Chris yelled, "Nooooooooo!" and plowed into all three men: Ezra, and the two natives, carrying all four of them to the ground. Larabee landed just behind Shorter Brave and noticed his very own gun sticking out of the back of the buckskin pants. Chris grabbed it, but before he had a chance to catch his breath and shoot, Mean Brave yelled out and the two natives disappeared off into the woods on Chris' and Ezra's horses.

Chris ran to Standish's side, and placed a handkerchief to his bleeding head.

"Hair…..clothes," Ezra repeated over and over.

"You're gonna be ok, Ezra," Chris tried to reassure the obviously-confused man. "Let's get out of here before those two decide to come back." Larabee threw Ezra over his shoulder and headed into the woods in the opposite direction.

Ezra was moaning and struggling, and Chris' legs were shaking from fatigue. Larabee knew that they likely hadn't gone more than half a mile, but he couldn't keep going. He lay the southerner on the ground as gently as possible, and Standish's eyes shot open. "No, don't touch me!" Ezra screamed and kicked his booted foot hard into Chris' left knee.

"Woah, Ezra," Chris held up his hands and limped back a step, "it's me, Chris. I ain't gonna hurt you."

Standish's eyes seemed not to focus on any one particular spot, but he somehow got to his feet. The gambler staggered around aimlessly as he yelled, "scalped! My God, I've been scalped."

Every time that Chris approached, Ezra struck out….with his hands, fists, legs, sticks, whatever he had at his disposal, and Larabee was getting nervous. He didn't know if the Comanche were looking for them. He had to get Ezra settled down now.

Chris finally managed to grab the shorter man in a bear hug from behind and tried his best to speak soothingly. "Ezra, you're ok. You ain't scalped. You were hit on the head, and you're just confused."

"But I saw the knives….and the blood! You were there! You're one of them!" Standish got his left arm free and elbowed his captor. The blow hit in Chris' injured side, which caused him to scream out, let go of Ezra, and double over in agony.

Chris collected himself and looked up just in time to see Ezra disappear into the forest.

"Damnit!" Chris shouted and forced himself slowly to his feet. He didn't remember ever feeling so tired, but he knew he couldn't leave Ezra out there by himself. The man was delirious and had no supplies….not even water.

Chris headed in the same direction as the fleeing gambler, cursing the natives, this stupid mission, and anything else that came to mind as he trudged through the thick underbrush. He could feel the heat of fever starting to build in his own body. He had only had the stream water to rinse the arrow wound; no whiskey or soap to clean it properly.

After about 10 minutes, Standish came into view once again. He was sitting on a rock with his head in his hands. It looked as though he had calmed down, so Chris tried again to reach his distraught friend.

"Ezra, I only want to help you. Do you remember who I am?" Chris asked from a safe distance.

"You are Chris Larabee, and you watched them torture me," Ezra answered softly.

"They hit you on the head, Ezra. You were dreaming or hallucinating or something."

"No, I was there. I saw it; you were laughing as they scalped me."

Chris sat on the ground and sighed, "Ezra, you're not scalped. Feel your head. Your hair is still there."

Standish only reached up far enough to feel the makeshift bandage wrapped around his head, and he began yelling once again, "oh God, it's really gone. How can I live like this!? What else did they do to me!?"

Chris, too, stood and tried to calm the now fully-panicked southerner. "Ezra, please calm down. Everything's gonna be ok," but it wasn't working. Standish seemed to be getting more and more agitated.

"Get away from me!" Ezra screamed, and Chris could tell that he was looking for a weapon or path to escape. So, he put his hands up in surrender.

"OK, Ezra, I'll leave you alone, but here….at least take the canteen." Larabee placed the container of water on the dirt and walked away. He would stay close enough to keep an eye on the southerner but out of sight. They only had one gun, which Chris kept, and the one canteen between the two of them.

Ezra felt a strange mix of emotions when the blond man was out of sight: relief, guilt, fear. His head hurt fiercely, and Standish continued to see the images from the tipi play over and over again in his mind. How could Chris think he would believe that he hadn't been tortured? He remembered the scene very vividly….the knives, the laughter, the pain. He could not remember getting dressed or anyone dressing him, but Larabee must have done it before carrying him off into the wilderness.

The tired gambler continued westward. He never saw or heard from Chris or the Comanche the rest of the day. Once the skies became too dark to continue, he lay down on the ground between two trees and fell into a fitful sleep. The dreams of torture continued throughout the long, cold night.

M7M7M7M7M7M7M7

Although it wouldn't have seemed possible the day before, Ezra awoke feeling even more stiff and sore than yesterday. His head and back were at the forefront of his attention, but literally every inch of him hurt. His stomach growled, and Standish felt hungry and nauseous all at the same time. He took a drink of water, hauled himself to his feet, and began to walk once again….not really knowing or caring where he was going. He knew that he would be forced to live as a hermit if his head were disfigured from the scalping and beating; the once-handsome conman could not, and would not, allow people to see him like this. His Mother would disown him for sure.

After an hour hiking away from the rising sun, something black caught his eye in the trees to his right. Upon closer inspection, Ezra could see that it was Larabee, and he appeared to be sleeping. Standish found that unusual, given what he knew about the gunslinger and his habits, but he didn't dwell on it. Maybe Chris had only bedded down a few hours ago. Ezra couldn't forgive the man for allowing, hell enjoying, the vile acts that were committed to his person by the Comanche. So, Standish simply walked on.

Ezra's journey had progressed only another half-mile or so when he heard the unmistakable sound of horses tramping through the brush. He only got himself hidden away with seconds to spare before the two Comanche came into view, still riding the regulators' very own horses. They rode on past, obviously not seeing Standish. Ezra knew that Chris was in real danger; if he had found Larabee so easily this morning, the natives would as well.

Something told him, forced him, to go warn his associate….correction, former associate, before he went on his own way once again.

M7M7M7M7M7M7M7

Ezra approached quietly and shook the lean, black-clad figure. "Mr. Larabee?"

A moan was the only response.

"The Comanche will likely circle back this way any minute, Mr. Larabee. You must hide yourself." Why the hell was Chris ignoring him? Did he think this was some kind of a joke? Damn, this was making his head hurt even more.

Out of frustration, Ezra jerked Chris over on to his back, and glassy, green eyes finally opened and stared at him from behind long, blond bangs. Standish slapped Larabee's face, quite hard, and was shocked to feel the heat emanating from the man. Chris was burning up with fever; it was then that Standish remembered the arrow sticking out of Larabee's side the day he was captured.

Ezra stood and walked a few feet away. He ran his hands over his dirty, exhausted face, and sighed. If he were to leave Chris in this state, the man would surely perish…either from the fever or the Comanche.

Too bad, thought Ezra. If I stay to tend him, then it may hasten my own death as well, and this man laughed while I suffered. Standish headed back into the woods, but stopped after a few minutes. Just like their initial mission at the Seminole village years earlier, Ezra was unable to walk away. His mind kept picturing Chris risking his own life for the town, for the other men, and for himself on more than one occasion.

The southerner spotted an area surrounded by tall rock walls on three sides, and he and his sore back and limbs somehow managed to haul Larabee's semi-conscious form there.

"Here," Ezra held the seven's leader's head with one hand and offered the canteen with the other, "take a drink."

Chris obliged then managed to croak out, "Ezra?"

"Yes, now just lie back and rest," Ezra did not feel like talking at the moment. Chris, once again, did as instructed and promptly allowed his eyes to shut. There were beads of sweat on Chris' flushed face, and his wheat-colored locks were wet and darker around the hairline. Larabee's fever was high, and there wasn't a damn thing Ezra could do about it besides try to keep the over-heated body from dehydrating itself.

Standish would never get used to seeing Chris Larabee ill or injured. Chris was always strong and in-control. Therefore, it made this helpless being in front of him seem like a completely different person.

Chris finally began stirring again in the early afternoon. Ezra offered more water, and then assisted Larabee to a sitting position. Of all the possible first words out of Chris' mouth, he chose to say, "you come to your senses, yet?"

Ezra snapped back, "my senses? Ha! I knew I should have left you to the Comanche. Once they imprison you for a day or two, then you'll understand what I went through." Before he could stop himself, Standish's right fist connected solidly with Chris' jaw, sending the feverish man right back to the ground where he lay a few minutes earlier.

"Damn you!" Ezra yelled. "I was planning to wait until we returned to Four Corners to inform you of my decision, but why wait? Hell, we probably will not make it back anyway. So, Mr. Larabee, I resign my position with the town, effective immediately!"

Chris pushed himself back up. "Ezra, just calm down. I'm sorry, ok?"

"Oh, you're sorry? Sorry for what, Mr. Larabee? For what you just said? For watching the Indians torture me with glee? For being nothing but rude and irritating for the last three years?"

Ezra turned and stomped away.

"OK, Ezra, I'm sorry….for all of that. For everything that I did….and didn't do. Don't leave," Chris paused and ran a shaking hand through his hair.

Standish stopped, sighed, and glanced back. Chris did look awful. Guilt…the guilt of knowing that Larabee might die if he left, and the guilt of knowing that Chris would not leave him if the situation were reversed.

The gambler approached Larabee and helped position him against the wall, so he could sit more easily. "You are quite ill from infection in your wound. I will stay and assist you until you are well or we make it to a municipality of some sort, but have it be known that I plan to go my separate ways as soon as you are taken care of."

Chris shook his head and simply said, "ok." He had finally done it. He had finally pushed one of his six colleagues too far, and now Ezra was leaving. "Ezra, I don't want to make you mad, but you gotta believe me. The Comanche scalping and torture was only a dream. I would never help anyone hurt you."

Standish sat and stared into Chris' pale eyes. The man looked sincere, but Ezra knew without a doubt that his capture was real. It had to be. He could see it, feel it, taste it. There just wasn't time to dwell on it or figure it out right now. Chris was shaking with chills, he had nothing with which to try to clean any of their wounds, they had no food, and only a tiny bit of water.

Just when he thought things couldn't get any worse, he heard the approach of horses.

"The Comanche are coming."

"Here," Larabee held out the gun to Ezra. It only held 6 bullets, and they had no additional ammo. Chris figured Ezra would have a steadier aim. "Help me to my feet."

"I can't be worried about what's happening to you?" Ezra said.

"I know," Chris acknowledged, but then finished with, "I can't just sit here and do nothing." He gathered a hand full of large rocks as Standish helped him up onto very shaky legs. Chris felt weak and dizzy, and the pain in his infected side was intense, but he was going to stand come hell or high water.

Standish wasn't anywhere near 100% himself. His vision blurred from time to time, and he had a headache the size of Texas. Chris had certainly been right about one thing: there was no doubt that he had taken a very hard hit to the head at some point. He rubbed his eyes, shook his head, and trained his green eyes on the opening in the rocks.

The southerner wasn't prepared for how much it would affect him when he saw the Comanche up close again. Without aiming or thinking, he pulled the trigger on Chris' colt when the older brave peeked around the left-side rock wall, and did the same when the brave looked a second time.

"Ezra, that's all the ammo we got," Chris said as calmly as he could. "You might wanna think about holdin' fire until you get a clean shot."

Ezra slowly inched closer to the opening, and then suddenly, from the other side, the younger brave jumped down in front of him. Standish once again fired, but the brave kept coming. He plowed into Standish, and the two men fought.

Mean Brave reappeared as well and leered at Chris. It only seemed to further anger the Indian when Larabee planted a 3-inch rock into his chest. He ran full-force into the injured peacekeeper, slamming the blond against the wall.

Chris and Ezra both fought for all that their dehydrated and malnurished bodies had. Shorter Brave had pounded Standish's head against a solid, oak, tree trunk, and Ezra was just about out on his feet. He thought he was imagining things when he saw the young Comanche suddenly collapse. As he crawled closer, he saw a blossoming, red stain across the Brave's stomach. He had hit him with that first shot; it had just taken him a good 10 or 15 minutes to die.

Standish stood and fell, and repeated that three times before making it back to the sheltered area where Chris was fighting with the larger brave. The Comanche was kicking a downed Larabee. Damn Chris Larabee's rules, thought Ezra, and he lifted the Colt and shot the native in the back. The Comanche fell on top of Chris and neither man moved.

Standish pulled the long-haired man off, and then sat to catch his breath. He could see that Larabee's wound was bleeding and oozing puss. He would go find the horses and get any supplies that were still there…..he just needed a few minutes. Before the few minutes were up, Ezra passed out cold on the ground next to Chris.