A/N: Kept forgetting to put this on here! I did this in response to a prompt left on the Dreamwidth M7 Secret Santa thing last month. There are some historical facts in this story (the methods used by the Confederates to blow up the ships are described factually, and the Sultana incident was real), but everything else I took total creative liberty with. If you're a Civil War history buff, don't shoot me! I'm sorry!
"That's enough!"
Chris's shout echoed through the valley like the roar of an enraged bear as he shoved through the circle, tossing men backwards with the ease of the grizzly he currently resembled. As he reached the center he deftly removed the guns from the holsters of two of the men who were still engaged in "having a little fun" with the prone individual laying curled in a ball on the ground, arms over his head to protect his face.
"I said, that's enough," Chris hissed, pulling back the hammers as he pressed the guns against the heads of the individuals he had just stolen the weapons from. "Now back away."
The circle of men watching the spectacle widened out as a rhythm was started with the scrapes of metal clearing leather, followed with a beat of clicks as several more hammers were thumbed back. With reflexes born from years of living the life of a fast draw, Larabee wrapped an arm around the neck of the one person the rest of his opponents would not dare shoot, and spun him around to use him as a shield. More space was cleared as the men looked on in confusion at the sudden turn of events, unsure how to handle the way the man in black now hovered over the man on the ground, standing close like a snarling gargoyle guarding its castle entrance. Larabee was a friend of theirs, a member of their family, yet there he was pointing a gun at the head of the man who was like a big brother to them all, and all to protect a man who should've been his sworn enemy.
"Chris," the Reb croaked, the unspoken 'don't' hovering in the air as he pulled his hands away from his face.
"Shut up, Ezra," Larabee snapped without looking down, refusing to draw his gaze away from the circle of threats that stood around them. His voice softened just a touch, a fractional shift in his tone that anyone who didn't know him wouldn't have caught. "Stay down, boys're on their way."
The man in Chris's arms chortled out a bitter laugh. "On their way to do what, Larabee? Arrest us? You can't touch us; we're members of the US Army now. You pull that trigger, you may as well be aiming the barrel at yourself. They'll hang you, hang all your boys, too, if they get involved. You want that? You want your men in pine boxes just to save that slithering Reb a few extra days?"
"No," Chris answered dryly. "You let us walk out of here, no arrests, no boxes, and my friend down there gets to live a few extra years, if he doesn't get himself shot in a poker game."
A chuckle from the ground turned into a painful sounding cough that ended with a sharp gasp, and Chris had to fight the urge to check on his man, but he knew losing his focus would mean instant death in front of these men. He knew their speed, knew their tactics, knew their personalities. He had trained with each and every one of them, fought with them, mourned with them, celebrated with them once the War was done, and understood their desire for vengeance. Perhaps it was the reason why he had allowed things to go this far, not because the conman had insisted, but because on some level of loss and anger Chris longed for retribution for his fallen brethren, family taken by the likes of a young, cunning mind turned to the advancement of warfare…
A subtle shift in the atmosphere, a movement of a finger at the edge of his peripheral vision, weight adjusting slightly on a dominant leg, brown eyes sliding from the hostage to the vulnerable man. Chris didn't take the time to perform the dance, didn't bother to lean to accommodate the pistol's backfire, didn't break the glare he was aiming at the man directly in front of him, didn't shift his hold on his prior commanding officer; his free arm swung wide, the pistol just a blur of movement as it arced from one target left unscathed to its newest victim. The shot rang out, dead weight hit the ground, and a stunned silence encompassed all with its crushing realization:
Chris Larabee had traded the life of a friend for the life of an enemy.
~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~
"Larabee, move it forward!"
He was tired, cold, covered in mud, and most of all hungry; they all were. All misfits, stragglers, survivors from the attacks, all lost lambs without their units, all gathered together under one Lieutenant Hopper who had seen fit to take command. They were running now, rushing to get free of enemy territory, hoping not to get caught by another underhanded trick, too on edge to worry about which of their fellow soldiers had been swept away by the angry currents of the disrupted Mississippi calm.
A hand latched onto the sleeve of his uniform jacket, yanking him forward and forcing him to pick up the pace if he didn't want to wind up with a face full of mud.
"You deaf, Larabee? Hopper said to move it. If I have to come back here and drag your sorry hide back in line again, you can say goodbye to rations tonight. You hear me?"
"Yes, sir," Chris answered, and forced his legs to move a little faster on their own.
Larson was a no-nonsense soldier. He followed command to the letter, criticized anyone who couldn't do likewise, and doled out punishment as he saw fit. If Hopper made himself the shepherd, then Larson had become the self-designated herding collie. The system worked - the men stayed together, stayed alive thanks to Larson nipping at their heels. He was a tough bastard, but he knew how to motivate them.
Right now, food was the best motivator Chris could think of. It pissed him off that Larson would use such a tactic to keep him moving, and more importantly, Chris knew the man wouldn't hesitate to back up the threat. With a glare at the back of Larson's head, he pushed himself to keep up, and deep down he thanked that tough bastard for giving him what he needed to not fall behind.
~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~
"Holy hell, Larabee, you…you killed Larson. You're a traitor!"
Hopper wasn't smiling anymore. Chris could hear the anguish in his voice, and felt that same tearing sense of loss rip through him at what he'd done. How many times had Larson stuck his neck out for him, kept him going when all he wanted to do was give up? That man had saved Chris's life a thousand times over with mostly just the right words at the time. Now he lay dead, his blood leeching into the dry, desert dust, a waste of a hero felled by the hands of one of his own.
"I said I'm taking him out of here," Chris reiterated, his words tight with the emotion he was trying to keep at bay.
Something touched the back of his boot. "I'm sorry," came a whispered voice from the ground.
Chris didn't have the chance to respond as a cry welled up from another man in the circle. "You son of a bitch!"
"Marty, don't!" Hopper ordered, but it was too late. Another gun was aimed too late, another shot was fired too fast, another body hit the ground to join the first in the death march to Hades.
~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~
"Sneaky bastard Rebs," Marty mumbled as he handed Chris a plate. "How'd they even think up something like that?"
"Like what?" Chris asked. He wasn't even sure what had happened. The last thing he remembered was laughing with Buck about something on deck as a supply ship ferried them down the Mississippi. Their unit wasn't even supposed to be on the damn thing, but timing worked out that it was leaving port as soon as they were scheduled to head further south. A deal was worked out to get them a ride instead of having to trudge through enemy territory, but it wound up being a curse instead of the blessing it should've been. The whole damn ship had blown, throwing anyone up top into the river, and incinerating anyone too close to the explosion down below. Chris had dragged himself out of the water and wandered around alone for three days before Hopper and his collected crew picked him up, all having experienced similar fates.
Marty plunked down on the log beside Chris, seemingly excited to find someone new to tell stories to. His eyes lit up as he talked, his arms waving around in angry animation while he described the circumstances of the many ships' demise. There were several times that Chris had to cease tending to his starving body just to put a steadying hand on the plate that was teetering precariously on Marty's lap.
"Got a bunch of devil snakes working for 'em down here, I'll tell you what. Underhanded dealers, all of 'em, don't care the least bit about honor in war. Klemmet told me him and his boys – they're all dead now I guess, or lost, or something – anyway, about a month back they caught some of those Rebel boys jamming logs full of explosives and setting them out into the river. Our Navy boys coming up to port? Their ships so much as touched on those logs and - BOOM! – down went the ship. Damn logs in the water! Then Drecks, he tells me that him and Nevill were friends with a guy who worked up the west side of the river, and he told them that we were losing boats left and right to explosions in the boiler rooms. Somehow those Southern devils got to the burn wood, jammed those logs full of gunpowder, too. Crew tosses a log in the engine and – BOOM! – whole thing blows from the inside out. But that's not the worst of it. Our boys, they get wise to those logs and check 'em over, and the newer boats, those engines run better off coal. So the new trick? Probably the one that got your boat – you were on the Duchess, right? Yeah, that's what you said. Anyway, they went and hid powder 'n tar filled coal in the fuel supply. I don't even know how they did it, but they did, and they could put a whole mess of 'em in the pile of normal coal. One good shovel full of that thrown in the fires, you got the biggest boom of 'em all. Yup, those guys are sneaky, filthy snakes - not a one of 'em plays by the rules."
Chris quietly agreed and let Marty continue to regale him with tales of the war for the rest of the night. It obviously made the man feel better to get the stories off his chest, and it kept Chris out of his own head too much. A quiet listener and a nervous talker; they made a good pair.
~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~
Chris allowed a show of his own despairing emotion as he looked upon the body of his old friend struck down by his own hand, releasing an angry, mournful bellow into the air.
Hopper jerked in his grasp, but Chris held firm, still keeping one gun pressed up under the man's chin. "Goddamnit, Larabee, he trusted you! You were like a brother to him!"
"I know," Chris muttered, choking on the words.
"You traded him for one of them! For goddamn Simon Ellison! If it weren't for him-"
"It ain't him," Chris growled.
Hopper stopped struggling. "What do you mean it's not him? You're the one that brought him to us, walked him right into my camp."
"Don't play dumb, Hopper, you figured I was up to something. That's why you took my guns," Chris said, giving his one-time commanding officer a shake.
"I still gave you the benefit of the doubt, Larabee. You were one of us. I had hoped-"
"Hoped what? That I'd fall back in line? Help you kill innocent people?" Chris's face turned into a snarl as he spoke. "I didn't want to believe you took part in any of this, only came along to prove him wrong. If I'd listened to him from the start it wouldn't have come to this. Turns out I'm the one who trusted the wrong man."
Someone stepped forward directly behind Chris, and as he spun around to face his newest volunteering opponent he adjusted his footing so that his legs straddled over the torso of his beaten, bleeding friend. The new position allowed an opening for Hopper to deliver one more shallow kick to Ezra's already-bruised side, not enough to do any damage on its own, but more than enough to cause the injured man to hiss in pain. Chris responded by shoving the gun hard into the soft flesh beneath Hopper's jawline, leaving a deep red circle that would no doubt become an ugly shade of purple if the man stayed smart enough to live through his current ordeal.
"Try that again," he muttered menacingly, knowing damn well Hopper would hear the promise of death in his tone.
A throat cleared, bringing Chris's attention back up to the man that had necessitated the initial shift of his aim. "You got something to say, Caleb?" he spat.
"Actually, yes," Caleb responded in his usual formal, intelligent fashion. "I wanted to make a few corrections to your statements. First, I wanted to take the rightful blame for the confiscation of your firearms. I found it entirely too convenient that you would just suddenly appear out of the blue after all these years, stringing Ellison along behind you like a prized lamb. Even with all the resources available to us we've never been able to so much as put a clear face to the name, and yet there you were handing him to us on a silver platter, expecting nothing in return but to be amongst our ranks again. It was entirely too suspicious, and my expression of these concerns resulted in your lost weapons. I can't say I'm sorry for my obviously correct assessment."
"You got a point to this?" Chris said, making sure not to narrow his focus too much on the one speaking.
"Yes, I do," Caleb confirmed. "I am pointing out the flaws in your chosen man to trust, if you'll allow."
"Chris," Ezra's strained voice called from below.
"Quiet, Ezra," Larabee responded, much more gently this time than before. The fingers that clenched at his pant leg in weak argument instead of the typical verbose objections had him worried, but he couldn't look down now. To check on his friend would mean death for them both; they just had to wait. A little longer, Ez, they're coming, he promised.
"He's trying to protest me telling you," Caleb continued. "He pulled your strings, Larabee, got you turning on all of us just like he wanted. You say he's not Ellison? He's an impostor? Well I'm telling you that he's so good at pretending to be Ellison because he is Ellison."
Chris shook his head, not believing it. Ezra was a con artist, one of the best Chris had ever met; it was only natural he'd be able to convince Hopper and his men that he was who he wanted them to believe he was.
"Who told you Rebs were disappearing, Larabee?" Caleb went on, his tone casual. When Chris didn't answer, he kept speaking. "Did you hear about it in the paper? Did your judge tell you? Or was it your new friend, there? Did you know the only ones we went after were Ellison's crew? And we were so careful. You remember how careful we could be, don't you? So tell me, Larabee, how did he know? How did that man know who was missing, who was responsible, unless he was a part of the inner circle? How would anyone but Ellison know?"
On the outside, Chris appeared to keep his cool. His lip twitched just slightly as he mulled over what Caleb said, his eyes widened just a tiny bit as truths hit home, his fingers involuntarily tightened a little more on the triggers, his muscles tensed just a fraction when the fingers on his trousers released their grip.
"I'm sorry, Chris," Ezra whispered again, and that sad phrase, that simple apology was more confession than the gunslinger needed. It was enough to finally make him drop his guard, to glance down at the man between his feet who had now drawn into himself seemingly more out of shame than from the physical pain he was in.
"I told you," Caleb said, and Chris could practically hear the smug grin on his face as he aimed his gun.
"No," Larabee said forcefully, dropping Caleb at the same moment the other man's weapon fired. Caleb's shot went wide – barely - kicking up a plume of dust just above Ezra's head.
"Dammit, Caleb," Chris scolded mournfully, "you should've been smart enough to know not to pull that damn trigger."
~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~
"I've got it! Here, look, I've got it!" Caleb said as he slid down in the mud between Chris and Marty. He yanked a filthy piece of cloth from his pocket and laid it out in front of them, pointing out the hastily drawn lines that made a crude map. "They come right through here. They hide it well, but they couldn't keep their presence a complete secret. I got them on the ridge. It comes up here on their east side, mostly in a ninety degree drop, but here and here," he traced his finger along areas of the depicted trail, "the rock appears to be one hundred percent-"
"Keep it in English," Chris reminded him.
Caleb nodded. "Right, well, the rock is a tough stone, more than sturdy enough to hold a man's weight, and the handholds are set at-" Marty cleared his throat, to which Caleb shook his head and continued on. "Uh, the holds are simple to reach in a swift and safe manner."
"So you're saying we could cut the Ellison's supply train right here?" Chris asked.
"Yes, yes! That's precisely what I'm telling you. Anything coming from Ellison's crew won't make it past this ridge. The Confederate army will have to figure out how to sink our ships without his clever – underhanded, but still clever - ideas."
Marty slapped Caleb on the back hard, laughing at the news. "Well, hell, Caleb, let's go get 'em, then! I'll go spread the word."
Chris smiled. "You do that, Marty." As his friend scurried away to play messenger, Chris gave Caleb an approving grin. "This is good, Caleb, real good. You might've just saved the whole Mississippi Naval line."
"Oh, well, I suppose if we pull this off, you could say that." The young man ducked his head for a second in thought. "What I'd really like though, what'd make it all worth it, would be to see Ellison's face when he finds out. I'd like to be able to look right at him and tell him I bested him without resorting to inventing silly war toys. His little tricks are no good to anyone if they can't reach their goal, after all."
A frown crossed Chris's face. "Those 'silly war toys' killed a lot of people," he pointed out.
"Not anymore, Larabee, not anymore," Caleb assured him. "We'll win this one."
Two days later, thanks to Caleb's tactics, they did exactly that.
~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~
"You do realize you just killed three of the Army's best men, don't you?" Hopper said angrily after no one spoke for a time. "You might as well finish us all off; they'll hang you just the same."
"And they'd have hung, anyway, if any of them killed Ezra," Chris quietly pointed out.
"He's Ellison, dammit!" Hopper spat out. "His damn 'toys' as Caleb called them killed thousands of people, civilians included. Or did you forget about all those women and children on the Sultana? You don't think the law would've looked the other way if we did him in?"
"No," Ezra gasped up from the ground. "No, Sultana wasn't mine." He gripped Chris's pants again, pulling himself up off the ground with the desperate need to be heard and believed. "I was out before that. I got out, Chris. I wouldn't…" He fell back, his breathing labored and painful.
"It's true, Hopper," Chris said. "That ship went down after we cut off Ellison's supply."
Hopper shook his head. "Doesn't matter, they still based their damn torpedoes off his designs. He's a war criminal, Larabee! A mass murderer! He needs to die!"
Chris shook his head. "No, Hopper, he's not. He's a lawman, one of mine, hired on by the district judge."
"He's responsible for the deaths of most everyone in your unit," Hopper continued to argue.
"And from the sounds of it, you've been wiping out everyone in his," Chris countered, "only you're doing it long after the war's over. That's not serving punishment for war crimes, Hopper. By law, you're the murderer, not him, and from what we've seen the last few days we've got enough evidence to prove it."
Horses could be heard in the distance approaching at frightening speed, and Chris barely managed to keep in his sigh of relief. Hopper heard the riders coming in, too, and began to struggle in Chris's grasp again.
"Dammit, Larabee, we saved your goddamn life! Doesn't that mean anything to you?" he hollered as he fought for his freedom.
"It meant everything to me," Chris answered earnestly, struggling to keep his hold on Hopper while at the same time trying to avoid tripping over Ezra and causing him more damage.
"But not enough to let us take out our old enemy, huh?" Hopper answered, slowing his movements.
Chris shook his head. "Not enough to let you kill a friend."
The other members of the seven were close enough now to be seen, and were close enough to also see something of the situation Chris and Ezra had gotten themselves into. Guns were drawn and leveled without the horses slowing their pace, causing Hopper to raise his arms up in defeat.
"Well, boys," he said, addressing the remaining members of Chris's old temporary family, "vigilante justice only ever goes so far. Should we vote on it?"
"Hopper, don't," Chris said, knowing he'd be ignored.
"Go with the lawmen, turn ourselves in peacefully?"
"Don't do this!" Chris shouted at the men.
"Or make sure we bring Ellison and this traitor down with us?" Hopper finished.
The vote came in the form of several guns coming back up, and for a few too-brief moments the world was wrought with chaos as five horses descended upon the circle.
~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~
"Most folks call me Klemmet. I can't really shoot one of them revolvers worth a Queen's pence, but hand me a rifle? Used to pick off rustlers after the farm cattle when I was a boy. Bet ya a whole damn dollar I can take a Reb's eye out faster 'n you can blink if you hand me a rifle. You see me with my gun locked and loaded, you stick by me, Larabee. Ain't no one gonna shoot ya with me at the sights."
..…
"I'm Drecks."
"And I'm Nevill."
"We aren't brothers or anything like that, but almost might as well be."
"Yeah, Drecks and me've been pallin' around for as long as I can remember."
"We joined the service the same day."
"Crazy both of us makin' it off that boat and gettin' to shore just feet from the other."
"Yep, we'll probably die the same day, too."
"Not today, though, 'ey, Larabee? Nope, we ain't goin' down 'til Ellison does."
"Right, not 'til Ellison goes down."
….
"Hell, Larabee, you trying to get yourself killed? Get your fool head down!"
"It is down, Parker, watch your own damn head!"
"Mine's down further than yours! You're gonna get yourself scalped by a Reb bullet. At least save it for the damn Indians if you want to go out that way!"
"Shut up about the damn Indians, Parker. You've never even seen one."
"…Well, no, but I read about 'em a whole bunch. I'm gonna meet some after I'm done with this stupid war, maybe have to kill a few, or maybe…maybe even make friends with some of 'em. Is that dumb, wanting to make friends with the Indians?"
"No, Parker, not dumb at all. Got a few friends, myself. I think you'd get along with them just fine if you wanted to. Now pay attention before you get yourself shot."
"Not gonna get myself shot, Larabee, not before I meet me a real life indian. Yup, after the war, that's what I'm gonna do."
….
"If we put this one here, and that one over there-"
"Brett, Robert, what the hell are you boys doing?"
"Shoot, Larson, we're laying traps, just like you said."
"That won't work."
"Shut up, Larabee, what the hell do you know?"
"Don't tell him to shut up, boy. He obviously knows more than you do. Larabee, help these idiots get those right. I'd like to eat tonight."
"Yes, sir."
"Hell, Larson can set his own damn rabbit traps if he wants to eat rabbit."
"And leave the fishing to us. I know about fishing."
"We passed the creek a long ways back."
"Dammit, Larabee, we know that. We were just talking. Don't know a damn thing about rabbit traps."
"I know. That's why Larson sent me out here to help you. Trapping's a good skill to have. Every man should learn it."
"What, you gonna make us experts in just a few days?"
"No, but I'll show you what I can now, and maybe after the war I can teach you a little more."
"...You'd do that?"
"Yeah, why not?"
"Well, okay then, you got yourself a deal, Larabee."
…..
"You twist your hand just so, you'll get a better angle on your shot."
"Like this?"
"Yeah, that's perfect, Larabee."
"Thanks, Hopper."
"Don't mention it, could save your life some day."
…..
"Larabee, get on up there with Hopper. He wants to run some plan or other by you."
"Why me?"
"I don't know, boy, do I look like I read minds? He sees something in you…potential or something. Just get up there and humor the man."
"Yes, sir!"
…..
"You're going to be a great man someday, Larabee. Mark my words, you'll be a leader."
"If I can do half as good as you, I'll take that as a compliment."
"Nah, you won't do half as good. You'll do better."
,,,,,,,,,
"Come on, Larabee, don't quit now, son."
"…Hopper?"
"There we are, that's a good boy. Hold on, now, don't try to get up. Just lay still, the others are coming."
"…What?"
"Just took a bit of a hit, that's all. Rest easy, they're on their way, I promise. We'll get you out of here."
~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~
"Stay down, Ez, we'll get you out of here," Chris said as he lay atop his injured man.
"I can help," Standish stubbornly insisted, though he could hardly even get the words out.
"You can help by staying down," Chris growled while he waited for the noise and smoke around him to clear.
"Chris! Ezra! You boys alive?" Buck hollered.
"I see 'em!" Vin shouted, jumping off his horse. "Over here!"
Chris remained as Ezra's cover even as he realized everyone else around him was down. Parker, Drecks, Nevill, Brett, Robert, Klemmet, Marty, Caleb, Larson; all the men he fought with, shared dreams with about after the war, all dead. …And Hopper…his personal savior, his big brother, his teacher, a man he once looked up to like no other, was now just two feet from him, his vacant eyes staring up at nothing. Chris had done that, had taken away what was left of the men he once considered family, to save the one responsible for putting them all together in the first place.
"Chris, you hit?" Vin asked, startling him out of his thoughts. He hadn't even seen the tracker's approach.
He did a quick mental check of his body and realized that yes, he had been hit during the scuffle with Hopper. One of the guns had fired into his arm, while the other had gone off into Hopper's chest. The man never had a chance…
"Just my arm," he answered, half in a daze.
Vin looked at him in concern. "Ya sure that's it? Ya weren't hit anywhere else?"
"Yeah, I'm sure," Chris responded with a little more certainty. He looked down at the man he still hovered over, seeing the ghostly pallor of Ezra's skin beneath the blood streaking his face. "Ezra…he needs Nathan. They worked him over pretty good. …I let them work him over pretty good…" His voice trailed off as he dropped his gaze to the ground.
"I deserved it," Ezra mumbled tiredly.
Chris sat back out of Nathan's way and didn't respond, his eyes trailing over the bodies of the dead, his mind trailing over the memories of the living.
~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~
"How long do ya think he puts up with that before he snaps?" Vin asked as he leaned his chair back against the outside wall of the saloon.
Josiah looked up from beneath the brim of his hat, his lips quirking into a small smile as his eyes landed on the odd pair walking slowly away from the livery. "I give it another day maybe before he says something he might regret. He won't be running with that cane."
"Nope," Vin agreed, his own smile growing as he watched the conman roll his eyes while Chris was behind him.
It had been that way since they got back to town – Ezra slowly recovering, Chris practically shadowing his every move. It wasn't in the gunslinger's typical moody, impatient fashion, though. He just simply stuck near Ezra's side, watch-dogging him, all the while with his face seemingly frozen in a constant state of worry, sadness, and a pensive sort of confusion. Ezra, himself, had yet to pick up his normally obstinate, but social nature. He spent more hours in the livery just visiting with his horse, Chris standing casually back outside the door giving the man some privacy while also watching his back. Neither of them were willing to talk about what had happened those few days they were gone beyond the nature of Ezra's injuries, and what was needed to prove to the Judge, and subsequently the Army, that the deaths of a whole unit of the government's men were justifiable.
Buck had recognized the fallen men, had remembered them from back when Chris had gone missing for weeks following the demise of the Duchess. The whole lot of them had come back heroes after cutting off Ellison's delivery route; half-starved, filthy, and with more injuries than most of them should've survived, but alive and smiling, just the same. It had been a joyful reunion and a sad parting, the group of soldiers having formed a tight bond that only seemed to come about in situations of extreme survival. Chris was one of the few that hadn't somehow found his way back to working with Hopper, but Buck was sure he probably would have eventually had Sarah not stepped into his life. If not for her, Larabee might very well have been one of those bodies out in that desert.
That in mind, the others didn't attempt to broach the subject, knowing that Chris had obviously been forced to kill old friends to save a new one, but it seemed there was another reason for the extreme out of character behavior being exhibited in both men. Chris's sudden need to keep Ezra protected from anyone that got within ten feet of him, yet without being able to actually speak directly to the Southerner…and Ezra's shroud of shame that everyone could nearly see as clearly as a black cape wrapped around his shoulders, the way he'd avert his eyes from Larabee's face, and his obvious withdrawal into himself… Vin hoped the very in-character eye roll was a sign that Josiah was right and things would get back to normal soon before those two drove everybody nuts.
Buck pushed through the doorway and stood watching the odd pair for a moment. "Ah hell," he huffed, "someone's gotta stop this. Things just aren't right around here with those two walkin' around like that."
"You volunteerin'?" Vin asked, quirking an eyebrow up at the ladies' man.
Buck adjusted his hat to fit tighter on his head. "Yeah. Yeah, I am."
As he stepped down off the porch, Vin stood up to follow.
"Where are you going?" Josiah asked.
Vin smiled. "Someone's gotta make sure Chris doesn't shoot Buck."
Josiah's rolling laughter followed him down the street as he caught up with the well-meaning Buck, but their mirth came to an abrupt end when Chris shot them both a glare as they came up a little too quickly.
"Easy there, stud, just comin' to join the party," Buck said with a friendly smile.
Ezra sighed. "Clearly I'm not in danger from these two, Mr. Larabee. Or are we now at risk from trusting our own associates?"
"Never know," Chris mumbled bitterly, then winced slightly at his own remark. Ezra did the same.
Buck and Vin exchanged glances before Buck cleared his throat and plowed ahead. "Look, boys, now I don't mean to pry into your business-"
"Then don't," Chris and Ezra snapped simultaneously.
Holding up his hands, Buck laughed nervously as he addressed Vin. "Either Chris's been spendin' too much time with Ezra, or Ezra's been spendin' too much time with Chris."
"I think it's a little bit of both," Vin agreed, doing his best to offer his subtle assistance.
Chris deepened his glare. "Don't you boys have something better to do?"
"Nope. Don't you?" Buck threw back. "Can't image playin' bodyguard's doin' the town much good right now."
"Town's fine," Chris responded sharply.
Vin nodded slowly. "For now, yeah. What happens when it's not, though?"
Ezra arched an eyebrow. "I fail to see your point, Mr. Tanner."
Buck took it upon himself to explain. "We just want to make sure that whatever the hell's goin' on with you two isn't about to get us all killed. We're sorry about what happened to your friends, Chris-"
"My friends died a long time ago," Larabee snarled. "The men back there…just another group of soldiers who couldn't get away from the war. They brought it on themselves."
Vin ducked his head. "Seems to me they weren't the only ones who're havin' trouble livin' in the present."
Chris stepped into his space. "You got something to say, Tanner?"
Vin looked up and met Larabee's angry gaze. "Yeah, I do. The way I see it, didn't none of us survive the war. Maybe some of us did some things we ain't proud of, some of us did some things that made us heroes, but I hope to God the person I was out in that damn bloody field stayed there when the fightin' ended. I ain't a rank or a number anymore, Chris, and neither are you. I'm just Vin Tanner, lawman of Four Corners, same as y'all."
Ezra looked away. "Some of us have more sins to bear than can so easily be brushed aside."
Buck shrugged. "We ain't brushin' 'em aside, pard. Just layin' 'em to rest. You boys think on that, and get back to us when you both get your heads out of the damn smoke."
As Vin and Buck walked away, Ezra blew out another long sigh. "You think they would say the same if they knew who I was? That is why you've been so insistent on looking out for me, is it not, Mr. Larabee? You're afraid of what they might do if they find out who I am?"
Chris took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair. "I don't know. The name paints a pretty big target on your back."
"So why do you insist on protecting it so valiantly?" Ezra asked. "Especially with everything my previous persona cost you?"
The question posed was the very same that Chris had been mulling over since the day they had gotten back to town; it appeared in his mind as he found himself genuinely worried that Ezra wouldn't wake up, over what would happen if the others discovered the Southerner's secret past identity, how the conman would cope with having his history so violently revealed. It irritated him that he no longer knew how to treat this man that had become his friend, knowing that in years past it was his chief goal to end Ellison's-
"Ezra, be honest with me," he abruptly said. "No lies, no games. Just tell me the truth." The Southerner eyed him for a second before slowly nodding. "What's your name? Your real name?"
Closing his eyes for a second in understanding, the con artist slowly, and very clearly responded. "Ezra Patrick Standish, my father's namesake."
"Not Simon Ellison?" Chris reiterated.
Ezra flicked his eyes over to where Vin had reclaimed his seat in front of the saloon, and ran his thumb over his bottom lip for a second before speaking. "If I'm not mistaken, I do believe Simon Ellison perished in an explosion wrought by his own recklessness. It seems he was not as careful with his toys as he liked to think he was."
Chris turned away to hide his small smirk. "I think I heard the same thing."
With a nod and a grateful smile, Ezra turned and began the slow shuffle towards the saloon. Chris waited a beat before following, not as a confused shadow, but as a friend.
"For what it's worth," he stated quietly, "I don't blame you for the Sultana, and I don't think any of them would, either." He nodded towards the men gathering on the porch as JD and Nathan joined the group. "Can't fault the inventor of the gun for every innocent that gets killed, just the man that wields it."
Chris almost couldn't hear Ezra's near silent, "Thank you," but he felt the wave of relief that came with it. Letting the subject drop at that, they joined their comrades in front of the saloon for some playful banter before heading in for a beer and a game of poker. Watching the way the others took care with their injured friend, some more subtly than others, and the way Standish graciously accepted their aid and teasing insults, Chris kicked himself mentally for ever thinking, even for an instant, that Ezra was the enemy. Ellison was just a too-smart kid caught up in promises of grandeur if he produced the right weapon, and he had paid the price for his sins tenfold within his own guilty conscience. That boy was not, nor ever could be, Ezra P. Standish – confident conman extraordinaire, secretly empathetic and full of self doubt, reckless hero when it struck his fancy, and a general, cocky, smartass pain in Chris's rear. Catching the cardsharp's eye, Chris raised his glass to his friend in silent truce and understanding, and Ezra did the same.
Thank you, Hopper, Chris thought silently as he downed his shot. You did it, you crazy son of a bitch. You and the boys killed Ellison, after all.
He sat back, at peace with the way things turned out, feeling the lightened weight of one less demon hiding in his closet.
The End!