"Ah cannot fathom why you would choose to fire your weapon in a confined space such as this," Ezra Standish said as he pressed hard to stop the bleeding pouring furiously from his fellow lawman's left arm.
"They were shootin' at us, Ez," Buck Wilmington eked out as he suffered through the burn and the pressure from the hands of the smaller but incredibly strong professional poker player. A first glance would have you convinced that Ezra Standish was a lightweight, but that was only until he started pressing on an open, bleeding wound, or knocking you out of the way of your own ricocheting bullet, or until you crossed him or one of his friends and found yourself the recipient of that steely-eyed glare, the one that said he would avenge his friends' hurts, even if he took his last, dying breath to do so. At this very moment, though, Buck would say that Ezra looked as pale as he did, even without any perforations to his body.
"And the likelihood of your bullet gettin' through that narrow passageway?" Ezra turned to take a deep breath, one less likely to be filled with the metallic scent of blood … Buck couldn't blame him, and then continued, "Those odds were as good as you beatin' me in poker."
"Weren't no better than yer odds o' survivin' throwin' that burnin' bottle o' whiskey into the Nichols' armored carriage," Vin Tanner challenged as he waited at the entrance to the cave. That trick the con man pulled with the Nichols' fancy wagon had been a suicide attempt, at least some of them thought at the time. The tracker shook his head and then brought his attention back to the present. He would be able to get a good shot off from where he was positioned now that they'd fatally shot one of the bank robbers. Another lay bleeding just a few feet from where Ezra worked on Buck. Chris Larabee was outside, chasing the last of the three.
"I wasn't aimin' to get the bullet through the tunnel. I was aimin' for the man who shot J.D."
"Then in reply, Ah would say get thee to practicin' your aim, Mistah Wilmington."
"Knock it off," Vin ordered. "There's one more out there."
"Hey, someone gonna come help me?" the bleeding failed thief demanded. The three men had hauled tail out of town after getting caught in the act by J.D. and, J.D. being J.D., he immediately yelled for back-up, not taking into consideration the considerable danger he had placed himself in. The decision had the robbers shooting the youngest of the law enforcement group that Judge Orin Travis had assembled to watch over the town of Four Corners close to three years before. That action also had the full force of the protectors of the town bearing down on the trio, before all three had made it back onto their horses. They were forced to abandon their attempt to steal the money from the bank in the hopes of getting out of town alive.
"You will be next, but it seems Mistah Wilmington persists in painting this cavern red."
"It ain't stoppin'?" Vin asked worriedly. He kept his eyes focused outside, hoping to spot the last man before their leader got hurt.
"It is not a gusher, but it is goin' on and on, much like Josiah las … well, Ah am sure you understand mah meanin'. Persistence is a virtue, just not necessarily when your appendage is percolatin' like a pot of that despicable brew you call coffee," Ezra admitted, his reply, though elevated by the use of vocabulary he might be the only one among them to appreciate, or comprehend for that matter, tinted with the same concern Vin felt.
"It's all right. Just need to bind it," Buck suggested.
"We have the time." Ezra sat back briefly, closed his eyes and used his sleeve to wipe the sweat that had quickly accumulated on his forehead. "We will stop the bleeding completely, then bind it, and then you will rest before we venture home."
"Ya sound like Nate," Vin said with a lopsided grin, taking just a moment to look toward his two friends. He was immediately looking out of the cavern after the quick glance inside, hoping to catch a glimpse of Chris or the last of the men who'd shot J.D.
"Heaven forbid," Ezra bandied back. "However, it would do us no good for someone of Mistah Wilmington's not insignificant size to go tumbling off his steed due to blood loss."
The echo of a gunshot brought all of their attention back to the cave's opening, and beyond. The afternoon skies were clear in the high desert. They might easily have been seen, now that the autumn-burnished multi-colored though now dead leaves had mostly been blown from the smattering of live trees still about. They were still protected around the opening of the cave by large brush and a couple of pine trees and dead trees grown gnarly up against the rock opening. Greenery did still abound nearby after a surprisingly wet summer; they valley they had followed these men to had managed to retain much of the moisture from the summer storms.
"That was Chris' weapon," Buck noted.
"Indeed," Ezra said in agreement. "Hopefully the resonant and familiar sound portends good news."
"Don't see nothin'. Maybe I should … "
"Keep your position, Vin. Chris'll be all right," Buck assured the tracker.
"Mistah Larabee should have remained here as well."
"I ain't gonna disagree with ya, Ez, but he didn't. Musta had a plan, gotta give him a chance." Another explosion from Chris' gun had both the reluctant medic and his equally unhappy patient jump.
"He's all right," Vin said. "Comin' this way." The tracker watched as Chris Larabee made steady progress back up the hill and through the scrub leading up to the shallow cave on the side of the mountain.
Except it wasn't just, nor was it in any way simply, a shallow cave.
The location that the would-be bank robbers led them to was in fact a long-abandoned cliff dwelling, its inhabitants, it was said, ancestors to some of the modern-day Indian tribes in the area. These homes in the opening of a wall of rock showed signs of what they once were, once you found the passageways that lured you farther into the residence carved into the rock: pieces of timber framing the windows, wooden beams up along the ceilings, metal hooks still sometimes found attached in the more remote examples, hooks upon which these ancient peoples had dried their herbs and cured their meats. Staircases were cut into the rock, and ladders abandoned in place, rotted, but clearly a one-time access often leading to a storage room and sleeping quarters, but sometimes the simple ladder would lead to a great kiva. These holes in the ground below often led to larger chambers, though the ladder leading to them had frequently disappeared into history, just like the people who built, lived in, and ultimately, abandoned these special dwellings. Long dried up streambeds now acted as pathways as they criss-crossed through the canyon floor. The cave they currently made their resting area had signs of recent activity, abandoned attempts by some misguided fool looking for gold or silver and obviously finding neither as all that was here was rock, silt and scrub … and more rock.
"Ain't you done yet? I'm bleedin' to death," the injured criminal said.
"Shut up," Vin ordered. "He'll get to ya when he gets to ya."
"It is amusin' how … " Ezra started, paused as Buck grunted, interjected, "mah apologies, Buck," and then continued, "miscreants believe they should always be first in line to be tended to when their wounds are nearly always self-inflicted, or at least caused by their own reckless behavior." The former con man took a couple of breaths, looked at his handiwork and then once again wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Ah b'lieve the bleedin' has stopped," he said as he set the blood-soaked cloths aside, a look of distaste offered as he did so. "We will clean it bettah and wrap it once we can get the clean bandages from my saddlebags. Finish up that tea, Mistah Wilmington. We will be heah now until the sun rises tomorrow." Buck did as he was told, even though the 'tea' could have used some heat.
"We will?" Chris asked as he kneeled before his oldest friend. "You all right?" the tall blond asked.
"Ezra's takin' good care o' me. I'll be fine." Chris assessed Buck's response and decided that Ezra was right, the ladies man's gritted teeth as he tried to abide the pain, the sweat now dotting the man's forehead, and the pile of bloody rags all confirmed that the ever-observant poker player had, as expected, made the right call.
"You gonna come look at this?" the inept bank thief demanded. He was lucky that he wasn't the one who had shot J.D., that man had been taken care of first.
Ezra sighed, closed his eyes, and then rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand, keeping his blood-covered fingers away from his face. The action started from his forehead up to his hairline, then down between his eyes, down his nose. He pressed the back of his hand against his nose and between his eyes, took a deep breath, but didn't answer the man.
Chris frowned as he watched. "You get hurt?" he asked the card sharp.
Ezra was breathing in and out now, a familiar cadence; the man was trying to fend off being sick. Great, that was just what they needed.
"Ezra?" Chris asked as he leaned closer, trying to get a better look at his friend, but he would have to wait for any answer. The southerner jumped to his feet and ran for the cave's exit. Chris' head whipped quickly as he tried to keep an eye on Ezra. He was sure he heard an attempt at 'Excuse me'. The damned man was ever the gentleman as he assured that their dwelling for the evening would not be made unpleasant by the scent of vomit.
Vin and Buck watched Ezra rush from the protection provided by their rocky salon, a haven left by years of erosion and improved upon by a creative though long gone peoples. Vin stood to see to the gambler, but Chris stopped him.
"I'll go. Fix that one up," the leader of the men famously known as The Magnificent Seven said as he grabbed a canteen and headed outside. "Buck."
"I've got my gun on him. We'll be fine. Go see ta Era." Chris hadn't slowed his forward momentum and was practically outside by the time Buck finished speaking.
Chris listened for an indication of which way to go. It took no time at all to hear Ezra grunting and hacking left of the opening. The sun was already making its descent, not quite hidden by the range up ahead. They were definitely spending the night, no matter how much he hoped that Buck would make a quick recovery. He now had two men down, or so it seemed. He walked over to the card sharp, who remained on his knees, though the worst of the sickness seemed to have passed.
"Mah … apologies," Ezra said between coughs. He spit out some more of the sour bile, and then looked up as he sensed a shadow to find Chris extending the canteen to him. "Much obliged," he said as he sipped and then spit, repeated the action, and then took a drink and swallowed, tentative … hopeful. He shakily sought the handkerchief from the pocket inside his jacket.
"Did you knock your head?" Chris asked as he waited for some sign that Ezra was ready to rise. He noticed how pale the man looked, realizing at just this moment that he'd looked much the same since they'd left Four Corners to capture these men who had tried to rob the bank and left J.D. Dunne with, what had seemed to them all, a very serious bullet wound to his shoulder.
Ezra rubbed both eyes with the palms of his hands, holding his handkerchief to protect his face from the still-present blood on his fingers, and then allowed his right hand to rub his forehead as he extended his left to the jagged rock beside him, feeling decidedly lightheaded.
"Ah wish."
Chris frowned and then remembered; it had been some time since his friend had been afflicted. What was it Nathan called it?
"Sick headache."
Chris snorted a wry laugh. "You read minds now?"
"Assumin' Ah would need mah mind in bettah repair for such a thing … " Ezra paused, rubbed his head once more, then added, "No. Ah am simply more adept these days at readin' Chris Larabee."
The former gunslinger kneeled down so that he was closer to eye-level with his friend. Chris knew that moving his head as he would do in proper conversation would cause the gambler more pain.
"Not sure I care for that much," Chris said lightly, a slight grin coming to his face. More seriously he asked, "When did you start feeling sick?" He took the canteen and wetted the handkerchief with it, not taking his eyes from Ezra. He handed the now-wet cloth back. "Wipe your hands," Chris ordered.
Ezra breathed in deeply, and nodded his head faintly in gratitude. "Ah had an inkling overnight, but Ah was not convinced of it until after breakfast." He looked at Chris as he cleaned Buck's blood from his fingers and knew that the blond understood: breakfast had not stayed in his stomach for long.
"You shoulda said something. Josiah could have … "
"Josiah is … recoverin' from yesterday's over-imbibing." The former con man took another drink of water, a small sip, which was an indicator to Chris that maybe Ezra was expecting he might get sick if he tried any more.
"I thought he was doing better."
"Ah b'lieve he thought so as well. Somethin' set him to the saloon. For a big man, he has a surprisingly low tolerance for the drink."
"Yeah. Even so, you should've said something."
"Events swiftly overcame us all this day. Mah obligation was to assist in capturing these miscreants."
Chris looked up into the horizon. The colors of the canyon were changing dramatically as the sun continued in its voyage to close the day. He wasn't sure if it was the hues of nature playing tricks on him, but some color seemed to be returning to the southerner's visage.
"You ready to get up?"
"Ah don't know," Ezra replied, more honest than he likely meant to be. The con man had been raised to never show his hand; his mother would have tsked this reaction, would have considered it a show of weakness.
"Come on." Chris reached out his arm. Ezra extended his hand up, and they clasped forearms as the smaller man made it to his feet. The leader of their group kept his grip, sensing that Ezra was unsteady, at best.
"Ah am fine."
"No you're not. It's not far. Think I'll hold on. Can't have you cracking your head open on all this rock."
"Mah head already feels broken … Ah would agree that such an accident would likely mean the end of one Ezra P. Standish."
"Then let's not have that happen.
The rest of the journey, slow and short, was made in silence. As they re-entered the cave, Buck and Vin both looked to Chris, silent in their request for information. Their leader was having a harder time seeing inside their lair as they continued to lose light from the setting sun.
"Vin, go ahead and get a fire started." Chris helped Ezra to the floor of the cave. "You all right for a minute?"
"Yes."
Buck and Vin blinked, startled and worried. One-word answers were a definite warning sign that all was not well with their resident gambler.
"I'm gonna go get our saddlebags and blankets. Might as well be comfortable," Chris added as he left. "I'll come back for the canteens." Vin nodded as he got the fire started. He gathered all of the canteens next as he prepared to use the small pot that Ezra always had handy. They were lucky that Ezra stowed such generally impractical things in his gear. As a rule, none on them kept such things with them, only adding bulkier items when they knew they would be spending overnight on the trail, though Buck always had a pot and coffee with him. But once they got some water warmed up and really cleaned up Buck's and their prisoner's wounds, they would all be lucky to enjoy some of that nice coffee Ezra also always had with him, a definite step up from the chicory-laced grounds that Buck carried.
Well, everyone but Ezra would be enjoying it. The con man was looking pretty sick just about now.
Five minutes later, Chris returned with Ezra's saddle and blanket and all four saddlebags. He dumped everything quickly – it was quite a heavy load – and knowing just where to look, found Ezra's pan and Buck's coffee pot and handed them over to Vin. He then positioned the fancy saddle up against a wall of the ancient entry to the cliff dwelling and laid a blanket down. Ezra sat where Chris had left him, his eyes closed, silent in his pain.
"Come get comfortable, Ezra," he said as he towered over the sick man.
"Ah should assist in preparin' our camp."
"It's done," Chris replied, unable to hide his annoyance at what Ezra obviously thought: that he would be expected to do any work in his current condition.
"It is? Ah … Ah am … mah apologies. Ah should have … Buck is … " The man was in so much pain he could hardly complete a thought.
"Nobody 'spects ya ta do any o' that when yer feelin' poorly, Ezra," Vin assured his friend. "Buck, keep an eye on this one while I go fill these up?"
"Sure thing," the handsome ladies man said. To their prisoner he said, "Don't get any ideas. I can watch a fire and you at the same time." He needn't have said so; Vin had the man's legs tied up neatly.
"I'll get the rest of the blankets," the former bounty hunter added.
"Thanks, Vin," Chris replied. To Ezra he tried once more. "Let's get ya moved over to your bedroll."
"Very well."
Vin and Chris nodded to one another, then Chris turned back to Ezra. Buck caught Chris' eye, but the former gunslinger shook his head to indicate to his old friend that they would discuss it later. He helped Ezra to his spot near the opening. The con man was asleep by the time Vin returned.
The tracker retrieved clean cloths from his saddlebag, wet them in the hot water and started in on cleaning Buck's wound. Chris joined his friends.
"He got one o' them sick headaches?" Vin asked, already knowing the answer.
"Yeah. Things turned to shit so fast today … nobody noticed," Chris replied, all of his frustration at the thought aimed at himself. He looked over to where Ezra slept, and then back to Vin and Buck. "Hell."
"Come on, Chris. You know Ezra hides his hurts," Buck reminded his friends.
"In plain sight," Vin muttered as he tied off the clean cloth on Buck's arm.
"Thanks, Vin."
"Whaddya mean, 'in plain sight'?" Chris asked.
"Think back on the day, cowboy," Vin started to explain. "What's yer first recollection of seein' Ezra today?"
"Well, it was late morning, as usual."
"No, Chris. We didn't see Ez until near one o'clock," Buck said.
"You sure?" Chris questioned.
"Yeah. Remember, the stagecoach arrived early. Ezra's usually there to greet it."
"That's right," Chris nodded. "He said, well, he didn't exactly say it outside," Chris said, nodding to the cave entrance where he had helped his sick friend back in just a while before, "but he gave me the impression that he'd gotten sick after breakfast this morning."
"He mighta. Saw him headin' back up to his room 'bout seven. Thought he came down to use the privy," Vin said sadly. He looked at Buck. "What else do you remember 'bout seein' him earlier?"
Buck nodded his head knowingly. "He sure didn't want anything to eat."
"That's right," Chris agreed. "Said he'd 'over-indulged' the night before."
"I knew that wasn't true when he said it. We had supper together, and he jest picked at his food. Didn't even have any pie," Vin said.
"He was lookin' kind o' done-in. Thought he just had a longer than normal night at the poker table," Buck explained.
"He didn't," Chris corrected his long-time friend. "I was still there when he called it a night, just before one in the morning."
"So he was sick when each of us saw him for the first time today," Vin stated the sad but obvious truth.
"But none of us did a damned thing about it," Chris said, still angry mostly with himself, but none too happy with his two companions right now.
"In plain sight," Vin reiterated.
"Ah would 'ppreciate if you gen'lemen would desist from blamin' each othah. Ah was nevah goin' to show mah hand so long as the miscr'nts who shot J.D. were still runnin' free. An' now tha' we have captured them … "
"Captured hell!" the one who still lived challenged.
"Shut up!" Chris, Buck and Vin yelled back. A groan from the gambler had Buck add softly, "Sorry, Ezra."
Much more quietly than before but with equal lack of concern for hitting every syllable, as talking, light, movement … listening all seemed to cause him pain, Ezra continued with a simple and barely audible, "Sil'nce is gold'n." He paused and then added, "Or so they say," as he rolled onto his side and pressed his face into the blanket up against his saddle.
"It's late enough," Chris said as he started putting his own bedroll down on the hard floor of the cave. "Hard tack and jerky if ya got it. Cold beans. Coffee," he added, knowing the smell of cooked food would likely be the last straw for Ezra. The aroma of coffee never bothered the southerner, but Chris made it clear that he would assure that this time it absolutely wouldn't, which meant his other two companions had to find something else to do. "I'll make the coffee," he said. Buck snorted a quiet laugh as Vin handed the coffee pot over to his friend.
The next morning found Ezra missing from his bed. Vin jumped up as he saw the vacant space, but stopped his forward momentum when he was met by Chris re-entering their lair.
"He's all right," the tall blond assured.
"Yer sher?" the Texan asked.
"Yeah. Got sick. Says he feels better."
"Uh-huh," Buck said as he stretched. "Ow."
"Mistah Wilmington, please do not ruin all of our hard work from yesterday. Ah do not b'lieve Ah could withstand the scent of blood on our ride home."
"You sure you're up for that, Ezra? Ya look like hell," Buck bandied back.
"Ah am certain that is quite impossible," Ezra said with a forced grin, bringing fond smiles to all of their faces as the members of The Magnificent Seven who were present were reminded of Buck's response to J.D. as they left the Seminole village several years before, at the very start of their acquaintance. They had heard any number of variations coming from the mustachioed gunman in the years since. It was Buck's smile that faltered first.
"Wonder how the kid's doing?" he said out loud, explaining the worry now showing on his face.
"He's fine," Vin said as he started to clean up the area. "He's a tough kid."
"Don't think he qualifies as a kid any longer," Chris said as he, too, began gathering up their belongings. J.D. Dunne had been shot three times, stabbed, strangled near to death once, beaten near to death another time, killed more men than he could count – and one woman – in the short time they had known the young man.
"He'll always be the kid to me," Buck said affectionately.
"Ah believe we will all always think of him in that way, well into old age," Ezra said.
"Amen to that," Vin added.
Within thirty minutes they were on the trail heading back to Four Corners. Vin took the lead, followed by Buck, and then Ezra. Their prisoner was next with Chris at the rear, covering their backs. They'd been riding close to an hour in silence. It was a beautiful morning, a slight chill in the air that would make way soon enough for warmth, the high desert sun demanding its right over all else, even as autumn marched persistently toward winter. The sun could still cause a man trouble if left in it for too long; everyone kept their heads covered with their hats, even with the cool, refreshing breeze. Nature seemed a fine balm to everyone this morning, or so it seemed. Buck finally broke the silence.
"How ya feelin', Ezra?"
"Fine," the con man replied through gritted teeth. A deep breath followed, and then, "And yourself?"
"I'm good. You and Vin've got real good at doctorin'. I owe you for what you did yesterday."
"It was nothing," Ezra said as he rubbed his head. Chaucer was only keeping up the pace because he knew it was the right thing to do, not because his master was providing direction to keep them moving forward.
"Ezra, you need to take a break?" Chris asked.
"We have only been on the trail home for an hour. Ah can continue." Vin stopped to hear the conversation and soon they were all gathered in an imperfect circle under the shade of a lone cottonwood.
"It ain't no more 'n an hour and a half ta town," Vin said. "Got all day. No need to push."
"Ah dare say that our pace does not qualify as pushin'," Ezra challenged. He took the opportunity, now that they were stopped, to pull out his handkerchief and wipe the excessive sweat from his face.
"What Vin's tryin' to say, Ez, is that we all had a rough day yesterday. I know my arm would appreciate the rest," Buck admitted.
"It would be mah preference to return to our dusty burg post haste, to check in with Nathan and see how J.D. is farin'," the card sharp replied. But no matter how hard Ezra tried to hide it, it was obvious that this sick headache lingered, and that last night had not been particularly restful for him.
"We'll just have this one stop," Chris ordered.
"'Bout time you decided what yer doin'. Sound like a bunch o' women," the would-be robber said.
"Shut up!" the chorus of four lawmen called back.
"Yer lookin' damn good, kid."
"Thanks, Buck. It was just a scratch," J.D. replied with a huge smile. He certainly didn't look any worse for wear after being shot by an inept bank robber. The town was thankful that The Seven had stopped the theft of their funds, and apparently J.D. had been the recipient of all kinds of gratitude since he'd been in Nathan's care, specifically in the form of food. At the moment, both J.D. and Buck were enjoying scones from Gloria Potter.
"It was more than that," Nathan countered as he finished re-wrapping the injury.
"But you're letting me out, so it can't be too bad," the young sheriff said around a mouthful of buttery goodness. "You're gonna try one of these, right, Nathan? There's too many for just me," J.D. said happily.
"Since yer offerin'," Buck said as he quickly took another one from the basket. Nathan chuckled.
"If Buck leaves one, I'll try one," Nathan said, followed by the booming voice of Josiah Sanchez.
"He's only lettin' you out if you rest for the next few days, J.D." It was quite something how a voice so commanding could sound so smooth and caring at the same time. Josiah sat in the corner of Nathan's clinic, his small bible in one hand, the last half of a scone in the other.
"I know, 'siah."
"You better," the healer warned.
"I'll keep an eye on him," Buck said as he licked his fingers of the last of the crumbs and the butter from the delicious scone.
"Does that mean you're takin' the next few days off from Penny?" J.D. asked.
"And Emma Lou?" Josiah questioned. He popped the rest of his scone into his mouth.
"Betty?" Nathan quizzed just loud enough to be heard before he took a large bite from one of Gloria's breakfast delicacies, or as it turned out, all day delicacies.
"Oh, ya'll think you're funny?" Buck asked lightly. More seriously, the ladies man asked, "You get a look at Ezra?"
"I did," Nathan replied. "Ain't much I can do for him. Gave Inez herbs for the tea, but it doesn't really help much. He needs quiet, dim light. Same as always."
"Chris took him off the schedule, even though with J.D. here down we're a little short," Josiah advised them all.
"Ez can't work. Could hurt himself real bad if he got dizzy up on his horse," Nathan warned. No one had disagreed with their leader's decision; they were all willing to cover any shifts needed until Ezra and J.D. were back on their feet. A light knock at the door was heard just before Vin stepped into the room.
"Fellas," he said in greeting.
"Hey, Vin," J.D. said as he finished dressing.
"Lookin' good, J.D.," the tracker said as he spotted the basket on the table. His eyebrows rose as he saw, and then smelled, what was before him.
"Yeah, I feel good. You take care o' Chaucer? Go ahead and have one. Nathan's lettin' me out." Sometimes listening to J.D. was like what it must be like to watch those boomerang things Vin had heard about.
"That's great, but take it easy," Vin suggested just before he took a bite of scone. "Chaucer's fine."
"I will."
"Mmm. These from Gloria?" Vin asked.
"Mighty good, huh?" Nathan asked as he finished his last bite.
"She and Nettie oughta open a store just to sell what they bake," Vin replied.
"Come on, kid," Buck said as he put his arm affectionately around J.D.'s uninjured shoulder. "You hungry?" Nathan and Vin both looked up, knowing that the boy had likely eaten more than one of those delicious mounds of lumpy, buttery, flakey goodness from the basket. Nathan knew his departing patient had just finished one.
"I could eat a whole cow," the young man admitted cheerfully. They all chuckled as the taller dark-haired man ushered the shorter one out the door. Vin caught Nathan's eye, and the compassionate healer could see he had something on his mind. The healer looked to Josiah, who didn't seem inclined to leave, and then looked back to Vin. The worry on Vin's face had Nathan worried, too.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
Vin faced Josiah, who finally realized that Vin wanted to have a private conversation with the healer.
"I'll see you two at supper?" the big man said as he stood, stretched his back and then headed for the door. Affirmations came from both of his friends. "I'll be at the church if anyone needs me."
"See you later, Josiah," Nathan called.
"Thanks, Josiah," Vin said as the former preacher placed his hat on his head, tipped it to the tracker, and left the room. Nathan watched quietly as Vin stood, walked to the window … and said nothing. The black man started his inventory of supplies and waited, but it appeared he would have to get this discussion started.
"Well?" he asked.
Vin turned from the window to face the former slave. "You think Ezra's gettin' these sick headaches more often?"
Hell. Someone was bound to notice.
"Yes, I do."
"That ain't good, is it?" the Texan asked.
"Can't think of any reason why it would be," Nathan admitted. "You're the only one who has noticed. Chris thought it had been a long time since the last one."
"I know. He mighta missed the last time. Think it happened when he took Mary and Billy to Santa Fe."
"Think you're right, Vin."
"What're we gonna do?" Vin pleaded, his blue eyes full of concern.
"Don't know a whole lot 'bout what brings 'em on. That's not just me," the healer added, sensing that Vin wanted to seek help beyond the limited knowledge that Nathan had. "I've been studyin' up on it. And I've sent telegrams and letters around to doctors in Saint Louis, Denver, Chicago, Boston. They all say that there is no treatment to prevent them from happening." Vin pulled his hat off and smacked it against his buckskin capote. "Leastwise nothin' worth the risks, nothin' that Ezra would agree to."
"What … " Vin started, but Nathan cut him off.
"Drilling. Into his brain. It ain't worth the risk. He could die," Nathan said as he matched Vin's anxious gaze with his own. "He could … not be Ezra any longer, or worse."
"All right, all right. I hear what yer sayin'. But, well … hell. What about stress? Didn't you say … "
"Ezra said he usually got 'em because he'd been extra worried over something." Neither man needed to say out loud that knowledge that his mother was coming, or her departure from Four Corners after an extended visit seemed to precipitate these sick headache episodes. "But he's also said that they have come over him suddenly, for no reason." This seemed to be the case with this one; they had seen hide nor hair of, and Ezra had not heard from, Maude Standish in several months.
"Maybe if Chris cut back … "
"Hell, Vin! You know Ezra won't go for that. It would probably help if he would learn to admit when he feels one comin' on. Least then I could get him in bed faster, get him in a quiet place, maybe make him suffer less."
"Then I'll work on him," Vin offered.
"You do that. It ain't like I haven't already talked to him about it." Nathan's anger was clear, anger at the southerner for not being more forthcoming, anger that as a healer he was still having trouble getting through to his friend, anger that Vin felt he might be able to make headway when someone more knowledgeable on the subject, like himself, couldn't.
Vin sighed and then nodded his understanding. "I know." He shook his head and then added, "And we can't press him too hard or … "
"He'll bolt," Nathan finished the thought for his friend. If there was one thing they did not want, it was for Ezra Standish to leave their group. After a rocky start, all six of the lawmen had grown fond of their persnickety seventh. They'd grown accustomed to his presence. They'd grown to count on him one helluva lot. And if he had to suffer through these horrible headaches, they wanted him here so they could watch out for him.
The healer finished counting and stacking the bandages, and then started in on the inventory of medicines. "Maybe if it ain't comin' from me, he'll listen." Nathan had found that sometimes the prescription was accepted better when it came from someone else, even if it did make him mad.
"No, that's not it. Chris has tried," Vin assured the man who was the only person qualified to doctor folks within a day's ride, and that other person was hardly a doctor and, despite his degree, not nearly as knowledgeable as Nathan Jackson. Ezra and Nathan had started their acquaintance in the most imperfect fashion, Ezra's southern self too quick to judge, Nathan with a deserved chip on his shoulder, his life as a slave still fresh in his mind even though he'd been a free man for a goodly amount of time, but soon built an understanding between them that had slowly grown to friendship. But the former slave always wondered if their pasts as men of the south would always temper that friendship.
"You might be able to get him to listen, Vin. He seems to trust you."
"He trusts us all, now." The tracker placed his hat firmly on his head. "When he feels better, I'll give it a try."
"Chris has been talking about stopping the daily patrols. Four Corners has grown into a more peaceful town than it used to be, like a real town, except for what happened today. Fewer patrols might help Ezra. Who knows?"
"Yep. Well, see you at supper?"
"I'll be there. Gonna check on Ezra first."
"All right. See ya later."
"Whaddya s'pose is keepin' 'im?" Buck said the next morning as he dove into his meal.
"Maybe Ezra shot 'im," Vin suggested before taking a generous forkful of the bean and chili-laden burrito, followed by a bite of the fresh cooked eggs.
"No, I've been here since Nathan showed up. Watched him head up to Ezra's room," Chris described as he downed a swig of coffee. "Ain't heard any gunshots yet."
"Heard some yellin'. Mostly Nate," Josiah added.
"Maybe Ezra's feelin' … " J.D. began.
"Bettah," the con man finished. Nathan hovered just behind him as he made the turn at the landing. Ezra faltered slightly and the healer caught his arm. The gambler shrugged off the help, but wisely grasped the banister for the rest of his descent.
"You sure?" Chris asked, cocking an eyebrow. Ezra seemed to immediately pale, as though he'd heard Chris suggest a patrol since he'd admitted to feeling better.
"Ah guess bettah is a relative term, as in Ah feel bettah than the previous while, but not quite back to one hundred percent." Nathan snorted as he continued to hover. The southerner ignored the non-verbal jibe and took a seat next to the youngest of their group. "How are you faring, J.D.?" he asked.
"Real good. The arm hurts, but I think I'll be back in the saddle in a day or so."
"No sooner than Monday, J.D.," the healer suggested. J.D. just shrugged, groaned softly at the movement, and happily took a large gulp from his mug of milk.
"What about you, Ez? How you really feeling?" Buck asked. Buck Wilmington was a compassionate man, whether his concern was for a pretty woman, an elderly lady who needed a hand to make the step up to the boardwalk, or for the welfare of one of his brothers in arms.
The gambler cocked his head, his eyes still showing the pain of a bad headache. "Ah … " he started. He paused as he caught a glance from Nathan, looking both worried and frustrated. He continued, "Ah admit that Ah am not yet over this … malaise." Ezra hated the moniker that Nathan had said it was known as. He understood all too well that there were those who could never believe that something as simple as a 'headache' could be so debilitating. A more creative, less pedestrian name was demanded of something that could lay you out as quickly as an unexpected punch from Chris Larabee, or for as long as one from Josiah Sanchez, both of which Ezra had experienced in his early days in Four Corners.
"Maybe you'd get over it sooner if you stayed in bed," J.D. suggested. Nathan snorted derisively at the young man's naivety.
"One can rest abed for only so long, J.D." The rest of the seven had taken note that the ill man sat facing away from the door to avoid looking directly at the morning sun, still quite low in the sky and streaking across the room like lightning. It was something Ezra never would have done at the beginning of their association, before he had learned that he could trust these men, that they really and truly would cover his back.
Inez arrived to deliver meals to those who had recently arrived, which did not include Buck and Vin, who were nearly finished with their breakfasts but seemed ravenously eager to see the full plates being laid before Chris, J.D. and Josiah.
"What can I get for you two?" she asked Ezra and Nathan.
"That there plate Vin is finishing smells mighty fine, Inez," Nathan complemented the cook. "I'll have that."
"Of course." She paused. "And you?" she asked Ezra with concern. She knew Ezra had little appetite when he suffered through these headaches.
"Ah would be pleased to partake of those delectable biscuits, mah dear."
Inez placed her hand warmly along Ezra's neck, rubbing it soothingly. "I will bring you two, and some peach preserves with your coffee."
The southern gentleman grasped the petite hand and kissed it, and then said, "Muchas gracias." And then the pretty Mexican was away to prepare more food for those just arrived at the table.
"Bet Inez makes you feel lots better." Though he didn't say it with the knowing and just barely charming leer of Buck Wilmington, J.D.'s meaning was more than obvious. The young man's comment had the entire table reacting: Buck with a raucous snort, Vin nearly choking on the last of his food. Chris, Josiah and Nathan all offered disapproving glares. As Ezra sat between their two youngest members, he took one hand and with easy practicality slapped hard on just the right spot on Vin's back, efficiently dislodging what had gotten stuck there. Now that the evil delicacy was no longer trying to kill him, the former bounty hunter carefully chewed the food and swallowed it.
Ezra then turned to J.D.
"Mistah Dunne, truer words have nevah crossed your lips," he said calmly.
"Shit, Ez, you'da slapped me good if I'd said that," Buck pouted loudly.
"That is likely true, Mistah Wilmington." Ezra turned to J.D. once more, made sure the young man was paying attention, and then said, "But you are not as injured as our young friend." He watched as J.D. stopped chewing, and then gulped hard to swallow. He noticed that Ezra no longer had even a hint of a smile to offer. The gambler continued. "Ah feel certain that J.D. will henceforth refrain from discussin' the lovely lady's virtues in public." Ezra held J.D.'s gaze, a gaze that resembled a deer caught in the sights of Vin Tanner's rifle. He allowed their staring match to continue a bit longer and then added, "Will you not?"
J.D. blinked and quickly replied, "Uh, sure Ezra. I didn't mean … "
"Ah have no doubt that you did not, J.D. But there is no time or place for such comments, and it appears you have not learned that lesson."
"More likely someone else is teachin' 'im bad ones," Vin murmured, now recovered.
J.D.'s eyes were huge, his demeanor apologetic when he said, "I will … I mean, I have. I'm sorry. You know, I think … "
"You think the world of Inez. Ah know. She is fond of you as well. No harm done," Ezra said. "Finish your meal, son," Ezra added as he patted J.D. warmly on his uninjured shoulder. As though this discussion alone had added to his misery, the con man lowered his head, rolled his neck and then brushed his hand through his auburn locks.
"Ezra," Nathan started.
"No, Nathan. Ah would appreciate the pleasure of your company," he began, indicating all of his law enforcement brethren, "far more than mah featherbed this mornin'."
"All right," Nathan agreed, understanding that Ezra wouldn't last all that long. "You should make it back to your room soon, though, for a nap," the healer couldn't help but suggest.
"Ah will."
The former stretcher bearer during the war stood, placed his hand on Ezra's shoulder and said, "I'll go get some tea goin' in the kitchen."
"Most kind of you." Nathan patted the shoulder and then left the table.
The morning continued leisurely after all of The Seven had eaten. It was time spent together that held great hope that the professional poker player would be back to normal soon. The prescription, both self-administered but closely monitored by the caring healer? Light-hearted conversation and penny poker with friends, and Ezra Standish back to his fine featherbed by noon.
The End.