Part Four

Buck's the one who notices first.

It's been one of those strange days. The whole business with the Palmers has gotten Chris's dander up something fierce and Buck knows he's roaming around looking for trouble. It'll make no difference to him that everything seems peaceful. That the sky is a penetrating blue, just a few clouds scooting about. That there's nobody locked up in the jail, only amenable or industrious strangers in town and that, for the most part, his disparate band of brothers are gainfully occupied.

Vin's not occupied, of course. He's been obliged to rest, leg on a cushion. Despite his good sleep in the bath-house he couldn't stop the bad knee swelling up again after he'd hobbled up and down the street a few times trying to walk a bit of mobility back into it.

Nathan's not a problem. He's always making himself useful, and so far Buck's been trying, too, loading beer barrels into the cellar of the saloon with JD.

"You got some spare time, the Lord would like a hand," Josiah observes, putting his head down the cellar trapdoor.

"Well hell, Josiah. Can't the Lord think of anybody else for a change?"

"I understand what a burden it can be, brother Buck, being chosen."

"You just tell 'im He can wait."

"Try Ezra," JD suggests. "He needs somethin' to keep him busy."

Josiah snorts. "The Lord didn't feel like choosing Ezra today."

"What made me so dang popular all of a sudden?" moans Buck when Josiah's head disappears.

JD just sniggers.

At noon they go to the saloon, hoping Josiah's not going to be there waiting for them. He's not. Ezra's where he was earlier in the day, still practicing the sleight of hand he'd bamboozled them and a gaggle of ranch-hands with that morning.

God almighty but he looks like crap.

"Buck," Ezra acknowledges as he sits down. There's a restless mania about the way he's manipulating the cards.

Buck's never been one to mince his words, hold back on what he wants to say.

"We-hell, ya look about all done in, bud. I really think you should quit while you're ahead, go take a siesta."

As the cards fan out on the table, Buck glances from Ezra's shaking hands to the empty shot glass and uncorked bottle by his elbow.

"Drinkin' ya dinner again?" Vin questions, limping across and gesturing at JD to pull out a couple of chairs, one for his butt and one for his leg.

"A mere aperitif," Ezra responds with a smile. He flexes his fingers, looks as if he's giving himself a stern inner talking-to and then sweeps up the cards one-handed, taps the deck on the table-top. Buck can hardly credit the lightning changes in the man. Now he's handling the cards with complete ease. He even lets his eyes stray out the window without losing the rhythm. "I see Josiah on the war-path." Ezra grins and then cringes. "And Mr Larabee. Look lively, gentlemen."

Chris comes in quietly, stands over the table. "Hard morning, boys?"

Buck sighs. "You have no idea." He's wondering what he can do to forestall any unpleasantness over the bottle. Ezra, he knows, can just about take a nagging from Nathan over his whisky consumption, but balks when it comes to either Josiah or Chris, who seem to get endlessly exercised by it.

"Hypocrisy!" he's raged on more than one occasion, "nothin' but hypocrisy and cant!"

Even now Chris is chewing the inside of his cheek, reaching for the bottle, not looking at Ezra. He picks it up, hands it silently to Vin, picks up the cork and passes that across, too.

Both Chris and Ezra seem to know exactly what to do and say to send one another into a rage. A more extreme irritation flashes over Ezra's expression than Buck remembers ever seeing before. He braces himself for some kind of explosion, feels JD doing the same. Very deliberately, Ezra picks up his glass, leans one elbow on the table and stretches across to Vin with the glass held ready for a re-fill.

"Bar's closed, Ez," Vin says, not without some sympathy in his voice.

"Wouldn't you say that siesta's lookin' good right about now?" Buck murmurs and he pats the side of Ezra's leg smartly under the table.

Ezra has his mouth open, ready to talk them all into silence, when the batwings rattle open in that way that can only mean one thing.

Someone is coming with bad news.

Ezra's still holding the glass towards Vin, who's obviously decided to be a good lieutenant, and has made a big show of re-corking and holding it out of reach.

"Crowd at the telegraph gettin' antsy, Mr Larabee."

It's Bob Johnson from the Post Office, his shirt-front stained with ink.

"What they gettin' antsy for?" The tone of voice suggests Chris thinks they're being troublesome for no good reason.

"Waitin' on the stage. Left the tradin' post at Mexican Hat on time ... shoulda been here by now."

"There anything important on that stage?" Ezra says, laying down the glass. He's flipping cards again so rapidly that it makes Buck blink. A frisson runs round the group.

"Just folks' kin," growls Johnson in disgust.

Ezra has the good grace to wince. Buck kind of wishes the fool could develop an empathetic nature, but he supposes it's probably just too late now.

"Ezra," Chris says in a low voice, and now it's a threatening growl, tells them all he's found something to get his teeth into, "if you can't say anythin' helpful, stop flappin' ya goddamn lips."

Ezra tangles gazes with him for a second. He looks angry, too, almost like he's about to snap, because he doesn't like being called out in front of a crowd, and certainly not by Chris Larabee.

The lawmen of Four Corners can just about stay afloat, Buck reckons, if only one of them is mad at a time. More than that, Buck thinks they'd be in trouble, thinks they'd all be rushing to take parts or, more likely, all turn on Ezra. Buck's no philosopher, but he knows pack instinct.

Vin has slumped in weary resignation that he won't be running across to find out any news. He sets the bottle of whisky between his thighs, gives Chris a sidelong glance.

Chris, however, has lost interest in the hedonistic excesses of his men. He walks out of the saloon, collecting up Josiah on the way. Buck gets up to lean on the wall looking over the batwings.

There's about six or seven people gathered outside the telegraph office and there's a general air about them that they want something done and fast. Chris and Josiah take a brisk walk over and Buck knows Chris well enough that the set of his shoulders doesn't look very promising at all.

"You up to ridin', Ez?" Buck asks. "Because it looks like we're ridin'."

"And why wouldn't I be, Mr Wilmington?"

Buck shrugs. He won't make a song and dance about it until there's irrefutable evidence in front of his eyes that Ezra's not right. And there isn't, not quite. Just that strained and weary look, which, he figures, isn't so very much different from the one Vin's wearing. It kind of ticks him off, though, that he may have to wait for Ezra to hit the floor to prove his suspicions.

"They're comin' back," JD reports from the bottom of the steps. Buck can see the disappointed look on the kid's face as Chris passes him without a word, comes back into the saloon.

"We headed out?" Buck asks.

"'m takin' Josiah," Chris tells them. "Vin's in no shape to ride. Ezra neither by the look of him. You're in charge, Buck."

Buck opens his mouth and then shuts it again. JD, of course, isn't so wise.

"Only Josiah? I'll come, Chris."

"You won't," is all Chris says. He frowns in the direction of Ezra briefly, then looks at Buck. "Relyin' on you, cowboy."

Buck is faintly dismayed. Leadership is not his strong suit.

"Guess I ain't got a choice," he says.

Chris looks at him like he's sprouted horns and Buck holds up his hands. ""course, what I mean ta say is, sure thing, Chris."

"Well that don't seem fair."

JD mutters the words just a little too loud and gets an immediate comeback.

"Think I give a shit about fair?"

The batwings shudder as Chris makes his exit. There's the sound of Ezra still steadfastly flipping the cards.

"What I do?" JD asks, aggrieved.

Buck scratches his chin. "Oh Chris just can't help himself, JD. I think we jus' make him mad by walkin' about and breathin'."

"Well don't think you're gonna boss me around, Buck," JD flusters.

That gives Buck a whoosh of fondness and irritation under his ribs. "What the hell else, kid? Now come on, let's get after 'em, make sure they don't go off half-cocked." Buck makes a shooing motion. "Rattle your hocks, Ez. Don't want to be lazy and shiftless all day now, do ya?"

Buck's quite pleased that Ezra looks up at that, laughs wide enough his gold tooth shows.

----

The happy fact that Josiah's accompanied Chris means that Buck and JD don't have to do any work for him.

Apart from a couple of regular drunks who're annoying folk, and an unexpected brawl that breaks out over a horse at the blacksmith's, most of Buck's day is spent cleaning his gun, arguing with JD and giving Vin a bit of company. When he takes a run through the saloon in the late afternoon, Ezra's not there.

That wouldn't bother Buck except a whole deck of cards is lying on the table like it's been stirred with a stick.

He sends JD on a patrol when dusk is approaching, stops by Nathan's to find him applying a stinking poultice to the inside of an elderly man's mouth. He thinks to himself that although he'd trust Nathan Jackson to tend to most parts of him, his teeth might not be one of them.

"You eatin'?" he asks, realizing too late that the question won't help keep the patient calm.

Nathan doesn't seem to be enjoying this, either. "I'll be down," he says evenly. "We doing good?"

"We sure are. Should really be me in charge all the time."

"Huh. Well they've bin gone long enough I figure there's something nasty coming down the trail."

"I like how you're always cheerful," Buck says.

"That's me."

Nathan's patient squawks wildly at that point, and Buck retreats.

He and Vin are halfway through their steaks when JD strolls in. Nathan joins them a few minutes later. There are times when one of them eats elsewhere or alone, but, without homes to go to, they mostly keep regular hours at the restaurant.

"Seen Ezra?" Buck asks.

"He was takin' a constitutional about three." Nathan plops into a chair, turns his face towards the kitchen, points a finger at Buck's plate.

"You mean all that stompin' up and down outside like he had bellyache?" Vin asks. He's got his fork in his fist, stabs a piece of meat. "I saw that too."

"He all right?" Nathan wonders out loud.

"It was a pile 'a shit," Vin says, thrusting the fork in his mouth.

"Come again?"

Vin speaks through his food. "The trial. The beatin' we took. Pile 'a shit. Wouldn't blame him for bein' on edge."

"Well, we shouldn't let him go to ground f'too long," Buck says. "More'n my life's worth to let him get roostered when Chris might be back at any minute with his pants on fire."

"You think that's what he's doing?" JD asks with interest.

"He's not bin parted from that dang bottle since breakfast," Buck says and feels Nathan's eyes turn upon him. "Hell, Nathan, you know what he's like. Half the time it's just for show."

"We should go look for him," Nathan says.

Buck gives it until the hour that Ezra might be expected to turn up at the saloon for a nightcap, which, depending on his luck and present company, might last most of the night. There's no sign.

"Not in his room," JD reports, coming down the stairs three at a time. "His jacket's hangin' on a chair." He hikes his brows. "He had a bottle of whisky up there with him."

"Dang it, Ezra, where you at?" Buck mutters angrily. "Come on, JD, let's do another sweep. Where's Nathan?"

"Out lookin' last I saw."

"'kay, Vin?"

Vin's resigned. "I'll holler."

Buck and JD take the town at something of a gallop. Short of banging on folks' doors they search everywhere that's accessible, including places they wouldn't expect Ezra to be at all. His horse is where it should be and none of the livery nags are missing.

"Could he've walked off out of town, fallen down?" JD suggests. "Maybe we shoulda gone lookin' while it was still light."

"We'll go anyway," Buck says. He scans the dark street, hoping as he has been all evening, to suddenly see a flash of creamy white shirt, a characteristic graceful stride materializing out of the shadows. There's nothing of the kind, but his eye lights on somewhere they haven't visited.

"Let's try the church, whaddya think?"

"Well I don't know, Buck. Seems like a waste of time." It was certainly true that Ezra was not the most religious man among them.

"We checked damn near everywhere else, JD."

They head on over, up the steps, swing the doors open and step inside. It's only a small place, but it still has that atmosphere of deep quiet and calm that makes both of them suddenly start moving in an entirely different way. Like they're being watched.

JD peers into the gloom and then reaches a hand to snag Buck's sleeve.

"What the ...?"

Ezra's sitting in the back pew, bent over his clasped hands. It may be dark as sin in the church but it's plain he's not praying. It's somehow plain he only got as far as that spot before he had to sit down.

"Ezra?" Buck moves a few steps forward, still not sure if he's interrupting something important.

He slips into the pew and moves down it until he's right next to the hunched form. Carefully he sits, casually puts his hands between his knees and leans, head turned very slightly.

"Ezra?"

A hiss, like he's been burned. It shocks them. Sounds like the noise has broken through several layers of control. The hunch becomes more marked. As Buck gets used to the dark, he can make out that Ezra's got both hands in fists, pressing the knuckles painfully hard into his forehead just above each eye.

"Feelin' bad?"

Buck realizes this is a nonsensical opening gambit, seeing as Ezra looks and sounds in piss-poor shape, but he has an idea that distraction might be one of the only options open to him.

Ezra doesn't reply. He seems to be bracing against some tremendous force that they can't see. JD is beginning to get nervous. He wants to do something. Buck can feel him jigging about on the spot so he holds up a calming hand.

"What can we do for ya, Ez? Want us to fetch Nathan?"

Still no reply. Ezra clearly can't trust himself to speak, even to move. Buck twists slightly, looks over his other shoulder at JD, jerks his head at the door. When the door slaps shut Ezra rocks forward slightly, then goes still again. He inhales, holds the breath, lets it out through his teeth. Buck's palms feel sweaty.

"Think maybe you should come lie down," he suggests. "How's that sound?"

There is a half snort of what could be derision. Ezra keeps up the pressure of his fists against his skull. Buck sends his eyes skyward, a bit like Josiah does before making any kind of move he thinks might be foolish. Then he slowly reaches out to curl his fingers around Ezra's arm just below the wrist.

"Now, you gonna let go? Ya need to be kind to ya head, Ezra, 'staken some harsh treatment - ya gonna screw ya fist right through. Come on now, let go."

Ezra doesn't resist exactly, but Buck still can't get the fist down. He uncurls his fingers, lays the hand on the satin back panel of Ezra's vest. The material is stretched taut across the shoulderblades, almost like sheet metal. Buck can feel a kind of vibration in the space between them, senses a fine tremor coming off the dark sillhouette. He sits right where he is, not moving, or saying anything else until the door crashes open behind them again. Ezra actually groans at the sound, stiffens anew like the vibration has traveled all the way up his spine, an electric shock snapping at the ends of his nerves. Buck winces and holds up one finger of his other hand, signaling for quiet.

There's just the sound of someone catching their breath, then JD's voice says very quietly, "Nathan's out."

""Kay," Buck says calmly. And then, "Damnit!" He pulls distractedly at a corner of mustache. "Don' reckon Ezra here would've paid much mind to him anyhow. You and me need to get him somewhere more comfortable, JD, see if we can find a way to ease what's hurtin'."

"His head," JD says.

Buck lifts his chin, scratches a few fingers down his neck, just for patience. "I'm gettin' that, kid."

JD swallows, moves up close behind the pew. His hand, independent of his brain, Buck thinks, wavers in the air over the top of Ezra, aiming to make contact.

Buck slaps it away.

Ezra's posture doesn't change.

"Shoot me," he grinds out suddenly, and then his breath hitches. There's a silence. The fists push hard against his skull again, knuckles grinding out tiny circles. "Stop ... stop ... stop."

"I ain't shootin' you, Ezra." Buck hopes to God he sounds calmer than he feels.

Another long silence, then that grinding voice again. "So leamy ... alone."

"I don't think we will."

A choked sound of distress. Buck can tell the pain's mounting, is beyond what Ezra can handle. He wishes he'd just quit trying to hold it all in.

"Jesus, Buck," says JD, panicked. "What can we do? There must be something we can do."

"Let's try movin' him into Josiah's room, get him on the bed."

"Don' touch me," Ezra whispers. "Don' you touch me."

"Aw, c'mon, Ezra. You can't just sit there drillin' your fists into your brain. You gotta lie down, let us get you somethin' cool for ya head. That sounds good, don't it?"

Buck moves both hands, locks them fast round Ezra's wrists and pulls. This time Ezra's fists come away easily. Maybe Buck's cajoling has worked, maybe Ezra just doesn't have the strength to resist anymore. JD's shunted himself in the other end of the pew and he gets a hand round Ezra's waist, begins to haul upwards. It's not an easy maneuver, in the confined space, in the dark. A few steps across the stone floor Ezra stops being amenable and freezes. JD has hold of a clutch of Ezra's shirt, feels his ribs suck in, stomach muscles tensing.

They practically drag him the rest of the way, through the door, and toss him onto Josiah's spartan cot with more urgency than gentleness.

"Roll him," Buck breathes. "And find somethin', JD ... shit, anythin' he can upchuck into." He slaps Ezra's cheek and doesn't even really know why. Feels furious with the man for scaring him so. "Jesus, Ez, you should really learn to eat proper meals if you're gonna be pourin' neat whisky down your throat all day. It'll burn like the fires of hell comin' up."

JD's rooting around amongst Josiah's things. "Think that's what this is?" he asks. "Too much whisky?"

Buck shoves a place for his backside on the cot, gets a grip on the back of Ezra's neck, gestures for whatever JD's found. Not before time. No sooner has JD transferred a tin pail into Buck's outstretched hand than Ezra's upper body snaps forward so violently he catches the rim of the pail with his chin. There's a growl of futile resistance before he spews up his guts, the sound echoing off the metal with painful clarity.

"Awright," Buck says, voice pinched, "Awright, it's awright."

The sound of whatever's being purged slaps repeatedly against the tin sides of the pail. Reminds Buck of those bad days at Nathan's after Ezra woke up. How he could hardly blink without nausea rolling right over him. How it came as close to killing him as the blood loss and fever had done. Buck can feel fingers clawing his knee. After a few desperate minutes, Ezra hacks, spits up with a noise of revulsion that says more than half a page of his usual yammer would, and manages to shove the pail away from his face.

"Well all right then," the big man says, pleased to feel how much fight's left. But then Ezra brings his fist up again, thumps it so hard against his head that JD shouts in alarm.

"Shit," Buck mutters. "Easy now, Ez, that ain't gonna do no good." He turns distractedly to JD. "No, kid, this ain't too much whisky. This is Gabe Palmer. This is what that cowardly sonofabitch did. I need your help now, you hear? I need you to take this away and clean it out, I need some light, a cloth and some water. Cold as you c'n get it."

"I'll be right back," says JD, "don't you worry none, Ezra." Buck's proud of him, proud that he'll do all this without a complaint. He doesn't think Ezra's listening though.

"Jus' keep real still, pard," Buck's trying to tell him when JD returns, sets a small lamp down on the floor by the cot and a big pitcher on the table. Buck hears the sloshing sound of cloth in water, the steady trickle as JD wrings it out. He picks up the lamp, raises it cautiously to get his first clear look at Ezra's face.

"For Christ's sake," Ezra says, twisting away from the light, elbows coming up to cover his eyes. It might be the first time either JD or Buck have heard him say such a thing.

Buck fields the move, sweeps the lamp in an arc, long enough to see Ezra's pale as wax, how his jaw is locked. "Well hell," he says, lightly as possible. "Gotta tell you, you ain't lookin' quite as sharp as usual, hoss." He puts the lamp down again. "Oh no you don't." Ezra seems not to know what he's doing anymore, can't even get his fists to his skull, has both forearms crossed haphazardly on top of his head like he'd crush himself with them if he had the strength. Buck clenches his teeth, wrestles the arms down, uses one big hand to trap both wrists in a bruising grip and holds out the other for the cloth. "Try this," he says, using the flat of his free hand to mold it around Ezra's forehead from one side to the other. ""snot much, I know. Just lie quiet ... for Pete's sake, Ezra ... stop fightin' me. And you c'n throw up what you like, I ain't a bit fussed. So there now."

"Is it helpin'?" JD asks after a minute.

There's a war of attrition going on. Buck's not sure who's winning. JD wrings out the cloth a few times, and Buck slaps it back on Ezra's head, all the while holding on to his wrists like grim death, jamming them hard against the metal sides of the cot every time he feels them attempt to jerk free. Ezra won't give it up, either, and Buck looks sick to the stomach.

"I dunno, kid," he admits shakily, "but it's goddamn killin' me."