Disclaimer Not mine. (Author curls into fetal position and whimpers.)
Larabee's 7
Chapter 3
Daniel Searles and Tony Carboni sat in the lawyer's expensive second floor office. The room was dark, but in front of them a large window offered a wide view of Albuquerque, the town's lights glittering in the night.
"You have no way to drape the window," Carboni noted.
"I never want that window covered. I like looking out at the city and thinking that I own a little piece of it."
Carboni reflected, "Perhaps I should install such a window. Then I could look out at the city and think that I own a big piece of it."
The two men chuckled together, and then Carboni said, "But speaking seriously. It is not good to leave yourself so exposed. Somebody could shoot you through that window."
"Shoot the governor's own lawyer? They wouldn't dare." Searles propped his feet up with a grunt of self-satisfaction.
"Chris Larabee would dare."
"After tonight, Chris Larabee isn't going to be a problem. I'd like to put that scoundrel's head on a pike, as a warning to other presumptuous gunslingers."
Carboni said, "I should tell you that my men do not have orders to shoot to kill."
Searles sat up straight, his feet thumping on the floor. "Why the hell not?"
"Even in an ambush, it is difficult to make certain of so many men. And these are warriors, seasoned fighters who have escaped death many times. To kill seven of them at once would be very difficult."
"Six," Searles reminded him. "One backed out."
Carboni shrugged. "Even so, it is a hard thing to accomplish. And the ones who escape will be very angry. They will come back for revenge, it will be messy, and it will annoy me. I have no personal grievance against Larabee, so long as he leaves my town. I want only to convince him that doing this particular favor will be too costly."
"The governor would prefer them dead."
"Even a governor cannot always have what he wants." Carboni shifted to a more comfortable position and said, "Let me tell you something. I have seen men like Larabee before. He is on the verge of an explosion—for years he lives in the midst of violence, but always he is the one in control. Then, one day, something happens. Perhaps it is only a small thing, but it pushes him over the edge into madness. After that, it is only a matter of time."
"Time until what?" Searles asked, still surly.
"Until he explodes. Afterward, he will be dead, but whatever happens first will be deadly. I would rather have him explode in somebody else's town." Carboni was about to wax even more eloquent on his understanding of human nature, when Searles grabbed his arm.
"Do you hear that?"
Carboni held his breath.
And then the building beneath them exploded with gunfire. It lasted for two minutes, and then from outside came the sounds of men running down the streets and scattered shots as the intruders fled and Carboni's men pursued them.
"Well, that's that." Searles struck a match and lit a celebratory cigar. "They walked right into our trap."
"The bravest men can also be the most stupid," Carboni agreed.
It was a shaken group of men that trickled back into the saloon on the outskirts of town. Vin and Nathan arrived together, easing inside the door and scanning the empty room cautiously.
"They musta had twenty men waiting for us," Vin said at last.
"More like thirty. And they knew we were coming. Knew like they'd been told," Nathan said bitterly.
"The bartender's gone."
Vin and Nathan both swung around, guns drawn, to see Chris standing behind the bar.
"Don't surprise a man, Chris, I almost put a bullet in you," Vin complained, replacing his carbine in its holster.
"Didn't mean to scare you. Did you see any of the others?"
"Buck and J.D. split off from us at a crossroads. I don't know about Josiah," Vin offered.
"Like Daniel, Josiah, too, has been delivered from the lion's den," came a voice from the stairs. Josiah grinned when he found himself staring down three gun barrels. "Put 'em away boys, it's just me."
"Anybody else need a drink?" Chris asked, lining up shot glasses on the bar.
"Yeah, me," Nathan said. "My hands are still shakin'. We've done some crazy things, but that—"
"Nathan!" a voice bellowed outside, and then Buck burst through the doors, one arm around J.D.'s shoulders. "The kid's been shot!"
"It's just a scratch," J.D. protested, but he looked pale as he sank into a chair.
"It's not too bad," Nathan agreed, after he had examined the wound, "but you'll have to take it easy for a couple of days. Let me get the bullet out, and then …"
A shot in the street ended his sentence.
"Chris Larabee!" a man shouted. "I've got a message for you from Tony Carboni."
Chris slipped cautiously to the door and peeked over the top. Marco stood in front of the saloon, his revolver pointed at the sky, and several horsemen ranged behind him.
"I'm listening," Chris called.
"In his generosity, Mr. Carboni will give you one day to tend to your wounded. But if you and your associates are not gone by sunset, you're all dead men." Marco swung back onto his horse and the group galloped off.
Silence filled the saloon, except for J.D.'s grunts of pain as Nathan dug out the bullet. But at last the wound was sewn shut and bandaged. "Don' t strain that arm," Nathan warned.
"Can he ride?" Buck asked anxiously. "Because I don't think Carboni will bein' shot as an excuse for hangin' around."
"You plannin' on leavin', Buck?" Chris asked, and there was a soft, dangerous quality to his voice.
"Hell yeah, I am, and you should too. We're on their territory, we're outgunned, and even if we got Searles, it's no guarantee we'd get the deed. It's time for us to ride back home and figure out some other way to help Mary."
"Nobody is leaving."
Buck stood toe to toe with Chris and said, "We been friends a long time, and as your friend, I'm tellin' you, walk away from this one. You can't win."
"You walk out that door, I never wanna see your face again."
"All right," said Buck. "If that's the way you want it."
"Chris, don't do this," Vin said softly.
"You stay outta this, Vin." Chris's eyes didn't waver from Buck's. "You leavin'?"
"Yeah, I'm leavin'." Buck turned away. "Come on, kid."
J.D.'s face was painful in its bewilderment. "But—"
"J.D.! I am not leavin' you here to get shot to pieces. Now let's go!"
With a final look over his shoulder, his eyes those of a hurt puppy, J.D. followed Buck out of the saloon.
Chris glared at what was left of the seven. "Anybody else?" he shouted. "Because now's your time. You wanna walk, you better make it now."
Nathan slowly stood. "I reckon I better go with J.D. and make sure he doesn't bleed to death."
"You do that," Chris said, in a voice like frost.
Nathan's steps quickened, and a minute later, they heard his horse's hooves galloping down the street.
"To hell with them all," said Chris, and reached for the whiskey bottle.
With a roar, Josiah knocked it out of his hand, and it smashed to pieces on the floor.
"What the—" Chris began, but the big man wasn't standing still to be yelled at. He charged the bar, and bottles flew in every direction as the reek of alcohol filled the air.
Josiah didn't stop until every last drop of liquor was dripping through the floorboards. Then he said, "I ain't never been a fan of temperance, but in this case it seems to be called for. You're in a dark place, Chris. I only hope you can find your way back to the light."
Even after Josiah left, Chris stared after him with a frozen expression.
Vin broke the silence at last. "I'll take first watch. You get some sleep. We can talk in the morning."
Chris walked slowly to the stairs and mounted them with heavy feet. Vin put out the lights and paced the room, rifle cradled in his arms. After a while, he sat down on the floor with his back against the bar. When he turned his head, he could hear soft noises behind the wood. "Rats," he said out loud and slammed his rifle stock against the bar. The noises stopped, but he moved to a chair anyway. When the night was about half over, he went upstairs to wake Chris, then lay down himself to try and get a little sleep.
When Vin woke up, early sun was streaming through the filthy window glass. Vin lay on his back for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling and trying to think of the best thing to say to Chris. But when he got downstairs and found his friend with one unbroken, empty bottle in front of him, and just getting started on another, the right words became obvious. "I see Josiah missed a couple."
"You wanna drink?" Chris mumbled, his eyes bleary.
"Hell, Chris, what's happened to you?" Vin snatched the bottle away. "I'm going to wait for you just outside town. When you sober up and come to your senses, you can join me."
"I ain't goin'!" Chris slurred defiantly, but Vin didn't even look at him, just kept walking out the door and over to the livery stable.
He took the road west until he was out of town, and then he found a tree that promised to provide good shade throughout the day. He settled in to wait.
When the sun lay heavy and red in the western sky, Vin got up. "I guess he ain't comin'," he said to the empty landscape. Then he mounted his horse and spurred the animal toward home.
When twilight had fallen over Albuquerque, two men walked into the saloon. Chris Larabee, slumped over a table in the corner in front of yet another bottle miraculously unbroken, didn't move until they grabbed his shoulders. Then he exploded, swinging wildly. One of the men stumbled back, his jaw dislocated.
Larabee managed to get off a couple of shots, but they went wild, and a moment later a pistol butt connected with the back of his head. When he woke up, he was tied to a chair with armed guards on either side of him. One of them was smacking a cold, wet rag across his face.
Daniel Searles leaned against his desk and watched with evident enjoyment. When Larabee looked up at him, pain scrawled across his face, Searles stepped forward and backhanded him. His ring tore a long scratch down his prisoner's cheek.
Larabee's head drooped, and he groaned. Searles laughed. "So this is the great Chris Larabee, the legendary gunslinger who makes outlaws tremble in their boots! And he's nothing but a drunk."
Chris growled and threw himself against his bonds, struggling uselessly and then falling back exhausted.
Searles leaned in and said, "You're pathetic, Larabee. I've had eyes on you since you rode into this town. I've known every step you were going to take before you took it. And you actually thought you could win against me." He hit his prisoner again, the other cheek this time. "You know, Larabee, I was going to kill you, but now that I see you for myself, I think I'd rather you continue to exist in your squalor and humiliation." An expression of condescending disgust covered his face, and he wrinkled his nose as though the man before him stand. "Also," he continued, "Mr. Carboni thinks that if I mount your head on the city wall, it might inspire your former associates to come back and make trouble. I don't really think that will be a problem, but I'm always happy to do a favor for a friend. Now, I'm going to go and pick up a certain valuable document. Then I'm getting on the train and going east, all the way to New York City, where the document will be deposited in a bank far beyond your reach." Looking at the guards, he instructed, "Before my train whistle blows, use the time to remind Mr. Larabee why he should never, ever come back to Albuquerque. Once I'm gone, you can let him go."
Searles started for the door, then stopped and looked back."Remember me, Larabee. Remember me and curse me with your last, dying, drunken breath." As he shut the door behind him, he heard the solid thunk of a fist connecting with flesh.
An hour later, the whistle of the eastbound midnight express blew across the town. The two guards threw Larabee's battered body into the street and tossed his guns, empty of ammunition, after him.
Slowly, Larabee picked himself up and shuffled down the street—defeated, broken, and alone.
The little bartender with the rabbity face pushed aside the false panel in his bar and crawled out. He nearly cried when he saw the wreck his place was in—his entire stock of liquor smashed. He tried to comfort himself with the thought that, after he made his last report on everything he'd overheard, Mr. Carboni might replace it all. And those seven men weren't ever coming back—they weren't even riding together anymore.
He needed to go see Mr. Carboni right away, but his hands were still a little shaky. When the long haired one had slammed his rifle against the bar just over the secret hiding place, the bartender had been so scared he'd soiled himself. He needed a drink to settle his nerves.
One half full, unbroken bottle remained, sitting on a table in the corner. He picked it up and swigged, then gagged and spat out the liquid. In disbelief, he lifted the bottle to his nose and sniffed, then made a face and threw it on the floor. What idiot had put cold tea into one of his liquor bottles? The vile stuff looked just like whiskey, and a man could accidentally choke himself that way.
Giving up on the possibility of immediate liquid comfort, he hurried out the door. Hopefully, Mr. Carboni would offer him a real drink. Maybe even something imported.
To Be Continued
A/N Thank you so much for reading! And thank you, thank you to the two lovely readers who reviewed the last chapter! In your honor, I have composed the following poem:
Ni-a-ga-ra-wea-sel and Marmie,
They wrote kind reviews that did charm me.
So I'll wish them the best,
And a good night of rest
Full of dreams of Chris Larabee's army!
(Ok, so the M7 aren't exactly an army, but it's not so easy to rhyme with Marmie!)
