroundings and came to rest on Vin with instant alarm. "Who made the coffee?" he asked suspiciously.

Josiah laughed at the reappearance of the gambler's survival instincts and kneed Seeker over to the corral, followed by a chuckling Nathan and J.D., who had to almost drag the nearly comatose Maverick across the yard.

Larabee listened to Vin and Ezra argue about what was to be considered drinkable coffee and what qualified as hot acid, and had to bite down a grin of his own. Somehow, his doubts and fears were reduced to pale memories when confronted with the reality of these men. Damn if they didn't make him feel like they could take on the devil himself when they were together.

"Admit it, Mr. Tanner, your barbarous mangling of what is supposed to be stimulating refreshment is in fact part of some nefarious scheme contrived solely for the reason to make me lose my precarious mental balance."

"Huh?"

Though how the hell they did it was totally beyond him.

"Buck's making coffee," he told them, knowing he had to stop them before they destroyed what was left of *his* sanity. "He woke up t' tell me you were coming," he nodded at Vin, "and I managed t' persuade him to stay up and start preparin' breakfast."

Ezra frowned at that. "Was that really necessary? Mr. Wilmington must be exhausted. He should rest."

Chris shrugged laconically. "Since everybody's here, I figured we could start th' day with plannin' our next moves. And we need Buck for that. He's the only one who knows what we're up against."

"Breakfast first, planning later," Nathan demanded. He was carrying a basket filled with eggs and a block of cheese. J.D. was right behind him with his loaf of fresh bread and the jam and bacon he'd taken from Ezra's saddlebags. Josiah contributed a bag of freshly ground coffee.

The man in black wasn't about to argue with the healer. Ezra wasn't the only one who was in dire need of a caffeine boost. He just hoped Buck had indeed started a pot - the Two-Blood hadn't been entirely cognizant when Chris told him to get up and make coffee while he went to greet the others. In fact, his first response to Larabee's request had been foul enough to turn the air blue, though somewhat muffled by a heap of blankets.

So, opening the door to his cabin, the gunslinger was fully prepared to face a werewolf suffering from sleep-deprivation. Hence his surprise when he found the room empty. Buck had evidently left the bed, taking the covers with him. He had lit a fire, cleaned out the coffee pot, and . . . vanished into thin air, apparently. "What the . . ." Chris walked over to the cot, wondering if, driven by some weird kind of canine logic, Buck had taken refuge *under* the bed, like a wolf hiding in his den. "Buck?"

"Ya might wanna come here, cowboy," Vin whispered from the other side of the room.

The tracker was standing next to the fireplace, grinning. J.D., who'd entered the cabin right behind him, moved around him to get a better look at something on the floor that was hidden from Larabee's view by the table and a chair. "If I didn't know better, I'd say he looks almost cute," the young man said.

"I heard that," a familiar voice rumbled from the ground.

Larabee moved closer, and, peering over the table, saw Buck slowly sitting up and glaring at J.D., though the effect was ruined by the yawn he couldn't quite suppress. The Two-Blood must've curled up on the floor in front of the fireplace, trying to catch some more shut-eye. He'd made it into his pants, but hadn't bothered with underwear or shirt. Not that anybody was complaining about the view. Not with him looking so warm and sleepy and pleasingly rumpled. How come the man managed to look positively edible even with his hair sticking up and dark whiskers shadowing his face?

"Mr. Wilmington? May I inquire as to why you have chosen to relegate your headquarters to the ground?" Ezra was visibly struggling with the idea as to why anybody would sleep on the floor when there was a perfectly good bed available.

Buck stared at him blankly for a second, mentally translating the sentence, then grinned. "Th' floor was nearer."

"Sounds reasonable," Josiah observed seriously, though his eyes were twinkling with laughter.

"You still look tired," Nathan noted. He put the eggs and the cheese on the table and went to kneel beside the tall gunslinger, eyeing him critically. "You hurtin'?"

His words were an unexpected reminder of what had happened the night before, and the Seven fell silent, all at once looking unusually self-conscious. Chris sighed inwardly. He'd hoped they'd be able to delay this conversation until after breakfast, when they were all fully awake and less likely to say something stupid. He wasn't quite sure how he felt about it all himself, and he didn't even want to hazard a guess about what was on the minds of the others.

This, he realized with sudden clarity, was the first test - facing their decision in the cold light of the morning, when it wasn't just Buck and one of them, but the whole group, connected now on an intimate level, but still not entirely bonded. Not a pack. Not yet. And it felt decidedly strange that he knew that, was thinking that way, when he never had before. He glanced at Buck, hoping for advice, and promptly got caught by his gaze. There wasn't a trace of sleepiness left in those dark blue eyes, but his friend didn't move or open his mouth. Obviously, this was something they had to do on their own, without help from their only Two-Blood. Damn. He should've known this wouldn't be easy. Wait - he *had* known. He'd just decided to do it regardless.

So Chris Larabee, hardened gunslinger and nightmare of every hard case in the area, hunkered down next to a frozen Nathan, and, under the watchful eyes of his men, touched a hand to his best friend's face in an openly intimate caress. "Well, are ya?" he asked softly.

Buck blinked. "Am I what?"

The corner of Larabee's mouth curled up in his characteristic half-smile. "Hurtin'," he clarified.

The dark moustache twitched as an answering smile curved the taller man's lips. "Never felt better," he declared, relaxing under the gunslinger's touch.

Nathan snorted at that, quickly regaining his balance. His hands, hovering just inches from Buck's hips, finished their journey, pressing lightly against an especially nasty bruise. He raised an eyebrow at the startled yip the pressure provoked. "Never better, huh?" he drawled. "Care t' repeat that?"

Buck glared at him, still leaning into Chris' hand. "You're a damn sadist, is what you are," he accused, gaining disbelieving stares from everyone but Ezra, who was too busy howling with laughter to join them.

Nathan directed a blistering glare at the Southerner, knowing exactly where Buck had learned that particular word. "Ezra," he growled. "You're being a bad influence again!"

"Just contributing to Mr. Wilmington's general education," the gambler chortled, not feeling guilty in the least. On the contrary, he felt rather proud that Buck had remembered *something* from the many lectures he'd thought he'd wasted on the man.

J.D. lifted a hand. "Uh . . . Josiah? Ez? Anybody? - What does 'sadist' mean?"

Vin, just as clueless as the kid, nodded vigorously to assert that he, too, wanted an explanation. And it better be one he could understand.

Josiah sighed. "A sadist is a person who likes to make other people suffer," he told them, then directed a stern gaze at Buck. "It's not a polite thing to say to a man who's just trying to help you."

"He was poking me," Buck defended himself indignantly.

"So? I was doing a lot more than that last night," Nathan scoffed, then snapped his jaws shut with an audible click, looking scandalized.

Buck grinned, then leaned forward to kiss the flustered healer right on the mouth. "That you did," he confirmed, when he finally let go of his dazed looking friend. "And you were great."

Ezra, noticing the lingering awkwardness, took his heart into his hands and cleared his throat theatrically. "I do believe he wasn't the only one who had the pleasure of indulging in lovemaking with you," he reminded Buck, praying the scoundrel would understand his intention.

He did. And he reacted exactly like the gambler had hoped he would. Ezra didn't protest when those long, slender fingers grabbed a handful of his expensive shirt, pulling him down until his face was on one level with that of the sitting gunslinger. His stomach did an excited little flip flop and his tongue snaked out to lick suddenly dry lips, just when Buck's mouth met his. The kiss was brief, but passionate, and left the Southerner panting and hard. "Thank you, Ezra," Buck breathed and finally let go of him.

Josiah smiled at the glazed look in the normally so collected gambler's eyes, then grinned even wider when he saw Vin sinking to his knees in front of the Two-Blood to collect his kiss. The uncomfortable tension between the Seven was quickly dissipating, and the preacher knew they had mainly Ezra to thank for that. The reserved Southerner had once again managed to surprise them all with his show of courage.

Chris, too, watched with a mixture of disbelief and pride as one by one, the regulators shed their reservations and reclaimed the easy familiarity between them. It was a bit weird to see Vin and Buck kiss after discovering his own attraction to the tracker just a few hours before, but the expected stab of jealousy didn't come. Buck wasn't his rival, and Chris knew with absolute certainty that he never would be. He might be an aggravating, stubborn, overprotective bastard, but he'd already proved time and again he'd stand by Larabee come Hell or high water.

Larabee had to smile when J.D. shot him a quick, nervous glance before leaning down. The younger man blushed, but returned the smile shyly, relieved to have their leader's approval. Chris was absurdly proud to see how J.D. handled the situation - the kid never once doubted Buck's desire for him. Whatever had happened between the two of them the night before, the gunslinger had obviously done a good job of alleviating his young friend's insecurities. He seemed to have enjoyed it, too, because the expression in his eyes could've melted a heart of stone.

"C'mere," the scoundrel murmured, pulling the sheriff onto his lap and proceeding to thoroughly reacquaint himself with the layout of his mouth, probably right down to his tonsils. When he released his gasping victim, J.D. looked ready to pass out. "Thank you," Buck said gently.

"You're welcome," J.D. wheezed.

Josiah waited patiently until their youngest had managed to disentangle himself from the Two-Blood's embrace, then bent down himself. A large, callused hand calmly lifted the gunslinger's face, then the preacher parted Buck's lips with his tongue and did some reacquainting of his own. When he pulled back at last, he had the enormous satisfaction of seeing the irresistible charmer flushed and looking at him with new respect. "Even an old dog knows one or two tricks," Josiah whispered, feeling younger and lighter than he had for a long time.

"I'll definitely remember that," Buck muttered, much to the amusement of the rest of the Seven.

Chris could feel their expectant gazes upon him. "Oh, what the hell," he sighed, "You still owe me a kiss anyway." With that, he captured his friend's mouth and invited his favorite tongue out to play. Not surprisingly, it was more than ready to come and wreak some havoc on his senses.

That, he reflected, before his brain slowly melted and seeped down to collect in his groin, was the reason why he'd been so reluctant to kiss Buck back in the old days. It had been possible -- not easy, but possible -- to tell himself that fucking the man was only a means to ease the ache in his loins, that it was nothing but a little sexual experimenting between friends; but the kisses . . . Buck's kisses had a way of bypassing all rational thought and going straight for your heart and soul that made it impossible to write them off as just good fun. He'd still dreamed of those kisses long after he'd met Sarah. After her death, that had felt like betrayal, and he'd made Buck pay for it.

As always, Buck sensed the dark turn Chris' thoughts had taken, and reacted by moving closer, trying to offer comfort and warmth - or a body to take his frustration out on; whatever his friend wanted. And for the first time in years, Chris chose comfort and warmth, and deepened the kiss.

Chapter Two

Breakfast started as a quiet, but relaxed, affair. After the excitement of the delayed realization that they'd really gone and changed their relationship forever, the results of a basically sleepless night and two days of constant tension crashed down on the Seven with a vengeance.

Nathan fussed about Buck, but declared him fit for duty when the Two-Blood threatened him with bodily harm if he mentioned the healing salve again. Chris and Josiah shared cooking duties, Josiah cutting the bacon with his huge knife and Chris cracking the eggs into the frying pan, then adding the bacon and strips of the rabbits and the grouse Vin prepared with Nathan's assistance. J.D. sat at the table between Buck and Ezra, who were both half asleep with their heads resting on their folded arms. The young man was cutting the bread, shooting question after question at Buck, who occasionally replied with a grunt or a muffled explanation.

Larabee, never one for lengthy ceremony, just put the pan in the middle of the table and told them to dig in. The Seven had brought their own cups, so distributing the coffee was no problem. They ate quietly, while waiting for the caffeine to do its job, each of them busy with his own thoughts.

Chris watched them from his position at the head of the table, noting that even though the men hardly said a word, they were touching a hell of a lot more often than usual. It wasn't glaringly obvious - not more than the brush of a shoulder against another here, the touch of a hand against an arm there, the occasional leaning over to reach for something without trying to avoid contact. They didn't seem to be aware they were doing it, but even Ezra -- who usually needed about as much personal space as a cougar with a head-cold -- not once shied away from these casual touches. It was like in getting intimate with Buck, they'd started to lower a wall they'd erected to appease the rules of society, but hadn't particularly liked. Chris was the only one who stayed apart. Or so he thought, until he caught himself playfully cuffing the back of Vin's head to get his attention. The tracker didn't even have to ask what he wanted, he just passed over the salt and kept on eating.

Larabee frowned. Not that the incident in itself was especially unusual or alarming, but it bugged him that there seemed to be a subtle change in the Seven's behavior pattern and he didn't know if he was included or not. So in the spirit of science, Chris did a little experimenting, getting up from the table to put on another pot of coffee and brushing Josiah's back in passing, then casually laying a hand on Ezra's shoulder when grabbing a slice of bread on his way back. What would've startled them a day before didn't provoke so much as a curious look now. Also, touching them like that didn't feel strange in the least.

He was part of it, whatever *it* was.

Well, damn.

"What're ya grinnin' about, cowboy?" Vin asked, confused by the gunslinger's sudden good mood.

"Nothing," Chris hurried to assure, hiding his smile behind his coffee cup. His gaze fell on Buck, who was sitting at his left with his eyes closed, blissfully inhaling the vapors rising from his own mug. "Aren't you awake yet?"

Buck opened one eye and, yes, there it was, that spirited sparkle that nothing ever seemed to kill. It might dull when life beat the man down with special cruelty, but then Buck would square those broad shoulders, lift that proud head, and laugh into Fate's face. And the sparkle would shine brighter than before. Only once had Larabee seen it flicker and almost die, but his mind shied away from the memory and he dropped it quickly.

"Hell, no, I'm not awake," Buck groused, though the way he straightened and moved to stretch his long legs under the table -- causing Vin to swear and almost drop his folk when the scoundrel's feet collided with his shins -- belied his statement. "I feel like I was ridden hard 'n then put away wet." Then he ducked aside quickly when J.D. spewed a mouthful of coffee all over the table at that particular image.

"Jesus, J.D.!" Vin cried, jerking back reflexively.

Josiah, who'd taken the most of it, because he was seated right opposite the kid, calmly reached over, confiscated the tracker's bandanna, and cleaned himself. Vin looked like he was about to protest, then saw the warning glint in the preacher's deep-set eyes and decided a piece of cloth wasn't worth dying for. He had enough bandannas. He didn't need that one.

Ezra indignantly wiped a drop of dark liquid from his sleeve, glaring balefully at the young Sheriff, who was too busy coughing to notice. Buck slapping his back helpfully only served to almost knock him off the log they used as chairs.

"Buck, stop hitting the kid," Nathan ordered, teetering between irritation and laughter. "You're just makin' things worse!"

The gunslinger immediately stopped, but kept a watchful eye on his protege, who had turned an alarming shade of red. "Take shallow breaths," he admonished. "Calm down. Dammit, kid, ya almost gave me a heart attack there! What was that all about?"

"I suppose your overly graphic metaphor might've been the cause for Mr. Dunne's unfortunate physical reaction," Ezra told him. "Which, in turn, makes you the person responsible for the near destruction of my coat." He eyed the coffee stain on his sleeve with dismay. "If this doesn't wash out, I expect you to offer some sort of compensation. This garment was manufactured in San Francisco."

Buck looked at Josiah.

"He wants you to buy him a new jacket if the stain doesn't come out," the preacher translated dutifully.

Buck glared at Ezra. "Why me? It was J.D.'s fault." J.D. wasn't quite ready to protest verbally, but he shook his head vigorously. The scoundrel patted him on the back absentmindedly and continued to argue with Ezra. "It was an accident!"

Chris exchanged an amused glance with Vin and settled back to enjoy the show. Nathan rolled his eyes and tried to look disgusted, and Josiah was still dabbing at his own shirt, grumbling indignantly.

Ezra pointed at the tiny spot on his sleeve and scowled. "That doesn't change the fact that my favorite coat is ruined."

"Ruined?" Buck's voice rose dangerously. "That's not ruined! That's barely- " He broke off suddenly, his head swiveling around like that of a predator getting a whiff of his prey. Every trace of good humor slipped from his face like rain from greased steel. "They're coming."

J.D.'s coughing stopped abruptly. Ezra's scowl smoothed out, changing into the evenness of his most impenetrable poker-face. In contrast Nathan's face hardened, the gentleness covered by unyielding determination. Josiah wiped the last drop of coffee from his chin and handed the bandanna back to Vin with a curt nod, thunderclouds gathering in the depths of his eyes. The tracker knotted the slightly damp fabric around his throat automatically, his agile mind already plotting the destruction of their opponents.

Larabee slowly set down his coffee cup, a tiny, completely humorless smile curling the corners of his mouth. "Early risers. How refreshing," he remarked, the sarcasm in his voice sharp enough to etch a hole through the tabletop.

Still, it made them smile, though in a way that caused the temperature in the room to drop several degrees and then slink off with its tail between its legs. They got up from the table as one, spreading out through the room to collect their gear with the swift efficiency of a well-oiled machine. It was a familiar dance, one they'd mastered to perfection.

Chris shrugged into his black duster like a knight donning his armor. He put on his hat, rolled his shoulders, and dug out a cheroot, lighting it on his way out of the cabin. The others filed out behind him, silent and focused. The air around them was filled with tension and something else, something that felt a damn lot like raw power, curling around them like invisible smoke. Not one of them commented on it, but they all felt it and recognized it. It had been like this between them before, though it had never been so strong, like a living thing.

Buck's smile was turning decidedly feral when he took his position at Larabee's left. He didn't seem worried by the prospect of facing his blood relatives. If anything, he seemed to look forward to it.

"Don't let them provoke you," Chris ordered, addressing all of them, but staring at Buck when he said the words. "Remember, we're not here to fight. If this pack law thing works as planned, they might leave peacefully. So keep your cool. We're aiming for a show of force here, not a bloodbath."

"But, Chris, they killed Buck's mom!" J.D. protested, his sense of justice offended by the thought of letting a murderer get away.

"You want them to kill you, too?" the gunslinger snapped. Hadn't the kid listened to anything Buck had told them? "Or Josiah? Or Ezra? If we fight, likely some of us will die. That worth it?" He glanced at his oldest friend, silently apologizing for his harsh words, but knowing without a doubt what his priorities were. He had to keep his family safe. And that meant that until they had learned more about Two-Bloods and how to fight them, he wasn't going to risk his friends for the off-chance of putting one of Buck's ghosts to rest.

J.D. paled at the reprimand, but still raised his chin defiantly. "It's not right, letting them go."

"It's better than watching you die," Buck said calmly. "Chris is right, this ain't the time. We can't beat them. Not yet. And don't delude yourself into thinkin' they'd let ya arrest them - Two-Bloods don't take well to bein' locked in. They'd fight us to th' death before going to jail."

The young sheriff frowned. "You were locked in. When Marshall Bryce arrested you for public indecency. You didn't fight *him* to the death."

Buck didn't look at him. "I wanted to," he admitted, swallowing hard. "Damn near did, too. But I grew up among One-Bloods, and I knew I'd get out in a couple of days. So I pulled myself together and let him do his job."

Vin's stomach roiled. Buck had fought every instinct and bowed to human law, with the result that he'd ended up helplessly imprisoned in a cell while a horde of hired guns raided the town, threatening those he'd sworn to protect, and the Marshall had bled to death on a cot in the neighboring cell. By the time they'd gotten to Buck and set him free, he must've been half-crazy with fury, frustration, and fear. Yet he'd managed to keep it together. The tracker's respect for his friend's self-discipline rose another notch. He glanced at Chris and saw the gunslinger's lips tighten into a thin line, no doubt remembering his first reaction when he'd heard Bryce lock his friend in. *Ol' Buck, he always lands on his feet.* Yes, indeed. And if he broke a few bones in the process, who'd notice?

//Us// Vin thought fiercely. //From now on, we'll notice. An' we'll be there t' catch him any time he needs it.// One quick look around into the grim faces of his friends told him they were thinking the same thing. Ironically, Buck had an identical look on his face - he was probably vowing to keep *them* safe. The man was worse than a watchdog. He was a mother-hen with fangs.

It was Chris who broke the silence that had fallen over the group, bringing them back on track with his usual crisp proficiency. "All right. No wise-cracks. No taunting the big bad wolves. No rash actions." He glared at them for emphasis. "Are we clear on that?"

They nodded. Nathan smiled angelically. Josiah was cleaning his nails with his knife. Ezra shuffled a deck of cards one-handed, occasionally flashing the Ace of Spades. J.D. looked everywhere but at Chris. Buck's eyes were hooded, shielding his thoughts. And Vin was wearing a shit-eating grin that didn't bode well. Larabee groaned and pulled his hat low over his eyes.

He hated it when he was the only level-headed, responsible person in a fight.

Chapter Three

The Two-Bloods approached in their usual arrowhead formation. Upon seeing the gunfighters lined up waiting for them in front of the cabin, they reined in their horses and dismounted, approaching the Seven on foot.

John Doe stopped when he was about eight feet from Chris, glaring at the man in black with narrowed eyes. His people fanned out, trying to flank the humans, but a low, menacing growl from Buck froze them in their tracks. They looked at him, found him staring at them with icy, empty eyes, and quietly resumed their places behind their leader. Doe redirected his focus at his son.

"I hear you founded your own pack now," he noted, gaze flickering derisively over the ragtag group of men facing him. "I'm not impressed."

Larabee, who'd been studying him with an air of absolute disinterest, smiled at that. He took a long drag on his cheroot, puffing the smoke into Doe's direction. "If you wanna talk, you'll have t' talk to me," he drawled around the thin, black cigar, baring his teeth at the uninvited visitor. "I'm the leader of this pack."

"You?" The tall Two-Blood raised an eyebrow in blatant disbelief. "You're only human. You might be Bucklin's friend, but you'll never be his equal."

"Mighty arrogant, isn't he?" Josiah asked, sounding almost amused.

"What do you expect of an imbecile raised by wolves," Ezra replied in a decidedly bored tone, flipping over the King of Hearts with a gentle hand and placing it on top of the Ace of Spades.

"Mister, your mother should've taught you some manners," J.D. added, unconsciously touching the butt of his Colt .38 and straightening in a doomed attempt of looking taller than he was.

Doe did a double-take at that, then forced himself to concentrate on Buck. "Tell me this is a joke," he demanded. "Tell me you did not renounce your position in your family for . . ." His gaze raked over the Seven with undisguised disgust. ". . . for *that*."

"You might want to watch your mouth, son," Josiah growled, taking a step forward. "*That* doesn't take too well to insults."

"Josiah," Chris warned.

The big preacher stepped back immediately, acknowledging Larabee's authority without hesitation. The Two-Bloods observed the incident with rapt attention. Their leader raised a mocking eyebrow at Chris. "Who would've thought. They actually listen to you." He snorted. "When they feel like it."

The blond gunslinger stared at him levelly. "What do you expect me to do now, Doe?" he asked coolly. "Make them jump through hoops for your entertainment? We're new at this, and we're human. We play by different rules."

"I'll tell you what I expect you to do, Larabee," the Two-Blood hissed, moving closer in an attempt of intimidating the smaller man. The only thing it got him was another cloud of smoke and a green-eyed glare that was every bit as mean as his own. "I expect you to end this farce and let Bucklin return to his rightful place, to his real family. This doesn't concern you or your wannabe pack of mongrels. This is pack business."

Larabee's eyes narrowed. Vin noticed and had to hide an anticipatory smile. Somebody was starting to lose his patience.

"Seems to me," Chris said in his flattest, most emotionless tone, "that you and your pack of mangy mutts are trespassing on our territory. Not only that, but you're trying to threaten us - not very efficiently, as I might add." He cocked his head, his sudden smile carrying more than just an edge of insanity. "I suggest you behave like good little werewolves and get your asses out of this area, before we bury what's left of you right beside the last fool who tried to take one of our own."

"Are you challenging me?" Doe asked, his words dripping with disbelief.

Larabee's sneer grew. "Reckon *you*'re challenging *me*. After all, this is *our* home ground." The look on his opponent's face told him he'd scored a hit. Buck's assessment of their situation had been dead-on. Not bad, considering they were winging it. The black-clad gunfighter dropped his smile, knowing exactly how disconcerting the sudden change from manic grin to stony stare was, and let is gaze travel over the thirteen Two-Bloods in front of him with cold appraisal. "Go," he whispered. "You're not welcome here. This area belongs to th' Four Corners Pack, and we don't tolerate intruders."

He didn't have to look to know the Seven were moving apart slightly, ready to explode into action at the first sign of trouble. They had taken their usual positions without even thinking about it: J.D. and Ezra, both ambidextrous, were guarding their flanks,
armed with two guns each. Josiah would cover J.D. when he had to reload, while Nathan took care of Ezra. Chris, Vin and Buck stood at the center. They'd take the brunt of the attack, drawing fire while they went right for the leader.

Their formation was suited to the terrain, of course. In town, their tactic would've been different, placing Vin and Buck on the roofs as snipers, Ezra and J.D. into side alleys to protect their flanks, and Josiah and Nathan waiting on horseback to close the trap from behind, while Chris acted as point man. They'd learned to be flexible.

However, the expected gunfight didn't happen. The Two-Bloods seemed thoroughly thrown by the united front the seven men presented. For the first time since they'd come to Four Corners, they looked like they'd lost their focus. They'd obviously not been prepared for Buck rejecting them so violently. Which, in the opinion of the Seven, only served to show how little they knew about their own kin. Buck's loyalty didn't end with death, and he'd never forgive anybody who'd killed somebody he loved. The Red Stone Pack had lost their chance of ever drawing him into their family when they'd executed his mother.

John Doe stared at his son as if trying to gauge his mental state. "Is this really what you want? To share your life with a bunch of One-Bloods who'll probably leave you when they're fed up with playing pack? To protect a town full of people who'd kill you like a rabid dog if they knew what you are? To follow a man who treated you like dirt when you needed him most?"

Buck met his gaze head-on, thoroughly unimpressed by the irritated alpha wolf. "I'm exactly where I want to be."

His father's eyes darkened in anger. "I won't allow it," he decided. "They're One-Blood. Just because you declare them yours doesn't make them a pack. Join your family. We're leaving, and you're coming with us. I've had enough of your escapades."

The other six instinctively moved a little closer to Buck, their hands falling onto their weapons. The pack also tensed, just waiting for a signal from their leader. The only person completely unmoved by Doe's declaration was Buck. He shared a quick look with Chris, asking for permission, then stepped forward, so he wasn't standing downwind from the Two-Bloods anymore.

The reaction was immediate.

Doe paled when he recognized the humans' scent marks on Buck and realized what had transpired during the night. Some of the other Two-Bloods gasped, their eyes going wide with shock. Only Georgia and Seth, as well as the male Josiah had identified as Gabriel, didn't look surprised. They didn't look happy, either.

Buck waited patiently between the two groups, standing tall and proud, and looking not the least bit repentant. The regulators stood behind him, a solid wall of hard, warm bodies, guarding his back and silently communicating their unwavering support. They were prepared for just about anything - denial, aggression, resignation, or blind fury. What they hadn't reckoned with was the woman on Doe's right leaving the ranks of the Two-Bloods to approach Buck, sniff at him once, and then slap him so hard he staggered back a step.

"Ungrateful whelp," she said, her voice quaking with anger. "You're not worth it."

Buck quickly raised an arm to prevent Vin from going for her throat. He touched a hand to his mouth, wiping the blood from his split lip, then lifted his head to meet his father's gaze, deliberately ignoring her. "They're pack," he repeated, matter-of-factly. "We're bonded. And this *is* official."

The older Two-Blood swallowed dryly, his gaze flickering from his recalcitrant progeny to the grim faces of the gunfighters behind him, then back again. "I never thought you'd sink so low as to whore yourself to One-Bloods to escape me," he rasped, pain and disgust thickening his voice. "But then, you are the son of a cheap prostitute, aren't you? I should've known it runs in the blood."

"All right, that's enough," Chris decided. And, without further commentary, the leader of the Seven strode over and decked the leader of the Red Stone Pack, neatly breaking his nose.

The pack surged forward, only to come to a somewhat undignified stop at the ominous sound of five hammers cocking in unison. Five, because Larabee was still standing over his opponent, waiting for him to get back up, and Buck had instinctively gone for his knife, not his gun. Pack law was too deeply ingrained in him to have him draw a firearm on Two-Bloods.

The scoundrel looked at his father, who was dripping blood all over Larabee's front yard, then at his friend, who was chewing on his cheroot and looking decidedly pleased with himself. "I thought we weren't going to fight?" Buck whispered, torn between exhilaration and astonishment. "Didn't you say something about 'keeping our cool' and 'no rash actions'?"

Chris grinned. "I changed my mind."

"Oh. Well, then." Buck's delighted smile mirrored the expressions on the others' faces.

The Two-Bloods seemed less elated at the turn of events. Tension vibrated around them, but they didn't attack. Buck studied their posture for a moment, then relaxed and slid his knife back into the sheath. He turned around and nodded at the gunslingers. They hesitated, staring hard at the pack, but finally relented and lowered their guns. Buck winked at J.D., surprising him into an uncertain little grin, and turned back to Chris and John Doe.

Doe was coming his feet slowly, entirely focused on Larabee now. The gunslinger met his gaze without blinking, his green eyes cool and calculating. "Now that I have your attention," he said, calmly taking the cigar from his mouth and dropping it to the ground, where he meticulously ground it into the dirt with the heel of his boot, "Let us clarify a few things."

Nathan and Josiah exchanged a smirk. Larabee's 'clarifications' were always a thing to behold.

"One," Chris growled, going nose to nose with the taller Two-Blood with all the tact and diplomacy of a mad bison. "You ever insult Buck again, and I'll personally shoot you full of lead and mount your head on the wall of my cabin. Yer pack tries t' interfere, they can join you up there, even if I have to build on. You got that?"

"Got it," Doe ground out, realizing he'd gone too far.

"Good." Larabee smiled, almost causing the other man to scramble back. "Two. You try to take Buck with you against his will, you'll have to go through us first. You don't want to do that, trust me on this." His voice lowered to a whisper. "Three. Just for the record - the moment you or any of your mutts grow fangs without explicit permission, we'll gun you down. I don't give a shit what your pack law says about rules of combat. You try to rush us you die. End of story."

Doe stared at him for a full minute, trapped in the fierce green glare. Then he shook himself, and broke the spell. "Y'know what, Larabee?" he growled. "I think your reputation among humans has finally gone to your head. You need a reminder that you're just mortal, like everybody else."

"And you're goin' t' provide it?" Chris sneered, completely unmoved by the vicious undertone in his opponent's voice.

"Oh, yeah," Doe breathed. "I will. I challenge you, oh Great Leader of the Four Corners Pack. I want your blood."

"John- " Georgia called, starting forward as if to try and stop her leader.

The woman who'd slapped Buck blocked her path. "Stay out of this."

"But don't you see?" Georgia pushed back her hat to run a nervous hand through her hair. "Bucklin submitted to them! That means- "

"It means *I*'m going to fight," Buck finished, looking immensely satisfied.

Chris stopped short, suddenly remembering that this particular little detail had been the exact reason why he'd wanted to prevent a fight in the first place. He'd planned on convincing those annoying creatures they'd lost Buck and then send them on their way, never to be seen again. Damn it, he really had to work on controlling his temper.

Buck's sire was a lot more shocked. Obviously, he'd been so distracted by what his son had done that he'd completely overlooked the implications of the deed. Chris watched the man's face pale under the tan, saw light brown eyes grow huge as realization sank in. John Doe didn't like the direction this was taking any more than Chris did, but he was trapped in the slings of honor and pack law. The question was: would he back down and admit defeat, or was he riled enough to fight? The other Two-Bloods didn't look overjoyed themselves, but they kept silent, patiently waiting for their leader's decision.

Larabee grimaced inwardly and risked a quick glance over his shoulder. Yep, just as he'd thought. His friends weren't precisely happy with him. J.D. and Nathan glared openly. Josiah was scowling. Ezra looked like he'd won a bet with himself he hadn't wanted to win. And Vin's gaze could only be described as the visual equivalent to a slap on the back of Chris' head. The gunslinger winced slightly, hoping the Two-Bloods didn't notice the by-play.

Buck was the only one who didn't seem touched by the increasing tension. Like always before a fight, he'd gone calm and still, every pretense of harmlessness falling away like a veil to reveal the hardened steel beneath. His hands, usually in perpetual motion, hung loosely at his sides. He was ducking his head again in an unconscious effort to look smaller than he was, daring his opponent to underestimate him. His eyes were serious and remote, hiding his thoughts even better than Ezra's.

It was a familiar mannerism, yet it never failed to shake Chris. He didn't know this Buck, couldn't read him, and he didn't like it one bit. Things didn't get any better when John Doe stopped agonizing over his decision and adopted a pose frighteningly similar to his son's. Seemed like his paternal feelings weren't enough to override an alpha wolf's instinct to answer to a challenge. Or maybe it was the frustration of realizing that thirty-something years of chasing Buck all over God's backyard had been for nothing. Chris couldn't quite suppress a twinge of sympathy for the Two-Blood at the thought.

"So, you're hiding behind your submissive, Larabee? Too much of a coward to fight me yourself?"

Then again . . . "Not really," Chris purred. Might as well make the best of it. "See, Buck's been spoiling for a chance to settle this business between you and him since you walked back into his life. And since we stopped him then, I figure I owe him."

He glanced at his friend. Buck's gaze was fixed on Doe, much like when the man had first entered the saloon. For a second the gunslinger was worried his friend might react as he had then, but either because he wasn't caught by surprise this time, or because he was secure in the knowledge that his human companions were safe, Buck held his hatred in check, waiting for Chris to give him the go-ahead.

"Very well," Doe said flatly. "Let's get this over with."

He reached for the top button of his shirt, but Buck's voice stopped him in mid-move. "Not so fast. You uttered the challenge. I choose the form. We're going to do this in human shape."

That got their attention. Doe stared at his son as if he'd lost his mind. "*What*?"

"You heard me." Buck unbuckled his gunbelt and handed it over to Nathan without breaking eye-contact with his opponent. "You've been tryin' t' force me into your world. But guess what - I'm not about ta play your game."

"You tell him, Buck!" J.D. called. He blushed when everybody turned to look at him, but didn't budge, only raised his chin and stared back at them defiantly.

"We're going to do this right and proper!" Doe snapped, deflecting the general attention. "You're going to change into your true form and face me like a Two-Blood!"

"I have two true forms," Buck replied evenly. "And I choose this one. It's my right. Now stop whinin' and get down t' business, or should I ask Ezra t' send you a fancy written invite?"

"I don't want to fight you like this."

"Tough. Shouldn't've killed my mother then, or threatened my friends." He turned to Larabee. "D'you want his head for your wall, or can I damage it?"

Chris' guts knotted at the emotionless way the question was asked. He hid it well, but fact was, he hated knives. There was something about the sight of sharpened steel biting into flesh and muscle that made his stomach clench and his hackles rise. The war had shown him horrors beyond anything he'd thought possible, but nothing had ever filled him with the kind of dark, primal terror he felt when faced with a killing blade. He'd rather get shot, thank you very much.

"Do what you have to," he said roughly, retreating into the circle of his friends and schooling his features into the hard, indifferent mask he wore when he felt his control of a situation slipping.

Buck gave a tiny nod of confirmation and drew his knife. The way he held the weapon, low and loose, told the more experienced members of the Seven he'd done this kind of thing before. Doe clenched his jaws, but followed his example. His alpha female took his gunbelt, then joined the other Two-Bloods in the half-circle they'd formed. The human gunslingers made up the other half of the ring, faces grim, hands hovering near their guns. They'd play by the Two-Bloods' rules for now, but that didn't mean they had to like it. After what had happened between them the night before, they weren't going to lose Buck. Not if they could prevent it. Still, they'd seen and felt the dark wildfire of emotions raging between their friend and the pack, and they knew it wasn't their place to intervene. This fight had been inevitable since the pack had killed Buck's mother.

So they watched.

It wasn't what they'd expected. The two tall men circled around each other for a minute or two, lunging forward now and then to gauge the other's reactions and abilities. Once they'd established that both knew what they were doing, the gloves came off.

It was fast and dirty, and it didn't have much to do with the kind of knife-fights J.D. had read about in his dime novels, or the kind Vin had seen when he'd lived with the Comanches and Kiowa. Buck evaded a straight thrust by dodging to the side, then rammed his fist into Doe's face, right into the already broken nose. The older man staggered backwards. He lost his balance and fell, but lashed out with his legs before he'd even hit the ground, bringing Buck down with him.

Josiah winced at the bone-jarring force with which the two bodies met the hard earth, then flinched when Doe twisted around to drive his elbow into Buck's stomach. The gunfighter grunted and rolled away, flicking the edge of his blade over his opponent's arm as he went. First blood darkened Doe's maroon shirt. He hissed and instinctively pulled the wounded limb closer to his body for a second, but the injury wasn't severe and didn't noticeably slow him down.

Before long, the pack leader's arm wasn't the only thing bleeding. Buck managed to land a vicious blow to the Two-Blood's ribs, paying for it with a long gash across his left upper arm. Doe threw the younger man over his hip, twisting his arm brutally as he did. Nathan wasn't the only one who groaned in sympathy at the sickening sound of Buck's shoulder popping out of its socket. Buck gasped in pain, but didn't lose time reaching for the wounded joint, ramming his knife back and into his father's thigh instead. The horses in the corral shied at the inhuman howl tearing from the Two-Blood's throat as the hardened steel cut through muscle and tendons.

Still screaming, Doe fell as his leg gave out. Buck couldn't quite evade the blade aiming for him, and Vin had to lunge forward and tackle J.D. when the young sheriff tried to come to his best friend's aid upon seeing the blood well from Buck's already dislocated shoulder. "Easy, kid," the tracker warned. "This ain't our fight."

"But Buck needs help," J.D. protested, squirming in Vin's grip. "Lemme go!"

"Buck can take care of himself," Larabee said tersely, though he was itching to jump into the fray himself.

"He's hurt!"

Chris watched as Buck stood once again, dirty, bloody, and pissed like a stepped-on rattler, and remembered the last time he'd seen his friend in a similar situation. "He can handle it."

The words had just left his mouth when Doe lurched forward towards Buck, who spun around with a speed and coordination that was amazing, considering his condition. A booted foot collided forcefully with a denim-clad knee, collapsing the leg effectively by smashing the kneecap. J.D. swallowed and stopped struggling. He'd seen Buck fight before -- after all, being the unofficial peace keepers of Four Corners, they had to break up barroom brawls on a regular basis -- but he hadn't thought the scoundrel could get so nasty.

This time, Doe didn't get up again.

Buck swooped down on him like a hawk, pressing a knee against his father's chest to hold him down while switching the knife from his pretty much useless right hand to his left. Blood had soaked the sleeve of his shirt around the cut on his left upper arm and was running over his wrist in glistening rivulets. It painted his fingers red before reaching the knife handle, then the blade. The way the gunslinger was crouched over the fallen body, eyes cold and dead as stone, blade dripping crimson, he looked as if he'd already killed his adversary.

Chris tensed instinctively when the razor edge touched the exposed throat, but he didn't avert his gaze. Much as he hated the sight and sound of metal slicing through yielding human flesh, this was his kill as well as Buck's. This should've been his fight. Doe had challenged *him*. His mind told him this kind of reasoning was stupid; Buck had wanted, had *needed* the fight, was using it to exorcise a lifetime of being hunted like an animal. He wouldn't have let anybody take this away from him. Still, Larabee's gut insisted that *he*'d provoked Doe into uttering the challenge. *He* had baited the beast. It should've been *his* fight, damn it. He sighed inwardly. God, he *really* needed to work on that temper of his.

The Two-Bloods looked about as unhappy as Chris felt. He could see it in their faces, in their eyes - they wanted to interfere, but the law of their people held them back. He hadn't been sure they'd honor the rules, not when dealing with a group of human gunslingers, but it seemed like the men's scents on Buck had convinced the shapechangers to acknowledge the Seven as a pack. The Four Corners Pack. And, damn, why did the sound of that name make him feel so ridiculously proud?

Buck still hadn't moved. His hand was steady, his face rigid, but he didn't use the knife. Instead, he raised his head and looked at his friends, starting with Chris and ending with J.D. They met his searching gaze calmly, waiting for his decision. And it *was* Buck's decision, Larabee realized with a start. Not one of them cared if Doe lived or died. They all trusted Buck's instincts, knew he'd do what he had to. One way or the other, he'd end his nightmare. And that was all that counted.

Chris didn't know what Buck saw on their faces, but the ice in his friend's midnight blue eyes thawed, until the man kneeling on John Doe's chest wasn't the Two-Blood exacting revenge anymore, but Bucklin T. Wilmington. Gunslinger. Rogue. Friend. He wasn't perfect, he wasn't even entirely human, but he was theirs.

J.D. started to smile when he saw his friend emerge from the hollow depths of the killer's eyes. After a heartbeat's hesitation, Buck returned the smile, the hard lines of his face relaxing into the more familiar features of the man they'd come to know and love. The scoundrel winked at J.D., then turned to Chris.

Larabee nodded regally, careful not to show his relief at not having to see any more cutting. Nobody had to know how close he'd come to parting ways with his breakfast - after all, he had a reputation to uphold. However, the brief glimmer of humor in Buck's gaze told Chris his friend -- damn his keen eyes! - had seen right through his front. Groaning soundlessly, he resigned himself to a couple of days of merciless ribbing.

Giving a barely perceptible nod of affirmation, Buck redirected his focus on his father. "Do you admit defeat?"

It took a while for the words to sink in, but when they did, the faces of the Two-Bloods lit up. Doe needed a moment longer to grasp the meaning of the question. Light brown eyes, glassy with pain and shock, locked on dark blue eyes. The Red Stone Pack held their collective breath. The voice of their leader was quiet, barely more than a whisper, but they all heard his hoarse answer. "You win."

The beaten Two-Blood turned his head at the soft jingle of spurs, watching the dark shadow that was Chris Larabee approach. The gunman stared down at him silently for a moment, one hand almost absently reaching out to stroke Buck's hair. His cool, green eyes took in Doe's pale face, the ragged breathing, the way he held himself carefully still under the blade that hadn't yet been removed. "I want you to take your pack and go," the man in black said quietly. "There's a doctor in Eagle Bend. You can stop there to get your wounds checked. Don't linger. If you ever cross our path again, it won't be Buck you'll face. You'll have to fight me. And I'll kill you. Are we clear?"

Doe closed his eyes, his strength leaving him with a painful sigh. "Clear," he confirmed.

"Buck."

Buck, who'd been leaning into the hand cradling his head, trying to distract himself from the pain throbbing through his body, snapped back to attention with a start. "Yes, Chris?"

"Let him go," Larabee ordered gently.

That was all it took. Buck withdrew the knife, wiped the blade clean on his opponent's shirt, and slid it back into its sheath without looking. He tried to get up, swayed, and smiled when he was immediately surrounded by his friends. Nathan lifted him to his feet easily, all the while muttering something about fools and knives and lemmings. The wounded gunslinger didn't bother asking what suicidal rodents had to do with their situation -- he didn't want to know - but he leaned back against the support of the healer's chest gratefully.

Nathan had to restrain himself forcefully to keep from ushering Buck to the cabin and get to work on his injuries. Appearances had to be kept, a point had to be made, so he grudgingly contented himself with pulling his friend against his body and carefully slipping his arms around the slim waist to keep Buck safely anchored. He could feel the fine tremors running through the man's taut frame, the effort it took to keep his breathing calm and regular while his heart was thundering like the distant hoofbeats of a frantic horse.

Unexpectedly, the healer was assaulted by memories of what it had been like to hold his friend under completely different circumstances. Breathing in the heady scent of Buck -- still perceptible despite the overlying odors of sweat, blood, and dust - Nathan couldn't help but wonder if he'd ever be able to go back to the way things had been before. Could he forget how it felt to embrace the man, to hear the soft sounds of his passion, to see those dark eyes focused on him only, warm and unguarded? Did he want to?

Tightening his grip on Buck, Nathan forced those thoughts to the back of his mind. He could deal with these unforeseen consequences of their joining later. Right now, it was more important to get the damn Two-Bloods out of the picture so he could finally take care of Buck's wounds.

The others were already moving away from the fallen body of John Doe, fanning out into a rough line with Chris, Nathan and Buck at the center. As they passed by the healer and his charge, each of the gunslingers reached out to reassure themselves of their friend's well-being.

Vin's hand lightly brushed over Buck's left arm, an unobtrusive, almost shy gesture that seemed at odds with the intense look in his fierce blue eyes.

J.D. was less subtle. With a defiant glare at the Two-Bloods, he took Buck's hand in his and brought it up to his face, placing a kiss on the bloody palm. Buck smiled at him, causing the young man to puff out his chest proudly and stalk away to take his position at their flank with his eyes shining.

Josiah shook his head at the youth's impulsive show of affection. Noticing the pallor of Buck's face he refrained from jarring the man's wounded arm any more and instead settled on briefly laying his big hand on the scoundrel's chest, above his heart. Feeling the strong beat thrum beneath the sweat-soaked shirt, he looked up and grinned a Cheshire cat's grin, then nodded in satisfaction and joined J.D. and Vin.

Ezra was the only one who didn't seem to need any physical reassurance. He walked past with a wink and a sly smile, not for the first time making Nathan want to slug him for his infuriatingly unshakable composure. Then Buck chuckled and moved in his arms, and when he adjusted his hold, the healer saw the Ace of Spades in Buck's hand that the scoundrel tucked carefully into the waistband of his pants.

Chris had watched them with an approving little smile, but when he turned back to face the Two-Bloods, his face was hard as granite. He narrowed his eyes at the woman they'd identified as the alpha female. She was the one who'd slapped Buck, which didn't precisely endear her to the Seven. Her gaze was locked on her bruised and bloodied mate, lying at the gunfighers' feet. Sensing Larabee's attention on her, she raised her head and looked at him, cocking her head in a silent request.

He gave a terse nod, not bothering to glance down at the object of their wordless discourse. She inclined her head minutely in a barely polite thank you, then signaled to her people. Two of them went to collect the pack's horses, while Georgia and Seth came forward to fetch John Doe. He accepted their help gracefully, never making a sound, even though he was bathed in cold sweat by the time they reached his mount.

The Seven watched in silence as the Two-Bloods heaved their leader onto his horse and tied him to the saddle. That he didn't pass out was an act of sheer stubbornness, and the way he shuttered his eyes and clamped down on the pain created a disturbing sense of déjà vu. They'd seen Buck do that too, more than once. Must be a family trait.

When Doe was in position, the others also mounted, forming pairs and falling in line behind their alphas. Their faces didn't betray much, but they didn't seem especially hostile. The gunslingers didn't change their relaxed stance when the pack passed by them. They didn't have to, seeing as their hands rested comfortably on their weapons in an absolutely and in no way intimidating manner.

The alpha female ignored them totally, not even glancing in their direction, but John Doe turned his head and looked at Buck. The curious combination of respect, regret, and speculation in his stare didn't sit well with the Seven. Buck gave voice to their displeasure with a low, rumbling growl that was echoed in the warning glint of his friends' eyes. Doe just smiled, which didn't really serve to alleviate their uneasiness. However, he said nothing, and didn't look back once he was past.

The only one who broke the silence of the slow, dignified retreat was Georgia, who was riding just behind the pack leaders. She caught Buck's gaze and smiled shyly, visibly uncertain of how her words might be received, but hoping for the best. "Take care," she called softly.

The gunslinger blinked in surprise at the honest warmth in her voice, but true to his generous nature he answered in kind, smiling back at her without even a hint of the belligerence he'd shown his father.

Seth twisted in the saddle so he could peep around his companion, and nodded a wordless but friendly goodbye to the regulators. His gaze lingered briefly on Nathan and Josiah, and he smiled a little and tipped his hat, conceding the point. The preacher replied with a broad grin, and the healer's scowl eased considerably.

Then they were gone, and the rest of the procession passed without more than a sideways glance or two.

The brand new Four Corners Pack watched the riders disappear over the top of the hill, almost against their will impressed by the quiet menace still radiating from the pack even though they'd just been defeated by a bunch of One-Bloods and one renegade Two-Blood. They knew they could've beaten the shapeshifters the hard way . . . probably. They also knew it would've cost them dearly.

As they turned away from the sight of the last Two-Blood fading into the hazy light of the early morning sun, six men swore silently that the next time they crossed paths with their friend's relatives, the power-balance would be different. The seventh man saw the resolve in their eyes, and made a vow of his own.

No matter the cost, Buck Wilmington would keep his family safe. He'd show them how to hold themselves against his kind in any given situation, how to spot a shapeshifter even in human form, how to understand the subtle nuances of the Two-Blood body language. He'd teach them the way of the wolf.

They already were a pack.

Time to become legend.

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