Thanks to Kristen for naming Ezra's horse.

"You are not dying, Mistah Larabee."

"Feels like it. Feels like my chest is weighed down with hot lead."

"Ah know what it feels like …. " Ezra really did know, after all, Chris had been telling him how it felt now for over two hours. But the gambler didn't get the chance to finish his thought.

"No ya don't!" Chris Larabee moaned in pain as he curled up on his side on his bedroll. Ezra Standish looked on from his comfortable seat on his own layer of blankets, the large cottonwood acting as a seatback. He'd been attempting to move to the next chapter of his well-worn copy of Mark Twain's TheInnocentsAbroad but, alas, even with a book that was so well known to him, the moaning and groaning from the former gunslinger had made for unpleasant interruptions. If there was one thing that Ezra Standish could not abide it was the lack of quiet when he was reading. The avid reader had found that the easy, now-familiar sounds of his current 'hometown' - the echoes of Spanish from an irate Inez, the whinny of Chaucer from the livery when he heard Ezra's voice even remotely close, the laughter of Billy running down the main street to show something to his mother, the jingle of spurs that often gave him the time to head out of the way of Chris' bad mood - were all favorable background sounds, miscreants and real cowboys causing a ruckus on any given day notwithstanding, to the passion that he had developed as a child but had been forced by circumstance and adult distractions to forgo these last years before joining with these six men, these fellows he worked with and considered the first true friends since that childhood. He hadn't had a lot of friends in his youth as his con-artist mother kept them on the move, or simply left him with the most convenient family member, those brief stays not really beneficial to nurturing friendships. Often, a book was his only friend.

Needless to say, his current reading material rarely made it out of the saddlebag when he was on the trail with Buck Wilmington or J.D. Dunne. He hardly took in a word of any current tome he was enjoying when it was Buck and J.D. with whom he rode. He thought he'd be safe pulling his book out while traveling with Chris Larabee; the man was famous for going hours without saying a word. He was much like their quiet and accomplished tracker Vin Tanner in this regard, except that Vin could be counted on for pleasant conversation when called upon, rather than the surly one or two word replies that Larabee was noted for. Ezra was sure that he'd been in Chris' company when he'd gone an entire day without saying word one. Josiah Sanchez could be equally quiet and contemplative on the trail; the problems arose when he would open his mouth and find it nearly impossible to shut it for the remainder of the day, often castigating Ezra for someone else's inability to recognize their poker playing shortcomings. Riding with Chris was often akin to riding alone, so long as the gambler didn't do something to raise the man's ire. If that happened, all bets were off. Today, it wasn't Ezra who had unleashed the anger in the leader of the now famous 'Magnificent Seven', at least not in Ezra's eyes. No, today it was what Ezra deemed Chris' own weakness that caused the complaints and forced the reader to close his book and set it aside. The pounding headache he'd developed over the last hour or so, the one that he chose to attribute to Chris' never-ending whining, was making all the words blend together on the page anyway.

"Ah concede that Ah do not have familiarity with what it is like to suffer a heart loaded with molten lead," he noted with a smirk. Luckily, Chris was moaning softly and missed the decidedly snide tone to the comment. "Ah do, however, understand pain. Ah can imagine what Señorita Juanita's extra-spicy special is doin' to you, especially after you'd taken seconds, and thirds, of the self-proclaimed 'salsa muy caliente'."

"It ain't heartburn! I know what I can take, damn it!"

"Chris, the perspiration was pouring from your face after the first bowl. It burned mah tongue so badly on one taste that even An steered clear of it, and you know how Ah enjoy spicy food. The señorita's burritos alone nearly burned off mah sense of taste. For food only, of course."

"It ain't heartburn! I've had heartburn … "

"Ah am shocked to hear this, shocked, Ah say," Ezra bandied back, the sarcasm taking on a threatening tone … for the con man, should he keep it up.

"Shut up, Ezra."

"Mah pleasure," the even-on-the-trail impeccably well-dressed lawman replied. A deep, pain-filled groan followed from Chris, followed by a less-than-subtle, 'Good Lord' from the southerner.

"Ezra," Chris ground out.

"Ah understand that you are in pain, Mistah Larabee," Ezra said as he rubbed his own aching head, "but Ah see little point in blaming me. Even further, Ah see little point in remainin' here when if we mounted up now we could be back to the dusty burg we call home within the next couple of hours. You have ridden with multiple bullet wounds in your person. Surely you could manage the short remainder of … "

"Ezra! I'm dyin' here! Ya think Nathan would agree that it's a good thing to be on a horse when you're dyin'?"

Ezra rolled his eyes, lowered his head, just in case Chris looked his way, not wanting the already volatile man to see the grin on his face. He attempted the best poker face that he could, which was formidable, even under these circumstances, looked up again and replied calmly, "No. Ah am quite certain that our fine healer would look askance at such irresponsible behavior."

"Damn right!" Chris countered angrily.

"But since you are not dyin', it would indeed behoove you to get on Pony and get to Mistah Jackson forthwith. Ah am certain he would have somethin' to relieve your symptoms."

"Dyin' ain't a symptom, goddamn it!" Chris yelled, followed by a moan, and then the tall blond got as small as Ezra had ever seen as he curled up even further and clutched his chest.

Ezra sighed. He knew how this would play out. They would waste the day in this camp, staying through the early evening hours, by which time Chris will have realized that he was, indeed, only suffering a bad case of heartburn. Once he made that realization, his real anger would show through, and it would all be directed Ezra's way, the gunslinger blaming the gambler for them being forced to spend the night sleeping on the hard ground. That was why he knew it was in his best interests to get Chris up and on his horse. Now. And with his logical argument lost on his aggravating leader, it appeared that the con man was going to have to resort to a con to get them moving.

"Mistah Larabee, Ah am going to go fill up our canteens in the creek. Will you be all right?"

"Ain't goin' anywhere, Ezra."

'Ohyesyouare', he thought. "Very well," was what he said. "I will be gone for just a few minutes." Ezra grabbed Chris' canteen and his own and strolled unhurriedly to the water source. He leaned over and filled the first canteen, thinking about what his next move would be. He would have to give his best performance, as Chris Larabee would without doubt see a sudden need to leave as being highly suspect with all of Ezra's urging in the last while that they move on. He took his knife and, regretting the damage he would be doing to his trousers, stabbed himself just above his right knee. He grunted in pain, but immediately did the same thing the same distance away from the first one that an average set of rattlesnake fangs might be. He cleaned the blade and put his knife back in his boot. Ezra knew he would need the area to show reddening soon, so he took a rock from the ground and hit himself hard over top of the two 'bite' marks. He dropped the second canteen along the edge of the creek, and then yelled, a screeching, frightened sound that was sure to draw his travel partner to his side.

Just moments later, he heard Chris call. "Ezra?"

"Bravo", the con man complimented himself under his breath. Ezra, from his position on the ground, getting his ruined pants muddy as he tossed and moaned about, could see a hunched over Chris Larabee lurching his way. He felt a mild wave of guilt, but he let it go as he recognized this was the only way he would be able to get home tonight and comfortably ensconced at his table, a well-earned single malt at hand, a deck of cards at the ready.

"S … Snake," Ezra bit out, as he grasped for his leg.

Chris dropped to his knees, his right hand clutched about at his chest. He used his left to push Ezra's hand away. "Let me see," he said, but Ezra moaned and kept his hand around the 'wound'. "Come on, Ez, you gotta let me see."

"N … No," Ezra cried. "G … Gotta get back. G … Get N … Nathan," he pleaded.

"We will, but let me suck out some of the venom."

Shit. Chris had likely done this before, so he would probably taste that there was no venom in Ezra's snake bite. But he'd initiated this ruse to get them home. He was going to have to play it out.

"Don't kn … know how d … deep it bit," Ezra complained.

"It's all right. We'll do this quick and then get movin'."

Ezra looked to Chris' face. His fear was evident to the gunslinger, he was sure. That Chris didn't know it was fear for what would happen when his trick was found out was Ezra's meager consolation. I'madeadman, he thought as he nodded for Chris to proceed.

The gunslinger reached for Ezra's knife and ripped the cloth at the two holes above the gambler's knee. There was blood and a slight hint of pink surrounding the bite marks. Chris leaned over and sucked on the wound, spitting out what he had in his mouth. He saw the canteen in the mud and grabbed it, opened it and poured the water on, wiping the blood away. He leaned down again, sucked at the wound once more, and spit out the bloody mouthful.

"Don't taste much,"

"Th … That's good, r … right?" Ezra asked.

"Don't know. I guess. Think it means the rattler didn't get a good hold?" Chris asked worriedly.

"Ah … Ah wouldn't know," Ezra admitted. He had learned a lot about being out in the wilds of the frontier, but he had, fortunately or no, not had to learn firsthand about rattlesnakes. He only knew that the sooner you got help, the more likely you would survive. He was beginning to regret this course of action as he realized that Nathan would be involved in this con, and though he knew Chris was in a disagreeable-enough state to miss that Ezra might be conning him, Nathan Jackson would not be quite so easily fooled. His relationship with the Negro healer had always been a precarious one, though over the years a friendship had finally been achieved. Ezra knew that if Nathan found him out on this, a very large step back would be taken in their relationship.

"Don't worry," Chris said. "Stay put a second," he said as he filled the 'dropped' canteen. "Give me your handkerchief," he ordered. Ezra, hand shaking, which was not an act, felt in his inside pocket for the silky material and handed it to Chris, who proceeded to wrap the knee with it, and then took his own larger scarf from his coat pocket and tied it around the smaller cloth. "Let's get ya up," Chris said. Ezra used his 'good' leg to boost himself up, knowing that Chris was still in pain from his gastronomic mis-adventures earlier. The two men made it to the camp, Chris setting Ezra down while he cleaned up their things and saddled the horses. They were on the trail, moving slowly but surely to their destination, both men anxious to make it home, one man's anxiety completely of his own making.

Chris had kept the pace slow going home, knowing that too much movement could force the poison from the rattlesnake bite throughout Ezra's system faster, making getting to Nathan quickly a valiant but wasted effort. Chris sat in the clinic in a chair beside the gambler, who bravely lay patiently as Nathan fretted about, placing a compound on his leg to draw out as much of the poison as possible. Chris and Nathan had talked, Chris explaining that he hadn't tasted much other than blood when he'd tried to suck the poison out. Nathan tsked when they'd arrived, saying that it was risky letting Ezra move. Chris argued that if the man was going to die of a snake bite, he should die surrounded by friends. This only made the gambler feel worse about what he'd done, which worried Nathan as the con man paled and sweated in the bed.

"Chris, Ah … " he started.

"Rest easy, Ezra," Nathan ordered. "Don't want you upset."

"Ah fear that it's too late for that, Nathan," Ezra admitted woefully.

Chris patted Ezra's shoulder. "I'm sorry about earlier. Looks like you were right."

"Right?" Ezra asked with a frown. "About what?"

"Heartburn. Nathan gave me something and I'm feeling much better. Think next time we go to Silver City I'll pass on Juanita's."

"N … Next time," Ezra said in a near-whisper. He was feeling decidedly discombobulated by the goings-on, as though he'd missed some part of what had transpired from when they left the camp to this moment. Had he lost some time? He looked, first to Chris and then over to Nathan, puzzlement evident on his handsome face.

"I think the bite is fine, doesn't look like it had the chance to really get through," Nathan said as he threw a wink to Chris. "Those finely made clothes of yours probably saved your life," he noted.

"Wh … Why …" Ezra started, but then shook his head. Why couldn't he think straight?

"Why do you feel so lousy?" Chris asked. "Nathan thinks you caught some sort of bug. You passed out on our way back. Just barely caught you before you slipped out of your saddle. Chaucer knew something wasn't right, he kept knocking into Pony. Damned smart animal ya got there, Ezra."

"Indeed." Ezra blinked once, then twice, and then several more times before he no longer could keep his eyes open.

"You gonna let 'im know?" Nathan asked softly.

"What? That the jig is up? Why? It'd just make him feel worse than he already does," Chris explained.

"Don't know about that. He's obviously feelin' guilty about what he did."

"Yeah, but if he didn't do it, I'd've been out there with him as he got sicker and not knowin' what to do, and for what? Because I couldn't recognize a bad case of indigestion? He'd have suffered a helluva lot more than I did. Who knows when he would have been well enough to travel?"

"Guess it's a good thing he reads you as well as he does," Nathan said as he worked to prepare a tea for the gambler. He would wake him long enough to drink the potion, which would help the sick man to sleep through the illness that he had caught. They had received a telegram from the doctor in Silver City, warning of a mean sickness that resembled influenza. Ezra was at the beginning of the illness, based on the symptoms described in the telegram; he had two or three long, unpleasant days ahead of him.

"Not sure I like that so much," Chris admitted.

"Maybe not, but it saved ya both from yaselves this time."

"Reckon it did." Chris sat back in the chair as he watched his now truly ill friend sleep. He rubbed at his chest, the burn in his heart from the heat of Juanita's salsa no longer felt, but the hurt in his heart even more severe as he thought about what might have been. These men, they had come to mean so much. This man, despite Chris' concerted efforts in the past to distance himself from the gambler – and the gambler's efforts to distance him from them all - had become as close to Chris as all of the others, in spite of their rocky start. His heart would truly burn if he lost him. Chris needed to reevaluate how he acted, how he reacted to Ezra. His first instinct with the man was to fight, and he did that persistently earlier in the day, when if he'd taken a moment to listen to him, he would have realized how reasonable Ezra was being. "What is it?" he asked softly but to himself. Nathan heard the question.

"What is what?" the healer asked.

"Ah, nothin'," the tall blond said as he stood, placing Ezra's copy of TheInnocentsAbroad on the bed beside him. He stretched and turned toward the door. "I'll stop by later," he said to the room as he left. Ezra's eyes opened. Too weak to call to his friend, too weak to have the conversation they needed, he watched as the door closed, listened as the boots pounded and the spurs jangled ever more distant. He placed his hand on the book, smiled, and slipped back to sleep.

The End.