A Losing Hand

24-Hour Challenge #3

By Lori

Disclaimer: I own nothing and make no money. Don't sue me. J

Author's note: I cheated on the 24 hours and thus failed the challenge. However, in my defense, the story took over and held me captive for the time it takes me to finish penning it.

The road was empty. Not a soul was in sight as he walked along its side under the early morning sky. The rays of light just peaking over the lush tree line did little to cut through the chill that had settled deep in his bones. Ezra Standish was at complete loss as to exactly how he ended up there. It was a pitiful sight all in all.

His trouser leg flapped with each step, torn and frayed, around the fine leather boot of his right calf. His brightly colored jacket was no where to be seen and the pristine white shirt he left Four Corners with was damp with sweat and stained with the endless dust and dirt from the trail. His vest had not faired much better and stood limp, unbuttoned and in utter disrepair. A small cut had scabbed in an angry red line across his eyebrow, puffy and warm, a thin trail of red dried down the side of his face where the gash had wept. Bruising marred his cheek and eye in a spectacular mottle of blue and gray. His head was pounding. His stomach was growling with hunger and simultaneously gurgling with nausea. It was a curious sensation. His knee throbbed, his abdomen ached and his right shoulder throbbed in familiar pain. He was tired and cold and more tired.

He cast weary eyes around and found the place unfamiliar. He tried to piece together the hazy memories from the day before. Where the hell was his horse? He just remembered walking through the dark of the night listening to the leaves rustle in the slight wind and animals calling to each other in the silence. In the end, it didn't matter. The gambler was simply compelled to keep walking. Something was telling him to keep moving, to put distance between him and whatever it was he left behind.

The sound of horses coming fast up the well worn dirt trail could be heard. His hand drifted to his guns… only to find them missing. His gun belt long gone, holster nowhere on his person and derringer with rigging left somewhere behind him. If he could only remember. Voices began to carry with the soft metallic jingling on reins. Ezra Standish was without a weapon, lost, and covered in dirt, dust, and some blood. Listening to the horses approach, he knew he should be afraid, but oddly Ezra couldn't muster the energy to care. He was too damn tired and too damn sore. So he kept his head angled down and walked along the trail looking for something familiar.

"There he is." It was a young voice. Words of relief. A statement said softly that carried with the wind as the riders closed the gap faster than Ezra could put distance between them. It was a voice he knew. JD. Ezra paused in his steps, his head cocked in confusion, and leaned his good arm against a nearby tree. Well, what the hell was the kid doing out here?

Then louder, "Ezra!" It was a second voice. Two riders. One with a Texas twang. Vin. Ezra cracked a small smile of relief. He carefully turned toward them and waved with his good hand and called out with a rusty voice, "Gentleman." He smiled wider when he saw his horse tied to JD's and looking no worse for wear.

"For a man in your condition you covered a lot of ground, pard." Vin dismounted with soft feet and quickly ground tied his horse, "You are a wily fellow."

The grin faltered, "I'm not sure I follow you?"

"Well, hell, Ezra. We been looking for you half the night. Figured you be on your way home, not walking the opposite direction."

"I'm afraid," his voice felt like it was filled with sand, "I'm a little turned around."

Vin snorted and shook his head.

"If I took off in the middle of the night, half beaten and with no horse, I'd be turned around too," JD harrumphed. Popping open a canteen and handing to the gambler.

Ezra winced at the comment and resisted the urge to touch his swollen face. With a sigh, Ezra accepted the proffered canteen, minding not to stretch his aching shoulder, taking a long swallow before talking. He was reaching the end of his quickly unraveling rope, "JD, son. You've got me at a disadvantage. I'm not… well, things've been a mite hazy this morning. Half- beaten…" Half-beaten…A memory of a meaty fist and fall onto rough board walk. Damn it. A myriad of images began to filter through his mind. A young woman with cold, dead eyes that once were a vibrant brown. A coffin in the ground with handfuls of dirt falling with tiny thumps. Ezra shook his head a little to clear away the jumbled thoughts. He took a punch. I deserved it. It wasn't the first time.

Things began to fall into place. The hand holding the canteen went limp, letting it hit the ground with a thud. He winced at the sound, remembering a few well placed kicks he took to the side. Looking up at dainty feet and a worn petticoat swinging in the breeze from a homespun hemp rope as he laid out on the cold ground shoulder burning and ribs getting busted by the angry mob he tried to fool. He had failed her… He felt his breath leave his lungs in forceful whoosh. There was a loud buzzing in his ears and blackness filtered through the edges of his vision as his knees suddenly shook and threatening to give out.

"Whoa, pard. We gotcha." Strong hands guided him against the trunk and he sank into it closing his eyes.

"I don't think he's suppose to be that color."

"JD, go grab our blankets. He's ice cold and soaked through his clothes."

"Oh Gawd," His accent was thick, "I let them kill her. I let them kill her. I let them kill her." The thought kept flittering across his mind. He felt the weight of her as he tried to hold her up. She struggled against the bonds. She didn't want to die. He felt his shoulder pop and still he stood, letting her breathe, giving her slack.

"Ezra you did good. You did the best you could." Vin sounded like he was cooing to a spooked horse. Ezra shook his head, trying to shed the comfort. He remembered now. It was hazy and broken, but he remembered. Another lynching.

"It wasn't enough. It never seems to be enough."

"Ezra," Vin was trying to get his attention. Briefly their eyes met; dulled green tired and bloodshot to soft blue, "You ain't thinking straight."

Ezra pushed away from the massive tree and felt his frayed nerves on fire, "No, no. She's dead. I let them. I… could… I needed to… I…" Ezra felt the world spinning violently, the past two days rushing past him, and his knees turned boneless as his world went black.

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Ezra was lowered to the ground awkwardly as Vin broke his fall.

"Must be all those damn pies," grunted the tracker. Vin took off his hat and swiped a hand over his own brow. Damn. They needed to get off the road. He looked at the slack features of the southern gentleman who continued to surprise him and felt the warmth of fever starting to grow. He stuffed his hat back of his head and stood. They found him first. That had to count for something.

JD came up behind, blankets folded in his arm, looking at the disheveled man unconscious on the edge of the road and sighed. "Not exactly in his best bib and tucker is he?"

"No sir," Vin said with a dry chuckle, "We best find a place to make camp. Someplace inconspicuous. Them boys'll know he's not dead. They may come to finish the job."

"How's he doing?"

"Damn glad he stayed long enough to get his shoulder put back. But everything else seems to be going against us."

"Well, it is about time we do something about that," JD said with a sly smile.

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A few hours later and the midmorning sun was shining bright in the sky. The coolness of dawn had burned off and the heat of the day had settled. JD's bowler sat on top of the saddle bags, his hair was limp with sweat from leaning over the small cook fire. Ezra laid in a few blankets, stripped down and in an uneasy slumber. The gambler mumbled and twitched and sweated. His pants and shirts had been torn into strips and boiled down for bandages. Vin scouted the road looking for danger. Ezra had sure made some enemies leaving the dusty burg of Dry Ridge. JD fingered the drying bandages, listening to the gambler breath heavier, a sure sign of some cracked ribs or maybe bruised lung. He'll be pissing blood for a few days. A solid bruise the size of a boot marred the southerner's lower back. JD sighed. This wasn't the adventure he was looking for when he came west. The war was suppose to be over. Instead it still seemed to live and breathe-- first at the Seminole Village and now with the blind anger in Dry Ridge.

JD stood, checked the horses and settled by Ezra. He laid his palm across the creased forehead and felt the clammy heat of a small fever. The bandages were almost dry and they would wrap Ezra ribs, let him rest, and travel a few hours before dark. Once they were home and safe things would look up. They just had to make do until then.

JD wet a scrap of fabric from the newly filled canteens, wrung it out and wiped the cool cloth over Ezra's slack features, trying to keep the swelling and the small fever down. Wetting it again, he laid the damp cloth upon Ezra's brow. In the quiet of the afternoon, with Ezra's soft murmurs of discomfort and the forest's normal rustles, JD found himself thinking back to the last few days. Damn Ezra and his flannel mouth thinking he can fool everybody.

It had started out simple before it all went to shit. A telegram came from the new settlement of Dry Ridge who was without a sheriff and a bit lawless. Hell, they were without many a thing a struggling town needed and sheriff was the least of it. A few of the citizens has ridden to Eagle Bend to send telegrams out and it was there that the request for help came. The next morning the trio, JD, Vin and Ezra, rode out to help. Thank God they didn't send Nathan, JD thought, running his hand through his hair and putting his bowler back on. Be grateful for small favors, JD, they are miracles son and don't you forget it. His mother's voice still chimed clearly in his head even with her two years gone. JD found himself thinking back…