Ezra P. Standish spread the cards on the green baize of the table – a full house.
"Damn!"
Buck threw his cards on the table in disgust, noting with frustration the growing smile of satisfaction on the gambler's face. Ezra was decidedly smug these days. Ever since he had managed to scrape together enough funds to buy back the Standish Tavern – and schemed, plotted and finally finagled his mother into parting with the place by some so-far-undisclosed act of blackmail – he was indeed a very happy man.
Not only that, but he had just this week replaced all of the gaming tables in the establishment with good-quality new ones, shipped from an exclusive manufacturer back east. He had gone seriously into debt to do it, but the results were worth it - the Tavern had immediately begun to attract more discerning customers, the riff-raff trudging across the street to Four Corner's other saloon where the whisky was no more than rot-gut, the beer weak and lukewarm, and the food definitely questionable when it came to quality.
He sighed happily.
Josiah shook his head in defeat and threw his abysmal hand face downward on the rich green of the baize. He should have known better than to bluff with only a pair of eights to his name, and he took a sip of his whiskey to try and deaden the disappointment.
"If you so much as let one drop of alcohol fall on my new tables, Mr Sanchez, you will be payin' for it's re-coverin' from that meagre pittance you call an income."
Josiah cocked an eyebrow at the gambler.
"Why don't you just deal, Ez, before I forget that I'm supposed to be a man of God an' do some furniture rearrangin' of my own …"
Standish smirked. With a dimpled smile beginning to spread across his lean face he gathered together the cards and began to shuffle, the cards whispering and rippling in practised fingers. Green eyes twinkled with delight as he started to deal.
Yessiree, Josiah thought grimly, Ezra looks just like the cat that ate the cream … Damn, but Ezra had a talent for pissin' off a man.
The three peacekeepers were just sorting their cards when a commotion began outside. Voices were raised in consternation, then yells of fear rang out as there was a loud CRASHas something substantial collapsed. The whole building shuddered.
Three guns were out of their holsters before the cards hit the table. Buck, Ezra and Josiah were on their feet and on the point of heading out of the batwing doors, convinced there was some sort of riot erupting on the main street of fair Four Corners. But before they could move a human body pelted through the doors into the saloon, a body with arms waving in panic and a face blanched white with terror.
"BUUUUUUULL!"
The unidentified body just kept going, exiting through the door behind the bar while the rest of the better-quality drunks, barflies and ne'er -do-wells that inhabited the Standish Tavern gaped as a mountain burst in through the batwing doors.
It was a slow-moving mountain, to be sure, a bull-shaped mountain with approximately half of Yosemite's corral fence draped tastefully around its neck. Roland had come looking for his Adored One. The scent had been elusive, but dogged bovine that he was, he had tracked Buck better than a blue-tick hound on the trail of a grizzly.
Roland was having trouble pushing his way through the doorway with his necklace of fence, but he heaved his huge bulk forwards and dragged the wood through anyway, taking most of the doors and a goodly portion of the supporting timbers with him.
Once through, he stood in the doorway, head swinging from side to side as he searched for the scent of Wilmington, Holder of the String, Person Whom He Adored. Ah-hah! There he was! The small eyes blinked with delight and he stepped majestically into the room, scattering drunks before him like rats leaving a sinking ship.
He sauntered slowly across the room, hump and corral fence swaying elegantly with every step, crushing tables and chairs without a thought. They were reduced to match-sticks, nothing but splinters and tangled green baize, as Roland sedately meandered towards a Buck Wilmington standing frozen like a mesmerised rabbit.
Buck gripped his gun held in nerveless fingers, the sheer enormity of the disaster unfolding in front of him reducing him to a reasonable imitation of a floundering catfish as his mouth opened and shut wordlessly.
Josiah had to admire Buck's steadfastness in the face of this calamity. The preacher watched fascinated, as Roland halted beside Buck and that long, prehensile tongue crept out once more and licked Wilmington's unresisting face, leaving a trail of goo and frothy saliva bubbles on the dark moustache. Then, with a heaving sigh of pleasure, Roland folded his legs and lay down in a groaning heap on the saloon floor, crushing bits of fence and the last of Ezra's much-prized gaming tables beneath his enormous bulk. Tucking his legs more firmly underneath him and shifting slightly to make himself more comfortable, Roland burped up some cud and began chewing contentedly.
Silence reigned.
"Ezra? Ez … you all right, son?" Josiah's soft baritone broke the spell.
All hell broke loose as clients – drunk or otherwise – exited the Standish Tavern in record time, and in less than a minute the room was disturbingly empty. Apart, that is, from three flabbergasted regulators and one very content bull.
But Josiah had no time to worry about that. He was concerned about Ezra.
Standish's face was bone-white, the skin stretched taut, eyes wide with horror.
"J … Jos … tables … bull …"
Now Josiah was really worried. Ezra was completely at a loss for words. This was serious.
"What the …?"
Larabee's voice echoed around the room as a black-clad figure appeared in the wrecked doorway and the remainder of one of the bat-wing doors finally collapsed and crunched the gunslinger's right foot.
"Holy shit!"
JD scooted past Chris as the gunman hopped painfully around cursing succinctly, JD sure that he was hearing a few interesting epithets even Buck didn't know.
"Oh my Lord …"
Utter devastation greeted the young sheriff. The interior was liberally littered with wrecked wood and shards of tables, and the smell of spilled whiskey and stale beer floated aromatically through the dust-filled atmosphere. Broken glasses gleaming dully in the winking light of Ezra's new chandelier, the one he had had sent from New Orleans only two weeks ago. Unfortunately, the rope holding the cut-glass chandelier was tied to a ring set beside the doorway, and as the remains of the bat-wing door bounced off Chris' foot the resulting weakening of that particular board brought an ominous creaking from the ceiling.
Without warning the board was wrenched from the saloon's wall by the weight of the chandelier as it plummeted downwards to crash and shatter in a million diamond-bright pieces on the ruined floor, followed by a large section of the ceiling plaster.
The noise make Roland blink.
He paused in his chewing for a moment and swallowed, his ears flicking gently as dust and plaster peppered his off-white hide. But as the dust settled Roland decided all was well and burped again, slowly resuming his chewing.
Chris' cussing faded to soft, evil mutterings, and Josiah slowly holstered his Schofield – but Ezra still pointed the Remington at the intruder, Roland lying apparently unconcerned amid the partially demolished saloon. Buck just stood, mouth open, cobalt eyes wide with shock.
Now was not the time for angry outbursts, Josiah decided. That could come later, when Nate had checked out Larabee's battered foot and made sure Ezra wasn't sliding into permanent catatonia.
"Buck …" Josiah kept his voice low and reasonable. No answer. He tried again. "Buck … I reckon it might be a good idea to get the beast out of here, don't you?"
Cobalt eyes blinked as though their owner had awoken from a deep sleep.
"Huh?"
"Buck … the bull? Get him out of here?"
"No."
Josiah turned at the soft voice. Ezra was trying to thumb back the hammer on the Remington, but his hand was shaking so much the digit couldn't get a grip.
"Ez, you can put the gun away now …"
"No Josiah – Ah am now going to shoot the bull." Ezra actually sounded quite reasonable, Josiah thought.
"You can't shoot the bull Ezra – it's Jed Sommers' bull – he paid a lot of money for the beast - "
"Josiah … please remove yourself from the line of fire. Ah am going to shoot the bull. Right now. This minute." Ezra's accent was getting thicker by the second.
"Ez …" Josiah had moved to stand in front of the Remington, not exactly the greatest of ideas he realised, as Ezra managed finally to cock the hammer. Roland turned an amiable bovine visage to gaze benignly on the incensed southerner.
Buck suddenly clicked into reality. Ezra. Gun. Bull. Saloon. Oh God. The saloon …
Sliding his revolver back into its holster he bent down and began feverishly to untie the string looped around Roland's horns, the big animal trying his utmost to breathe affectionately on Buck's face.
Josiah tried again, valiantly ignoring Larabee's curses as JD helped him hobble to the only unbroken chair in the room.
"Ezra … give me the gun …"
"I say let him shoot the sonofabitch …" Larabee's growling tones just sent more plaster dust raining from the ceiling. Or rather, what was left of it.
Chris Larabee, if I had the time right now I'd kick your ass all the way to Hell and back …
Josiah gritted his teeth as he tried to keep his temper under control. Larabee sometimes had the goldarndest knack for saying the wrong damn' thing at the wrong damn' time …
It was at that moment Roland decided to heave his not inconsiderable bulk to his feet. Now as it happened, the lucerne hay that Yosemite had fed him earlier had been of a particularly fine quality, and Roland's four-chambered stomach had processed it in double-quick time. So as Roland arose he did the time-honoured thing that cattle do when they stand up.
He defecated.
His back arched, his magnificently plumed tail rose akimbo, and he groaned with relief as he dumped a richly green and very runny pile of manure on Ezra's fine wooden floor. To finish off, he coughed genteely, and the last few dollops were sprayed artfully on the nearest upright objects – which in this case were a certain Ezra P. Standish and a dumbfounded Josiah Sanchez.
Ezra suddenly looked about ready to burst into tears.
"Josiah?"
Josiah stood, feeling a particularly large, warm gob of green, stinking goo slide down his cheek. Nowhe was pissed.
"Yeah, Ez?" The baritone voice was calm, controlled, and to anyone who knew the big preacher, absolutely terrifying.
"I think …" Ezra was having difficulty getting the words out, partly because of shock but mostly because he couldn't bear the idea of getting something unspeakable in his mouth. "I think I'm coming down with one of my Sick Headaches …" Ezra swallowed. He thought he was going to be sick.
Josiah's azure eyes turned to Buck, now looking at his two shit-covered compadreswith horror.
"Buck?"
Buck Wilmington finally found his voice.
"Yeah?"
"Buck …" Josiah tried to compose himself as best he could, but it was a little difficult to be dignified when you were covered in bull-shit. "Buck. Take the bull away. Now. Before I turn him into beef steak with my bare hands. And you know I can do it, too. And then … and then I may just come after you. What I'm gonna do when I catch you I ain't figured out yet. But it will be painful, Buck. Very, very painful. Comprende?"
"But Josiah - " Buck couldn't understand why everyone was blaming him. It wasn't his fault the goddamn beast had taken a shine to him!
"Not now, Buck." Josiah turned dangerously calm, clear blue eyes to the big gunman. "Later. Much, much later. All right?"
Buck sighed. He looked around at the catastrophe laid out before him and winced. Lord knows what price Ezra would exact from his hide, even though it was Jed's bull that had done the damage. He wasn't responsible one little bit! But that sure as hell wouldn't stop the gambler from bleeding him dry for months.
The devastated ladies' man caught hold of Roland's piece of string and yanked, but he didn't even really need to lead the big animal – Roland followed on happily, still wearing the remains of Yosemite's corral.
Josiah watched, blue eyes smouldering like the very pits of hell, as Buck and bull exited through the hole left by Roland's entry into the saloon, brushing past a cursing and very sore Chris Larabee, the glare the gunman sent in Roland's direction making no impact whatsoever.
Josiah managed to ease the Remington from Ezra's unresisting fingers and saw the pain beginning in the green eyes. Perhaps Ez wasn't kidding – as if Standish ever joked about such things – and he really was coming down with one of those debilitating headaches he suffered from on occasion, although to be fair it was usually after one of Maude Standish's rare visits. Maude had a way of driving Ezra nuts, that was for sure.
"JD? I think you'd better go get Nathan. Ezra don't look too good. Oh, and while you're at it you'd better tell him about Chris' foot. He might have broken somethin' …"
JD hurried out of the saloon into the clear summer night, Larabee's detailed description of what he was going to do to the bull and to Buck Wilmington in that order ringing in his ears.
Josiah caught Ezra by the elbow and thought about where he should take the gambler first – the bath-house or his room. Ezra sure was covered with a lot of shit. For a split second Josiah thought the situation was pretty apt. Ezra and bull-shit. Sounded just about right.
Sighing, he guided the unresisting gambler out of the wrecked saloon and headed towards the bath-house.
TBC