Content:
Gen
Vin
Old West Universe
No Sexual Situations
No Violence

This grew from a discussion on the TM7 Legend list about cutting Vin's hair.

The rain fell warm and gentle, almost a benediction on the yellowed grass at Vin Tanner's feet. The tracker was glad of it. It seemed right that even the sky should weep on this day.

Let the sky weep for him. He'd shed his tears on this ground long ago, and now held them hidden behind his eyelids with fierce will. He was no longer a boy, but a man, and it would not do to have the ghosts see him crying.

He wondered if they still walked this hill from time to time, their shadows drifting through the grass, leaving it undisturbed, drawn back to this place all these years later. All that remained to tell the unaware of the tragedy that had happened here were a few lengths of broken lodgepoles lying on the ground, a scattering of rounded stones still blackened by fires long extinguished, and the cairns. A dozen of them.

He'd been so young then. Only nine summers had browned his skin; only eight winters had taught him the discipline of privation and patience. Too small to build the racks that the men should have had to hold their bodies against the sky for the sun and the wind to purify. So he'd built the cairns instead, carrying the stones from the river at the foot of the hill one by one. It had taken him several days. Before he was done, the corpse of the man who had taught him to hunt barely looked like a man any longer, and that of the woman who'd kept him alive by lying across his small form when the Army's bullets flew bore no resemblance to the beauty she had been.

It hadn't mattered to Vin. He'd kept the animals away at night with fire, and during the day he'd carried the stones ... so many stones ... piling them up one by one to protect the bodies of the spirits who'd gone on and left him behind.

Alone. Again.

Behind him, Vin heard Peso whicker softly. If the ghosts were still here, they were not speaking to him. It was time to go.

He knelt next to the pile of rubble that sheltered the bones of the man whose ghost he still whispered to from time to time, drew his knife and bowed his head. A quick motion severed a small lock of hair. Vin slid his knife back in the scabbard and lay the hair on the cairn, placing a rock upon it to hold it in place. He whispered a few words in a language he rarely spoke any more.

Then he stood and walked back to his horse through the wet grass. The damp leather of his saddle creaked as he swung himself up and took the reins from the hand of the man who'd been waiting for him.

"You ok, partner?" Chris' voice was low, made husky by a tightness in his throat. The gunfighter understood ghosts.

Vin nodded and threaded the reins through his fingers. Peso danced, ready to go. But before he could turn the horse's head, a big hand reached over and took his forearm in a strong, steady grip. Vin looked up from beneath his dripping hat brim, and smiled.

"Thanks, Chris."

The hand released his arm and slapped his shoulder lightly. The two horses turned as one and began to pick their way down the hill, side by side, through the gray curtain of the healing rain.

~ 30 ~

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