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Ezra responded to the soft rap at his door as if it were a dare. He didn't want to face whoever was there but, by damn, they wouldn't see him back down.
He pulled the door open with just that conviction and was surprised to see JD move backwards half a step in response. When the silence seemed to drag itself out to an abusive length, Standish finally asked, "Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Dunne?"
"I've been lookin' for you. The bath house...Around...You know." The younger man was playing with his hat in both hands. He watched his own hands move around the brim as if using them to avoid eye contact.
"I thought it would be in everyone's best interest to take care of my personal hygiene in my own room."
"Damn it, Ezra, those men could have come back to the saloon. You would have had to walk right through them to get here."
"They weren't. I didn't," he responded bluntly.
As the silence between the two grew again, it gave way to the sounds from the saloon below. Standish noticed the bar didn't sound so crowded now. But it did sound like everyone had forgotten the tragedy that occurred earlier.
The gambler finished buttoning his frilled white shirt, even the cuffs. Still the silence hung there, but the boy gave no sign as to why he had knocked. "Perhaps we can continue this titillating conversation inside? While I proceed to dress?"
"Sure." The sarcasm was lost on the boy. As usual. And that the boy didn't hear sarcasm, but took the invitation at face value was one of the things that endeared him to the gambler.
Ezra was putting on his vest when he realized the boy's eyes were focused on the bloody shirt and jacket tossed haphazardly in a corner. "Mr. Dunne?" He waited until the big brown eyes met his. "Why are you here?"
"To make sure you're okay." His voice sounded like he was surprised his friend had to ask that question. "Oh, and Nathan gave me this on his way out of town." The boy produced a smallish amber bottle that until then had been hidden by his derby. "He says you gotta clean those cuts with that or worry about them gettin' infected." He shoved it forward.
Ezra took the bottle and stared at it as if trying to divine some answers there.
"Ezra?" The voice was smaller now. The tone had the older man looking up in curiosity. "What happened with that fella's brothers?" Then he rushed out the next words, "I - I ain't thinkin' you done anything wrong. I just wondered..."
"An infinitely fair question, Mr. Dunne." In truth he was proud of the young man for asking. "That lad's oldest brother was cheating at cards," he began as he absently placed the bottle on the dresser and reached for his jacket. "I wasn't participating in the game. I knew the man to be well off in the community. And his family was using the size of their ranch to undermine the other ranchers. Surprisingly, it went against my sensitivities that he was cheating money from neighbors he was already cheating of their water rights and livelihood."
He stopped in putting on his coat, and the story, to defend what could possibly be seen as hypocrisy. "Mother and I were always careful. The people we duped always met their fate through greed, not desperation."
JD smiled, unhesitatingly accepting the distinction. Ezra sighed. The boy was too trusting. No, that wasn't really true. It was simply that when the youngster trusted, he did so implicitly and he trusted Ezra. The gambler made a mental note to ask JD why later. But for now he didn't want to confuse or embarrass him. Besides he was anxious to get the story out and over with. "I pointed out to the manager of the establishment what was occurring at the table. He watched, saw for himself and called the rancher on his illicit practices. I had gone about my business in other parts of the saloon. The rancher went for his gun. He killed the other player and was turning the gun on the manager when I shot him. I was put in the unenviable position of being forced to defend the manager, a man I barely knew. The other brother present at the time, seeking revenge, shot the manager and myself as we knelt over the fallen men. The manager died. The brother was hanged for the murder." Even JD could tell there was much more to the painful memories. But he wouldn't push for details.
"Gosh, Ezra, why didn't you just say so?"
"No one asked."
"I'm sorry."
The sincerity touched the older man. He wasn't used to the feeling. "You asked, JD," he smiled gratefully. And he realized it did make a difference.
Buck, Josiah and even Vin, who seemed to take his side in this most recent confrontation, sided with him right or wrong. The youngest of the group had asked, heard the facts, and judged him innocent based on the details. It made a difference.
By this time the gambler had his vest, coat and gun belt settled exactly as he preferred. He tested his derringer to be sure it was unencumbered by his sleeve and reset it. He put a hand on the door to open it for them to leave.
"Wait, you have to take care of those cuts." JD grabbed the forgotten bottle from the dresser and held it out. Ezra glanced in the mirror, studied the cuts again and finally took the disinfectant. JD grabbed a hand towel and pushed it toward Ezra encouragingly.
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Vin stared out at the stars, which were barely affected by the low street fires, but partially obscured by the fog that seemed to be getting stronger; heavier in the night. He felt Chris walk up behind him.
"You have the air of a man thinkin' on makin' a move," the gunslinger spoke through teeth clenched tightly around a thin cigar.
"I've killed men, Chris. I've taken men in for bounty like a rancher'd pay for coyotes."
Larabee waited to see where this was going. "I'm wanted for murder."
"You were framed."
"For Eli Joe. Think on the kind of man I must be, the things I've done." There was a silence before he continued. "Why do you judge Ezra and not me?"
"You've been judged, we've all been judged."
"The day a part of my past rides into town you don't like, will you be there to cover my back? Will Nathan?"
"You shouldn't even have to ask that." The question made Larabee surprisingly angry.
"Neither should Ezra," Vin said sadly. He was so much like Ezra, wanting to be judged by who he was now, who he was trying to become, not who he had been. Thank God the part of his past hadn't caught up with him that would open the pages of his life as they had the gambler's.
Nathan would be no more accepting of him. He was sure of it. And it didn't seem fair that, because he and Larabee were so alike, and the deaths they had caused were in a similar vein, that the gunman was more tolerant of them.
The tracker was confident they had both caused more deaths than their southern partner, and probably, on too many occasions, with less provocation.
"You've got used to pushin' people away, Chris. Do you even know you're doin' it anymore?"
The former bounty hunter waited, but he could tell his best friend wasn't going to answer.
"You need to figure out if you really want 'em leavin' and how you'll feel when they're gone. Nathan needs to think on it, too." The thought crossed his mind that he might lose his friend by saying things the man didn't want to hear. But he had the feeling he would lose the man he respected and admired and cared for more than he thought was possible if he allowed the man to make the mistake of pushing the others away.
No, Vin didn't want to say any more. He didn't like situations where he had to think so carefully about what he was about to say. The facts, the importance of a thing should let the words come natural and just be there. But then, it'd been a long time since he'd had this much to lose. Maybe that was the answer - to talk about himself instead of the others. "Ain't never had anyone to push away. Always lost everyone".
He could feel Larabee's eyes on him and the sympathy there. He didn't want that. So talking about himself wouldn't work. He forced himself to nudge forward with a more personal observation regarding his moody friend. "You push Ezra too hard, he's gonna bolt."
The tracker continued to stare toward the free spaces beyond town as Larabee puffed on the small cigar and ignored him. "Buck's still thinkin' to leave the minute he thinks that's what's best for you."
"Has he said something to you?" At last, a reaction from the gunfighter.
"Not the question. Question is why he hasn't said anything to you."
For the first time Tanner's succinct conversation irritated the other man. "Are we talkin' about you or Ezra or Buck?" Larabee snarled because the one-sided conversation was making him uncomfortable.
"Figure we're talkin' about you, Cowboy."
Larabee wanted to ask his friend what he knew; what he had seen.
Why was Buck always walking away lately?
Why did Ezra defy him?
But he didn't, as if not giving voice to the fact that he cared would keep him from losing anything he cared about.
The silence lingered between them. The comfort level in the silence that was between them dissipated much more quickly than usual. Larabee wasn't going to be able to come up with an answer.
The tracker breathed a deep sigh. "I'm takin' up a post." He nodded toward the roof of an abandoned building between them and the saloon where he planned to keep watch. "Don't rightly think this is over."
Chris watched the frontiersman's moves as he gracefully made his way across the street. Chris couldn't help but wonder what his friend thought wasn't over. He hoped it was the trouble with the outsiders... not something more personal. But he didn't ask.
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Buck pulled the long guns and pistols from where they were secured on the wall and dragged out the cleaning supplies. Josiah watched the confident, experienced hands tear down the first rifle. He suspected the guns were getting this detailed care so the man could avoid eye contact and conversation.
Silence was an art form. And sometimes the silence between two men could gauge the depth of their friendship. But Josiah was pretty sure this was not a healthy quiet that had settled over the jail. It had the heavy feeling of a church just before the beginning of a funeral; the mourning of a great loss.
"I think sometimes, on the men the Judge threw together to do this job," Josiah began casually as he wandered over to the coffee on the pot-bellied stove and poured them each a cup, "Wonder if we have anything in common."
He didn't get a response. Buck ran the long cleaning rod down the barrel of the rifle and scoured it with the bristle wire brush on the end.
"Independent," Josiah volunteered his findings. "We all are. Had to be to survive. And proud of it. I think sometimes we lash out at the ones we think we could trust the most. Because that kind of trust takes away a little of that independence. We're afraid it takes away one of the best parts of ourselves. But if we fight through it, we'll come out stronger on the other side." There was no response. "What do you think, Buck?"
Buck looked at him. Josiah could see the thoughts behind the eyes. This man had dropped the clown face a moment ago to say what he believed; to defend a friend and he had been slapped down by another friend. He was trying to decide if he was ready to get hit again.
Finally, the words did come. "I think that's Sunday-go-to-preachin' bullshit." There was no anger in his tone, only sad facts. "Either you wish it were true or you're saying what you think will keep the whole congregation together."
Keep the congregation together? Josiah suddenly realized this was more serious than he had feared.
"It's easy to use words like that when you're one of the ones everyone always thinks is right." Buck added.
Josiah sat very still. If he laughed now, the big barrel laugh that was welling up inside him, Buck would never understand. He? Josiah Sanchez? One of the ones people listened to? Oh, they might let him listen to them, like it's a confession, but did they ever heed his good advice?
His thoughts were interrupted and it suddenly became very easy not to laugh when the older of the prisoners called out from behind the bar's of his cell, "We don't got much to worry about, Kyte. These guys are gonna kill each other. Big brother Jason'll only have to come in and clean up after."
"You think Nathan's right? The things he says about Ezra?" Josiah leaned forward and asked in a low voice. This wasn't a conversation for strangers.
He thought the other man wouldn't answer, but finally, the words came out equally slow and low. "I think Nathan sees what Ezra lets him see. And if Nathan won't take the time to look beyond that, Ezra thinks to hell with him." Wilmington's hands easily replaced the bristled wire brush with an oiled cotton swatch and continued to clean the rifle.
"Why would someone do that?" Josiah prodded.
"I figure Ezra's found a real thin slip of himself that people may not like, but they tolerate."
"Could you help me out? How would a man find that narrow slip?"
"Think about it. The only time people'd be nice to him as a kid was before they knew what his Ma really did to keep 'em fed. Once the folks knowed she's not the school marm or married and respectable and all, they got spit on and told they weren't fit to walk the streets."
Buck stopped and chanced a glance at the older man. He was expecting a look of disgust or indignation on behalf of Jackson. What he saw were two blue eyes giving credence to everything he said, but more than that... Buck Wilmington had spent many years seeing the wildness and leeriness of the animal kingdom reflected in the eyes of Chris Larabee and the men they would ride with and go up against. He had forgotten that it was also the animal kingdom, in the form of that stray mutt he'd taken up with as a kid, that had taught him what real friends were like. That dog didn't judge, was glad to be with him, and chose him over everyone else in the town to be his friend.
After seeing the wolves and big cats staring back at him all these years, it felt so good to recognize that dog's loyalty in Josiah's eyes just now. He hoped the world-wise man wouldn't resent it if he ever found out he'd been compared to a dog. He thought, maybe, ole Josiah would understand what an honor the likening was.
The feelings helped him continue in his defense of their southern friend. "No kids would be allowed to play with him. How's he supposed to know how to get along with others now that he's grown? But come something bad happen? Well, I reckon that would all be his fault, Josiah, a fight... something comes up stolen... 'that whore's boy must've done it.' 'No father to make him grow tall'... 'his Ma sure ain't the one to teach him right from wrong,' they'd say. 'How can he learn to be a man?'"
Buck jammed the long cleaning rod down in the muzzle. "Ezra don't think it, but he's probably lucky his Ma kept movin'. Only way he turned out as good as he did."
He pulled the rod out of the barrel and met Josiah's eyes again. "I think he did turn out pretty good, Josiah, I know he tries."
Josiah's heart was bleeding for the ghost of a five-year-old boy who sat in man's form and cleaned the guns, ready to defend his friend. "I think he turned out right fine, Buck."
Josiah almost felt guilty with the insight he was getting. As clearly as he saw that Buck was relaying his own childhood, he also knew the friend before him didn't realize it. He truly thought he was talking about Ezra.
As much as Josiah knew he was in a private place, one he had snuck into and not been invited, Josiah felt he had to get some more information that might never come along again. He was sincere in his determination to use the information to help his friend. "What about Chris? Why does Ezra put up with the things he says?"
"The things Chris says are true. Bull's eye straight on target. But he don't care. He calls you on it, says don't let it happen again, and lets you ride with him anyway. Larabee will accept any man for who he's been while they've known each other. He don't care about their past."
"I don't see Larabee cutting Ezra that much slack, Buck." Josiah was seeing Ezra in Buck's descriptions as clearly as he saw the man in front of him, and was thankful for the insight into both of them.
"Ezra left that first time we rode together. He didn't know how much harm it could do. But we almost got killed. JD ,.. Vin... Chris could've lost 'em."
There were some memories Buck had to fight down, but at last, as he lay the first cleaned gun aside, he continued with infinite regret, "The only thing you can do to lose Larabee's favor is to hurt... or kill .. someone he really loves."
The gunfighter grabbed another gun and began cleaning it.
The room was really too close. Josiah thought he really needed air. His heart was brimming over and he knew he shouldn't show it. But he was about to rip that gun out of the younger man's hand, pin him to the wall and talk until that five-year-old kid knew that he didn't fall out of Larabee's favor with Sarah and Adam's death, that he'd found men who were proud to walk the street with him, and who thought his Ma did one hellacious good job of raising him.
And nothing but the rapid-fire gunshots and worried shouts from outside the door could have stopped him.
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