I have adopted the use of the name Chaucer for Ezra's horse. Many thanks to whoever coined it; it perfectly suits Ezra's personality. ;-)
"Ezra, hold on!"
"Mistah … Tanner," Ezra Standish eked out through a pain-filled attempt to keep breathing as his battered body hung over the edge of a cliff, Vin Tanner's arm and gloved hand the only thing preventing him from hurtling down the steep and jagged rock face. And to think, it had been just moments ago that they were enjoying the brisk though not overly cold day. The brilliant, sunshine-filled early winter's day had put both men – and their trusted steeds - in a good mood on their ride home.
"Don't Mistah Tanner me. Just hold on." The mirroring of the southerner's distinct accent had been inadvertent, and completely lost on both men in the terror of the moment.
"Am Ah not … doin' just that?" the gambler asked, panting in quick, short breaths. The tracker hadn't seen the actual tumble, but there was no way Ezra hadn't hurt himself in the fall. They'd both gotten lucky, this day, as the slope held a familiar plateau that had slowed Ezra's descent enough for him to grab hold of a sapling with one hand and a rope-like piece of root, just as the grass and brush abruptly stopped, a root that, through erosion, had been exposed from a larger tree not far away. Vin had just made it to the edge of the next drop when Ezra slipped, the disk within his shoulder separating for the fourth time since they'd met up just over three years ago. He kept his hold of the young tree with his right hand, but it, too, wasn't able to hold the compact man's weight, combined with the strong forces of gravity. The sapling started to bend and the arc would have had the lawman well over the edge if Vin hadn't grabbed the arm, up above the elbow … and just in time. Ezra had been holding tight to the buckskin coat and the strong arm he could feel underneath it, but his hand had cramped momentarily and he'd slipped a little farther, their bodies now precariously only locked hand-to-wrist.
"Ya gotta keep a tight hold. Buck and J.D. should be spottin' Peso and Chaucer any minute. So hold on." Ezra had made a bet with himself while he held tightly to Vin - his lifeline - despite the extreme situation, that he'd accurately counted how many times his friend had given that order. This one was the sixth warning from his friend. Did Vin think he would do anything other than hold on for dear life, as best he could?
"Ah may … be on the … precipice … Vin," Ezra said, saving himself three syllables by using the tracker's given name. Vin wondered why he'd bothered as Ezra continued on. "But Ah have … not fallen … from it … therefore … Ah b'lieve … that Ah am … followin' … your … instructions. To … the … lettah," Ezra huffed out as he struggled for air.
"Good. Save your breath, Ez."
"As Monsieurs … Wilmington … and Dunne … are just … around … the bend, Ah … would feel … more comfort … in talking … rather than … in silence."
"I know that you would," Vin said, frustrated. "But I think you might have … " the tracker took his own deep breath before continuing, his position hard against the rock edge pressing uncomfortably on his chest, "cracked or broken ribs."
No immediate response scared the former buffalo hunter, but Ezra, though he knew it would be better for his breathing for him to remain quiet, didn't disappoint when he replied softly, and with just the right dose of sarcastic incredulity, "Really?"
As Vin rolled his eyes, the sounds of horses could be heard from up above. He and Ezra were about fifteen feet down from where he had left Peso; Chaucer had been waiting, an obvious indicator of where his owner could be located. Both Vin and Ezra knew that the well-trained horse would stay and wait on word from his beloved master. They also knew that if Ezra had been unable to speak, that his horse would continue on and seek out help, just as Ezra had trained him to do. Vin was pretty sure that the horse loved his master enough that the training likely hadn't been necessary.
"Lord," Ezra said, the word coming out softly; Vin had barely heard it, but all of his formidable senses were about keeping Ezra from dropping to all-but-certain death, thus he intently listened for any little hint of trouble.
"Vin!" J.D. Dunne called.
"Jesus," Vin said under his breath. To J.D. he shouted, "Don't have time fer rope. Git on down here and hold me so I kin grab 'im with both hands." J.D. and Buck scurried down to where Vin held tight to Ezra, the sound of their descent held both relief at the additional help, but worry that they were heading down far too fast.
"Whaddya need?" Buck Wilmington asked, breathing heavily. The youngest member of their group had already taken position on the ground and grabbed hold of Vin's legs.
"Jest need you both to hold on. That'll give me a chance to use both hands an' haul 'im up."
"Make … s…sound … bail … o' … hay." Buck frowned at what he heard; it made him fall immediately to the ground and grab hold of Vin's waist as he lay on top of his left leg, forcing all of J.D.'s weight over to Vin's right leg. Ezra wasn't even attempting to speak in complete sentences, let alone choosing his words to produce his usual effortlessly elegant speech. And the breathing sounded awful, shallow and hardly enough to get out the words he did manage.
"Ez, give it a rest," Vin suggested. "We'll have you up in a … shit! I'm goin' for him," he called. The sudden movement surprised the two human anchors, but they held tight, putting all their weight into the effort.
"You hold on now, hoss!" Buck yelled. He received no answer, and Vin explained why.
"Think he passed out. Hold on," he added, and then he let go of the grip he had on a piece of rock protruding from the rim, lunged for Ezra's waistband, as Buck had done with his, and yanked hard. "Pull me up!" he called urgently to his friends. Buck did so immediately as J.D. scrambled backward and did the same. Vin pulled once more, and then he and Ezra were back up on the flat ledge. Buck and J.D. were quickly beside them, pulling the exhausted tracker and the unconscious gambler from the cliff's edge.
"Damn," the young easterner said as he looked over the side.
"Yeah," Vin said, taking a few restorative breaths before continuing. "Wouldna made it."
Buck had Ezra laying flat on his back. "Arm's out. Shit. Little bit of blood and a lump on the back of his head," he said as he checked over his completely dust-covered friend.
"Helluva a scratch on his wrist and the back of his hand," Vin advised. "Watch out fer his … " He didn't finish before he heard the howl of pain from the gambler.
"Busted ribs," Buck said as he finished the thought. "Found 'em," he said, followed by, "Sorry, Ezra. Sure is good to have ya back."
"Good for … whom, Mistah … Wilmington?"
"I understand your point. But look, ace, I still need to feel you up to see where you're hurt."
"Good lord … Buck. Your … phraseology … ." Ezra stopped talking as he reacted to the tall gunman who towered over him even at a kneel, pressing on his ribcage. "Bu … uck!" he pleaded, asking for him to finish up with the plaintive call of his friend's name. Ezra reached out his uninjured arm to try to push Buck away, but it was a futile, weak attempt at best.
"Sorry. Almost done." Buck finished checking him over and then leaned back. He was on his knees and now rested with his butt back against his ankles. Ezra panted from the pain of the broken ribs, but didn't allow the pain and his still troubled breathing to stop him from asking his next question.
"If you have … finished your … examination … Dr. Wilmington … maybe you could … help me up." Before he could be stopped he attempted to rise, but froze in place, the combined aches of his separated shoulder and broken and bruised ribs – and the sudden onset of extreme vertigo – sent him straight back down. Vin's hand captured the back of his neck in time to stop the hard hit his body would have suffered as, once more, gravity played its role in an attempt to injure the card sharp further.
"Now, now, it's a little soon for that," Buck chastised. Vin had quickly got a fire going just before Ezra's head nearly crashed to the ground, and J.D. had a pot of water starting to boil. "We'll light out soon enough, but we got enough daylight that we can give your head a chance to stop spinnin', and get those ribs wrapped up, too."
"But Mistah … Larabee … "
"Chris'll be fine," Vin said. Chris Larabee had been left alone in Four Corners for the afternoon. Josiah Sanchez and Nathan Jackson would have left for the reservation by now, as planned, once Buck had sent the telegram that they'd be back by mid-afternoon. Vin and Ezra had started out from Eagle Bend early, Vin seeming especially antsy with the extra day layover they had been forced to take as J.D.'s horse rested his leg. The bruise to the front right fetlock happened on the long ride from Durango to Eagle Bend; they'd been directed by Judge Travis to escort two highly wanted criminals to Durango, where other law enforcement had taken the two off their hands. The judge had directed that no stagecoaches or trains should be used, for fear that members of the men's former gang might attempt to free them, thereby putting innocent people in the line of fire. That morning, Buck and J.D. had been a few minutes behind, just long enough to get the word to Chris that they would be taking a more leisurely pace because of Milagro's bruised leg. A couple more hours to give Ezra a chance to catch his breath wouldn't make much difference.
"Ah don't … like it."
"None of us do, Ezra, but it's just a couple of hours," J.D. explained. "Ain't nothin' likely to happen to the town in such a short amount of time."
"Will someone … kindly … knock on … some wood?" the gambler complained, recalcitrant until the last breath before succumbing to an exhausted sleep after the near plunge to his death.
"Mr. Larabee?" Mrs. Potter questioned as she entered the jail, brilliant light filling the drab building, forcing Chris to squint and refocus. Things settled back to the comforting dark as soon as she shut the door.
"Gloria, how are … "
"I think there's going to be a robbery," she said as she looked out the window. The furrow at her brow made her look older than she probably was. She'd somehow seemed more matronly since the day her husband had been murdered. Mary Travis, who lost her husband to a violent killing about a year earlier than Gloria, never seemed to match the same moniker.
The thing that Chris Larabee had learned in his more than three years in Four Corners was that Gloria Potter was a steady, reasonable and reliable woman. She'd previously helped capture some bank robbers with her keen powers of observation. Ezra had been injured in that skirmish, but the only other people hurt or dead were members of the gang making the attempt to steal money from the large safe in the bank building.
Damn it.
"What did you hear?" he asked the proprietress of the general store.
"Apparently, there was quite a silver strike about a half a day's ride from here, off the trail on the way to Eagle Bend. The mine owner is planning to bring a significant amount for safe keeping to the bank. He's due here in the next few hours."
"And how do you know this?" he asked. This would be the last time that he would ever agree to leave the town with just one peacekeeper. Hell, it wasn't even like they had men in town who were all that good with their guns. Heiddeger had proved pretty adept at handling a rifle, but he would generally not leave the confines of the hotel unless Chris himself showed up to get the man, or by threat when he sent somebody else, but that usually only worked when he sent Josiah over. The former preacher could be pretty frightening, without really trying.
"I was back in the stock room just before opening the store. I had the window opened a crack and had stepped over to open it some more, something had spoiled overnight … the smell, well … " She hesitated, realizing that she'd admitted something that she probably should have kept to herself.
"That's okay, Gloria. Things like that happen."
"Yes, they do. Anyway, I heard some conversation. It was happening in the back alley. There is no good reason for anyone to be there at such a time."
"What time was it?"
"About six, I would guess." He looked at her, his eyes asking the question, why had she not come to him sooner? "I came as soon as young Casey Wells could come and take over for a short while."
Chris Larabee's inscrutable nature held true, but he cringed inside, knowing that she would have come straight over, as soon as she'd been able. He felt bad that he'd made her defend her actions, but he didn't let her see that, either. "What did they say?" he asked.
"It was three men, three distinct voices. I believe one of the men has occasionally taken supplies out to the miner."
"Supplies? Bought from you?"
"Well, I guess that's possible, too, but as far as I can tell, no. Not unless someone locally was buying for him, but it would be hard for me to know that. But I think he meant supplies for mining, specifically."
"So he went out and delivered supplies and the guy who struck gold, uh, make that silver, told him?"
"It does sound unbelievable. Maybe he just couldn't hide his excitement? The other one just asked for details from the first about when he'd be coming to town, what he looked like, what his horse looked like, anything distinguishing about the man, his horse, his wagon."
"And?"
Gloria began with confidence to list the answers; she had a near-perfect memory for detail. "Nearing sixty years old, dark hair with significant graying, unshaven, about Mr. Standish's height, but more the body type of Tiny," she said, somewhat uncomfortably, not inclined to verbalize the description of the livery man's sizable heft. "His horse is a big draft horse, chestnut with a black mane and tail and a large white blaze on his head. The wagon is typical weathered, nothing distinguishing about it."
"I guess that depends on just how much silver it's weighed down with."
"Even a draft horse will be going slow with too heavy of a load," Gloria said. Her calm, logical mind and big heart were only two of the myriad reasons she was so beloved by the people of the town. In these ways, and others, the woman brought back to the forefront fond memories of his departed Sarah. Their temperaments were so similar. "Do you really think anyone would wait so long before bringing in some of his claim?" she asked.
"Could be he figured the less he was seen, the less likely anyone might remember him or figure out what he was up to."
"Well, it seems he made himself a target, anyway."
"Looks like. Thanks for comin' over, Gloria. Is Casey all by herself over at the store?"
"Oh. My son and Casey is all so, needless to say, I have to go."
"I'm sure you do," he said with a knowing smile. "Could you stop by Mr. Peterson's and at the barber and send over as many men as can make it?"
"Of course."
"And send Casey over, if you can. I may need her to run and gather up some more folks."
"What about Mary?" the general store owner asked.
Chris frowned. "What about her?"
"Mr. Larabee, you are here all by yourself. Maybe Mary could canvass the town and find more men? She would wield somewhat more influence than young Casey."
"Oh." Chris sighed in relief. He'd thought that the woman had meant something else about he and the pretty newspaper woman. He knew lots of townspeople wondered about the two of them. He wondered, too, but he was not pleased when people pushed. Buck had tried – once – but he'd been met by the formidable Larabee brick wall on that subject. Nobody else was brave enough, or crazy enough, to try. Chris pulled himself from his musings, grabbing his hat. "Yeah, Gloria, that would help."
"Will do, Mr. Larabee."
"Thank you." He watched her leave and then headed over to the bank. After explaining to the bank manager what was likely to happen, he convinced the man to close up shop for a couple of hours. If all went well, the financial institution would re-open for a couple of hours at the end of the day. As he made his way back to the jail, breathing in the fresh air on a day that should have been like most other days had been this winter – peaceful - he found about a dozen men with assorted guns and rifles waiting for him.
And Mary Travis.
"Boys, thanks for helpin' out."
"Where do you need us, Chris?" Robert Merton asked. One of Four Corners' most recent transplants, he had just returned from a successful drive of his cattle to market. He had been staying at the house he and his wife Abigail kept in town and where she had set up shop as the town's new seamstress. They kept a small house out on the ranch where Robert stayed when market time approached, but his appearance now likely meant he would be in town at least through the new year. Abigail, Robert and their young daughter Emily had become active members of the thriving community. Chris hadn't realized that Merton would be among the group of men working to protect the town this day, but he was grateful to have a man as reliable, and as good of a shot, as Robert Merton in his company.
"Thanks for helping, Robert," Chris said.
"Glad to be of service. Where do you want us?" Chris took a few of the men inside with Mary to work up a plan of action over the map of the town, and then came out and gave everyone their orders. As they all dispersed, he turned to the newspaper publisher.
"Gloria told me. Where is everyone else?" she asked. Her eyes were mesmerizing. They held intelligence, warmth and worry this moment. At other times he'd seen humor, love when she looked upon her son or her father-in-law. He sensed yearning, sometimes … . He didn't have the time today to think on that, but he did wonder, more often now that they'd passed three years in their acquaintance, if his time to act might be running out.
Chris shook his head. "Bad timing. Josiah and Nathan lit out for the village before I got Buck's telegram that they would be delayed gettin' back today."
"Oh. Well, the men seemed willing to help."
"Mary, some of these men can't hit the side of a barn from ten feet out," Chris said irritably. "You should make sure Billy's inside for the rest of the day."
"They would pick a beautiful winter day," Mary said, trying to lighten the atmosphere in what were potentially dire circumstances. "You realize it's been nearly three weeks of bitter cold. He and I were both going stir crazy."
"Wasn't Billy spending some time in Ezra's afternoon classes?"
"He was. That's the only reason he's still alive!" she joked. Mary Travis loved her son, but for these last long weeks, he had turned in to quite a handful. Ezra Standish had been her savior, as strange as that seemed, though she had learned just over a year ago that Ezra wasn't as self-obsessed or single-minded as he liked to let on. At least, not any more. And his way with children made her sad sometimes to think of the man without any of his own. There was a spark there, though, with Inez Recillos. Maybe it would happen. But a woman could only wait so long; if Mary hadn't still felt that spark elsewhere, she could certainly see pursuing Ezra Standish herself.
"Sorry, Mary, but … "
"No, no. I agree. I'll keep him inside."
"Okay. Good."
"Why are the others delayed?" the pretty blonde asked as she stepped to the door.
"Something about J.D.'s horse."
"How's your head?" Vin asked as he and Buck wrapped the gambler's midsection. They had decided to let the man rest before they treated his injuries, but his hurts had forced him awake. They had felt two broken ribs for sure, and three cracked along with other bruising that would likely make a spectacular display by the end of the day.
"Fine."
"Liar," Vin said.
Ezra turned a sour look the tracker's way. "Very well. It is bettah … than mah shoulder … or mah ribs. Or mah hand," he added as he looked worriedly at the deep gouge across the back of his hand and up over his wrist. "Does that … satisfy your curi … osity?"
"Kinda grumpy ain't ya, hoss?" Buck asked as he tied off the last of the cloth. Ezra didn't reply, but he nearly forgot himself as he went to rub his aching forehead. He stopped the action, not wanting to add fuel to that fire, but Vin and Buck had both seen the abbreviated action.
"You should have some o' the tea … " Vin said as he began cleaning the cut on Ezra's left hand.
"No," Ezra bit back sharply.
"But Ezra, your shoulder … "
"J.D., if we get … on our horses Ah will … be in Nathan's clinic … in well under two hours."
"But Nate and Josiah are already heading to the village by now." Ezra just glared at the young sheriff, who finally shook his head and went to saddle the con man's horse.
"Think you should rest up a while longer," Vin suggested.
"No."
"Chris can handle … " Buck tried to explain.
"No."
"All right. But don't come cryin' to me … " Vin started.
"Us," Buck interrupted.
The former bounty hunter continued. "Don't come lookin' my way to bail yer ass outta Nathan's. Yer the one in such a rush to get back."
Ezra sighed. He really couldn't say to them that he had 'a feeling' that something untoward was going to happen in their town, that they needed to get back on the trail to Four Corners post haste. They would laugh, and suggest that he was worried about missing out on an easy poker mark. He wasn't even convinced himself about these feelings, but the simple fact that he felt this way filled him with foreboding.
"Gentlemen, Ah do appreciate your concern … for mah welfare, but Ah believe … Ah have ridden farther in far worse condition." The fact that he was experiencing obvious struggles breathing wasn't lost on him, and could not have been missed by his friends. He carried on. "The sooner we leave, the sooner … Ah can become reacquainted with … mah featherbed."
"Now that sounds more like it," Buck said with a smile. J.D. walked up with Chaucer trailing behind him. The sun shone brilliantly this early winter day. They were lucky that a chilly rain or snow wasn't falling. There were no threatening clouds in any direction. Chaucer's chestnut coat shimmered in the bright sunshine, and it was clear from his agitated prancing that he was itching to get moving and enjoy this rare, pleasant weather, even if it did mean he would have to provide an extra-smooth ride for his injured companion.
Vin and Buck helped Ezra to stand; it was not a good omen when the injured man toppled head-first into Buck's chest. He breathed in, not too deeply in deference to his injuries, and then let out a heavy sigh. He moaned and Buck patted him affectionately on the back. "Ya okay?" he asked, amusement evident in his tone.
Ezra lifted his head. "Nevah bettah," he answered. They all knew that for the lie it was, but it would have gone against everything they'd come to know about Ezra P. Standish these last three years for him to tell anything but a prevarication about how he felt. His denial of the killer headache, dizziness, nausea, bone-crunching dislocated shoulder, and bruised and broken ribs, and the sharp, stinging pain of that cut was required in order to make it home as fast as they could. Ezra hadn't said why, but his overarching concern was working its way into the bones of his companions. They knew they would not hear word one from the con man on this ride, and that alone was why Vin Tanner would keep them on a steady pace home. J.D.'s horse might require more time to recover because of this workout, but Vin knew they would do the right thing if Milagro looked at any point to be suffering.
"Is there not more we can do?" Mr. Heiddeger asked. Mary had finally drawn the man from his hotel, his weapon in hand. It had been a surprise the day they discovered his expertise with a rifle; the man had simply not seemed the type. They had all gotten to know the German well after the visit from the territorial governor. It had been an eventful few days, culminating in Ezra's heroics in saving Mary Travis, the death of the assassin, nearly losing Buck to his true love – and ten thousand dollars dropped in their laps. The flurry of activity had hidden the pain the gambler had been feeling as each slight from his friends compounded the previous ones. It had taken hard work to resolve those hard feelings. In the end, they decided to keep some of the money after all – not a lot – and split it with Heiddeger. Afterwards, the man opened up to the seven more, that, though somewhat uncomfortable around a hand gun, he was quite an expert marksman with a longer range weapon. Certainly having two killers in their town adept at long-range killing would account for the immigrant's reluctance to expose his expertise. And that was how Chris would be using him on this day.
"Think we're as prepared as we can be. Go on up," the gunslinger said, indicating that the man should head to his position on the roof of the building across the street from the bank. The tall German nodded and then turned to follow the instruction.
And they waited.
The afternoon dragged on. The streets weren't deserted, but a close look would reveal that no children were about, they and their mothers staying safely indoors for the duration.
Though the day was clear, and mild compared to what it had been, it was still cold for those waiting in areas away from any heat source. By three o'clock everyone was beginning to wonder about wasting their day when the squeak of a wagon could be heard not-too-distantly. It was moving very slowly, but Chris reckoned the man and his silver would be in position in front of the bank within a couple of minutes.
The leader of the Magnificant Seven wondered why the robbers didn't take the man and his lode before he got to town, but Mary had reminded him that the payroll deposit for businesses in the immediate area had happened the day before. These men were looking for a bonanza this day. He wished his own men were here. He did not want to be the one who had to inform Judge Travis if townspeople got injured – or worse – because he hadn't kept the town properly protected.
Chris instructed the men to remain hidden as much as possible, except for himself and Robert Merton. Chris remained on the boardwalk outside the jail; Merton sat out in front of the stagecoach office.
The man with the silver pulled the wagon in front of the bank and then stepped down to the ground. He headed to the main entrance, and found a sign tacked on the frame of the door.
CLOSED TEMPORARILY.
BACK LATER TODAY.
The older man with the graying hair looked around and saw Chris a few buildings away. He didn't seem inclined to leave his wagon. He waved to Chris.
"Aw, hell," the tall blond said to himself. He didn't move, and he didn't acknowledge the man's call.
"Hey!" the man yelled. He waved his hat feverishly. "Hey! You the sheriff?"
"Shit." Chris stepped down and walked over to the bank. "Something wrong?" he asked.
"I need to see the bank manager," the man said.
"He had an emergency. Did ya read the sign?" Chris asked. He knew it didn't matter, the man was going to make a fuss. He had gotten the key to get in the bank, though that wouldn't matter, either; the vault was locked up tight.
"I really need to get my business taken care of. Came a long way," he added, taking a glance to the contents of the wagon, currently protected by a pile of torn up burlap sacks.
"You may want to go wait in the saloon," Chris suggested.
"I'll stay here."
"Look, Mister … ." Chris paused, waiting for the man to introduce himself.
"Gr … uh … you don't need to know my name."
"Suit yourself," the tall blond said as he headed back to the jailhouse.
"Hey, look," the stout graying man called. The leader of the lawmen of the town turned around. The older man stepped closer. "My name is Graham. Roland Graham. And I don't much want to be towin' my wagon all over town." He leaned in closer and said the next part even quieter, and he'd already been speaking only loud enough for Chris to hear. Graham took a look around, to make sure no one was near. When he looked back at Chris, the gunslinger could see in the man's eyes that he'd finally realized something was not right. "Where is everyone?"
"Mr. Graham, we got us a situation. Why don't you pull your wagon down behind the livery … "
"I ain't leavin' my wagon unattended."
"I'll come with you. I'll have Tiny watch it for you."
"Look, mister. I don't know Tiny. I don't know you. And I need to get this in that vault in there."
"Mr. Graham, I know you got silver. The reason I know it is because someone here in town overheard a plan to steal your silver, and likely rob the bank. So I suggest … ." He was unable to get any more out before bullets started flying their way. Chris pulled Graham down hard to the ground and shoved him under his wagon. "Stay there!"
"But … " Graham protested, his head sticking back out from under the wagon. A bullet speared his hat, shooting it off his head to skitter along the dusty boulevard. Chris opened his mouth to warn the man back, but watched helplessly as a bullet entered Roland Graham's forehead and immediately exited, splattering a chunk of blood and brain onto the wagon's undercarriage. Chris dove behind several large crates along the side of the bank at the mouth of the alley. Four men on horseback pulled up fast in front of the bank.
"Get the wagon!" the leader of the four yelled. Chris decided that these men were either the most brazen he'd ever met, or the most stupid. They'd just killed a man, and most of his own men lying in wait would have witnessed it. Bullets were flying fast from these men, all of them aimed his way, and purposefully avoiding the large draft horse. Chris and his men were within their rights to shoot - and take no prisoners – but the leader of the The Magnificent Seven, or this day just The One, was keeping many of his men from taking any shots in fear of taking him down by mistake.
"Don't move that wagon. You men are surrounded," Chris called out. "You don't all need to hang!" he added. He heard the flick of the reins as the large draft horse started to move, followed by the grinding creaks of the heavily silver-laden wagon. Chris looked around the crate, aimed, and shot the wagon driver, hitting him low on the shoulder. The man grabbed for his arm and dropped the reins. The horse stopped, calmly accepting of the turmoil all around. Chris was now low enough to the ground, and out of the path of return fire from his men, that the men now had clear shots without risking shooting him.
The men who had put their efforts, as poorly executed as they were, into planning to steal silver and cash, realized now that they weren't going to get their prize with all this return fire they faced, and high-tailed it back out of town. A rifle shot from the roof took one of the men down. Chris tipped his hat briefly to Heiddeger and also noted that two of his men had run up to grab the man Chris had shot, giving him the chance to corral the man's horse and follow the others out of town. Robert Merton joined him, taking the horse of the man Heiddeger had shot, as they raced to catch the murderers and would-be robbers.
"Did you hear that?" Buck asked.
"What?" Ezra asked, looking toward the ladies man. To say that the gambler was suffering would be an understatement. They were all so close to home now they could taste it but, more importantly, they needed to get their injured friend off his horse and in a bed, Nathan's lumpy one in his drafty clinic, or Ezra's featherbed in his nominally warmer room above the saloon.
"Yeah. Definitely came from town," Vin stated with assurance.
"What?" Ezra asked once more. He turned his head back to the front, where Vin road in the lead, but he began tipping further left than he'd intended. Buck pulled him back by his uninjured arm.
"Now, all you need to worry about is stayin' on your horse," Buck instructed his friend.
"We gotta go. Sounds like they could use our help," Vin said.
"Someone needs to stay with Ezra."
"I'll do it, Buck. Don't really want to risk Milagro's leg."
"Thanks, kid. We'll see you in a little while."
"Be careful," J.D. called as Buck and Vin charged hard for town.
"What do we have to be careful about, Mistah Dunne?" Ezra asked, suddenly more alert as he heard his friends' horses thundering away.
"Not us, Ez," the young man said, worried that Ezra had seemed so out of it. "Buck and Vin went ahead into town due to the gunfire."
"The gunfire? Why must Ah always be right?" he asked, and then said, "We must go and help." His equilibrium was still off, and any sudden movement sent him tilting precariously off his perch on Chaucer. J.D. righted him, just in time to keep him from falling, much as Buck had just done.
"You can't, Ez. You're hurt, and so is Milagro."
"Oh, yes." He placed his right hand on the horn, his left on the pommel of his saddle, though he could feel the pull on his left shoulder and his right hand when he did. "We must continue, then, steady apace. Our compatriots may still require our assistance." Ezra brought his horse to a steady trot, not allowing Chaucer too much lead in deference to his companion's injured steed. They heard more gunfire.
"That sounds a lot closer than before," J.D. noted.
"It sounds as if the skirmish is headed our way."
"Could be someone's tryin' to get away, bein' chased by Chris."
"You could be correct, mah young friend. If so, Mistah Dunne, we should find a position off the trail as if Chris and some of the townspeople are chasin' after any miscreants, we might well end up in the line of our esteemed leader's return fire because of them."
"Think you're right. Come on," J.D. said as he took his horse off to the side. "We'll need to dismount and lead the horses, though." This stretch of trail held flat mesa-like land to the west, but rock wall to the east. The road had been cleared by assorted stagecoaches and others who needed to travel through the area, but all of the rocks that had fallen from the wall, or cleared to make way along the well-used trail, had ended up on the immediate sides of the road.
"Yes, indeed, that would be prudent." The con man remained in his saddle, even as J.D. had already gotten off his horse. The sheriff took Milagro's reins to lead him, just until they were beyond the rocky outcropping, but turned to find Ezra still sitting his horse, his eyes shut, his face pale. J.D. realized quickly that there was no way Ezra could dismount and remain on his feet without assistance. He left his horse and took several quick steps back to help his friend.
"Sorry, Ez. Let me help you." Between the two of them, they managed to get Ezra on the ground. The injured man leaned against his horse with a sigh, but there was no time to catch his breath as the gunfire now sounded near on top of them. They sidled off the road and into the shadow of the rock wall. They could now see the riders coming their way.
"Perhaps a warning shot to throw them off their stride?" Ezra suggested. J.D. smiled, happy to hear his friend getting a sentence out without struggling for breath as he'd been doing earlier. He complied, letting off a shot in the air, well above the heads of the oncoming men on horseback. The horse in the lead reared up, toppling its rider. The man kicked up a cloud of dust as he landed, but still managed to pull out his gun and aim in the direction he thought the shot had echoed from.
"Don't do it," J.D. warned, both of his guns now aimed at the man's chest. The man pulled the trigger despite the warning, clipping the young sheriff. J.D. fell back against the rock wall, grabbing at his bloody upper arm. Ezra, without hesitation, shot the gun out of the outlaw's hand. The man screamed and grabbed for his mangled appendage.
"Good shootin', mister," the other man said from high atop his horse. Ezra turned to find a gun aimed directly at his face.
"Why, much obliged," the con man said, hoping a little verbal diversion might give him enough time to jump out of the way. He did just that, having seen the bewilderment flit across the man's face, throwing his already badly abused body to the rock-strewn ground. A shot was fired, followed by several more rounds, almost simultaneously. Ezra heard all of the gunfire. He couldn't be sure exactly how many shots had been fired, but didn't recognize the outcome of any of them as his shoulder and ribs and other injuries took over all of his senses. He tried to focus beyond the pain, but the terrain swirling around him made that impossible.
"Ezra!" he heard called. J.D. The boy had been hit.
"J.D.," the gambler gasped, surprised at the weak sound of his voice. He attempted to push his body up, but fell back down, unable to right himself. He knew it wasn't gravity making everything seem like it was falling about him, but he knew it was more than gravity now that kept him down on the rocky ground.
"Stay where you are, Ezra. J.D.'s fine." Buck. Ezra sighed in relief, though the pain that caused alerted him to new worries about his well-being. The ladies man's calm, soothing tone told him that it was all over, whatever it had been.
"Buck … you may … wish … to check on our … young compatriot." Ezra realized he was in trouble. Breathing was difficult, and he doubted he'd be winning his battle with vertigo and severe onset of nausea that accompanied it.
"Vin's got him. Just looks like a scratch," Buck answered, frowning worriedly at Ezra's shallow breathing.
"I'm okay, Ezra!" J.D. called.
"Well, in that … case, you may … wish to … remove … yourself … " Ezra didn't finish as he retched helplessly in Buck's direction. The lean gunman jumped out of the way and quickly moved to Ezra's side to help hold him up as he emptied his stomach. The card sharp moaned from the pain of his bruised chest and abdomen as it convulsed with the force of the vomiting.
And his breathing was getting worse.
"What happened to him?" Chris asked as he finished tying up the man Ezra shot. Robert Merton was wrapping a blanket around the dead one, who appeared to be the leader of the thwarted robbery, readying him for transport to town on the back of his horse.
As he finished cleaning and wrapping J.D.'s wound, Vin answered, "Ezra took a bit of a tumble earlier."
"Mistah … " Ezra started, but thought better of continuing as another wave of nausea came over him. He took the biggest breath he could, which was abysmal, at best, and then threw up once more. They all waited, knowing that their friend had more to say, even though he should probably refrain from trying. "Mistah … Tanner, you … make it … sound … as though … Ah simply … fell from … mah mount."
"What's wrong with his breathing?" Chris demanded as he kneeled down next to the most frustrating member of their law enforcement team. He put his arm across Ezra's back, careful of the shoulder, as Buck continued to hold him up from the right.
"Broken and cracked ribs," Vin said. Buck re-positioned the ailing southerner, allowing the man to lean up against his chest as Buck leaned against a substantial boulder. It was obvious that laying the man back down wasn't going to do anything good for getting him the air he needed.
Ezra started to open his mouth, but Chris prevented him from getting anything out. "Sssh. You're gonna pass out if you keep that up. Just concentrate on breathing and you can tell us all about what happened later," he said worriedly. He hoped that the obvious concern and the warmth in his voice would convince their normally talkative friend to refrain from conversation that was clearly causing him discomfort.
"Very well," Ezra agreed lazily. "But do … remind … me … to tell … y'all … what … transpired." He took a deeper breath, but a hitch stopped him. His eyes grew wide with worry, but he still wasn't done talking. "You … will … be … amazed," he finished. He decided that Chris' suggestion was a wise one, just before he passed out in Buck's arms.
"What part of 'take it easy, 'rest' and 'don't give me a hard time about it' did ya not understand?" Nathan asked as he helped the gambler up off the floor and back onto the bed. "When ya do dumb things, I gotta wonder if maybe you are dumber than … ." The healer stopped his tirade. He didn't really mean that last part – Ezra Standish was anything but dumb - and he certainly hadn't wanted to lose control like that. It was evident now that the patient had seen the error of his ways as he sat back against several pillows and breathed carefully through the pain in his chest. Nathan fussed with the blanket, pulling it up over his waist, heading to cover the ailing man's upper body.
"No, don't," Ezra said irritably as he tossed the blanket off with his right hand. His left arm remained immobile, bound across his chest in an attempt to speed up the healing of the dislocated shoulder. The healer had never before been given the chance to force the gambler to heal after the previous shoulder injuries, but Ezra would be under his care for several more days. He hoped that this inactivity would help put the shoulder right in a more permanent way. The con man's abrupt movement caused his hand to smack hard into Nathan's. Ezra hissed, the deep cut caused by the cougar hurting instantly from the contact.
"Sorry, Ezra," Nathan said.
"No. It is Ah who am sorry, Nathan. Ah know Ah am not the best patient."
"No, you're not. And it would be better if you kept that blanket on," the former slave added as he moved to replace the cover.
Ezra breathed in as deeply as he could and then let out a frustrated sigh. "Did you not wonder why you found me on mah backside on the floor?" Ezra asked indignantly. "Ah need to relieve mahself. Ah was headin' … " he continued, but Nathan interrupted.
"You ain't goin' to no outhouse."
Ezra bit his tongue. It had been a difficult time since he'd been brought back in to town. He recalled very little of what had gone on between falling to the rocky ground and most of the last period of time at Nathan's clinic. He remembered pain, centered primarily in his chest. He'd only been aware enough to hear what had happened to him since late yesterday. He was weak and hurting, and he needed to pee.
"Ah was headin' to the chamber pot," he explained.
"Oh." Nathan wasn't impressed with the explanation. "You shoulda waited until I got back."
Ezra glared at his friend. "Ah had to go, Nathan. Ah did not know when you would return."
"You know I wouldna left you for long. And you obviously didn't need to go that bad," Nathan challenged as he stood looking down at Ezra in the bed.
The southern gentleman closed his eyes and silently thought about the fact that a gentleman would not say out loud the things he was currently thinking. Instead, he brought pleasant things to mind: the lush beauty of Savannah; the aroma and flavor of the gumbo at his favorite New Orleans eatery; the contented nod of the head and uncontrolled happy shiver that Chaucer sported during a good grooming. He opened his eyes … and still Nathan looked at him as though he knew better.
"Ah am showin' great restraint," Ezra answered, followed ever-so-quietly by, "in more ways than one." Nathan now seemed intent on this staring match. Ezra shook his head, pushed the blanket off and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He sat there, getting his bearings as he sat up for the first time in days. He had felt the blood rush from his head, a chill overcoming him, but that changed quickly, face warming and likely pinked up as he thought about what Nathan must have been doing for him, personal and far too intimate things, while he'd been out of it. He looked up and asked, "The chamber pot?"
Nathan nodded. "Stay there." Ezra shook his head. His friend was a frustrating man, but the con man knew he owed him an awful lot. He bit his tongue, once more.
A half an hour later, his personal needs taken care of, an examination completed and tea and water consumed, Ezra sat back comfortably and watched Nathan at his table.
"Ah do appreciate everything that you do, Nathan."
"I know ya do, Ezra."
"Ah didn't want you to think," he started, breathing carefully, still not quite back to normal after his injuries, "that mah contrariness when ill or injured was evah any reflection on your fine care." He yawned at the end. "Mah apologies."
"You need your rest." Nathan didn't comment on anything else, which was how Ezra expected it to go.
"Ah suppose." They sat quietly for a while, and then Ezra asked, "What exactly was it that had you back in our small burg upon our arrival?" Ezra had been told about Nathan and Josiah's unexpected return to Four Corners … that they'd had to come back for something they left behind. Ezra's eyes blinked lazily and he yawned once more.
"Can't believe we got near an hour and a half's ride out and had to turn around." The expected smart remark from Ezra didn't come. Nathan turned and found his patient asleep. "Good," he said as he stood to move to the bed. He replaced the blanket up higher on the healing man's chest. "I'll tell ya about it later."
"It was indeed," Ezra said, followed by an intake of breath and a grateful sigh at how easy it now was to do so, "mah good fortune that you returned when you did, though how you'd managed to leave it behind is quite remarkable."
"It was one of the main reasons we were headed out to the reservation. Couldn't exactly show up without it," Josiah explained.
"I can't imagine how you could have forgotten it," Buck said, followed by a long quenching draw from his mug of beer.
"It don't matter. They finally got it, and Ezra survived," J.D. said warmly, as though those two things made everything right with the world. He, too, took a refreshing drink … from his mug of milk.
"Sure seems like someone was watching out for our brother that day," the former preacher said as he clasped Ezra on the shoulder.
"Ah have much to be grateful for. Mistah Jackson, once more, Ah am in your debt."
"I'm just glad I was here," Nathan said as he looked seriously at his nearly healed friend. "A punctured lung, it's a tricky thing." Ezra looked away, uncomfortable, as always, to hear the details. He was grateful, beyond words, that this former slave, this black man that he, an 'old southern boy', had come to rely on, to care for as a brother, was in his life. But he, no matter how often it happened – or maybe because it happened so frequently – never felt comfortable discussing the happenings after the fact. That likely had more to do with how he'd been raised than anything, appearances being everything, but still …
"Ah am sure that we can agree that your skill is and always shall be a precious gift to us all, as is your friendship," Ezra said, hoping to maybe embarrass the man into silence. He raised his glass to the healer in salute.
So much for that tactic, Nathan Jackson being the stubborn man that he was.
"Might be a good idea to get a couple of ya up to speed on what to do with a punctured lung. It doesn't have to kill if it's treated quickly," Nathan noted casually, as though discussing any of their deaths qualified as casual conversation.
Ezra winced at the comment. Vin could see that the gambler was growing increasingly uncomfortable with the exchange. He decided it was time to change the subject.
"Hey, Ez. Don't you have a story to tell everyone?" he asked with a sly smile.
Ezra Standish really didn't include the 'if looks could kill' card in his deck. No, he preferred something that would provide more satisfaction. The look he shot Vin was more of the 'you will pay, dearly, for this' card. It was Ezra's ace in the hole what that payback would be.
"Why yes, Ah suppose Ah do."
"This should be good," Chris said with a smile as he pulled out a chair and joined his men. Inez brought over a bottle and some glasses.
"More tea?" she asked the recovering lawman.
"A glass of water when you have a moment." It had grown crowded in the saloon as the work day ended and men came in for a drink before heading home. Ezra was looking forward to the next day, when he would be officially released from Nathan's clutches and would be allowed back in to play some poker and enjoy a harder drink than the tea and water, and just this morning coffee, that had been on his menu for the last week.
"Si, senor."
"My, my, she is somethin'," Buck mused.
"So, Ez, tell us what you meant by we would be amazed," J.D. said, ignoring his best friend, as he always did anymore when the subject of Inez Recillos came up. They all knew it was a lost cause, Inez ever being interested in Buck. Everyone except Buck, that is.
A perplexed look came over Ezra's face. "J.D., to what do you refer?"
"Just before you passed out, after we all shot Bill Henning, you said you wanted us to remind you to tell us what happened."
"Well, Ah know that Ah … " he hesitated, cogitating at what the young man had just said. Remembering … . He shook his head and continued, "Ah owe you all an explanation." He frowned more at the information J.D. had revealed.
"Yeah, yeah, but you said that we would all be amazed," J.D. encouraged.
"You don't know, do you?" Chris asked.
"Know wh … what," Ezra stuttered. He cocked his head at their leader, his eyes pleading for an explanation. It was an unusual event, seeing Ezra Standish so confused.
"After you threw yourself to the ground, we all put a bullet in that … " Chris started, but someone else finished.
"Deserved every piece o' lead that hit 'im," Vin said.
"All of you?" Ezra asked.
"All of us that were there," Buck said solemnly.
Ezra looked into Chris' eyes. He knew that J.D. had been hit, and he knew that Nathan and Josiah hadn't been there. But at that, it still left bullets from Chris, Buck and Vin. "So," Ezra started, but Chris finally told him.
"Five, Ezra. Five bullets. He earned every last one of them."
"Five? Who? J.D. was … "
"I got a shot off," J.D. said, not proudly, but he made it very clear that it was not something he regretted, not one bit.
"And me, Chris and Vin each got 'im. And Merton," Buck said.
"Robert Merton? Young Miss Emily's father? I didn't realize … "
"He'd just got back from his last drive," Josiah explained.
"Ah will have to make a point of thanking him."
"Ezra, nobody expects that. None of us was gonna stand by and let a friend get shot," Chris told him.
"Yes, well, Ah appreciate that, and Ah feel the same way about you gentlemen. Mah life has been enriched immeasurably by your presence in it." It was something three years in the making, being able to verbalize that, out loud, in public. Inez showed up just at that moment with his glass of water. She leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek, whispered something in Spanish, and then walked away.
"Wh … What?" Buck stammered.
"Never mind, Buck," Chris said. "Ezra, you got a story to tell?"
"Yes, Ah suppose Ah do. Ah know that you are all aware of how remarkable Chaucer is."
"I know that one day he'll make a real high quality glue," Buck said.
"Buck!" J.D. cried, and punched his friend hard in the arm. Chris just glared at his friend, as did the rest of the seven. They all knew that Buck felt highly about his own horse; they all had good equine stock, animals that suited their personalities, except for maybe Peso some days. But there was little doubt on two things. One was that Ezra and his horse shared a relationship that none of them had ever experienced, or even heard tell of before. It was clear that the two had shared something that bound them. Chris wondered if they would ever hear that story from their southern friend. It was a sight to behold sometimes, what Ezra could get that horse to do, which was the second point to note: the things that horse had done since they'd known Ezra, and Chaucer, whether trained to do them by his quirky master, or done on his own out of love and loyalty, had bordered on miraculous. How Buck felt when Ezra and his horse got more attention was pretty clear, though Chris was also sure that what had just gone on between Ezra and Inez had more to do with his long time friend's attitude this night. There was no reason to be hurtful about it; Chris got his meaning across to Buck with just one stern look.
"Sorry, Ezra. That wasn't … I mean, I didn't mean … " The ladies man stopped, not knowing what to say.
"It all right, Mistah Wilmington. We have all been through a trying time," Ezra said, accepting the stilted, indeed, unfinished apology for what it was.
"Well, thanks, Ezra. I really am sorry. Go on with your story," Buck said, embarrassed by what he'd said … how he'd acted, and properly chastised by all the looks his friends sent him. It wasn't his way to be so mean. He knew that it had been jealousy, plain and simple, that had come over him.
"As you gentlemen have witnessed, mah fine steed has a veritable sixth sense when it comes to avoiding trouble."
"Well-honed from years of getting you out of it, since you seem to welcome trouble," Nathan said with a smile, strained though it was. It had been a hard first few days minding the card sharp. A punctured lung might have been something that could be handled if treated early, but that didn't mean it wasn't hard as hell, with frightening moments where the healer wasn't sure he'd be able to pull his friend through.
"As Ah was sayin', Mistah Tanner and Ah had been coming around the rise at Marin Gulch. Ah was in the lead as Peso seemed more interested in grazing than in makin' any progress toward home."
"Damn animal eats like Buck," Vin groused.
"Hey!" the tall gunman countered.
"Well said," Ezra commented wryly. Everyone laughed, even Buck.
"Go on with your story." J.D. was keen on hearing what had happened.
"Ah crested the rise and was knocked from mah saddle by the largest cougar Ah have ever seen."
"A cougar?" J.D. asked. "Geez, you're lucky you survived."
"That's what I saw," Vin mentioned quietly.
"What do you mean? Tracks?" Chris asked.
"No. Down in the ravine," he answered, looking to Ezra to confirm it.
They were all witness to Ezra's obvious shiver at the recollection. "Yes, indeed, the cat ended up goin' over the edge. Once Ah was on the ground, the animal made a lunge for me. Chaucer, knowin' that Ah would have no chance against the beast, reared up and knocked the animal, quite hard. Unfortunately, Ah was in the direct trajectory of the now freely falling mountain lion. We plummeted down from the top shelf. Fortuitously, Chaucer had knocked the animal out; its grip on me loosened as we went over the first ledge. Ah was able to grab hold at the final precipice, though Ah did hit much harder than expected." His bruises were still evident, though he was slowly but surely moving more like his old self.
"Chaucer was real unhappy once me and Peso showed up," Vin said, then added, "I'm sorry I wasn't with you."
"Do not apologize. We all risk injury out in these wild environs."
"Mebbe. But I ain't gonna let Peso take charge. Think maybe you could help me to teach him to mind better?" the tracker asked the gambler … and amateur horse trainer.
"He's not a miracle worker, Vin," Chris kidded.
"Chris, this ain't no joke. Maybe I coulda done somethin' more … "
"Vin," Ezra said firmly as he placed his hand on the tracker's wrist in an effort to quiet the man's distress. "You saved mah life. Ah could never have held on without your strength and encouragement." Warmth in the touch and the look shared, and sincere friendship in the tone did calm the former bounty hunter, though Vin still held some guilt based on what he said next.
"I shoulda been there."
"And if you had been, you might have been the one the cougar got." Ezra slapped Vin's hand and sat back in his chair. "Frankly, as things turned out, and Ah can hardly believe Ah am sayin' this, I prefer this way to the alternative." He smiled and then took a drink from his glass of water.
"I'm not choosin' here, because neither one of ya makes it easy to treat ya." Ezra and Vin shared an innocent look between them. Chris rolled his eyes and smirked, Nathan shook his head and went on. "But it's probably better the way it turned out." The healer looked to Ezra. "That shoulder of yours woulda made it hard for you to do what Vin did."
"Ain't there nothin' you can do about Ezra's shoulder, Nate?" J.D. asked
"No, there ain't. Could be a surgeon, in Chicago or back east, might be able to help," Nathan answered.
"Ah do not feel that the effort required to seek out such professional services is worth the time. Mah arm functions quite soundly now. Ah suspect that Ah may need to refrain from bein' so clumsy." They all knew he wasn't clumsy; few men moved with such ease and elegance.
"Maybe Chris can schedule you for less dangerous work," J.D. suggested.
Ezra sent a quizzical and somewhat annoyed look J.D.'s way and then turned to look at Chris. They shared a knowing grin. J.D. was young, and still had yet to learn to think before he spoke. Hours later, the young easterner would have the revelation that Ezra's recent injuries actually did occur during a less dangerous aspect of their work. If a simple ride from Eagle Bend could result in a dislocated shoulder, then the only truly less dangerous option was sitting minding the jail. Both Chris and Ezra knew that the card sharp wouldn't be long in the town if his role amongst the seven was reduced to such a thing. Besides, it there was one thing the other members of the Magnificent Seven had learned about Ezra Standish it was that even one-armed, the man was someone they never wanted working against them. Ezra smiled at J.D. and J.D. smiled back, but it was obvious to the man who read people for a living that his young friend did not know why. The sheriff of Four Corners might just need a little more time to think on what he'd said before he would finally turn and punch Buck hard in the arm, again, for not telling him how dumb he was being. But that was a confrontation for his friends to deal with later. Now, Ezra had a different topic he wished to discuss.
"So, what of the wagonload of silver?"
The End.