It had not been a good day. Or week. Overall, the month had been nothing to celebrate either. Ezra could not remember the last time his luck had run this cold. The mere fact that he was now relying on – no, praying for – better luck was a sign in and of itself. Nothing, not one damned thing, was going his way.

The latest disaster was a perfectly set up dupe, ready to gamble it all on the next poker hand. A hand Ezra knew he could win. And then the fool's wife goes into labour. If only they had waited one more hand before telling him. And on top of that, Ezra had tossed a five-dollar gold coin at him "for luck". What had he been thinking? Mother would be appalled!

Mother. Another fly in the ointment. He had counted on the money she was to send him from her latest "investment gambit". After all, he had sent four chumps her way to be fleeced. He had yet to see a penny of the return.

On top of all that, he was running into far too many familiar faces lately. On a good day (and there were far too few of those), the old friends wanted nothing more than to share a drink and relive old times. More often though, they wanted to drag him into some scheme or sham they were running. Their lack of planning and ingenuity was genuinely frightening. Not one of the operations showed any flair, style, or originality. Most were barely a step removed from simple robbery and that was a line he was unwilling to cross, at least at this point.

Then there were the few folks who had scores to settle, real or imagined. They fell into one of three categories. The first - people he had worked with who were less than satisfied with their share of the proceedings. Ezra believed he'd rewarded their involvement appropriately, but they tended not to agree with that assessment. Then there were the people he had outwitted in some manner, and who now felt cheated. He preferred to think of these episodes as teaching experiences – showing these good people the hazards of betting on an outcome or of investing with a stranger. Few of them saw it that way.

The real problem came from the final group. Those who had lost fair and square but were decidedly unwilling to accept that fact. He was good enough at cards and more importantly at reading people to be able to win at poker far more often than he lost. Usually, his opponents accepted this with only a modicum of complaint. Some however, were not quite so civilized. They could be, well problematic. Ezra had the scars and the healed bones to testify to that and devoutly hoped to avoid any further encounters.

Perhaps all of this was a sign. The fates were suggesting, strongly, that he should seek out new venues. New opportunities. But where? He'd made too much of a name for himself in New Orleans, so that option was out. There was ample opportunity for gain in Atlanta and several other southern cities, all in the process of rebuilding from the devastation that was the war. The potential revenue options were endless. But Ezra couldn't seem to bring himself to take advantage of the often gullible and always overly enthusiastic entrepreneurs. Of course, he could elect to target the carpetbaggers and profiteers who invaded the South. He certainly had no fondness for those braggarts. But the truth of the matter was he simply had no desire to get involved with that scene. He was not ready to go back to the heart of the South yet. He wondered at times if he ever would be.

Going further north did not appeal to him either. Boston, New York, Chicago. Their climates were not appropriate for someone who had been reared under magnolia trees.

That left going West. New territory and untapped potential. Aside from the rapid growth beginning in places such as San Francisco, there were all the eager souls heading to make their fortunes. Hundreds, no thousands, of potential targets.

And gold. To hear some say, you could wade into a stream impoverished and an hour later have found your fortune. Ezra had long ago learned that if something sounded too good to be true, it probably was. Still, one should never completely dismiss an opportunity, regardless of how questionable the likelihood of return was.

West. Well, that was a fairly wide-open destination. Aside from selecting a more specific target, what else would he need? He had enough of a nest-egg for supplies, and hopefully a train ticket for at least part of the journey. It would be stagecoach after that. Dreadful. What he needed most was a reliable steed, one worthy of him, and one that would create the impression he needed to sell. Power, wealth, confidence. There was no way his nest egg-would cover that, assuming such a beast could even be found.

Shaking off the depression that was settling in, he made his way to a nearby saloon. It was the type of place likely to draw in the less experienced card players. The "passers-through". Less money at the table, but much lower risk as well and at this point that suited Ezra.

He went up to the bar first, reading the room by watching the reflection in the large mirror with the hope of finding a suitable table to join. He was disappointed, but not surprised, that nothing looked promising. Time to move to the next stage – eavesdropping. He took his drink and ambled through the room, trying to make it look like he was searching out a spot. What he was really searching for was opportunity. He found it in the most unexpected manner.

"Look, I'm sorry Mr. Collins, but that horse just can't be trained."

"If he can be saddled he can be trained."

The younger man shook his head. "You'd think so, but not in this case."

"So, what am I supposed to do? Just shoot him? Paid good money."

"Well I hope it wasn't too much, could he's a dud."

"Damn. He sure looked smart. Shoulda known better than to buy at an estate auction."

"Forgive me gentlemen. I couldn't help overhear your dilemma, and I believe I might be of some assistance." Ezra tipped his hat. "Edward Simmons, at your service." He'd almost forgotten the name he was using this week. There were times he wasn't totally sure Ezra Standish was in fact his real name, he used it so rarely.

"Mr. Simmons, unless you have some kind a magic pill, don't see what you can do. If Lawrence here can't train Brownie, I doubt anyone can."

Ezra cringed to himself. What kind of imbecile names a horse Brownie? No wonder the animal refused to cooperate.

"I have a fair bit of experience with animals, going back to my younger years on the plantation." Ezra lied smoothly, adding a wistful tone to his voice. In truth, the closest he'd come to a plantation was staying in the servant's quarters on a few rare occasions. As for experience with animals, that consisted mostly of stealing eggs from the henhouse.

"Suppose it can't hurt for you to take a look. Let's go."

"Now? Oh, of course." Ezra had hoped to get in a few hands of poker first but followed Collins to the nearby livery instead.

"There you go. As useless a horse as I have ever seen."

Ezra stood transfixed. This "useless" horse was one of the most inspiring sites he had ever encountered. It wasn't that there was a physical impact from the animal. In many ways, at first glance, he was fairly average. Broad chest, just slightly taller than most of the horses here, but by no means of the largest. His coat had a beautiful colouring, setting off the dark leather saddle still on his back.

But the eyes. There was a depth to those eyes that went further than any he had ever encountered, including human. There was an intelligence and nobility. No wonder Collins had been drawn to him in the first place.

"Be a damn shame to just shoot him, but I'm not throwing good money after bad here."

"Shoot him? Are you mad? This horse is – is perfect."

"Not if I can't get on him."

"No one can get on him." Lawrence added. "Stubbornest thing I've ever seen."

Ezra was having difficulty accepting the claim. "He seems quite docile for a horse that hasn't been broken."

"Oh, he's broke. He just hates people."

Ezra kept the smile from his face. Well, that was a trait that he and – dear Lord – Brownie had in common.

"I can assure you, gentlemen, this horse can be ridden."

"Wanna bet?"

At last, the words that were music to his ears. "Yes, I would gladly wager on a sure thing. What are your terms?"

Lawrence turn to Collins, who shrugged, taking up the offer. "What have you got?"

Ezra thought over his meagre holdings. "Well, as I am awaiting a cash transfer, my funds are rather limited right now. But," he pulled out the roll representing about half his savings, "I can sweeten this for you as well." He pulled the ring from his finger, silently asking forgiveness for the act. "The ring, a pocket watch, and the cash you see before you."

"Throw in the pistol." Collins grinned. "Just to keep things interesting."

"And just what stakes are you putting on the table?"

Collins reached for his own wallet to show he could backup what he was about to say. "One hundred dollars."

"That doesn't seem like an equitable pot. Sir."

"And the horse."

Ezra had to fight to keep his reaction muted. He couldn't possibly be that lucky. He must've heard wrong.

"This horse?"

"Yup. Look, I've watched Lawrence working at him. Far as I'm concerned, this is a sure thing for me. Hell, I'll make it two hundred."

"And the horse?" Ezra wanted to be sure he knew what his reward would be.

"If you can ride him, you'll be the only person alive who can, so you might as well have him."

Ezra nodded, afraid his voice would betray his excitement. His luck had turned. Less than an hour ago he had wished for a horse. Never in his life had a wish been answered so perfectly.

He walked toward the stall, smiling at the horse as he approached. Each step closer dampened his initial enthusiasm. Brownie stared at him, analysing him. Apparently, he was less than impressed by what he saw. He reared his head back and took a couple of steps away.

Oh Lord, Ezra thought. What have I gotten myself into now? "Steady Brownie. I have no intentions of hurting you." It didn't seem the horse had the same feelings, and he gave Ezra a solid whack with his head as soon as he was within range. He stumbled slightly but kept his footing. He could hear the two men laughing behind him, along with the few others who were in the building.

"Looks like I just got myself a pocket watch."

"I believe I should be allowed a bit more time to attempt to counter some of the trauma that has been inflicted on this poor creature."

"What trauma? I never hit him." Lawrence defended himself.

"No, but you have been calling him Brownie. That alone could account for his displeasure and anger."

Collins chuckled and waved his arm to indicate Ezra could continue. He moved in slowly and cautiously, keeping his voice low. "All right the first thing we need to do is select a more appropriate moniker. 'Prince'. No, no imagination or character. 'King' is even more pretentious. You deserve something heroic. Well, that is difficult to discern at this point in history. Contentious to say the least. Perhaps something elegant, or classic. Mon Dieu, the choices are legion." Ezra took a half step back when Brownie turned in response to his last utterance.

"You speak French? How foolish. I should have asked about your previous owner. Well, mon ami, shall we start again? A French name." Ezra racked his brain but couldn't come up with anything that seemed to fit the bill.

"Well what else then? Classic, noble. If not 'King', perhaps a king. You are decidedly not a Louis, or Henry. William? George? Tudor?." He shook his head in frustration but smiled to himself when the horse mimicked the action. "Perhaps we should turn to Literature. Shakespeare! Macbeth? Romeo? Haml-." Ezra stopped, a grin coming to his face. "Chaucer." Brownie's head came up, and he whinnied softly.

"Bonjour Chaucer. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Ezra looked back at Collins, who shook his head. "Getting him to not hit you is not the same as riding him. You ain't close to being done."

"Agreed. But having seen this advancement, would you allow me an hour alone to finish the job?"

"One hour?" Lawrence laughed. "Good luck with that."

"You can have until I finished dinner." Collins agreed. "And like he said, good luck."

He watched them leave and waited patiently until the other riders went back to their own activities.

"All right Chaucer. Allow me to explain the situation. That man is a Philistine. He has no understanding of your potential and merit. I, on the other hand, see all that and more. I foresee great things for us, and all that I require from you is a little bit of co-operation. What say you to the proposal?"

Collins left the restaurant a little more than an hour later, looking forward to claiming his cash, watch and ring. It would be a shame to shoot that horse, but he wasn't going to waste any more time or money. He stopped in his tracks, dumbfounded as he watched Ezra ride toward him.

"Good evening Mr. Collins. I trust you had a pleasant dinner."

"What the hell…?"

Lawrence had come to an abrupt stop as well. "That ain't possible"

"It most assuredly is. A fact that, as you can see, is self-evident."

"Brownie wouldn't-"

"Please. His name is Chaucer."

"You trying to tell me that this was all about his name?"

"Certainly not Mr. Collins. But it was a factor. All living things deserves some respect and when it is given, you would be surprised at the outcome. Now, there is the matter of the cash value of the wager. I believe you owe me $100."

Collins started to smile but froze when Chaucer pawed at the ground - twice.

"Oh yes. You are correct my friend. The amount was doubled, was it not?"

"Did he just…? No. Horses can't count."

Ezra offered him a sly grin and a tilt to his head, which clearly asked "Can't they?"

"I would quite willingly return some of that cash to you in return for this saddle and some equipment."

Collins shook his head as he handed over the bills. "No, forget that. Just keep them. This is worth whatever it cost me. I've got a story here nobody is ever going to believe. But I know every word of it is true. Best money I ever lost Simmons. You and Brow – sorry – Chaucer deserve each other. In the best way possible."

"We thank you Sir. I tend to agree." Ezra tipped his hat to the men. "Gentlemen, it has been a genuine pleasure doing business with you."

And, in an action Ezra would not have predicted that morning, he gently urged Chaucer forward and rode off into the sunset.

M7-M7-M7-M7-M7-M7-M7

The end