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.
STAND-OFF
by Jessie Syring
Chris Larabee let his black horse pick its own path as he moved through the rough country. The early morning sun was shedding light on the rocks and cliffs' of the surrounding canyon."
The slender man reined in and lit a cigar, then shrugged out of his black duster and secured it to the back of the saddle. It had been a long week, and he needed some time to himself before he met Buck back in Four Corners. Only Josiah had seen him ride out just after sunrise, and he had never been one to ask too many questions. They had much in common, the gunman and the preacher.
He didn't realize he wasn't alone until a sudden movement caught his attention. He turned in the saddle. There was a soft "thht" sound, then an arrow plunged into his right thigh.
Larabee gasped in pain and drew his pistol, firing a quick shot back in the direction he had, come from. A young Indian, Apache by his appearance, ducked into a narrow cleft in the rocks. Larabee whirled his horse toward the cleft, and a second Indian fired from the top of the canyon wall."
The second arrow hit him high in the left shoulder. Larabee swung off his horse and nearly fell. He hit the horse on the rump and yelled, sending it off at a run. A third arrow, fired by the first Indian, shattered on a rock near his head. The Indian ducked into cover once more before Larabee could return fire.
Larabee stumbled back into a narrow opening, cursing his luck. He wasn't safe. He knew his position was still too exposed. No Indian would be happy with just his horse and rifle if he could get the pistol, too.
As if they heard his thoughts, the second youth appeared on a rock across the canyon. Larabee shot to kill and saw the young Indian fall.
Looking to his left, the gunslinger saw that he had ducked into a narrow, rocky gulch about ten feet wide. About forty or fifty feet farther on, it narrowed and the walls got steeper. A bend in the rock blocked his view of what lay further on.
He staggered to his feet biting his lip against the pain. He'd need to find shelter before he could do anything about the arrows or his spent cartridges. He had no idea how many Indians were out there and this wasn't an ideal place for a fight. He took a quick look around to make certain no Indians were taking aim, then hobbled painfully up the gulch.
It seemed to take forever to travel a hundred feet. He was shaking with the effort when he found what he was looking for, a rocky overhang just big enough for him to sit under." He dragged himself under the ledge and lay there a moment, eyes closed.
Gotta stay awake, he thought, and opened his eyes. Business first. He replaced the two spent shells, scanning the parts of the gulch he could see as he did so. There was no sign of company, so he turned his attention to the arrows.
The one in his shoulder was deep. He had no desire to pull himself inside out, so that one had to stay. He took a knife out of his pocket and cut a notch in the arrow. Then he grasped the shaft in both hands, took a deep breath, and broke it a few inches from his chest. With a gasp of pain and relief, he lay still for a few moments. Then he sat up and looked at the arrow in his leg.
The arrow had struck from behind and at an angle just above the knee. The shaft had broken during the climb up the' gulch. Probing with his fingers, he could feel the arrowhead just beneath the skin of his thigh. He used his knife to cut open his pant leg. The steel tip had partially broken through the skin. Larabee grasped the shaft firmly, clenched his teeth, and shoved the arrow.
Black spots swam in his vision and threatened to darken it completely. Sweat ran down his face. With the broadest part of the arrowhead through the skin, he was able to pull the arrow free. Breathing heavily, he slumped back against the rocks.
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"Do you have to go, Buck?" asked a sultry voice.
Buckling on his gunbelt, Buck Wilmington looked over at the half-naked blonde woman sprawled languidly on her stomach across the bed. "Sorry, honey," he said, smiling. "I'd like to stay, but I can't spend all day in bed."
She ran a hand across the back of his leg as she stood to embrace him. "Why not?" she pouted.
For a long moment his certainty wavered, and he ran a sweaty palm across his thick, black mustache. "I'd better not. I gotta get my horse shod an' meet Larabee."
"They'll wait," she said in a throaty, seductive voice. Her breath tickled his ear.
Buck sighed noisily. "Larabee won't."
He kissed her, then dropped his hat on his head and left the room. He whistled as he went downstairs and out of the hotel.
Ezra Standish was seated on a chair on the porch, feet up on the railing as he idly shuffled a deck of cards. "Whose wife was she this time, Buck?" drawled the well-dressed Southerner, deftly sliding the ace of spades into the cuff of his red jacket.
Buck turned to face him. "What makes you think she's married?"
"Because most of the ladies you know are."
Buck grinned. "Well, this one wasn't." He stared into the street. The sun was higher than he'd anticipated. "You seen Chris?"
"Not yet I haven't.
Buck frowned. Larabee was an early riser and a distinct, black-dressed shadow at any time. He'd be looking for Buck soon, if he wasn't already.
"If you see him, tell him I'm at the blacksmith."
Ezra nodded and began dealing out cards for a game of Solitaire. Buck strode toward the livery stable.
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Larabee finished wrapping the remnants of his shirt tail around his thigh and looked outside his shelter. He couldn't hear anything but the sound of his own breathing and the pounding of his heart, and his range of vision was fairly limited.
Tucking his left hand into his waistband to keep his arm as still as possible, he scooted around until he could see more of the gulch. Nothing moved. He scanned the canyon walls and tried to see into every shadow but saw nothing. He knew he wasn't alone, though.
Larabee unbuckled hisgunbeft and moved it out where he could more easily reach the ammunition. He carefully shifted his leg to a more comfortable position and waited.
"Hey, white man!"
Larabee stiffened, pistol ready. The strangely accented words echoed eerily in the narrow gulch. He searched the area again and concluded that the speaker was either somewhere above and behind the overhang or well hidden. Neither thought made him feel very secure.
"I know you still live, white man. Make it easy on yourself -- come out so I can kill you." Larabee neither moved nor responded to the taunt, merely continued his scanning. "I got your horse," the Indian continued. "This is a nice rifle. I think I'll keep it."
To emphasize his point, the Indian fired a shot. The bullet ricocheted off the canyon wall some twenty feet to his left. Then he settled in to wait.
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Josiah Sanchez looked up from his work at the sound of an approaching horse, then continued piling stones. The gray horse was familiar to him, as was its rider. Buck stepped down from the saddle and strode easily toward the tall, plain-featured man,
"Buck," Josiah said by way of greeting.
"Josiah." Buck watched him lift another stone and place it on the half-built wall. "You still doing penance?"
"Uh-huh."
"You seen Chris at all today?"
"Yep."
Buck nearly growled in frustration; Josiah's preference for saying very little could be trying. "When? What was he doing?"
"Around sunrise." Josiah cocked his head to one side. "Ridin' west."
Buck frowned. "You seen him since then?"
"Nope."
Buck stared toward the west. "He was supposed to meet me near on two hours ago."
Josiah straightened without a rock, wiping his brow with a large hand. "Ain't like him."
"I'll get the others," said Buck, striding toward his horse.
"I'll be waitin'."
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"Hey, white man. You still alive?"
Larabee jerked to full awareness, hissing at the pain the movement caused. The voice was decidedly closer. He began a careful search of his surroundings. A faint movement of shadow caught his attention and he focused on it.
"You killed my blood brother, white man. I should make you die a slow death for that. Then your scalp can hang in my lodge. I have many white scalps."
"I doubt it," Larabee said softly. The Indian sounded young and full of himself, like a few hotheads he had known who had been looking to put notches on their guns.
"Taking your scalp's gonnabe easy. I'll just collect it after you bleed to death. You must be feeling pretty weak. Bleeding to death takes a long time. If you come out now, I could be merciful and kill you quick."
If you shut up and ride out of here, I may let you live, Larabee thought. But he remained silent.
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"Is this really all that necessary?" asked Ezra. Squatting to study tracks, Buck didn't answer. "We're going to look like six fools if Mister Larabee comes riding out of these mountains while we're riding in."
"You don't think he'd believe we're riding out here for a picnic?" Buck asked sarcastically.
"You didn't have to come along," Nathan Jackson pointed out. "Besides, Chris might be hurt up here somewhere."
The black man's words voiced a concern none of them had wanted to consider. Silence fell over the group for a long moment.
"Maybe he got thrown from his horse," added J.D. Dunne, trying to dispel the gloom.
"Chris never come off no horse unless he planned to, kid," said Buck, returning to his mount. "I got a feeling something happened to him."
"Indians."
Everyone turned to look at Josiah. He had been riding toward the back of the group. Now he was leaning on his saddlehorn and watching the proceedings quietly.
"What about Indians?" asked Nathan.
"Not all of them are as friendly as the Seminole." He pointed.
They turned and looked. Skylined on a nearby rocky outcrop, an Indian on a horse was watching them. J.D. grabbed for his pistol, but Buck knocked his hand away.
"You do that, you could get us all killed."
"But--"
"He's not doing anything," said Vin Tanner, long used to encounters with Indians. "He's just watching. Besides, I doubt he's alone."
Buck looked at him. "Think he'd be willing to talk to us?"
"I can ask."
Tanner moved his horse away from the others and raised a hand in a peaceful gesture. The brave returned it. After an exchange of a few more signals, the brown-haired man rode toward the top of the ridge.
"Shouldn't he leave his guns here?" asked J.D..
Buck snorted -- the eager youngster had a lot to learn if he was going to survive. "He does that, the Indian'll think he's a coward. If he takes them along, he shows the Indian he's not afraid."
He hooked one leg over the saddlehorn and watched as the former buffalo hunter rode toward the Indian. J.D. decided that, while Buck and the others looked relaxed, they were actually staying alert for trouble. He held his peace and glanced around, expecting an Indian raid at any moment.
Tanner reached the top of the ridge and approached the brave. They held an animated conversation for several minutes. Then the Indian gestured toward the south. Tanner turned his horse and returned to the others.
'What'd he say?" asked J.D.
"A couple of kids jumped the reservation a few nights back. One of them was Chief Gray Wolf's son. The chief thinks they're going to make some trouble, try and earn their names. The chief and a few braves are lookin' for 'em."
Buck stared up at the Indian still watching them. "Are they hunting trouble?"
"Gray Wolf's people?" Tanner smiled slightly. "Naw, they're just lookin' for the kids. They won't bother us if we don't bother them."
"Have they seen Chris?"
"Weren't lookin' for him. But they heard a rifle shot a while ago off to the south. They thought it might be a white man."
"Well, what're we waiting for?" asked J.D. "Let's go!"
Buck caught his reins before he went far. "Just hold on, there! Vin, you figure we can trust them?"
"About as far as I can see them."
"That's what I figure." Buck ran a hand across his chin, then said, "We'll ride out nice and easy, then I'll slip off and keep an eye peeled for anyone following us. I don't want any unpleasant surprises if we find Chris tangling with those youngsters."
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The Apache had either gotten tired of the game or hoped he had passed out; no taunting remarks had come in some time. Still Larabee waited, his attention focused on that one shadowy spot.
Then he heard the faint sound of a small avalanche of loose gravel. A head appeared from the shadows, black hair held back by a white cloth. The head withdrew almost as quickly, and Larabee knew his location had been discovered. He drew back into the shelter just as a hail of bullets came his way.
After the sixth shot, the shooting stopped abruptly. Larabee twisted back to the opening, certain the rifle had jammed from being fired so rapidly. The young Apache dropped the useless weapon and ran toward him with a wicked-looking knife. Larabee brought up his pistol and emptied it into the Indian.
They found two Indian ponies and Larabee's black tied in a sheltered area near the mouth of a canyon. Buck's lips compressed into a thin line at the blood on one saddle fender. Keeping alert, the friends spread out on foot to search for tracks or any other evidence of what had happened.
"There's blood over here," called Tanner. "A couple hours old."
"All that shooting we just heard had to come from around here," said Buck.
"Y'know, that shooting's bound to bring Chief Gray Wolf and his warriors on the run."
Before Buck could respond, Ezra appeared from behind some rocks. "I know somethin' else that'll bring 'em a whole lot faster."
The others followed Ezra behind the rocks. Straight black hair and dark skin identified the dead body as an Indian. A bow and quiver of arrows lay nearby. Nathan knelt and turned the body over. The boy didn't look much older than thirteen or fourteen in spite of the line of yellow paint running across the bridge of his nose. A bullet had struck him in the center of the chest.
Josiah took off his hat in respect for the dead youth. Buck said, "Chris has been here, no doubt about that."
"There's a blood trail leading to that little gulch over there," Ezra added, pointing toward a narrow opening. Tanner walked around slowly, looking at the ground. After a moment, he said, "Boot tracks go that way, too."
Nathan straightened. "If it's Chris who's wounded, he's losing a lot of blood. He can't have gone too far."
"We'd better go careful," said Buck. "He's going to be on his guard."
Tanner led the way into the gulch, keeping his sawed-off rifle ready. The others spread out behind him. The gap narrowed considerably a short distance in, and they had to travel single file. After some seventy or eighty feet, Tanner came to a stop. A second Indian lay in the dirt some twenty feet beyond him. A Winchester lay nearby. From his current position, a large boulder blocked Tanner's view of the rest of the gulch.
Tanner walked forward cautiously, his behavior alerting the others. He bent and picked up the discarded rifle. The barrel was still warm from firing. He straightened and looked around.
"Chris!" yelled J.D., pushing past Buck. "Chris! Can you hear me?" Buck slapped him on the back of the head. J.D. turned around, a confused look on his face. "What did you do that for?"
"You want to tell every Indian around where we are?"
"They probably already know," Tanner observed.
"Over here," called Larabee, painfully dragging himself out of his shelter. The others ran to him, leaving Josiah to keep watch. "What're you boys doing out here, having a picnic?"
Buck grinned in relief. "I thought we'd never find you, old son."
"It took long enough," Nathan mumbled. He knelt beside Larabee and reached up to tear the cloth away from the arrow in his shoulder.
Larabee pushed the black man's hand away and said, "It's not coming out that easy. Just leave it alone for now."
"J.D., go get his horse and bring it in as far as you can," ordered Buck. "We've got an Indian chief with a few warriors looking for two kids who left the reservation," he told Larabee. "All your shooting's gonna bring them in a hurry."
"Let's get out of here, then."
Larabee made a move to get to his feet, but Nathan restrained him. "Just hold still a minute. Your leg's bleeding again."
"You'll have to patch me up later. We've got to get out of here."
Buck helped Larabee to his feet and supported him down to the horses. J.D. fidgeted while waiting for them, making the black nervous. Larabee grabbed the saddlehorn with his right hand and tried to lift his left foot to the stirrup.
"Here."
Josiah passed his rifle to Ezra and bent down by Larabee. He wrapped one strong arm around Larabee's left leg and boosted him upward. The fair-haired man couldn't suppress a groan of pain, but he managed to end up with one leg on each side of the saddle. As he steadied himself, Buck looped his gunbelt over the saddlehorn and shoved the useless rifle into its boot. Then they started down to where the other horses were.
Ezra went to his saddlebags and withdrew a bottle of whiskey. "You look like you could use this," he said, handing it to Larabee.
Larabee took a deep swig, then handed the bottle back. As Ezra went back to his horse, Buck leaned against the black's shoulder and looked up at his long time friend.
"You gonna make it?" he asked. "You look out on your feet."
Larabee nodded. "I'll make it. But give me your bandana, just in case."
Buck untied his blue bandana and passed it to Larabee, then went to his own horse. Larabee tied the bandana around his saddlehom, stuck his right hand through it, and gathered up the reins.
Tanner looked at Buck. "You guys get him to town. Josiah, can you give me a hand?"
The tall man left his horse and moved to the former buffalo hunter's side. Buck checked his horse's restlessness and looked down at them. "Chief Gray Wolf oughtta be here any time," he pointed out. "You two gonna be okay?"
"Yeah. It's just something I gotta do."
Buck nodded curtly. "If we hear shooting, we'll come running."
"If there's any shooting, just keep riding," Tanner said. "But I'm hoping there won't be any if we handle this right."
"Well, good luck."
Buck rode down the trail after the others. Tanner retrieved the two Indian horses and stripped off the blankets covering their saddles. Josiah pursed his lips, nodded in silent understanding, and moved to help.
They wrapped the dead youths in the blankets and tied them to the saddles, then moved out leading the ponies. An older Apache wearing the red headband of a chief and eight braves met them before they cleared the canyon. A half a dozen arrows punctured the ground at various angles before Tanner and Josiah. The white men reined in their mounts and sat impassively as the braves surrounded them. Five more Indians, armed with rifles, appeared on the canyon rim. One brave dismounted to check the blanket-wrapped bodies.
Tanner steadily met the gaze of the stony-faced old chief. "I'm returning your tribe's children," he announced. "They attacked my friend, and he was given no choice."
Angry murmurs swept through the braves. Muscles twitched in the chief's face. Tanner kneed his horse forward a few feet, stopping beside Gray Wolf, and held up two broken arrows.
"He was hurt," he said, "and fighting for his life. He didn't want to kill them, but wounding your son didn't stop him."
Gray Wolf took the arrows from Tanner, noting the identifying marks on them and the bloodstains. He looked at the two corpses, then at Josiah. He rode to the former priest and carefully moved the medicine pouch Josiah wore around his neck away from a tiny cross.
"You are a man of God?"
"I was," confirmed Josiah. "Your son died bravely. You should be proud."
"Killing is nothing to be proud of. Before today, four of my sons died bravely." The chief indicated one of the corpses. "He was brave. And proud. And now he is dead."
"I'm sorry for your loss."
"Where is the man who did this?" demanded one of the younger warriors.
Tanner glanced toward the speaker and found himself staring at a rusted black powder revolver. Gray Wolf noticed the change in his attention and moved his horse forward a step, putting himself between the warrior and the white man.
"No. This matter is over. The death of a child is something to mourn," he told them. Then he looked at Josiah again. "My people have known peace for ten years. We grieve for our children, but we will not make war because of their disobedience."
He gave a command in his own tongue. Two braves moved forward to take the lead ropes of the ponies. Without another word, Gray Wolf turned his horse and rode away. The mounted braves followed, and the others faded back into the rocks as if they had never been there.
"Go in peace, brother," Josiah said softly.
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Few people noticed their return to town on horses lathered from hard riding. Mary Travis, coming out of the newspaper office, saw them. They were dusty and looked tired. Larabee was swaying in the saddle but holding his own. He headed straight for the hotel, followed by Nathan, Buck, and. Josiah. Ezra headed for the saloon.
Mary ran out to intercept J.D. and Tanner, bringing up the rear. "What happened?"
"Oh, not much," said Tanner. "We just rode out for a picnic."
He ignored her disbelieving look, and J.D.'s snort of muffled laughter. They rode past Mary and went directly to the livery stable.
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