This here is an amateur publication by an amateur writer written for and published solely for the enjoyment of fans of the television series THE MAGNIFICENT SEVEN (now gone to its undeserved reward), and is not intended to infringe on the copyright of CBS nor anyone else. The story is copyright 1999 by Jesse Syring. The fanzine it came from is called Four Corners a one-shot Magnificent Seven fanzine, published by Jim & Melody Rondeau, 1853 Fallbrook Ave., San Jose CA 95130-1727. The publishers do need material for their on-going western fanzine, BUFFALO WINGS; please send all submissions to them.
GHOSTS
by Jessie Syring
Slinging his gunbelt over his shoulder, Buck Wilmington walked out of the saloon and paused to look around. The sun was hanging low in the sky, casting long shadows. A cool breeze stirred leaves along the street, and low-hanging clouds to the east promised rain before sunrise.
Aside from a few horses standing hipshot at the hitching rail, the only other activity was in front of the hardware store farther down the street. He recognized the tall, lean figure of Virgil Watson sweeping the boardwalk and moving goods inside in preparation for closing.
Settling his hat on his short, dark hair, Buck strolled down the street toward the hotel. He was feeling pretty good and knew he'd probably had too much to drink, but he didn't care. There was nothing so important going on that he couldn't spend one night getting drunk with a pretty lady.
And she had been pretty.
Buck took a deep breath, imagining he could smell her perfume even now. The deep breath cleared some of the tequila-induced haze from his mind. He stepped carefully off the board walk and began crossing the side street.
The sound of an approaching horse caught his attention and he looked up. A rangy sorrel was walking down the main street. Even mounted, it was obvious the grizzled man slouched comfortably in the saddle was a large man. As he rode by, the bearded man looked at Buck.
Buck felt a cold chill of recognition sweep through him. The recognition was not mutual, however, because the stranger continued down the street and reined in at the saloon.
Swearing, Buck started back across the street, trying to buckle on his gun belt as he went. Just before he reached the saloon, he finally had to stop to buckle the belt and tie the holster down. Chris Larabee emerged from the saloon, recognized Buck's fury, and stood firmly in the doorway.
"Get out of my way, Chris," Buck growled. "There's a jackal I've got to dispose at."
Larabee risked a quick glance over his shoulder. "Who is he? And why do you want to kill him?"
"Joshua Kent."
Larabee recognized the name. "Don't do it;" he warned, stopping Buck with a hand on his chest.
"Let me go," said Buck, trying to step around him.
"Back off, Buck. Now."
Buck stepped back, staring angrily at his long-time friend. "You know who that is?" he demanded.
"Yep."
"Then let me kill him--" Buck started forward again, but Larabee pushed him back once more. "Damn it, Chris, this is important to me!"
The piercing gaze didn't waver. "You go in there, it'll be murder. And Judge Travis will hang you."
"That's my problem."
Larabee looked away, then cocked his head to one side to look at Buck again. "Way I see it, we can do this one of two ways," he said. "We can do it the easy way--" Buck froze at the sound of a low, ominous click. "--or we can do it the hard way,"
Larabee's expression didn't alter. Buck looked down. The blued barrel of the Army revolver contrasted sharply with the soft colors of Larabee's poncho. The business end of the pistol pointed steadily at a spot about two inches above Buck's belt buckle.
"Go home, Buck," said Larabee. "Forget he's here. He'll ride on soon enough."
Buck took a step back and spread his hands. "All right. I'll back off for now. But you won't be around him forever," Buck snarled, jabbing a finger at him. "Then he's mine."
As Buck stalked off, Larabee uncocked his pistol and returned it to its holster. When he turned to reenter the saloon, he saw J.D. Dunne standing just inside the batwing doors. The youngster looked confused.
"What's wrong with Buck?" asked J.D.
Larabee looked back at Buck's departing figure. "The man who just came in? That's Buck's father." Then he walked into the saloon.
By morning, a steady rain was falling, turning the streets to muddy messes. The air was cold. and a brisk wind added to the overall chill.. Buck seemed oblivious to the wet and cold as he strode purposefully down the street toward the restaurant. People who saw him and knew him as generally amiable gave him a wide berth.
He pushed open the restaurant door. Larbee, seated at one of the tables, glanced up from his meal at Buck's approach. Before he could say anything, Buck hit him with a solid roundhouse punch that knocked Larabee and the chair over.
Buck shoved the table aside and jabbed a finger at the fallen man. "Stay out of my personal life, Chris," he growled.
Larabee sat up slowly, rubbing his jaw, as Buck stormed out of the restaurant. Vin Tanner, just coming in, watched him leave. Then he moved to Larabee and extended a hand. Grinning ruefully, Larabee accepted the hand up.
"What happened," asked Tanner, "you get between him and his girl of the week?"
Tanner could tell from the look Larabee gave him that he was not amused. The former buffalo hunter shrugged and sought an empty table, preferring his own company to that of his temperamental friend. Larabee righted his chair, then tossed money on the table. He walked out of the restaurant, leaving the balance of his meal untouched.
He paused on the boardwalk, settling his hat on his head and pulling his black duster closed. Looking around, he saw Buck striding purposefully toward the hotel. Larabee shook his head but did not go that direction. He crossed the street to Potter's Store.
The door swung open, forcing Larabee to take a hasty step backwards to avoid getting hit by it. Mary Travis emerged, a stack of newspapers in her hand.
"Mr. Larabee," she said by way of greeting to cover her surprise.
"Ma'am."
"Paper?"
Larabee shook his head. "Maybe later."
He stepped around her and entered the store, pushing his black hat back to hang from its stampede strings.
Mrs. Potter, still dressed in the-black of mourning since the murder of her husband only weeks earlier, was helping another woman. Larabee waited by the window, watching the hotel entrance. Buck emerged from the hotel and walked quickly toward the livery stable. When the other customer left, he purchased two boxes of cartridges. He put the boxes into a pocket of his duster, then went outside once more. Larabee stepped off the porch into the rain,
"--big sorrel with a bald face," Buck was saying as Larabee entered the barn. "Ridden by a big man with graying hair and a beard."
Larabee leaned against the door and folded his arms. "He rode out an hour ago," he said before the wiry livery man could respond. "He was headed toward Purgatory."
Buck turned to glare at him. "Why should I believe you?"
"I've got no reason to lie."
"He's telling the truth," volunteered the stable owner. "He was going south when he rode out."
Growling deep in his chest, Buck moved to the stall holding his gray horse. With a nod Larabee sent the stable owner away. He moved to his own black horse as Buck backed his gray from its stall and began saddling it. Buck looked up as Larabee led his own gelding out. "What do you think you're doing?"
Larabee swung his blankets and saddle into place. "I'm going with you."
"I didn't ask you to."
"No, you didn't;" agreed Larabee, reaching under the horse for cinch.
"I don't want you hounding my steps, Chris. This is something I gotta do."
"I'm not going to Stop you. I'm going to watch your back."
"1 don't need you to watch my back," snapped Buck.
"No?" Larabee looked across his horse at him, smiling slightly. "Somebody in Purgatory's likely to remember you're supposed to be dead."
Buck jerked his own cinch tight with so much force his horse grunted and pinned back its ears in irritation. "Do whatever you want, Chris. Just stay out of my way."
He led his horse out of the stable, mounted, and was halfway down the street before Larabee caught up to him.
Standing on the porch of the restaurant, Tanner watched them ride south. He started toward the livery stable, and J.D. intercepted him in the middle of the street.
"Where are they going?" asked the younger man.
"I dunno," said Tanner. "Twenty minutes ago, Buck just about started a fight with Chris."
J.D. stared in the direction the two men had ridden and said, "I wonder if this has something to do with Buck's father."
Tanner turned to look at him. "Buck's father?" he repeated.
Buck finally realized there was no sense in killing his horse and slowed the pace. Larabee rode silently at his side. By the time they reached a ridge overlooking the small Mexican town of Purgatorio some hours later, the rain had stopped.
In the dim light caused by the law, black clouds, the town looked mare disreputable and dirtier than Larabee recalled. He leaned on the saddlehorn and stared down at the collection of adobe structures below. There didn't seem to be much activity, but that was to be expected in a town that catered mostly to outlaws. Especially on a cold, wet day.
"You got a plan?" he asked Buck.
"I'm working on one."
Buck touched his spurs to his horse and turned to the trace of a road leading off the ridge. Larabee followed, keeping a wary eye on their surroundings. A large corral and adobe barn stood on the edge of the town. Buck headed straight far the corral. There were a dozen or so horses there. The dark-haired man dismounted and strode to the fence, studying the animals. He slammed his fist on the tap rail and pointed.
"That's the horse he was riding," he declared, "that bald faced sorrel."
He turned, but Larabee caught his arm before he took two steps. "Where do you think you're going?"
"I reckon I'll find him in the cantina."
"You go walking in there with your back up, someone might just shoot you."
"Well, what am I supposed to do, Chris, just sit around here and wait 'till he decides to come back for his horse?"
"Might work." Larabee shrugged. "Stay here and take care of the horses. I'll bring your father here."
Buck put his hands on his hips. "How do. I know you'll do that?"
"You've gat my ward on it."
The quietly spoken words gave a promise Buck knew would be kept. He nodded once, then turned and began unsaddling his horse as Larabee walked away.
The sun appeared briefly about mid-afternoon, vanishing behind dark clouds after less than an hour. J.D., Josiah Sanchez, and Nathan Jackson watched from the porch of the saloon as Tanner prowled around the town.
They recognized the action as the only sign he ever showed of being agitated.
"Our friend seems a bit disturbed," observed Josiah..
"He's worried about Chris and Buck," said Nathan. "They shouldn't have gone to Purgatorio alone."
J.D. shook his head. "I've never seen Buck so mad."
"You didn't ask Chris what that was all about?" the black man inquired.
"Would you have?" asked Tanner, walking toward them.
"I think Chris and Buck are in a lot of trouble," J.D. declared.
"You have a real eye for the obvious." A faint smile crossed Josiah's plain features.
"So what are we going to do about it?"
Tanner 1ooked at them, then took off his hat and brushed his long hair back from his forehead. "I don't know what you all plan to do, but I thought I'd go far a ride."
J.D. stood up. "Count me in."
Josiah's lips twisted into a smile. "I've been to hell. I guess I'd better spend some time in Purgatory."
"I'll tell Ezra," said Nathan, and he went into. the salaon.
Larabee stepped into the dimly lit cantina and pushed his hat back to hang from its stampede strings. A dozen heads turned toward him. Larabee glanced at each man, assessing them as they did him. He recognized Kent, standing near one end of the bar where he could see bath entrances.
Larabee stepped up to the bar. "Tequila," he told the Mexican bartender. "And leave the bottle."
The bartender delivered the drink. Larabee flipped some coins to him, then tossed dawn the contents of the shot glass. He made a face at the bitter taste, then refilled the glass.
"Hey," he called to the Mexican, "you know who's riding a bald-faced sorrel with three stockings?"
Out of the corner of his eye, Larabee saw the old man stiffen. The Mexican, an the other hand, didn't even blink. "I do not know every man who comes to Purgatorio, Senor," he said warily. "After all, I do not know you."
Larabee gave a malicious half-smile. "Keep it that way. But if you hear who owns that horse, it cut a leg to hell and gone on a broken board down at the corral."
"Why you worried about it, eh? It's not your horse."
"It's a good-looking horse. 'Sides, I don't like to see a dumb animal suffer."
Larabee finished the second shot glass, then picked up the battle and went outside. He took a seat an a rickety chair, put his feet on the hitching rail, and lit a cigar. He hadn't been there long when Buck's father emerged from the cantina, barely sparing the black-dressed stranger a glance. He strolled up the street, not quite heading directly toward the livery stable.
Larabee took another drink of tequila, then tossed the bottle aside and headed toward the old mission farther up the street. He didn't see two men standing in the doorway of the cantina, watching him through narrowed eyes.
"You sure that's him?" asked the older of the two.
"Sure's I'm standing here," declared the younger, bald man.
"I was there when he helped steal them whores from Wickes."
"Badge won't do him no good down here. This is Mexico."
"He ain't got a badge. He's just a hired gun. Him an' a bunch of other guns been hired by some judge to keep the peace."
"Well, then, they ain't likely to be too worried about the border then, are they?"
"Nope." The younger man spit a stream of tobacco into a nearby puddle. "Him and his buddies came here a few weeks ago looking for a killer. They rode roughshod over Black Mike and B.J. Lots of folks ain't too happy about that."
The older man drew his revolver and turned the cylinder slowly, checking the rounds. "Get the rest of the boys. We're gonna convince him to stay here. Permanently."
Standing by the corner of the old church closest to the 'corral, Larabee watched his quarry approach. He ground his cigar out on the adobe wall, then moved on an intercept course. Kent turned toward him as he approached.
"There's nothing wrong with that horse," he accused.
"Guess I lied." Larabee drew his revolver. "I've' got a friend who wants to talk to you."
The old man followed his gesture and headed for the barn. He stopped a dozen feet into the structure, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. Larabee relieved him of his revolver, then moved past him and sat on an empty saddle stand near one wall.
"Hello, daddy," Buck said sarcastically, stepping out of the stall holding his horse.
The man stiffened at the term, then looked more closely at him. "Buck?"
"That's right. 'Less you've got a few kids I don't know about."
"It's been a long time, boy." The man's voice was rough and grating. "Ten years, isn't it?"
"Ten?" Buck gave a short, sharp bark of laughter. "It's closer to twenty." He moved to stand beside Larabee. "Chris, I'd like you to meet Joshua Kent. You've heard me talk about him," said Buck, circling around Kent. "Respectable banker. Went to church every Sunday, whether he needed to or not. Wasn't married, but that meant he could concentrate on his career. Generally an upstanding citizen. But he'had two secrets -- he was embezzling money from his own bank, and he had a bastard son at the whorehouse in a neighboring town."
"I gave your mother money--"
"To shut her up!" shouted'Buck, leaning in close to him. "You didn't want her telling anyone about you. Or me."
"What was I supposed to do Buck? Marry her? Give her my name?"
"All her ever wanted was for you to acknowledge her. And me. But you didn't even show up for her funeral."
Kent seemed to fold in on himself. "I was there," he said quietly, "two days after they put her in the ground. I'd come back to see her again."
Buck shook his head in disbelief. "You expect me to believe that? You rode out five years earlier before your clients could string you up, and you've been running ever since."
Larabee rose from the bale of hay, blocking out the conversation to allow Buck and Kent some degree of privacy. He walked to the broad arch that served as a doorway and stared into the growing darkness. Rain had started falling again cold and steady, and he idly wondered if it might turn to oh-so-rare snow before morning.
A bull's-eye lantern hung from a nail driven into a post near the arch. Larabee struck a match and coaxed the battered mantle to light. The lantern's dim light improve the atmosphere of the barn much, but it would do. As he turned away from the lantern, movement outside caught his attention. He moved back to the entrance and peered out.
The street appeared completely deserted. In fact, three horses that had been tied across from the mission were now gone. Larabee moved farther back from the doorframe and drew his revolver.
"Buck," he called, "we've got company." His words instantly got the attention of both Buck and Kent. "Unless you've got friends hereabouts," he added, looking at Kent.
"Nobody here knows me," Kent said as he and Buck joined the gunfighter.
Buck leaned to one side just far enough to peer outside. He had a brief glimpse of shadowy figures moving behind the columns of the church's roofed plaza. He pulled his head back and glanced at Larabee.
"Any idea who it is?"
"Could be anybody. Maybe a husband finally caught up to you."
"Oh, that's real funny, Chris." Buck's smile was not amused as he drew his pistol and checked the cylinder. "You think there's someone in the bell tower?"
"It's the high ground."
Buck looked around the barn and didn't like what he saw. The only doorway was the ten-foot-wide archway they were covering, and the broken remains of the doors to each side couldn't be closed for added protection. Three small windows on each wall were shuttered and barred against the weather. Other than the flimsy wooden stall dividers and a few molding bales of hay, the only protection was offered by five feet of adobe wall on each side of the entrance.
Buck glanced at the red-tiled roof over his head. 'Well, at least they can't bum us out." He jerked his head to one side and asked, "You want me to check the windows?"
"Yeah. And put out the light."
Buck moved off, pausing only to extinguish the lantern. Kent watched him a moment, then turned to Larabee.
"Let me go," he said. "This isn't my fight."
"You try to leave, somebody out there'll shoot you."
"You try and leave, someone in here will shoot you," Buck called over his shoulder.
Kent didn't look at him. "Then give me my gun so I can help."
Larabee regarded him through narrowed eyes for a moment, then pulled Kent's long-barreled revolver from his waistband and held it out to him. "Try using that on anyone but them and I'll kill you myself," he promised.
Kent ignored the threat as he accepted his pistql, checking its load out of long habit. Buck returned from his inspection, a sour look crossing his face as he saw Kent holding the revolver.
"I guess we can't be too picky about whose help we'll accept, huh, Chris?" The look Larabee bent on him sobered Buck's mood. He sighed and reported, "They got men on all sides. It looks like you're in this just as deep as we are, daddy."
A single shot rang out. The bullet thudded into the wall on the other side of the entrance. Kent flinched away instinctively, but Buck and Larabee recognized it as an attention-getting shot only. A deep voice followed the last echo of the shot.
"That get your attention, Larabee?" Buck glanced questioningly at the fair-haired man, who shrugged slightly and shook his head. The speaker continued. "We don't like you. Or your friends. You ain't welcome here."
Buck moved quickly to the other side of the entrance. "You think they'll just let us ride out?"
"They'd shoot us down before we went twenty feet," Larabee said.
"We aren't exactly ready to fight a war here, Chris. We don't even have a rifle between us."
"You'll just have to shoot straight." Larabee's eyes twinkled with humor. He drew a box of shells from his pocket. "Here." He tossed it to Buck. "Maybe this'll make you feel better."
Buck caught the box and set it on the ground behind him just as a burst of gunfire sent a dozen bullets into the wall and through the entryway. Larabee fired two quick shots at the densest concentration of fire, then jerked away from the return fire.
Buck unbarred a shutter and opened it a crack to peer outside. The darkness was broken only by the light showing from windows of surrounding buildings, the closest of which was some forty feet away. He secured the shutter again and walked back to the entrance.
Larabee was a black shadow by the archway. A stiff wind whipped the tails of his duster around his legs. He glanced over his shoulder at Buck's approach, then went back to watching.
There had been little activity in the past two hours. Buck had killed a man trying to sneak up on them on one of the blind sides. And there had been one attempt at a concentrated rush that had left four bodies in the mud. Since then, their enemies had restricted their activities to sporadic shooting.
Buck leaned against the wall and slid to a sitting position. He glowered across the barn at the dark shadow he knew was his father. "Ain't this a pretty situation," he declared. "I always figured I'd die in a gunfight. But I never thought it'd be alongside a man I've despised my entire life."
Kent raised his head. 'What do you want from me, Buck? An apology?"
"I don't want anything from you!" shouted Buck, jumping to his feet. His shout drew a smattering of shots. "Keep it down," warned Larabee.
Buck began pacing back and forth. "I never wanted anything from you. I don't want to owe you anything! I'd be happy if I never saw you again!"
"Then why'd you come after me?"
Buck's response never came. A fresh onslaught of gunfire smashed into the front of the barn nearly drowning out the sound of wood splintering. Larabee spun toward the new sound as something heavy smashed into a set of shutters, forcing them open. After a moment, a revolver and a bearded face emerged through the hole and blotted out the dim light.
Larabee fired two rapid shots toward the window. Both bullts struck flesh, and the revolver fell to the ground with a thud. Buck reached the window as the body slid out of sight. Three more men were emerging from cover. Buck winged one, driving all three back to safety.
Larabee turned back to the entrance and fired at a face peering over the edge of a wagon. It disappeared quickly, but he didn't think he had hit it.
"You two can argue later," said Larabee, his tone more of a command than a suggestion. "We've got more important things to worry about now."
Buck ran a hand across his face and stifled a yawn. He estimated the sun would be up in another hour or so. It was as good a guess as any; there wasn't enough light making its way into the barn to let him see his watch.
"You want to take over here for a little bit?" Buck asked Kent.
The old man got to his feet and stretched then moved to Buck's position at the broken shutter. Buck holstered his pistol and joined Larabee at the main-entrance. A few sporadic shots thudded into the adobe wall.
"Sun'll be up before too long," Buck said. "You figure they'll rush us then?"
"Yeah. Try and take us from all sides."
"And we don't have the guns or ammunition to stop them."
"Well, they'll know they've been in a fight."
Buck sat down on a bale of hay, "I'm sorry I got you into this, Chris."
"I didn't have to come," Larabee pointed out.
Buck smiled crookedly. "Well, old son, since you are here, what do You propose we do?"
Larabee took two cigars from his pocket and offered one to his long-time friend. Buck accepted it, biting off one end. Larabee fished out a match, drawing a surprised look from Buck.
"Doesn't make much difference now," Larabee said, striking the match and lighting his cigar.
Buck grinned and accepted a light. "I guess not."
Larabee flipped the spent match into a puddle. "Way see it," he said after a moment, "we've got two choices. We've got horses and plenty tack, We could try riding out."
"Sounds too much like suicide to me. What's the other choice?"
"We stay here and make a fight of it."
A crooked grin twisted one side of Buck's mustache. "You figure they'll rush us?"
"Yeah. And this is the most vulnerable spot." Larabee chewed thoughtfully on his cigar. "Leave Kent watching that window -- they might try coming in there at the same time. We'll hear if they try any of the others. I wan't you here with me."
"You got it."
Buck drew his revolver and idly checked the chamber, although he knew it was fully loaded and in working order.
Larabee studied the barn. Aside from their handguns, .there wasn't much that could be used as a weapon: a rusty pitchfork, a couple of lariats, a few odd scraps of metal. He considered the horses in the stalls and a slight smile crossed his face. "Buck? I've got an idea."
Tanner reined his horse in suddenly. The others came to a halt behind him, looking around for signs of danger. The former buffalo hunter cocked his head from side to side, listening intently. "Did you hear that?" he asked.
Ezra Standish pulled his jacket more tightly to him. "The only thing I hear is the sound of my teeth chattering," he complained miserably. "I don't know why I let you talk me inta coming along on this expedition of yours."
The others ignored his lamentations. Josiah listened intently. "Sounds like gunfire," he said at last.
"How far are we from Purgatory?" asked Nathan..
Tanner pushed back his tall-crowned hat. "A little less than a mile."
"So it might be coming from there."
Tanner looked out of the corner of his eye at the black man but didn't respond; Ezra said, "I suggest we ride on and find out before we all freeze to death."
He kicked his horse into a brisk walk. Josiah smiled. "That man has a strange sense of what's important."
A broad grin crossed Nathan's face. "I can't argue with that!"
The four men rode after the Southerner.
The clouds were gone. The gray sky now signaled the approach of dawn, not a coming storm: Larabee could see movement outside now: the opposition was no longer concealing their activities.
"Looks like we're out of time," he called back over his shoulder. "You ready?"
"I'm not happy about it," declared Buck, "but we're ready."
He led the black gelding to Larabee, moving it by hand pressure into the corner to the light-haired man's left. Larabee's left hand closed'around one cheek strap of the bridle. The black snorted and moved restlessly, but Larabee's attention remained focused outside.
Buck retreated farther into the barn again and mounted his gray. Kent was mounted on a roan he had "borrowed" from a stall, a flashy animal that looked like it could run. The remaining horses that had been in the barn crowded the narrow gangway between the stalls.
"Go!"said Larabee.
Buck whistled shrilly and crowded into the horses, kicking the nearest one in the ribs with the pointed toe of his boot. Kent pushed in from the other side with shouts. The horses shouldered and pushed their way out of the barn. Buck and Kent followed, ducking as they passed under the arch. As soon as the riders cleared the arch, Larabee emerged from his corner. His first shot went toward the bell tower, where a rifle barrel was tracking Buck and Kent. The rifle hastily withdrew as the shooter ducked away from the too near shot. Larabee's second shot shattered adobe near another man emerging from cover. Then Larabee swung aboard his horse and put his spurs to work.
Buck stopped near the cantina, firing a few precious shots at the shadows to cover Larabee. Then they rode hard for the north, aware of men scrambling for horses behind them. A half a dozen men were quickly in pursuit.
Buck reached the top of the ridge and reined in so sharply his horse reared in protest. Larabee, a few paces behind, pulled up abruptly as well.
"Well, fancy meeting you here," Tanner said, smiling enigmatically.
"It's about time you showed up," said Larabee.
"At least we got here."
At that point, the pursuit arrived. Several shots whistled around the friends. Josiah snapped his rifle to his shoulder and shot back, emptying a saddle. Then the seven fired simultaneously. The pursuing outlaws came to a halt, momentarily discouraged by the concentrated fire and three empty saddles, but more riders were coming. "We'd better get out of here," Nathan declared.
They turned their horses and rode hard.
"Sounds like you have a nasty cold there, Ezra," 'Nathan observed sympathetically.
Ezra blew his nose into a white handkerchief and glared at his companions. "Dreadful," he said stuffily. He gestured around the crowded saloon. "No one will engage in a game of chance with someone who sounds like they are suffering from consumption."
"You should be in bed, not sitting in here."
"I never should have ridden to Purgatorio. Besides," Ezra regarded the bottle in front of him, "whiskey has some medicinal value."
"Only if you use it to sterilize a knife," snorted Nathan.
He sipped his whiskey. "I hope we've seen the last of Purgatory. I don't think some of us are too popular down there any more."
Josiah leaned back in his chair, smiling slightly. "I think Chris could ride back in there any time he got the notion."
J.D. was ignoring the conversation. "You think Buck will be all right?"
Nathan, Josiah and Ezra looked to where the dark-haired man sat by himself at a table, not seeming to notice the shot of whiskey in front of him.
Josiah picked up his own shot glass. "The man never got things settled with his father," he said. "That's got him out of balance."
"But he hated his father."
"That's a hard feeling to carry all your life."
Buck stood up abruptly and glared at them. "Why don't the bunch of you just mind your own business?" he grumbled and left.
J.D. turned red. "I didn't mean--" he began.
"He knows," said Nathan. "He just needs some time."
Larabee rose from his place at a table near one dark corner of the bar, pausing long enough to take the bottle from in front of Ezra, and walked outside. Buck had stopped on the porch and was leaning against a support post on one side of the steps, arms folded. Larabee leaned against the opposite post and held the bottle out to him.
"Kent probably made it out of Purgatory," said Larabee. "They were more interested in us."
Buck took a deep swallow from the bottle. "I hope he got what he deserved." He handed back the whiskey.
Larabee shrugged. "Maybe," he said, taking a drink himself. "One way or the other, he's not your concern any more."
"Just as long as he doesn't pass through here again."
Larabee offered him the bottle again, but Buck didn't seem to notice. He stood up straighter, his attention focused across the street. Larabee turned his head and smiled.
The woman coming out of Miss Murphy's Emporium was young, maybe twenty. Her light brown hair was pinned up under a feathered hat the same shade of blue as her dress. She was juggling a number at awkwardly shaped packages in her arms as she maneuvered out of the store.
A smile spread across Buck's face. He smoothed his mustache with one hand, then took off his hat and brushed back his hair. He replaced his hat and started across the street toward the young woman.
Here, ma'am, let me give you a hand with those," called Buck, stepping onto the boardwalk.
The startled woman turned around-too quickly dropping several of the packages. She crouched to pick them up, only to find Buck already doing so. He looked up at her with his dark eyes, smiling brightly.
"Please, sir," she said, "I can get them."
"That's quite an armload, ma'am. And the boardwalk's not all that even. I'd hate to see you trip and maybe tear that pretty dress of yours." Buck took the packages from her one at a time as he spoke. "Are you staying at the hotel? I'm going that way myself -- why don't I just give you a hand."
A shy smile crossed her face. "I don't even know you, sir."
Unable to tip his hat because of his full arms, Buck tilted his head. "Buck ma'am. Buck Wilmington. And you are?"
"Lisa Cooper."
"That's a pretty name." He extended an elbow to her. "Are you just visiting or are you planning on settling down here?"
Buck led the young lady down the street, keeping up a running monologue that hardly let her geta word in edgewise much less worry about this stranger's boldness.
Larabee smiled and went back into the saloon.
THE END
Jessica Lynn Syring, 40, died March 22nd 2007 at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota from an undetermined illness. She is sorely missed and posting her stories, with her families permission, is My way of seeing that her creativity continues to live. Miss you my friend.
Jennye Jackman 2008