Disclaimer: None of the Seven belong to me. If they did, they'd be locked
in my closet, never to be shared. Ezra especially. Heeheehee.
Rating: G; No language, no sex, no violence, you get the idea. Basically a dull PWP.
Warning: Contains the death of one of the Seven and the mention of the deaths of all the others. If this is not your cup of tea, then don't read. Duh!
Warning #2: This is my first complete Mag7 story. It is beta read by no one but me and my spell check, so all mistakes are mine. Also, I usually don't write in first person, so there may be some errors in tense and point of view. If you bring them to my attention, I'll fix them ASAP.
Archive: Ask permission first.
Review: Pleasepleasepleaseplease.I love getting reviews, but no flames. Constructive criticism welcome. If you thought it sucked, please be prepared to give me a good reason why.
Okay, now that all that's said, enjoy the story!
December 31, 1950
To Whom It May Concern;
I will not be much longer with this world, and I fear that my life will be forgotten if I do not leave anything behind. Consider this a goodbye note of sorts. I suppose it will simply end up in the garbage with most of my other belongings, but I sincerely hope not. There are some things that bear remembering, and I will share them the best I know how in this missive.
The new century is half over today. I never thought I would live to see the day.
One hundred. I am one hundred years old as of my last birthday. One whole century. Doesn't seem real.
A lot has happened in those one hundred years. I have seen the War Between the States, the Great War, and then World War II. I have heard that there is a conflict now occurring in Korea, and America may join in. I hope not. I've seen enough bloodshed to last two lifetimes. War only ends in pain and death, no good can come from it.
In one hundred years, I have seen more of my contemporaries die than I care to recount. My father, my mother, my wife, and both of our children. A parent should never outlive a child. Only our grandchildren are left now. They don't come around much, just hauled me East and stuck me in a nursing home and went away. Guess it's easier for them that way.
I really shouldn't be here. I have arthritis, but I can still get around. My sight is fair, my hearing is nearly perfect, and my mind is as sharp as ever. I can remember like yesterday the first time I ever saw the six men that changed my life.
First there was Chris Larabee. He was one of the toughest men I ever had the pleasure of knowing. After the brutal murders of his wife and son, no one would have blamed him for giving up. But he didn't. He continued. And he went on to remarry a lovely widow and adopting her young son as his own. That is true courage.
Of course, Mr. Larabee was not alone in his pain. Buck Wilmington, his best friend, was always there to pick him up. Buck suffered nearly as great a loss as Chris, and still he took all the anger Chris had inside. Buck had a rough life, born of a prostitute and living under the shadow of that shame his whole life. He never once let that stigma rob him of his joy and vitality. That is true courage.
Vin Tanner was the third of our little band of lawmen. He was a young man, but he carried the shadows of a lifetime of pain, more than most men twice his age. He was running from the law, accused of a crime he did not commit. He was ostracized and exiled from his beloved Texas, shamed by his illiteracy, and he still put his dreams off long enough to help a besieged Indian village and protect a tiny, one-horse town. That is true courage.
Nathan Jackson was not a man I wanted to ride with, or even know. He was colored, a slave, an animal. Or so I'd been taught. Nathan proved me wrong. He was positively overflowing with human compassion. I never once saw him turn a single patient away, and he hurt inside with every person he lost. He was a slave in childhood, lost his mother to suicide, and later, his father to consumption. He overcame prejudice and hatred to ride with me, an 'old Southern boy,' and he did it all with grace and civility. That is true courage.
Josiah Sanchez was the oldest of our impromptu brotherhood, and perhaps the wisest. He had his demons too, of course, those of his father and sister. He claimed he'd lost his faith because of mistakes he made in his youth, but I don't believe that. I think he just gave a little bit of it to every person he met, myself included, until there was none left. He was running from his crows, but I think he was just not ready to meet them yet. Being with the six of us gave him the strength to face death head on when it finally arrived. That is true courage.
Last but certainly not least, there was JD Dunne. He had the spirit of a boy and the wisdom of a man. The two often argued, but the man won out more often than the boy. He was truly a unique individual. I think JD was the best of us all; he was our eager, brave, innocent D'Artagnan. He gave Chris a reason to live, Vin a reason to hope, Buck a reason to laugh, Josiah a reason to pray, Nathan a reason to feel, and me a reason to trust. His world was shattered with the death of his mother and the loss of the dream of college. Still he fought against the boundaries often placed on the young and became Sheriff. He was a fine one, too. That is true courage.
Along with myself, these six men guarded and protected the little town of Four Corners for nearly ten years. We went to Tascosa ten years after getting to together, with the intentions of clearing Vin's name once and for all. We were unsuccessful. Vin Tanner died in Texas on the end of a hangman's noose in 1887. After that, our little group was never the same.
Chris would never have survived without Mary and Billy. Even so, his life ended in a drunken bar fight a few years later.
Josiah took off after Vin's death. I heard some years later that he had taken it upon himself to witness to the Native American population and was accidentally killed by the Army during a skirmish. I'm glad he died the way he lived: helping others and fulfilling himself.
Buck never married, but instead continued romancing anything in a skirt. He didn't stay in Four Corners for long after Chris' death. He said he needed to find himself. Buck was shot by a vengeful husband in Carson City, or so I heard. One can never be too sure.
Nathan lived well into his seventies. In those times, that was considered a very long life. He saw patients up until that last year, but in the end failing eyesight prevented him from continuing to practice. Rain had gone ahead before him, and I think he just decided to join her. He died in his sleep.
JD continued as Sheriff until 1905, when he foiled a bank robbery and took three bullets to his leg. Nathan did the best he could, but in the end infection set in and it had to be amputated. JD took it in stride, though, just like always, and he was still called on for advice regularly by his successor. He was the last, except for me, and only died a few years ago. Cancer, just like his mama and Casey.
I pray that whoever reads this brief letter will remember these names. They were more than men, they were heroes, and deserve not to be forgotten.
So now I'm the last. I don't think it will be too much longer for me, I'll never see one hundred and one. I don't mind, though, this old body's getting mighty tired. I am looking forward to seeing my comrades again, and riding with them in search of justice. I want to look in my Ellie's eyes again, hold the hands of my children, bicker with my Mother.
Goodness, I've been terribly rude. I have not properly introduced myself. I'm Ezra Philip Standish. I was the black sheep of Four Corners. A gambler, a liar, thief, conman, call me what you will. If you'd asked me eighty years ago if I'd ever be on the good side of the law, I'd have probably laughed in your face. Still, I never truly regretted it. Without those six men, I never would have fit in anywhere, never would have found my niche in the world. I made a lot of mistakes in my foolish youth, but I never did anything good until I joined up with Larabee and crew. I still don't know what made me ride back to those boys that day at the Seminole village. Any wise man would not have stopped until he hit the Atlantic. That, I suppose was simply my own misguided judgment getting the best of me once again.
Well, the hour is late and I grow tired. If I do not retire soon, I will fall asleep at my desk again, and the nurses grow so angry when that happens. Farewell, whoever you are, and may you live as long and happy a life as I have.
~7~7~7~7~7~7~7~
Ezra Standish laid down his pen, groaned as he made his way to his feet, and slowly prepared for bed. Just as his snow white head hit the pillow, six indistinct shapes materialized around the bed. One, dressed all in black, shook his head sadly. "Aw, Ez, that wasn't misguided. That, my friend, was the truest courage of all."
Six hands reached down and grasped an arm, a shoulder, a hand, anything they could easily reach. A lazy Texan drawl pierced the slumbering man's foggy brain. "Ez? Ez, wake up, pard. It's time to go."
Ezra snapped awake with a snort. "Mr. Tanner? Gentlemen? It can't be you. You're all."
"Dead? Yup, that's for sure. Well, come on, son, time's a-wastin' and there's a whole passel of folks anxious to see you."
Tears welled up in Ezra's green eyes. "Josiah? Are we going home?"
"That's right, son. We're going home for good."
So Ezra rose, pleasantly surprised by the ease with which he moved. He glanced down, slightly embarrassed to be caught in his nightshirt. To his utter joy, he found that the gown was gone, replaced by a well-tailored pair of black pants, a frilled white shirt and a bright red jacket. There was his derringer, carefully tucked up his sleeve. There was his low- crowned black Stetson, his Colt, his Remington. And there, standing patiently to the side.
"Chaucer!" Ezra's voice was jubilant. "My dear friend. I've missed you so." The horse bumped his chest affectionately. Ezra glanced up to see the other six men, once again in their prime, mounted and waiting for him. Gone were the sterile walls and plastic flowers of the nursing home. Instead he could see the Rocky Mountains, snow-capped as always, and a dusty road stretching out to the horizon. He vaulted into the saddle and took off with a whoop. "Let's ride, boys! Let's go home!"
The seven rode side by side into the eternal sunset to the sounds of coyotes howling, and in a nursing home somewhere in Richmond, Virginia, nurses and orderlies raced to room 408, answering the shrill call of the alarms.
"Hey, he's done for. No point in calling the doctor." They pulled a sheet over the still, gray face, not noticing the flashing gold tooth or deep dimples of the man who died with a peaceful grin. One young man halfway through his first night shift spotted a sheet of paper propped against a lamp on the table by the bed . "Hey, what's this? Some kind of letter.?"
Rating: G; No language, no sex, no violence, you get the idea. Basically a dull PWP.
Warning: Contains the death of one of the Seven and the mention of the deaths of all the others. If this is not your cup of tea, then don't read. Duh!
Warning #2: This is my first complete Mag7 story. It is beta read by no one but me and my spell check, so all mistakes are mine. Also, I usually don't write in first person, so there may be some errors in tense and point of view. If you bring them to my attention, I'll fix them ASAP.
Archive: Ask permission first.
Review: Pleasepleasepleaseplease.I love getting reviews, but no flames. Constructive criticism welcome. If you thought it sucked, please be prepared to give me a good reason why.
Okay, now that all that's said, enjoy the story!
December 31, 1950
To Whom It May Concern;
I will not be much longer with this world, and I fear that my life will be forgotten if I do not leave anything behind. Consider this a goodbye note of sorts. I suppose it will simply end up in the garbage with most of my other belongings, but I sincerely hope not. There are some things that bear remembering, and I will share them the best I know how in this missive.
The new century is half over today. I never thought I would live to see the day.
One hundred. I am one hundred years old as of my last birthday. One whole century. Doesn't seem real.
A lot has happened in those one hundred years. I have seen the War Between the States, the Great War, and then World War II. I have heard that there is a conflict now occurring in Korea, and America may join in. I hope not. I've seen enough bloodshed to last two lifetimes. War only ends in pain and death, no good can come from it.
In one hundred years, I have seen more of my contemporaries die than I care to recount. My father, my mother, my wife, and both of our children. A parent should never outlive a child. Only our grandchildren are left now. They don't come around much, just hauled me East and stuck me in a nursing home and went away. Guess it's easier for them that way.
I really shouldn't be here. I have arthritis, but I can still get around. My sight is fair, my hearing is nearly perfect, and my mind is as sharp as ever. I can remember like yesterday the first time I ever saw the six men that changed my life.
First there was Chris Larabee. He was one of the toughest men I ever had the pleasure of knowing. After the brutal murders of his wife and son, no one would have blamed him for giving up. But he didn't. He continued. And he went on to remarry a lovely widow and adopting her young son as his own. That is true courage.
Of course, Mr. Larabee was not alone in his pain. Buck Wilmington, his best friend, was always there to pick him up. Buck suffered nearly as great a loss as Chris, and still he took all the anger Chris had inside. Buck had a rough life, born of a prostitute and living under the shadow of that shame his whole life. He never once let that stigma rob him of his joy and vitality. That is true courage.
Vin Tanner was the third of our little band of lawmen. He was a young man, but he carried the shadows of a lifetime of pain, more than most men twice his age. He was running from the law, accused of a crime he did not commit. He was ostracized and exiled from his beloved Texas, shamed by his illiteracy, and he still put his dreams off long enough to help a besieged Indian village and protect a tiny, one-horse town. That is true courage.
Nathan Jackson was not a man I wanted to ride with, or even know. He was colored, a slave, an animal. Or so I'd been taught. Nathan proved me wrong. He was positively overflowing with human compassion. I never once saw him turn a single patient away, and he hurt inside with every person he lost. He was a slave in childhood, lost his mother to suicide, and later, his father to consumption. He overcame prejudice and hatred to ride with me, an 'old Southern boy,' and he did it all with grace and civility. That is true courage.
Josiah Sanchez was the oldest of our impromptu brotherhood, and perhaps the wisest. He had his demons too, of course, those of his father and sister. He claimed he'd lost his faith because of mistakes he made in his youth, but I don't believe that. I think he just gave a little bit of it to every person he met, myself included, until there was none left. He was running from his crows, but I think he was just not ready to meet them yet. Being with the six of us gave him the strength to face death head on when it finally arrived. That is true courage.
Last but certainly not least, there was JD Dunne. He had the spirit of a boy and the wisdom of a man. The two often argued, but the man won out more often than the boy. He was truly a unique individual. I think JD was the best of us all; he was our eager, brave, innocent D'Artagnan. He gave Chris a reason to live, Vin a reason to hope, Buck a reason to laugh, Josiah a reason to pray, Nathan a reason to feel, and me a reason to trust. His world was shattered with the death of his mother and the loss of the dream of college. Still he fought against the boundaries often placed on the young and became Sheriff. He was a fine one, too. That is true courage.
Along with myself, these six men guarded and protected the little town of Four Corners for nearly ten years. We went to Tascosa ten years after getting to together, with the intentions of clearing Vin's name once and for all. We were unsuccessful. Vin Tanner died in Texas on the end of a hangman's noose in 1887. After that, our little group was never the same.
Chris would never have survived without Mary and Billy. Even so, his life ended in a drunken bar fight a few years later.
Josiah took off after Vin's death. I heard some years later that he had taken it upon himself to witness to the Native American population and was accidentally killed by the Army during a skirmish. I'm glad he died the way he lived: helping others and fulfilling himself.
Buck never married, but instead continued romancing anything in a skirt. He didn't stay in Four Corners for long after Chris' death. He said he needed to find himself. Buck was shot by a vengeful husband in Carson City, or so I heard. One can never be too sure.
Nathan lived well into his seventies. In those times, that was considered a very long life. He saw patients up until that last year, but in the end failing eyesight prevented him from continuing to practice. Rain had gone ahead before him, and I think he just decided to join her. He died in his sleep.
JD continued as Sheriff until 1905, when he foiled a bank robbery and took three bullets to his leg. Nathan did the best he could, but in the end infection set in and it had to be amputated. JD took it in stride, though, just like always, and he was still called on for advice regularly by his successor. He was the last, except for me, and only died a few years ago. Cancer, just like his mama and Casey.
I pray that whoever reads this brief letter will remember these names. They were more than men, they were heroes, and deserve not to be forgotten.
So now I'm the last. I don't think it will be too much longer for me, I'll never see one hundred and one. I don't mind, though, this old body's getting mighty tired. I am looking forward to seeing my comrades again, and riding with them in search of justice. I want to look in my Ellie's eyes again, hold the hands of my children, bicker with my Mother.
Goodness, I've been terribly rude. I have not properly introduced myself. I'm Ezra Philip Standish. I was the black sheep of Four Corners. A gambler, a liar, thief, conman, call me what you will. If you'd asked me eighty years ago if I'd ever be on the good side of the law, I'd have probably laughed in your face. Still, I never truly regretted it. Without those six men, I never would have fit in anywhere, never would have found my niche in the world. I made a lot of mistakes in my foolish youth, but I never did anything good until I joined up with Larabee and crew. I still don't know what made me ride back to those boys that day at the Seminole village. Any wise man would not have stopped until he hit the Atlantic. That, I suppose was simply my own misguided judgment getting the best of me once again.
Well, the hour is late and I grow tired. If I do not retire soon, I will fall asleep at my desk again, and the nurses grow so angry when that happens. Farewell, whoever you are, and may you live as long and happy a life as I have.
~7~7~7~7~7~7~7~
Ezra Standish laid down his pen, groaned as he made his way to his feet, and slowly prepared for bed. Just as his snow white head hit the pillow, six indistinct shapes materialized around the bed. One, dressed all in black, shook his head sadly. "Aw, Ez, that wasn't misguided. That, my friend, was the truest courage of all."
Six hands reached down and grasped an arm, a shoulder, a hand, anything they could easily reach. A lazy Texan drawl pierced the slumbering man's foggy brain. "Ez? Ez, wake up, pard. It's time to go."
Ezra snapped awake with a snort. "Mr. Tanner? Gentlemen? It can't be you. You're all."
"Dead? Yup, that's for sure. Well, come on, son, time's a-wastin' and there's a whole passel of folks anxious to see you."
Tears welled up in Ezra's green eyes. "Josiah? Are we going home?"
"That's right, son. We're going home for good."
So Ezra rose, pleasantly surprised by the ease with which he moved. He glanced down, slightly embarrassed to be caught in his nightshirt. To his utter joy, he found that the gown was gone, replaced by a well-tailored pair of black pants, a frilled white shirt and a bright red jacket. There was his derringer, carefully tucked up his sleeve. There was his low- crowned black Stetson, his Colt, his Remington. And there, standing patiently to the side.
"Chaucer!" Ezra's voice was jubilant. "My dear friend. I've missed you so." The horse bumped his chest affectionately. Ezra glanced up to see the other six men, once again in their prime, mounted and waiting for him. Gone were the sterile walls and plastic flowers of the nursing home. Instead he could see the Rocky Mountains, snow-capped as always, and a dusty road stretching out to the horizon. He vaulted into the saddle and took off with a whoop. "Let's ride, boys! Let's go home!"
The seven rode side by side into the eternal sunset to the sounds of coyotes howling, and in a nursing home somewhere in Richmond, Virginia, nurses and orderlies raced to room 408, answering the shrill call of the alarms.
"Hey, he's done for. No point in calling the doctor." They pulled a sheet over the still, gray face, not noticing the flashing gold tooth or deep dimples of the man who died with a peaceful grin. One young man halfway through his first night shift spotted a sheet of paper propped against a lamp on the table by the bed . "Hey, what's this? Some kind of letter.?"