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. Story exists in the same No Amnesty - Smith and Jones story verse as previous stories.

Chapter 5 – Heyes and Standish

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Heyes rubbed at the damp spot on his white Henley as he poked a stick to stir the coals of the small fire. He wanted to keep the coffee simmering. Flames briefly flared a little higher, lighting up the campsite. The horses seemed content, settled for the evening beneath the largest aspen. Thankfully, the chestnut had let Heyes remove the gambler's saddle and bedroll. Heyes glanced at the downed man. He had settled the unconscious man on his bedroll, elevating his head a bit against the back of the ornately tooled saddle. Smith, or whoever he was, appeared to have trouble breathing. Heyes unbuttoned the southerner's stiffly starched collar and loosened the fancy silk… tie? Cravat? What would you call a tiny piece of cloth that probably cost more than all the clothes Heyes was wearing? And was that a real emerald on the stickpin? Removing that brightly colored fabric showed faded bruises. Handprints. Someone, not too long ago, had tried to choke the professional poker player.

"Aside from Harrow and his men today, who else is after you?" muttered Heyes in a soft whisper.

The wary young outlaw then decided to remove the gambler's weapons. The man was breathing easier now, but Heyes didn't want the green-eyed man armed if he woke up disoriented and thought he need to shoot someone. Heyes knew Smith carried the derringer he'd pulled at the poker table and the Remington revolver snuggly secured in the gun belt along his hips. Removing the gun belt and pistol was easy, but a search of the red coated man's pockets didn't turn up the derringer. Heyes unbuttoned the southerner's coat to look for the small gun in an inside pocket. The second loaded pistol in an over the shoulder holster was a surprise.

"And you complained about my gun, one gun," grumbled Heyes. "Had to take off your coat to get that holster off you. Unbuttoned the shirt too, when I saw the straps on that contraption that holds that palm pistol."

The Kansan glanced across the fire to the neatly folded red coat beside Smith. Atop the coat, sat a small piece of silk pierced with a fancy stickpin, a pair of gold cufflinks, sleeve garters, a silver flask, and a gold pocket watch engraved with the letters EPS. The mechanism holding the derringer lay on the ground beside Heyes, along with the southerner's handguns, the rifle with its scabbard on the saddle, and three sticks of dynamite from the man's saddlebags. Unbuttoning the unresponsive man's shirt had provided another surprise. Multiple bruises covered his chest, and Heyes found bandages tightly wrapping the man's torso. What kind of danger was the man running from?

"You shouldn't have been riding, not with those ribs."

From the other side of the campfire, came a slow pain filled voice.

"Riding seemed much more advisable than chancing the opportunity to stay in that charming little town," drawled the gambler's distinctive voice.

Startled, Heyes almost knocked over the coffee cup sitting by his feet. The dark brew sloshed a bit over the rim causing the fire to hiss.

"You're awake! Why didn't you say something?" demanded the irate young outlaw.

"I just did."

Dark brown eyes rolled in annoyance. How long had the southerner been listening to Heyes? The gambler still laid on his bedroll, but his fine boned hands ran over his torso. Assessing his injuries? Or checking for weapons? Or something else? The right hand stilled for a moment over the left hand. The man twisted his flashy ruby ring. Heyes glimpsed a flash of firelight off a smaller, narrower gold band hidden beneath the larger ring.

"Everything but your guns are right beside you!" snapped Heyes. "I was trying to make you comfortable, not rob you."

A surprised look crossed the gamblers face and then was gone so quickly Heyes wondered if he imagined it.

"Thank you."

The chestnut-haired man struggled to sit upright. A slight flinch was the only sign of pain that Heyes saw.

"How long have you been awake?"

"I don't know," replied the gambler's soft-spoken voice. "At least since you swore at the coffee pot."

Heyes flushed. The man had probably heard all his rambling.

"Coffee sloshed over the rim of the cup," explained Heyes. "You shoulda said something then."

"Would you?" The green-eyed man sounded genuinely curious. "I woke to find myself a prisoner of some unknown stranger, disarmed, stripped of my primary means to protect myself…"

"You aren't a prisoner!" interrupted Heyes. Dark brown eyes narrowed as he noted the southerner's phrasing. "Primary means? What other weapons do you have?"

The gambler waved his slender hand in a dismissive gesture. He reached for the flask from his pile of belongings. Green eyes tightened briefly. The motion seemed to tax his strength. He unscrewed the top.

"Nothing to be concerned about," replied the fading man. He took a sip from the silver container, then held it towards Heyes, withdrawing it when the younger man shook his head. "Bar room brawls are a hazard of my profession…"

"Profession?" snorted Heyes. "You might be a professional poker player, but playing cards isn't a profession like being a doctor or a lawyer…"

"Poker is a profession. It's my profession, and I'm quite good at it," the gambler flashed a cocky grin. "As for law, since the late unpleasantness, I no longer practice…"

"You're a lawyer?"

"Was."

The short, clipped tone of the one-word answer told Heyes how much that loss hurt. But why wouldn't Smith be allowed to practice law? The man appeared to be ten or more years older than the young outlaw. Heyes remembered the way the southerner rode his horse. Sitting so straight in the saddle might have been due to his wrapped ribs, but the astute outlaw still felt his first impression was right. Did the Ironclad oath apply to lawyers? And the penalties if you didn't swear to it? Or was something else keeping the man from practicing law?

"You were in the Confederate Army," stated Heyes.

The gambler raised his flask as if to salute the young outlaw.

"Your deductive abilities are unparalleled."

For a moment the two men stared at each other. Then the southerner turned his haunted green eyes to gaze west. Heyes fumed. He'd known men that fought in the war. Most were good men, trying to put the past behind them. Wheat was surely a former Union soldier. Kyle had probably been an artillery man, but according to the affable little outlaw he'd been 'blowed up too many times' to remember if he'd been in the war or which side he'd been on. Heyes remembered… his family… Kansas… the late unpleasantness? That damned war! Heyes struggled to get his breathing under control. He couldn't keep the sound of menace from his quiet barrage of questions.

"Were you ever in Kansas? Did you ever ride with a fella called Quantrill? Or any of his raiders?"

The former soldier's head snapped around to face Heyes directly. The appalled look on his face answered Heyes before the southerner spoke.

"Never!"

Heyes believed him. The man didn't try any fast and fancy talking, no explanations of where he'd been, how he couldn't have been there, just the one word. And the look of horror in those eyes… they said more than the man's words ever could. The Kansan nodded in acceptance, but he had a few more questions.

"Smith? You couldn't come up with anything better than that?"

The gambler's lips curled up in a wry smile. His green eyes twinkled.

"Says Artie Jones?"

"Arthur was my father's name… Jones… just sorta slipped out," admitted Heyes. He leaned forward a bit, his own lips curled up in a smile of chagrin. "Not one of my better choices."

"And what's wrong with your own name?"

Heyes straightened back up. Bedtime stories on cold winter nights in Kansas had included the exploits of a wily Carthaginian general, ancient Greeks, Egyptians and other folks. His father, the teacher who loved history, had picked the name Hannibal for his second son. If his mother had picked his first name, Heyes probably would have been named after Grandpa. Heyes wasn't sure if Riordan would have been better than Hannibal. They were both a mouthful.

"Nothing is wrong with my name, it's just somewhat distinctive," the young outlaw retorted. Heyes didn't feel the need to mention the wanted poster. "Why were you using an alias? Smith? Really?"

Moving slightly on the bedroll, the southerner winced and sucked in a deep breath before speaking again.

"There are some disagreeable people at Fort Laramie that might be looking for Ezra Simpson. Ezra Smith seemed to be a good name at the time," answered the gambler.

Heyes stared at the gambler, thinking. Simpson? Smith? Looking? Or a looking for a wanted man? Who was after this man? And was Ezra even his real first name? Only one way to find out.

"So… you're Ezra…" prodded Heyes.

He left the words hanging, waiting for the man seated across from him to answer. The older man dropped his head as if thinking. Weighing the odds? Assessing the risk? Heyes had almost given up on hoping for an answer when the gambler shook his head. The man raised his face to look directly at Heyes.

"Ezra P. Standish, at your service."

For a moment, Heyes wondered if the name was any more real than Smith or Simpson, but... the clear green eyes told him this was truly the man's name. Again, Heyes believed him. Now he had to decide, how much should he tell this man he barely knew? Heyes hadn't been using an alias since leaving Wyoming. He hadn't had needed a name at most places on the trail. It wasn't until the poker game earlier, that he needed a name... and now. His real name decided the young outlaw.

"I go by Heyes."

If Ezra noted the lack of a first name, he didn't say anything. The former right-hand man to Big Jim Santana raised the coffee pot in invitation. The man facing him nodded. The lithe young man reached for another tin cup from his saddle bags. Heyes poured the steaming black liquid into the slightly dented cup, stood up, and then carried the cup over to Ezra.

"And Fort Laramie? What happened there?" Heyes asked casually as he handed the coffee to the seated man.

For a minute it looked like Ezra wasn't going to answer. Heyes walked back to his seat.

"Just need to know who's chasing you," added Heyes as he settled down. "If they're gonna be a threat."

"I really don't know what happened," answered the southerner. One hand rubbed the side of his throat. "Three soldiers and I were playing poker…"

"Let me guess, they didn't like it when you won their money," interrupted Heyes. One eyebrow arched upwards. "Accused you of cheating..."

"No, not that exactly, they were losing money, but mainly they took exception to the sound of my voice," responded Ezra. His hand rubbed the side of his throat, moved slightly upward. Fingers threaded through the curly hair. The green eyes winced slightly as they touched on a tender spot. "I'm pretty sure one of them tried to strangle me. I pulled the derringer, didn't get a chance to use it…"

Ezra stopped talking. He lowered his hand to join the other and clasped the mug. Bringing the hot brew close, he blew across the top of the steaming cup to cool it. Heyes leaned back on his bedroll.

"It wouldn't be a crime if you fought back to protect yourself. Wouldn't that be self-defense?" asked Heyes.

"One might think," sighed the gambler. "I woke up in a jail, battered and bandaged… the other three men were in the cell across from mine, somewhat worse for wear, but alive and unperforated."

"Un... per... for... ated?" Heyes rolled the unusual word slowly off his tongue. This fella had an unusual way of talking, complicating things that ought to be easy. "You mean they weren't shot."

"That's what I said."

"So you broke out then?"

"Hardly," drawled Ezra. He took one hand off the mug to gesture towards his ribs. "Apparently in my condition I was not deemed to be a flight risk. A judge released me on bail. I was expected to return for the trial in three days."

The southerner gave a little shrug. Ezra winced again at the motion.

"Quite frankly I didn't see the need to stay and find out the actual charges."

"You got beat up..."

"Assaulted," clarified Ezra.

"Ribs cracked? Or broken?"

"Merely bruised," Ezra waved his hand. "A mere trifle."

Heyes arched an eyebrow upwards in disbelief at the word trifle. Bruised, or cracked, might be better than broken, but still... riding out of town with a stranger, riding to the point of collapse... why? Why risk your life for the money on that table?

"And you thought it was safer to ride with cracked ribs than to just hand over your winnings?"

Heyes swallowed a grin when the gambler didn't correct his use of the word cracked. He knew those ribs were more than just bruised.

"Harrow wouldn't have settled for just taking the money," answered the gambler.

Oh. Heyes' brown eyes widened. He remembered the snide tone of the banker's words... 'But believing you're a card cheat and a conman gets me my money back and then some...' Harrow knew Ezra had won fairly, but he was the kind of man that would take advantage of a stranger. Heyes' jaw tightened into a frown; he'd known some folks like that.

"Harrow and his men would have taken retribution...," continued Ezra's soft drawl.

"You woulda got beat up again," interrupted Heyes finally understanding.

"I could not risk another injury."

Ezra brought the cup to his lips. One sip and the dark brew spewed forth into the fire.

"That isn't coffee!"

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