Be near me when my light is low,
When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick
And tingle; and the heart is sick,
And all the wheels of Being slow. ~Alfred, Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam
At first, all Ezra could think was that his barely-healed ribs might snap under the pressure of the shotgun muzzle. He imagined the bones brittle, delicate as dry twigs. Then a slow wash of fear began to make him dizzy. He thought that if Bracken touched him, if he felt those hands on his skin one more time, even for a second, he would lose control of his bodily functions.
"Can't move, can you?"
Bracken's words were damp against his neck. The moist breaths rippled his hairline.
"Feels good, don't it?"
Ezra took brief, fuzzy stock of his circumstances.
Alone ... hour, maybe, since I've been seen ... no-one knows ...
Cataloguing things, memorizing them - it was more than an instructional pastime, it was practically an instinct now.
Man's a killer ... he wants you ... not thinking straight ...
He often did it to calm himself. Even with his face in the wet earth outside the mill he'd tried to do it, to elevate his thought processes somehow while his body was trashed.
Your brain, Ezra. Play the game with your brain.
One arm was twisted between his scapulae, pinned by the wrist. All the muscles were pulling, the wayward shoulder joint lifting from its moorings, determined to break free. The other arm was trapped beneath his chest. The little Derringer was safe in his sleeve, the muzzle touching the inside of his wrist. It was something of a comfort, even though useless to him unless he had more room.
Bracken had kicked his feet apart. Ezra thought he could feel the sharp jut of the man's hip grinding against his tail-bone. Perhaps it was that.
Dear God let it be that.
Link Chain's sawn-off dug into his ribs from the side. That was the key element, Ezra felt. That was the thing he needed not to lose sight of, whatever he did next.
And he was on his own. Mustn't forget that, either.
The saloon was a long way from here, given that one tweak of Link Chain's forefinger would blow a hole right through him. Far as anyone knew, Ezra was peacefully asleep in bed, not dangling here over the abyss.
The shot would summon them. They would arrive, eventually.
Too late, of course.
A second time, too late.
It occurred to Ezra that the balance sheet of survival had looked healthy up to now. He had been saved, many times, just as he, he supposed, had contributed somewhat to his associates' tally of reasons for gratitude.
Such luck does not last indefinitely.
The rogue card turns up in the end. It always turns up - unless you cheat, like the low-down swindler you are.
Ezra swallowed, gritted his teeth.
Cheating Fate. That was the hardest con of all.
Vin walked his supper off and came to claim his night-cap, glad to find Chris in the saloon, legs stretched out, crossed at the ankle, hand closed over a drink that he didn't seem to have touched. Larabee appeared sleepy but Vin knew better.
JD was sitting at the table with a beer. He looked sleepy, too, and Vin figured that was for real. They acknowledged one another with no more than a rueful tip of chin.
"All quiet?"
Chris nodded.
"Just us?"
Chris uncrossed his ankles, re-crossed them the opposite way.
"Nathan's workin'. Ezra went ta bed. Josiah's not feelin' too friendly. Leastways, not with us." He used his eyes to point out Josiah sitting at the back of the saloon playing chequers with the butcher's son, a pale and lanky youth with a studious air.
"Buck?"
Chris turned his glass in a slow circle on the table. "Buck," he said. "Now there's a tale. He's not here, that's all I know."
"Ain't you noticed?" JD grinned, sly. "He's bin gone since yesterday afternoon."
Vin didn't like the sound of that. Since Chris had first un-earthed him in Four Corners, Buck's cheerful presence in and around town had been, for the most part, as satisfying as a lazy summer sundowner. It had been as welcome as a hot bath someone else was paying for. He hefted a goddamn Peacemaker better than any man Vin had ever seen, too. Whatever the hell had been going on, Buck had been a lynchpin, a cornerstone. Vin could have kicked himself, not to mention Chris and JD. Letting Buck Wilmington drift off downstream and out of sight was close to unforgivable.
"Maybe I'll go find him," he suggested. "Don't seem right."
"His choice." Chris was short. "You stayin' for a drink?"
Vin turned towards the bar and then back to the table. He wouldn't let Larabee deflect him. "Buck should be here. Iffen we're gonna let him leave, might as well all leave."
JD looked at his feet.
"Yeah, well don't think I haven't thought about it." Chris had that tone about him that told Vin he was squaring up for some serious unraveling. He finally raised the glass of whisky to his lips. "Besides, might be outa our hands. Reckon the Judge may feel like re-considering the arrangement." He drank.
"Shit." Vin shook his head. He hadn't yet learned how to keep Chris on track, could only say and do what his instincts told him. "Judge won't find anyone else as cheap. And hell ... I'm gonna go find Buck. Somethin' else comes down the pipes, we'll need him. You know where he is, JD?"
"I've tried talkin' to him, ta find out where his mind's at, but he don't want to talk to me. All he wants to do is shack up with this Lucille. I don't know much about her, jus' that she's sweet enough for Buck to ride half the day to visit. Reckon he's still visitin' ... reckon he'll be there until tomorrow at least."
Vin thought for a while about the reality of winkling Buck out of some warm bed in another town. Of how much the man would resent it. He looked to the bar again. Chris was watching him, entertained by his indecision.
JD suddenly sat up straight, not sleepy anymore.
"Heck!" he said. "No he ain't."
Vin turned his head to the right, a tingle of readiness running across his shoulders. There was a commotion outside and then the batwings sprang open with a shudder.
Buck himself barged through them from the street. He was moving fast, looked like thunder and was dragging a man in a squashed stove-pipe hat behind him. Chris uncrossed his ankles once again, laid down his glass.
"Buck," he said.
The man in the stove-pipe hat found himself marched right across the saloon and deposited in a chair. He didn't look dangerous, wasn't carrying an obvious weapon. Looked mighty annoyed though.
"Buck?" Chris said again.
"We've got a situation."
He didn't know why, but a stab of pure ice pierced Vin under the ribs.
"Go check on Ezra," Buck said. His face and tone of voice made JD scramble from his chair and move, fast. He took the stairs two at a time, disappeared around the corner.
"Tell us what you saw." Buck's grip on his arm was tight enough that the man looked panicky. "Just what you said to me."
"Was just coming for a beer, mister, I ain't done nothin'. I told you."
Buck made an impatient gesture. "We both just rode in from Eagle Bend," he said to Chris. "Was passing the time of day with this feller and ... now come on, tell me again who you saw back there."
"Who'd you see?" Chris repeated the question, gained stove-pipe hat man's undivided attention immediately.
The man spoke slowly, clearly realizing that he had most to gain from being just as helpful as he possibly could. "A tall guy with a ponytail, like I said. Gray hair. Black eyes." He indicated his own clothing. "Dressed in brown, no side-gun. There was him and a real big feller together, out back of the saloon. They were just standing around. Asked me for a light."
Damn it.
Chris put the heel of one hand to his forehead for a second. Vin figured he was wondering whether to overturn the table.
"What the hell's going on?"
Had Bracken evaded his captors again, like some freakshow escape-artist, or was that wire more hopeful than accurate? Had he really never been goddamn apprehended in the first place? If so, for all these days they'd just sat around in the sun congratulating themselves. Patting themselves on the back, expecting Ezra to damn well get over it and knuckle down to business.
Damn it to bitching hell.
The icicle poked at Vin again. Chris looked like a spirit had just stomped over his grave. Josiah had left his corner now and was standing quietly at the other side of the visitor from Eagle Bend.
"How long ago?"
"Two days."
"They say anything else?"
"I swear, mister, all they did was ask me for a light."
"They mention this town?"
Stove-pipe hat man crinkled his brow. "Well, I ..."
Chris stretched across the table, grasped the man by the wrist, upped the ante by several degrees, as he tended to do.
"Tell me."
"Guy with the ponytail ... asked ... asked me how far to Four Corners."
All eyes went up as JD rounded the corner of the stairs, began to come down, placing both hands on the banister rails and jumping the last six steps.
"He ain't there."
Buck let go the man in a fit of concern and annoyance. "Shit, Ezra ... why pick tonight to go for a goddamn yonder by yaself?"
Chris let go too. "JD, go git Nathan. If Bracken and Chain were in Eagle Bend two days ago, they could be anywhere by now. Need to find Ezra fast, stash him somewhere safe."
"He ain't carryin' his side-arm." JD's voice hitched. "Or the conversion. May be carryin' the Derringer, but ... damn, he ain't strapped up the rig. He may be out there with nothin'."
"Well that's goddamn perfect." Chris's chair tipped as he got up, was sent on its way to the floor by the flap of his coat as he moved. He glared at Wilmington. "You with us?"
Buck's jaw locked. "I'm here, I'm fuckin' here. They ain't gonna get to him, not again."
"Josiah?"
"There's no cause to doubt me, brother. We end this tonight."
The rush of adrenaline that washed Vin's mind was ice-cool.
Best hope you two ain't come to ya senses too late then.
Wasn't Chris always saying he'd chosen them for their weaknesses as much as their strengths?
Well hell. That seemed like a pretty dumb call.
"All right, I got him, I got him." Bracken's tone was honeyed. "Back off a ways, Link, I got him."
Ezra felt Link Chain's shotgun ease out of his side, even as Bracken's pistol nudged the hollow at the base of his skull.
"Let's get you turned around shall we? Come on now. Round ya come, I gotta powerful need to look into yore goddamn beautiful eyes. Yup, then I'll know ya pleased to see me."
Ezra followed the poke of the metal, easing around step by baby step until he was facing out into the silent dark of the trees behind Josiah's church. As he moved, Bracken's body leaned into him all the way, uncompromising. His left arm remained trapped behind him, his right was pinned at an angle by the weight of Bracken's torso. There was only a faint shadow to indicate the presence of Link, but Ezra could hear him breathing. He'd felt the Derringer shift backwards towards his elbow. If it slipped too far or changed position, he wouldn't be able to handle it. Or else, Bracken would discover it. Right now the arm was immobilized anyhow. He needed Bracken to pull back, just a half inch.
The barrel of the Colt was touching lightly into the side of his neck. Bracken still had him body-checked against the clapboard wall. Ezra tried hard not to flinch as he felt fingers fumbling at his shirt. He wished to God he'd not been such a lazy, ill-dressed jackass as to leave his room without a vest and jacket.
Bide your time, Ezra. Play the game with your brain.
The flat of Bracken's hand splayed across Ezra's chest, fingertips working at buttons, worming to get underneath. Their bodies were so close he didn't have much room to maneuver but it didn't seem to constrict his determined, probing fingers. Each button was worked loose in turn down to the waistband of his pants. The ends of shirt were tugged free. When the barrier was breached, the hand that slipped across Ezra's goose-fleshed skin was harsh, rough-textured. Bracken hummed in delight, stroking back and forth.
"Yes." He spoke languidly, like he was savoring every sensation. "You ... you're a pearl all right." The heel of the hand moved down, pressed hard into Ezra's belly, made his muscles jump and ribs contract violently, desperate to protect.
Bracken's eyes tracked, unblinking. They stared with focused intent, wide and dark. They roved round Ezra's hairline, into his eyes, along his jaw, up over his cheeks, back to his eyes, then down, resting finally on his mouth. Ezra pulled in his core muscles tighter. He breathed high in his chest, slow as he could, quiet as he could.
Bide your time, Ezra Standish. Pick your moment. Don't rush this game or you will lose.
A tongue flicked out, insistent, pressed against Ezra's lower lip. He felt teeth nip, a corresponding coil of pain in his bowels. Bracken bit harder, drew blood, moved his head back.
"Ya feel nice. Real classy and nice. And you know what I want. Reckon I can make you like it, too." He pulled his head further back, thoughtful. "Damn ... but look at you. Rather die right here, bullet in the guts, wouldn't you? Rather than let me." He dug the barrel of the Colt in again, moved his forefinger like he was stroking the trigger. "That's all right. You'd still be warm." He nodded. "So, ya gonna let me, pretty? Gonna let me, or you gonna die?"
Ezra licked at the blood before he could stop himself, caught the flash of heat in Bracken's eyes. A voice in his head was bellowing at him not to say anything, not to say a goddamn word because it would only make things worse, would only give Bracken more of him.
Brain, Ezra. Use your God-given brain.
He couldn't help himself, God-given or no. He just couldn't damn well help himself.
"I have a choice?" The coolness of his own tone quite terrified him. He could feel Bracken's fierce arousal, could almost smell it. "Sodomy and murder generally go together for you, don't they?"
The gun was screwed in a notch further. "Well," Bracken said. "That may be true. But see ... I have a mind to keep you breathing a little longer. I have a mind to have you to myself. Take you away and have you ... all to myself." He grinned a small-boy grin. "Get some squeaking and moaning out of ya. You were sweet as hell, but too damn quiet. Some beggin' would be nice ... oh please, Mattie, please ... I could like that."
Ezra felt a sudden tug at the buckle of his belt, followed by a sigh of malign content. His eyes would have slammed shut, only he needed to keep Bracken in plain sight. Panic was roaring through him, and fury, too. A man couldn't help himself if he was touched like that. Full to the brim with hate and fear and he still wouldn't be able to help himself. It was the worst betrayal Ezra could think of. One he couldn't bear, one he wouldn't accept.
He truly felt he'd held on long enough. They weren't coming for him this time. The rogue card had turned up. It was there, staring at him, and the best hand Ezra could muster might not save him now. He'd play it, though, all the damn same. It was time.
Link Chain was somewhere close in the dark, gun trained.
"So far, Mr. Bracken." Given the naked terror trickling through his bones, Ezra congratulated himself on how damn in command he sounded. "So far ... and no further."
Bracken quirked a brow, stimulated by the challenge. The brow questioned what possible move Ezra could make. He closed his fingers around the belt buckle and his knuckles brushed flesh.
"Oh fuck ... you goddamn little whore ..." Bracken shivered at the touch, eyes flickering shut. He was momentarily overcome. His body relaxed and Ezra could move his arm.
An instant of powerful clarity came to him. It was a relief. At the same time as conceding that his next action would almost certainly cost him his life, it felt unutterably good to be in control of what would happen.
Ezra had no last message for himself other than do it now.
He jerked his elbow sharply, like he had a whip in his hand, felt the swift rush of metal down his sleeve. As the Derringer slid across his wrist and into his palm, he swung the arm up again, found the trigger and fired point blank. It was a trick he'd spent hours and hours practicing without bullets, and the results had rarely been satisfactory. You needed the perfect angle, the perfect amount of force, the perfect goddamn shirt. In truth, he half expected the unpredictable little beauty to blow his entire hand off the end of his arm. Instead, a .22 caliber slug tore into cloth and flesh, its muffled crack sounding in his ears. There was the burn of powder on his fingertips, the splat of warm blood on his face. And as he anticipated the pain of the answering shot, he almost believed he felt it ... Link's shotgun, blasting through him above his groin ... or Bracken's Colt ... or both.
Bracken made a strangled, high-pitched noise, a near-hysterical keening sound. His throat functioned but his fingers didn't. He gurgled, eyes bulging in disbelief, and then he dropped his Colt. Hands grabbed for purchase on Ezra's shirt, scrabbling for a hand-hold. The two of them turned in the still air, like they were dancing, Ezra trying to push the body away, loose off another shot, Bracken trying to hold on. As he rotated, shoving at the weight, Ezra felt his back tweak sharply in protest. Bracken grabbed uselessly at Ezra's knees as he went down.
Ezra staggered. He was more intent now on getting himself around to meet the oncoming surge of Link Chain. He only half saw him, didn't understand why the shotgun had never fired. And everything, every second of every minute since he'd opened his mouth in the barn and sealed his fate, it all came out in a single strike. He swung and hit Link Chain square on his iron jaw. It was a sweet strike, perfectly aimed, a blow of swift and concentrated power. He felt the bones in his hand crumple and snap.
Link huffed and fell backwards hard. His head hit the jutting stone sill of a little window with a resounding crack. Bouncing forward, Link reached for Ezra. And missed. Three hundred pounds of muscle and flesh dragged the big man down fast, and the very edge of the boot-scraper buried itself into the corner of his eye. His body flumped over it like a dropped coat, and was still.
The single, tinny gunshot that rang out on the night air was instantly recognizable.
Ezra knew they would have heard it. He knew now they were coming. Could almost picture them flowing towards him, an unstoppable tide sweeping in from every corner of town.
Josiah and JD had just left the Hotel, perhaps. They'd dipped in, hoping against hope to find Ezra sleepily seated in an armchair smoking a cigar and reading one of the newspapers or books that sometimes got left behind by departing visitors. Would have discovered Mr. Standish hadn't been seen doing any such thing, however. Not for weeks.
Vin might still be gratefully patting Ezra's horse as it stood, bemused, in its stall at the Livery. His chin would lift as he worked out exactly how far away the shot had been fired, exactly which direction it came from. Ducking under the great, wagging head, he'd reach for his rifle and head out at a run, leaving the doors wide.
Buck and Chris, wandering opposite boardwalks to see if they might just un-earth Ezra from a dark corner, hunkered in with his flask, would stop still at the sound. They'd meet in the middle of the street, begin to sprint. Always worked so well together, those two.
And, forewarned of trouble, Nathan would have been bracing himself for a summons. He'd take up his bag, charge down the steps, hit the dirt at the bottom so fast he'd nearly go over, then begin to race up the dark street towards the church.
The moon hung over the trees, brilliant and astounding.
It was just what Ezra had come out to see. He was there when Buck and Chris arrived, standing motionless in a patch of faint light, looking wonderingly down at the bodies sprawled at his feet. The Derringer was still in one hand, and as his friends appeared he waved it in what he thought was friendly acknowledgment.
"Oh my God, Ezra, ya hit?" Buck's hands reached in fear for the flapping, blood-spattered shirt.
Ezra tried to shake his head. There had been no answering gunshot. The knowledge made him feel weak, made him smile stupidly.
"Not mine," he said as pins and needles prickled his fingertips.
"They dead?" Buck said. "Both of 'em?" There was admiration and relief in his eyes, Ezra was sure of it. It was damn good to see Buck. Immediately he was flooded with warmth, felt content about the whole shooting match - his survival, his life, his comrades. He had the brief and precious thought that everything would be all right now. Lord but he was one lucky sonofabitch. Thank God everything would be all right.
Then he saw Buck's face turn doubtful, begin to cloud. "Ezra?"
Ezra's knees lost tension. He felt cold and tried to sit before he went ass-over-elbows. The Derringer dropped out of his suddenly nerveless hand and clunked quietly under his feet.
"No," a voice said. "No, damnit."
It was Chris, clear as a bell.
Ezra felt arms encircle him tightly as his legs gave way. The embrace pained him, ground a desperate protest from his throat that tasted of metal. He wondered how in hell he'd managed to pull his muscles so damn badly that he couldn't even stand up anymore.
As Ezra's dead weight dragged him to the ground, Chris could feel wet warmth nudging through his fingers.
Buck had followed them down. "You shot Bracken ..." His voice was slightly tinged with hysteria. "Hoss, you damn well killed him!"
"This ain't right," Chris said, sounding confused. "What the hell they do to you? Fuck, Ezra, we got you home, we damn well got you home, this ain't right."
He couldn't get a grip on the sodden fabric. Ezra's hand lifted from the ground, and then sagged down again, palm up, fingers curling. Eyes opened and closed lazily as he seemed to come and go from blackness to the alley and back again.
Footsteps galloped round the corner. It was Vin, who skidded to a halt, closely followed by JD, then Josiah.
All Vin seemed focused on at first was the yawning shirtfront, the unbuckled belt. "Shit, they didn't ... Jesus damnit, tell me they didn't ...?" His gaze swung to Bracken lying on his back a yard or two from Chris's feet and then at the hulk of Link Chain on his face under the steps. "Aw, Ezra ..."
"Here," Nathan's voice said, "I'm right here." He was already opening his bag, pushing his way through. Some of the contents spilled to the ground as he dropped. "What happened? Ezra take a bullet?"
"Bracken took the bullet," Buck said. "Ez shot him." He looked up at JD, standing with his fist against his mouth, then across at Chris. "I brought the guy fast as I could when I knew, Chris, swear to God ... fast as I could."
"What the hell? Ezra bleeding? Why's he damn well bleeding?"
"This," Vin said, boot poking at something on the ground next to Link Chain's slack hand. A stiletto, wickedly slender, its six-inch blade shiny and wet.
"Fucker stabbed him in the back." Chris's face twisted in disbelief. "Damn and he's bleedin' fast. I'm doin' shit here, Nathan, can't stop it."
It was dark out the back of the church. Dark and suddenly chilly.
Nathan slapped a wad of cloth into Chris's suddenly outstretched hand.
"Press down to the bone and don't let up."
He looked up at Josiah, didn't have to ask. Silent, Josiah took the back steps of the church in two strides, JD at his heels. Halting at the top, he stared down at the men on the ground, alive and dead, a stricken look on his face.
"Hot water, blankets," JD said impatiently, pushing past him into the church.
Ezra was attempting to struggle away from the hands that pinned him down, demanding to be released.
"He didn't shoot me," he kept saying as if they were idiots. "Let me up. Just let me get up." His voice was strong, stronger than it had been when he'd said the exact same words to them back at the mill. The horror of being restrained was overtaking rational thought, was lending him a strength he really oughtn't to have. And the power needed to keep him subdued was the source of a vicious circle that Chris feared might spin out of control.
"You hafta take it easy." Nathan was pressing him down again. "Stop all a' that, we're tryin' to help ya here. Lord, nothin' but trouble with you." His voice was steady and compelling. "Listen now, it's not bad, I swear. This? Jist a little scratch, nothing to worry about. No, no, stay with us now." He shook an arm, frowning at the misshapen hand. "Shit, what else ya bin doin'? Shootin' people and smashin' yaself up ... hell, you'll be the death of me, Ezra, I swear."
"Not dead, Chris," Buck said through his teeth. "Bracken's not dead."
Chris swung his gaze to the side, shocked to see those unblinking eyes, the slightly open mouth pulling in air. Bracken's face was paper white. He was alive, conscious and staring right at Ezra, trying to form words. Ezra tracked Larabee's eyes. He rolled his neck and stared right back.
"Nathan," Buck repeated. "He's not dead."
"Don't give a shit." Nathan didn't even look over. "Gonna lift Ezra, all right? Gonna take him inside. Don't let go your pressure, not for a second. He needs every goddamn drop."
Chris fought to wrest Ezra's attention from Matt Bracken even as he struggled to do as Nathan commanded. It was as if Ezra was caught in a trap, couldn't drag his gaze away even if he'd wanted. Chris nudged him firmly in the side with his knee. "Hey, need you lookin' at me. Come on, you ain't lookin' at me. Do as you're goddamn told for once. Time to get the hell out this cold, Ezra."
Bracken didn't move his gaze either, not even when Vin stood right over him, pulled back the hammer of his rifle with a violent crack.
But Ezra's eyes closed. They drifted shut, sealed out the world, and a triumphant twitch tugged the corner of Bracken's mouth.