Disclaimer: Neither 'Alias Smith and Jones' nor 'Magnificent Seven' belongs to me. This is fan fiction, not for profit. Any references to people, places, businesses, etc. are entirely fictitious.

A/N – story presumes the details on the wanted posters are not entirely accurate.

The Makings of an Outlaw?

Chapter 4 – Alone

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The young man, boy really, leaned back against the bar. Dressed in faded blue jeans and a white shirt, with a tan Stetson tilted back on his curly blond hair, he looked like many of the other older men in the saloon. Jedidiah Curry tried very hard to appear as if he belonged here. By rights, Menardville Texas was more of a trading post than a town. At this busy intersection of the north and west trails, nobody should notice another skinny young cowboy or an aging trail hand. His friend had told the sixteen-year-old they might be able to sign on with one of the cattle drives. A trail drive north would get them both out of Texas for a while. Blue eyes watched the door. Anywhere that was away from San Angelo, away from that awful day, would be better. Gorman said leaving was best, but Jed wondered... would it have been better to stay and tell the sheriff everything? Or at least almost everything? He couldn't get Jenny and Billy in trouble.

"Where are you at Artie?" Jed whispered to himself. "What's taking so long?"

Steps sounded behind him. The wary teenager turned to see the balding bartender place a mug of sarsaparilla in front of him. Moisture beaded on the outside of the heavy glass.

"Here you go young man," the jovial barkeep's huge walrus moustache bobbed up and down as he spoke. "That'll be ten cents."

Jed reached into his coat pocket for a coin. He pushed a slim silver dime across the rough-hewn bar. The coin caught on an uneven gap in the planks. As he tried to dislodge the coin, Jed accidently bumped the silent man seated next to him. The man hunched over his whiskey slowly raised his head. Spurs cha-chinged as the man in black stood up. Upright, he stood taller than Jed, but the teenager was thinner. Wisps of straight blond hair peaked out from the rim of his black hat as the stranger turned his bleary green-eyed gaze to glare at the Kansan. The man growled.

"Huh?" asked the perplexed youth in a mild tone. "What did you say?"

In response, the tall, thin man wavered unsteadily for a moment, then pushed back the sides of his black jacket. White bone handled revolvers peeked from his gun belt. His hands quivered beside his waist. Jed tensed at the familiar body language. Why do people do this? The curly haired youth lowered his own hands to rest against his gun belt.

"Sir, it was an accident, I didn't mean to bump you."

Another unintelligible grumble. Was that a complaint about spilt whiskey? In the background, at a far table behind the nonverbal man, a woman suddenly squawked. The man facing Jed didn't seem to notice the commotion. Jed focused mainly on the gunman, but he also tracked the movements of the other people in the saloon. The lively place had gotten very quiet. A big dark-haired man lifted the woman from his lap as he stood up. Gently, as if setting fine crystal on a dining table, he set her down atop the bar. The muscular man pivoted. His long legs strode towards Jed and his adversary.

"Buck! Where are you going?" she plaintively called after him.

"Sorry darlin'," was all the answer she got as the man crossed the big room without a backward glance.

Another one, thought Jed. Need to get this over with before that other fella gets his gun out too. His clear, blue-eyed gaze stared into the befuddled eyes of the man before him. The whiskey drinking man tilted his head to one side, looking confused. Did the man confronting Jed even know what he was doing?

"Sir, are you calling me out?"

"No, no, no," objected a big, loud, booming voice. "Now Chris… he ain't calling nobody out."

The dark-haired man called Buck hurriedly approached Jed and the shootist. The agile man quickly maneuvered himself between Jed and the gunman. Buck flashed an exuberant smile. A full set of bright white teeth gleamed from beneath his thick, neatly trimmed moustache. Most importantly, he clasped his friend's shaking hands and kept them away from his deadly pistols. Jed watched as Buck continued talking fast, coaxing his friend back, away from the bar.

"Now Old Dog, we just stopped in for one drink." Buck glanced at the nearly empty bottle of whiskey, and added, "You ain't gonna get us in trouble here."

"Buck?" The man in black looked up at the man now holding him. "That fella…"

"Chris, that boy ain't even old enough to shave!" protested Buck.

"Drinkin'…"

"Sarsaparilla," interrupted Buck again. Shaking his head from side to side, he added, "Chris, you ain't calling out some kid."

The back-and-forth conversation between the two men reminded Jed of his cousin. He swallowed. Through most of his young life, Han watched over him, kept Jed out of trouble when he could. Only Valparaiso separated them. Heyes had been released four years ago. When the apprentice program the school arranged for Heyes didn't work out, the dark-haired older boy left looking for work. Han promised to return for Jed. Two years ago, when Curry was released from Valparaiso there wasn't an apprentice program set up for the 'incorrigible' youth. And worse yet, Heyes hadn't been there. Peterson, the coldhearted director of the home for wayward boys, had laughed. The cruel man said his cousin had most likely come to a bad end. Probably dead. Those hateful words still rang in Jed's head. Peterson couldn't be right. Jed wouldn't believe it. From Valparaiso to Amarillo, he had searched for his best friend. The lonely blond stayed a while in Amarillo where their friend Clem lived, before he moved on to Waco and then San Angelo. Now here in this dusty little town Jed wished for his older cousin more than ever. Han would know what to do. Batwing doors swung open. Jed sighed as he recognized his friend Artie Gorman.

"You don't want to be calling out that Kid," declared the man from the doorway of the saloon.

Tucking his thumbs beneath his suspenders, the aging cattle man preened. Please don't… silently urged Jed… please… just don't… no…

"You don't wanna call out Kid Curry."

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"What do you mean you ain't coming with me?" Artie looked confused. "I got us a place on a cattle drive to Laramie... ain't that what you want? Outta Texas?"

Jed pulled the cinch tight around his horse. The sweet-tempered animal nickered as he checked the fit of the saddle. What did he want? His cousin? Clem? The law to know that he wasn't responsible for what happened to Jake Gallant? Not to hurt this friend who didn't even know what he'd done? Jed rested his forehead against the horse's flank.

"Artie, you've been a good friend," stated the young Kansan. "A good trail boss, and you probably saved my life tending to me when I was hurt. I'm not sure I would have made it out of San Angelo without your help."

The older man smiled, happy at the recognition. The man's thumbs tugged on his suspenders and Jed just knew another wild tale was gonna start.

"See... that's just what I'm saying, we help each other... like partners..."

Jed closed his eyes for a moment. Everyone in the saloon had thought Jed was just another trail hand until Artie spoke up. Kid Curry... couldn't Artie just call him Jed? Buck and Chris hadn't paid any attention to Artie, but other folks in the saloon sure did. Addlepated folks started talking foolishness. Had Artie even heard the whispers as the two of them left the saloon? The teenager turned to look at Artie.

"But we can't ride together."

The man in black was known to be dangerous. Even blind, staggering drunk, Larabee could shoot faster than most anyone in Texas or the territories. Knowing Jed's name made his simple question to Larabee seem a whole lot different to those folks in the saloon. Did you see that brash young fella try to call out Chris Larabee? Of course Larabee wouldn't draw on a kid too young to shave. Larabee had principals. The peace-loving youth hated the fact that the friendly bartender suddenly looked afraid of Jed.

"Why?"

"Folks are gonna keep calling me out," answered Jed.

Jed slipped one foot in his stirrup and mounted the sorrel. His reputation as a fast draw was growing... sometimes in totally unexpected ways. Jed knew he was good with a gun. He'd trained shooting rattlesnakes. Mainly he wanted to be fast so he could stop trouble fast. Jed certainly didn't go looking for trouble, but it surely seemed to have a way of finding him. Just like today. The blue-eyed youth nudged his horse out of the stable, headed east. Jed had heard that fella Buck say something about heading back into the New Mexico territory. It would be good to put some distance between them.

"If that happens, I don't want you gettin' shot."

Hopefully no one would believe what folks in the saloon were saying. That young upstart gunny Kid Curry wanted to take on Chris Larabee! Thinks he could outdraw... Even more, Jed hoped no one would believe what those folks were calling Jed. Fastest gun west of the Mississippi! Pah! That title was like painting a target on him.

"It's best I ride alone."

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