A/N: I love your reviews, you guys! They make me a happy panda! :)
Also, I have to admit it. I've been sucked in. I think I kinda, sorta, officially do like the ATF universe. And it's all thanks to your reviews! You know why? Because if someone takes time to read and review my work, I feel it's only fair if I return the favor. Some of you only write ATF, so I didn't have a choice but to dive on in and try to keep an open mind. ...Yeah, I liked. I liked very much. In fact, I liked so much that now I've gone back to the blackraptor site (which, in case you didn't know, has like the biggest and bestest selection of M7 fics, including links to those here on ffn) and have begun reading through all the ATF fics I previously had skipped. Thanks a lot, you guys (I say this with amiable sarcasm, lol). Perhaps one day I'll delve into writing one of those of my own...
In the meantime, I'm almost down with this one! Finally, here's your big reveal chapter! I hope you're satisfied with the end result after all the nonsense I left about clues and puzzles and such. ;) I can only hope all of you are like "Duh! How did I miss that!" Lol :)
Only one more chapter to go after this one. Thanks for sticking with me!
Ezra P. Standish, frequenter of gambling halls, born and bred city boy, proper southern gentlemen, is flying.
Hunched low over Chaucer's neck, his body melding with his horse's powerful muscles, he barely breathes as the magnificent animal's hooves barely touch the desert ground below them. Gone is the carefree, jovial attitude displayed during the night's one-man act. Vanished is the teasing laughter over the morning's practical joke. Nonexistent is the easy smile flashed to his comrades before and during his current flight. In their place is a look of anger, shame, fear, and sadness as his mind plays back through a myriad of painful memories…
Ezra turns his head just slightly at the sound of voices around him. Furling his eyebrows, he tries to focus on the conversation. He hears Buck and Josiah talking, saying something about Chris being in jail…something about trying to get the gambler's money from the poker organization. Letting the memories of what happened to him and the mumbled words sink in, a pained groan escapes his lips.
"Josiah, wait!" Nathan suddenly calls. "I think he's comin' around."
...
"Those idiots!" Nathan huffs as he storms back into the room. After Ezra gives him a questioning look, he continues. "They both got themselves thrown in jail with Chris. Buck went after that guy who pushed you, and Josiah went after those men who don't wanna pay you."
Before Ezra can respond, the door is suddenly shoved open as a few men pile in.
"There he is, that bastard," one of the intruders yells as they head towards the bed.
Nathan quickly moves to defend his injured friend, swinging at the first of the hostile men. Not one to be caught helpless, Ezra throws himself out of the bed onto another of his attackers. The five men thrash around the room for a bit before tumbling out into the hallway. One of the attackers pulls out a gun, aiming it at the healer. Standish sees the move and jumps on the man, their combined weight smashing them through a door into the next room. The gun goes off in the fall, and the gambler quickly grabs at it, using it to knock the man beneath him unconscious. He hardly has a chance to stand before another of the attackers launches on top of him. Nathan rushes in, pulling the man off the Southerner and knocks him out.
"Ezra!" the healer yells, dropping down to help his dazed friend. Shaking away the dizziness, Ezra's gaze latches onto Nathan's bleeding arm, dismay flashing through his eyes.
"Just a scratch," Nathan assures him before helping the man to his feet, "let's get you back to your bed."
The hotel manager and the sheriff step into the room.
...
Facing the stone wall, Ezra squeezes his eyes shut tightly and does his best to focus on his breathing. He grimaces as he listens to his friends arguing heatedly behind him about who is at fault. Chris is blaming Buck for the initial injury, Nathan is yelling at both Chris and Buck for some sort of scuffle in the hospital, Buck is arguing about Josiah leaving Ezra and Nathan unguarded, Josiah returns fire back at Buck for being stupid enough to attack a man behind bars, and all of them are blaming each other about the gambler's current, slightly more bruised condition.
Mind reeling, the injured man looses focus on his breathing. Before he can stop it, he adds more fire to the rising inferno by vomiting painfully all over the floor. As expected, the argument leaves the level of yelling and downslides into one of fist-throwing.
...
They're in the stable. With a sigh, Ezra throws himself into a pile of soft hay, the healer quick to check on the condition of his charge.
"He all right?" Chris asks, concern evident in his voice.
"He would be if he had stayed in the hospital like he was supposed to," Nathan snaps.
This instantly starts up the rolling argument again. No longer able to stand it, Ezra pushes himself up and plants himself between the four angry men. He opens his mouth to yell at them, but Nathan quickly orders him against using his voice, concerned that his throat can't handle it, yet. Now even more irritated, he instead throws a surprising amount of crude hand gestures at them, gaining their shocked attention. He then goes through a process of miming out his own involvement in sending Buck away in the first place, assuring Buck that he doesn't blame him, thanking Chris and Josiah for their efforts in retrieving his pay, and making sure Nathan knows that aside from being tired and a bit nauseous, he is otherwise fine. With one final show of his frustration at the recent events, he finds a dusty spot on the floor and writes "Shameful," glaring at each one of their apologetic faces. Storming back to his hay pile, he flops back into it and instantly falls to sleep.
...
"Doin' all right, Ez?" Buck asks him for possibly the one-hundredth time.
With a nod, Ezra smiles at his worried friend before reaching a hand down and casually scratching Chaucer's neck. They walk slowly, keeping pace with their injured member. Ezra glances up at Nathan who is riding parallel with him on the other side of the wagon. Every once in a while, the healer will assess the gambler's condition openly, grumbling something under his breath when he turns away. Looking at the healer and then at the late-afternoon sun with a sigh, Ezra reaches a hand out to Buck.
"You need to stop?" Buck asks.
Ezra nods, sending his overeager friend into a frenzy of shouting orders to "hold up!" Worried looks instantly nail themselves to the self-conscious cardsharp. He flashed them a reassuring smile, then mimics an exaggerated yawn.
"Knew you'd get wore out ridin' that horse," Nathan grumbles. "Come on, let's get you into the wagon."
"It's gettin' late, anyway," Chris says. "Might as well stop here for the night."
Josiah turns on the wagon bench to look back the way they came. "Didn't get too far from town."
"That's good," the healer quickly points out. "Means Ezra, here's, been pacin' himself like I told him to. At least you got enough sense for that."
The gambler smiles at him as he waits for help off of his horse.
...
Again, he awakens to the sounds of voices talking. He listens intently as he hears his friends relaying the unfortunate events of Jefferson City. His frown deepens into an irritated scowl as the story continues, not even lightened by the knowledge that JD and Vin have now joined their party. Putting a hand over his eyes and rubbing his fingers across his temples, he sucks in a breath when he hears Nathan's last comment:
"Man seems to get himself into trouble even when he doesn't go lookin' for it. Course, most of the time the rest of us don't get so banged up savin' him from it."
His thoughts are interrupted by the sudden onslaught of gunfire erupting around him.
...
Trying to stay down, to keep his already weakened body away from further injury, Ezra hears Chris order JD to get him out of the line of fire. With an irritated grunt, he peeks above the wagon in time to see the kid trying his hardest to make his way to the wagon. His face displaying frustrated worry, he looks around for anything he can do to help. His eyes settle on the horses tethered to the back of the wagon, and he quickly makes the maneuver to cut them free. His relief is apparent as the young sheriff reaches him under the cover of the horses, and they quickly speed off to leave the gunfight behind.
Until the gunfight chases after them.
Ezra tries his best to draw the attention of the following shooters. When one sneaks up beside the wagon to take the shot at JD, the Southerner growls out in anguish as he sees the kid topple towards the front of the wagon. In one fluid motion, he shoots down the man responsible with one hand while catching hold of JD's arm with the other. Keeping his grip firm and gritting his teeth against his own pain, he makes quick work of taking out the rest of their pursuers before making the move to pull his young friend back up to safety. On his first try, his strength waivers and he sees the terrified look JD gives him upon slipping back into his precarious position. In an attempt to reassure the young man, Ezra shouts out to him, only to discover that the words coming from his mouth sound like nothing but utter nonsense. He stands, stunned, for a few seconds before JD's voice breaks through his confusion. Further frustrated with himself, he shakes off his thoughts and forces his muscles to comply with the order to get his friend to safety. He succeeds.
...
JD is insisting that they keep moving. Staring back in the direction of his friends' ensuing gun battle, Ezra shakes his head.
"Chris told me to get you outta here," the young sheriff whines.
Showing JD his most apologetic look, he deftly lights a match and tosses it into the back of the wagon.
"What'dja do that for?" JD cries out in shock.
Ezra opens his mouth to speak, then changes his mind, instead opting to simply grab the young sheriff by the uninjured arm and maneuvering him onto one of the draft horses. He jumps onto the other and pulls up the reigns, circling the wagon around against the protests of his young friend.
As they race towards the men shooting at the other members of the seven lawmen, Ezra smiles at the quiet look of determination that has now settled on JD's face. He gets the kid's attention, motioning back towards the pin holding the horses' shaft to the wagon.
"Just tell me when," JD nods.
As the wall of rock serving as a shield for the assailants gets closer, Ezra gives JD the signal to release the ball of fire rolling along behind them. As the pin is pulled, he realizes the gunmen are now firing at them, so he draws his own weapon and fires back. He turns the horses away from the fight immediately, keeping one eye on JD as he does so, taking a moment to pause in shooting so he can push the kid further down on his horse. He smiles as he hears the report of five other guns, his friends' guns, putting a quick stop to the battle.
With a tired sigh, he turns the horses back around to join the other lawmen.
Anger is the first thing that greets him when he reaches them, but not anger at him. He winces as Larabee turns his attention to JD, but is instantly ready to take the gunslinger's wrath when the kid points the blame back in his direction. Unfortunately, his resolve slips as he wavers atop his horse. Closing his eyes against the nausea, he fails to notice the sharpshooter sliding up beside him until it's too late to keep down the rising bile. With a look of anguish, he also can't seem to right his impending fall onto his now-distracted friend.
...
He forces himself awake, sitting up to look around dazedly at his still-sleeping companions. Seeing Vin's soiled jacket not to far from him spread out on a rock, the gambler reaches for it, swaying when he can't quit stretch his arm out far enough to grasp it.
"It's fine," Larabee suddenly says, squatting down beside him. "I cleaned it, set it there to dry."
Casting his eyes down, Ezra nods, then takes a worried glance around the campsite until his eyes rest on the sleeping tracker. Chris follows his gaze.
"Nathan says it doesn't look like he hit his head too hard. Should wake up soon," the gunslinger tells him, resting a reassuring arm on his shoulder.
As the others begin shifting around, obvious that they're waking, Chris stands to retake his position beside the unconscious ex-bounty hunter. Before he gets far, Ezra clears his throat, causing the gunslinger to turn back around. Without looking up, the unusually hesitant con artist attempts to speak, hearing the muddied sounds that emit from his mouth. As Chris squats back down next to him, Ezra finally looks up to meet the gunslinger's worried gaze.
"Ezra, can you talk?" Larabee asks.
He slowly shakes his head. Chris lets out a breath, then pats the gambler on the leg as he heads over to the still-waking healer. They talk in hushed tones for a few minutes before both return to his side. Nathan sits down in front of him.
"You're still healin', Ezra. This might just be a temporary side-effect, so don't get too worked up over it, yet. Let's just focus on gettin' you better, then we'll see if this rights itself."
Forcing himself to flash a small smile at his concerned friends, he nods, then motions to Nathan that he'd like something to eat.
"All we have that you can get down is porridge," Nathan informs him somewhat apologetically.
Ezra's face just starts to scrunch up in disgust, but he stops it, turning the look into another smile and a nod. Chris sees Vin move a little on the other side of camp and, with his own nod to the quiet gambler, heads over to his friend. The rest of the camp comes to life, hovering over both their fallen brothers. Ezra listens as they talk amongst themselves, then smiles when he hears Vin's complaints join the mix of voices. Taking the offered water from Josiah, he focuses on his limited ability to swallow until he hears Vin's words:
"Hell, I was just thinkin' next time Ezra's havin' a bad week, remind me not to get involved."
He gasps, inhaling some of the water and immediately choking it back out. At the preacher's concern, he quickly recovers himself, then gets a better look at the large man's battered hands in the light of the full sun. Alarmed, he takes a better look at the rest of his friends' injuries, injuries they all received because of him. Vin's voice again interrupts his thoughts.
"Ah, it's okay, Ez," the tracker assures him. "Not like you're actually to blame for all this."
His mask slips for just an instant before he can cover it. Doing his best to regain his confident portrayal, he flashes his biggest smile at the tracker before Nathan steps back into view to hand him his breakfast. Determined not to disappoint, he accepts the bland porridge graciously.
...
He tries his best at everything with every chance he gets upon his return to town. He does what he can to alleviate Nathan's guilt over his lack of improvement concerning his speech. Though still tired and knowing he could risk further injury to himself, he sets up his plans to repair the friendship between Buck and Chris, and to ease the ladies' man's own guilty conscience. He tries his damndest not to invoke the famous Larabee wrath, even giving up some of his favorite hobbies and risky actions to appease the short-tempered gunslinger. He becomes more generous with his money, with both his friends and at the poker table. If he needs a favor from any of his comrades, he compensates for their actions with double his own efforts in return. He doesn't complain, he stays out of harm's way, he reports his illnesses and injuries, he engages in menial labor, he gets up at a decent hour, he puts on a smile, he laughs, he performs, he pretends. He exhausts himself with his efforts. His guilt begins to alleviate.
And then Maude comes to town.
"I'm only here for the day," she tells him as she steps off the coach. "I have a pressing engagement tomorrow afternoon. You should be grateful that I took the time to visit you in this little hovel on my way through."
He can't hide the paling of his face, the fear in his eyes.
"What's wrong, darling, you look like you've just seen a ghost?" she asks.
His friends see his distress and come forward to help out. They pull her aside, explain to her his condition.
"Really?" she asks, raising an eyebrow at her son.
He nods, turning his face away from her judging glare.
"Well, that's hardly a reason to be upset. It's nothing!" she says jovially, smiling at him.
He looks at her sharply, confused at her words. Seeing her smile, he lets out a breath and grins back at her. His friends share skeptical looks, but relax as Maude places a gentle hand to her son's cheek.
"There are far worse things to lose than one's voice, my dear," she quietly tells him.
Ecstatic, he spends the rest of the day with his mother, sharing stories with her in written words as she reciprocates with her extensive vocabulary. Shortly before the last stage leaves that will take her away from him, yet again, she sits down on his bed and waits for him to shut the door before joining her.
"Thank god," she says, rolling her eyes. "I was getting tired of putting on that atrocious act for the entire town."
He looks at her, confused by her words, as she continues her rambling speech.
"I haven't quite determined what you might gain from this little charade, but with this much effort, the reward must be alarming. Heavens, look at you! Running around with a silly little notebook, acting the part of the perfect, humbly mute lawman. I admit, you had me a bit worried with this whole ruse of actually becoming an honest citizen, but now…now, I must say that I'm rather proud of you."
His eyes widen in saddened disbelief as he realizes what she is praising him for. She talks on, oblivious to his expression.
"You managed to con your own mother, imagine that. This whole time I've been fretting that you'd changed your ways, you've merely been biding time to gain their trust to set them up for…well, for whatever it is that you're planning with this display of speech impediment. I'm glad you've finally come around and let me play a part in it. I hope this means I will be recompensed a fair amount for my role?"
Angrily, he stands and shouts a string of garbled words at her. She freezes, staring up at him for a second before her lips stretch into a thin smile. She stands, patting his arm, then lets out a hearty laugh. He jerks back as if he's been slapped.
"Oh, that's priceless," she chuckles out. "Very convincing, dear. Keep that up and they'll be eating out of your hands in no time." She turns towards the door, still grinning. "Well, as entertaining as this has been, I really must be off. I'll keep you informed as to my whereabouts so you may join me when you're through toying with these simpletons. Oh, poor things, I almost feel sorry for them. They really had no idea how much trouble they were taking on when they took you under their wings."
And with that, she sets off, leaving her son stricken by her words. He stands that way for a long time, blinking back the shock, doing his best to compose himself before making his way down to the saloon. He sits in his corner table, drinking slowly, careful to keep up appearances that nothing is amiss. After the last patron for the night filters out, he continues to sit, staring at nothing. With a frustrated yell, he throws his bottle against a far wall. Standing, he flips his table over, kicks at a chair, hurls one of the glasses off the table beside him, and loses himself in his own method of destructive therapy.
Shaking the thoughts away, he catches the sound of his horse's labored breathing. Slowing the animal down gradually, he brings Chaucer to an easy walk, then to a complete stop. He wipes his hand down his face, allowing his features to be marred into a look of sheer devastation.
They're helping him, cleaning up the mess wrought by his own hand. He hides his look of failure behind their backs, laughs and smiles when they look in his direction. He hums along with Buck's merry tune, he smiles when the glass bites into his hand, he reports to Nathan as promised, he clears the tension in the air after the fight brought about, again, by his own carelessness. He thanks them graciously for their assistance, apologizes for their wasted time, their loss of sleep, their concern over trouble that he caused. He laughs at JD's misfortune, earning reassured grins from his friends that he is fine. He tries his best not to alert the perceptive tracker to his sorrows, but knows he fails. And so he does the only thing he can do. He runs. He flies. He lets the air rushing past him repeat his own uttered words back to him over and over again: "I swear on the grave of…no, rather I give you my personal word that I will not cause one ounce of trouble for you on this venture. That is the best promise I can offer."
Ezra P. Standish, trained con artist, master of deceit, genius of disguising all but what he wishes to portray, cups his head into his hands and cries.