Chapter One

"Dear God in the foothills - what in the name of Sam Hill is that??"

Buck Wilmington was standing outside the sheriff's office, the coffee mug in his hand tilting dangerously as he stared open-mouthed at the apparition sauntering unconcernedly down the main street of fair Four Corners.

"Dear Lord …" Ezra Standish emerged from the office doorway and stood beside Buck, lean face slack with wonder.

"Is that what I think it is, Buck?" J.D.'s hazel gaze widened with curiosity.

The three regulators watched the cowhand on the little mustang impatiently attempt to hurry down the street under the frankly amazed gaze of the populace of Four Corners, the man's face red with effort and embarrassment.

But it wasn't the frustrated cowhand that was causing the stir of excitement rippling through the groups of inhabitants now beginning to gather on the boardwalks and in doorways - no siree, the object of their perusal and whispers was attached to the cowhand by a rather frail and worn piece of string.

"It's … it's a - "

"It's a bull, J.D." Josiah's baritone voice bubbled with amusement. The big man emerged from the office, book and coffee cup in hand, tickled mightily at the amazement overwhelming his stunned comrades. "A Zebu, to be precise."

"A … a zee … zee - what??"

"A Zebu. Zeeee … buuuuu. Zebu. They come from India."

J.D.'s hazel eyes once more returned to the strange apparition wandering behind the now fuming cowhand.

"Shit, that has got to be the ugliest goddamned thing I ever saw." Chris Larabee's voice was soft with shock as he peered from the open doorway.

You got that right, ol' dog …Buck thought.

The beast certainly was odd-looking. It strolled nonchalantly behind the cowhand, massive dewlap swaying with every step, happy to be led by the absurd piece of string attached to the wooden peg in its nose.

But every which way you looked at it, the thing was ugly. There was none of the angular, wild grace of the Texas Longhorn with its eight-foot spread of lethal horns. Nor did it have the rich, red curls and sturdy short-legged frame of the Hereford now beginning to make its appearance on the American grasslands. Nope. The poor critter was just plain ugly.

The long, narrow face was topped by lyre-shaped horns that spread backwards - entirely the wrong way around for defensive purposes - and the beast's ears … well, God help it, they were too big, and drooped and flapped about like a hound dog's. But what made it worse was the thing had a hump. A great, big hump over its withers, that wobbled fatly when it walked. And as for the colour … Buck winced. The beast was the dead off-white of a fish's belly.

To top it all, the animal was enormous. Buck reckoned the big sonofabitch weighed at least a ton.

The now-cursing cowhand finally drew to a halt in front of the office and decanted from the saddle, hauling a crumpled piece of paper from a pocket.

"You the Law 'round here?"

"Name's Dunne - J.D. Dunne. I'm the sheriff, an' these are my associates - "

J.D. proffered a hand. The cowhand shook it suspiciously, eyeing the young man who scarcely seemed old enough to be out of short britches. When nobody laughed, he carried on.

"Makin' a delivery - I was told to leave this … this thing with you fellas 'til it c'n be collected. Came in on the train, an' I was paid ten dollars to deliver it here - 'bout ninety dollars short if'n you ask me."

He handed J.D. the paper. The young sheriff's eyes became round as he read the contents.

"You mean this is Jed Sommers' new seed bull??"

The cowhand stared back grimly.

"Don't know. Don't care. Ain't my problem no more."

He offered J.D. the string, then had second thoughts, and handed the grubby twine to a still open-mouthed Buck Wilmington. Buck took it, unthinking. The bull stood affably, then it grunted and a ball of semi-digested food travelled up the throat and popped into the animal's mouth with a burp. The aroma of pickled grass filled the air as it began chewing its cud.

Free of his interminable burden, the cowhand swung back into the saddle, and with a whoop left Four Corners a whole lot quicker than he had arrived.

"Dammit! This thing ain't supposed to be here for another week!" J.D. glanced at the bovine apparition before him. "What the hell are we gonna do with it until Jed comes to pick it up?"

Jed Sommers was a young rancher, a newcomer to the area, hard-working and far-sighted. The Seven knew he had put his ranch on the line to buy this bull. For the life of him, J.D. couldn't understand why.

The bull suddenly swallowed its cud and blinked myopically at the men before it, then the massive head swung around to sniff at Buck's sleeve. The moist muzzle twitched as the creature took in the new smells around it, then a long, prehensile tongue crept out and rasped against Buck's hand. Buck jumped in surprise, and jerked his hand away, wiping it on his pants leg. A light glinted in the bull's limpid brown eyes, and the tongue came out again, this time pulling at Buck's shirtsleeve.

"Goddammit!!" Buck tugged his sleeve, now very damp, out of the tongue's curling grasp.

"Well, well!" Ezra had regained his composure and was peering over J.D.'s shoulder at the paper. "It appears this magnificent example of bovine masculinity has a name, Mr Wilmington." Ezra's face was deadpan, but the emerald eyes danced with mischief. "Our new friend is called Roland."

None of them missed the sudden twitch of the pendulous ears as Ezra uttered the word.

"Good Lord - it knows its name." Chris' eyebrows hitched a little.

"You say you seen these animals before, Josiah?" J.D. was getting mighty curious now, the strange beast working on his imagination.

"Yup. Seen 'em in India. Hindus think a lot of 'em seein' as the great god Siva rode one - except his name was Nandi. He was Siva's mount, attendant, and suchlike - plus Nandi's the guardian of all four-footed animals. You'll see cows wandering into folk's houses, helpin' themselves to food from stalls - an' folks just let 'em. Regarded as an honour and a blessing."

Josiah's eyes grew distant with memories, still seeing the crowds, the colours, smelling the long-gone scent of spices and ordure, hearing the ever-present sounds of teeming human existence. He smiled.

"Went to Benares once - a Holy city." The smile became wistful. "Ahh, the sun settin' over the Ganges, the smell of the burning ghats … and you sure as hell ain't seen anythin' 'til you've seen the Festival of Light …" Josiah was on a roll now, the images coming quick and strong. "Lord, that sure is a sight to behold, boy."

"Yeah, Josiah - but what do we do with the bull??" J.D. was now getting a tad frustrated.

Josiah came back to earth with a bump.

"Huh? Oh, he shouldn't be a problem, Zebu're pretty handy. Sure seems to have taken a likin' to you, Buck."

Buck had noticed. The bull was now trying to eat his shirt, the wet tongue licking enthusiastically at the soft material. Pushing the huge head away didn't seem to be working, and the big beast appeared to revel in the attention.

"Give him a scratch, Buck - he's pretty quiet." Josiah grinned at Buck's discomfiture.

Buck raised an eyebrow in doubt.

"You think, huh??"

Josiah shrugged.

Buck reached out with a reluctant hand and began to scratch the heavily muscled neck. The bull's eyes became hazy with delight, his neck arched and his head began to bob up and down in rhythm with the scratch.

"That, Buck, is one happy bull." Chris' face creased with amusement at the baffled look on his oldest friend's face. "You still got what it takes, stud."

J.D.'s youthful face lit up with a wide grin.

"Yep. It's that ol' animal maggotism workin' its magic, Buck."

Buck growled in sudden irritation and extreme embarrassment.

"You hush up, kid!! You start talkin' like that an' I'm gonna have to whup you into the middle of next week!"

The scratching stopped in an instant - but Roland wanted more. The big head began to rub up and down on Buck's chest, smearing drool and bull-snot all over Buck's best shirt. The shirt he had every intention of taking off in the honeyed presence of Miss Blossom this very evening.

Buck's loud and detailed protestations were cut off as the regulators saw Vin riding into town at a lope, obviously relieved to be finishing his tour of duty patrolling Four Corners' environs. The relief was short-lived.

Vin's misbegotten horse had never seen a Zebu before.

Peso spotted the strange beast and his eyes instantly rolled in fear, his forelegs propped and he slewed sideways, desperate to get away from the monster before him.

For probably the very first time in his life, Vin Tanner fell off his horse.

He was so surprised he forgot to relax and roll, and the impact did something pretty awful to his ribs, the pain driving a cry of pure agony from his chest. Peso shied away at the curled-up figure on the ground, now moaning softly, and the black gelding high-tailed it up the street to the livery stable, giving a final sun-fishing buck as he reached his goal.

"Vin!!" Chris hit the street at a run, followed closely by a gaggle of shocked regulators - all except for Buck. A very unhappy and panic-stricken Buck, now frantically trying to figure out what to do with the bull so he could help his friend. Finally, out of sheer desperation, he tied the pathetic piece of string to the hitching post and pelted over to Vin's side.

"J.D.!!" Chris' voice was low with urgency. "Get Nathan - dammit, kid, hurry!!"

The black-clad gunman crouched beside the hurt tracker, trying hard to fight the urge to gather the wounded man up and carry him bodily to the clinic - but they had to wait for Nathan. Only Nathan could determine if they could move Tanner without killing him by puncturing a lung, or worse still, hurting his spine.

"Vin? Vin, can you hear me??"

Blue eyes opened and glared painfully at the worried-as-hell Larabee.

"I fe …fell off … my go … goddamn horse!!!" The Texas accent was thick with pain and indignation.

Despite the worry, his friends grinned at the obvious embarrassment in the tracker's voice.

"Well, Mr Tanner - if it's any consolation, you did it with both grace and a certain amount of flare. Indeed, I think it would be difficult to find anyone better at such skilled aerial displays as your good self." The humour in Ezra's lilting southern tones tempered his concern.

"'Ceptin' J.D. … " Vin's voice was warm, despite the pain.

"The boy sure can fly … " Buck put a reassuring hand on Vin's arm.

"Back up, fellas, an' let me in there!" Nathan Jackson dropped to his knees beside the recumbent and sweating Tanner, dumping his medical bag in the dirt.

The rest of the Seven and a goodly proportion of the citizens of Four Corners hovered like curious bees, concerned, worried or just downright nosy.

Nathan gently checked limbs and neck, then went to work on Tanner's dusty old coat, easing it aside to palpate the abdomen. Satisfied, skilful fingers then ran over the bruised torso of the tracker and located the 'give' of broken ribs.

"Bu … bust a couple … huh ...?" Vin winced.

"Yep. At least two, I reckon - "

Nathan was interrupted by the most godawful noise he had heard in his life.

The air was rent by a high-pitched, choir-boy bellow, piercing and repetitive, an in-drawn, noisy breath followed by an ear-splitting castrato bawl. And it went on, and on, and on …

"Dear God …" Chris winced as the notes of each bellow hit his inner ear while watching Nathan's face grimace at the racket. He could only hear every other word, Nathan's voice drowned out by the deafening row.

"Vin …"

Bawl.

" … clinic …"

Wheeze.

" ...goddamn noise…"

Bellow.

"… Yosemite's corral … "

Gurgle.

" … NOW!!!! ..."

Roland was heartbroken. The big bull stood, forlorn and drooping, tied ridiculously to the hitching post by a rotting piece of string, robbed of the one thing he adored most in his life.

Buck Wilmington.

Buck was the Holder Of The String, and therefore the single focus of Roland's life. Well, at least until the next cow came along. But right at this moment in time Buck Wilmington was the only thing that concerned the bull's somewhat limited brain, and he bellowed his dismay to the world and its brother as loudly as he could.

Chris turned a thunderous face to a wide-eyed ladies' man.

"BUCK!! - BULL!! - LIVERY STABLE!!"

Buck took the hint. He hurriedly untied the pitiful piece of string, and the huge animal's bawls stopped instantly in mid-wheeze. The tongue crept out once more to slurp at Buck's shirt. This time, he smacked the beast hard on the moist muzzle. Roland blinked, his dim brain not understanding why the Adored One would hurt him so. But in one short moment the thought slipped from the few active cells in his brain, and once more he began to nuzzle at the soft shirtsleeve.

Buck turned back to check on Vin, to find to his dismay what appeared to be the whole population of Four Corners staring at him accusingly. Chris and Josiah were preparing to lift the injured tracker and carry him to the clinic, but the glares from the rest of the crowd wounded the big-hearted gunman to his very soul. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but then his shoulders sagged. Oh, what was the point …

He yanked on the fragile twine and headed slowly towards the livery stable, the big bull plodding majestically behind him, hump and dewlap gently swaying with every step.

A moment later, J.D. appeared beside him, the young man keeping pace with his compadre.

"I'll come with you, Buck, an' take care of that damn' mustang of Vin's, if you like."

Buck turned saddened cobalt eyes to his young friend.

"Wasn't my fault, kid - damn' beast just threw a hissy-fit at this - this - THING!"

He gesticulated angrily at the benign and now blissfully happy Roland.

J.D. put a consoling hand on Buck's broad shoulder.

"I know, Buck. It's just you were holdin' the critter at the time …"

Buck sighed gently.

Life can sure be shitty at times …

The thought just made him feel even more depressed.

On reaching the livery stable, J.D. headed inside to unsaddle and feed a mightily amused Peso, while Buck spent the next ten minutes arguing noisily with a stubborn Yosemite, the blacksmith determined not to have such a strange and vastly ugly creature anywhere near his precious horses.

Finally, after much heated discussion and the promise of twice the amount of money Yosemite would normally charge for harbouring the beast, Roland was turned out into a corral on his own and given an armful of sweet lucerne hay to keep him occupied. It soon became obvious that Roland only gave vent to his feelings when he was tied up. Buck tucked the string neatly around the lyre-shaped horns, and left the animal to his own devices, heading back to the clinic at a fast walk, a limping J.D. in tow suffering from a sly Peso-bite to his backside.

For an hour or so, Roland happily munched the rich hay, then he ambled for a while around the corral, the evening light casting weird shadows from the odd animal as it paced slowly around the enclosure.

Then, as darkness finally fell, Roland decided he was bored. He was well-fed, well-watered, comfortable … but lonely. Roland just hated being lonely. The Adored One was somewhere out there in those strange corrals that humans liked to inhabit, and there wasn't a cow in sight to assuage his desire for companionship.

So, deep in his dim, bovine mind, Roland decided to remedy the situation.

Inserting his massive head through the corral rails, he leaned his enormous bulk against the creaking poles and began to push …