Two days later, Chris found himself sitting in front of the jail, smoking a cheroot and watching the day's activity. Wagons full of seed and manure rolled by, the hitches clattering as they jounced over the uneven dirt streets. Townfolk, eager to get out in the pleasant weather, promenaded along the boardwalk, taking in every new sight.
The uneasiness over the fire and the prisoner's escape had mostly faded. Everyone seemed to accept that the man had died in the desert and moved on. Questions still haunted Chris, however; he was not completely convinced that the body was that of the criminal, and there was still the mystery of how the prisoner had escaped in the first place.
So Chris sat, kept an eye on things, and thought.
Glancing up the street, Chris noticed many people going into Hoffman's jewelry store, and smiled a little, recalling the article Mary had written about the new store owner in her paper. Hoffman had endured a lot, coming here from Germany, fighting in the War and losing a leg. A widower, he had come West to pursue his entrepreneurial dream. The man had grit, and it was good to see some folks who deserved it doing well.
He was keeping an eye on some uncertain–looking farmers when the thump of bootsteps caught his ear, and a low voice said, "Hey, Chris. Anythin' goin' on this side of town?"
Chris glanced over his shoulder. "Afternoon, Nathan," he muttered around the cheroot as the healer plopped into the chair beside him. "Nope, pretty quiet. 'Course, that might change."
Nathan heaved a sigh and leaned back. "Couldn't be much more dull than the clinic. I ain't had more'n three patients all week."
Chris puffed on the cheroot, a glint of anger on his friend's behalf coming into his green eyes. "That new doctor, huh?"
The other man's mouth twitched and he sat forward, his face contorting as he fought to maintain his composure. "Can't blame folks for wantin' a real doctor 'stead of a healer, but–sure didn't think they'd drop me that fast."
"Wasn't he gonna let you help him?" the gunslinger inquired, his brows furrowing.
"Well, yeah, an' we've talked a couple times," Nathan admitted. "Seems pretty smart, an' he don't mind helpin' me. But lately when I go over, he says it's a bad time." He frowned. "An' you know what else? Wyatt's been tellin' folks to go to him."
Chris's frown turned into an outright scowl. "They know each other?"
Nathan shook his head. "Not to hear Wyatt tell it, but seems he went to Fredericks with a sprained finger last week an' got fixed up pretty good." he sighed and sat back once more, running one hand over his head. "Guess I can't blame the man for talkin' good about someone who helped him, but..."
"You don't like it," Chris finished for him, giving the healer a keen look.
His comrade stopped, looked at Chris in return and pursed his lips. "No, Chris, no, I don't. An' it ain't like I'm jealous. It's like...there's somethin' wrong here. About Wyatt."
"I know," Chris replied, blowing out another puff of blue smoke as he gazed into the street. "Folks here been takin' a real shinin' to him. Seen 'im mendin' fences, paintin' stores, helpin' to put out that fire. He's a regular citizen again here." He paused, and looked back at Nathan. "An' I don't like it either. My gut tells me he's about as trustworthy as a riled rattler."
Nathan looked down at his hands. "Mine too, but I ain't sure why. He been actin' like a perfect saint since he got here."
Chris glanced at him again. "Maybe *that's* why."
The healer considered this, and nodded a little. "Could be. He sure wasn't no saint when he was sheriff, seems a little odd to–"
"CHRIS LARABEE!"
Both men started at the loud, masculine shout and looked out into the street. Twenty feet away stood a young man, barely twenty years old, his slender body clad in dusty, worn clothing denoting the status of a cowhand. His face was long and marked by a prominent mole on his left cheek, his thin lips curled in a sneer. His long, dirty red hair fell straight past his shoulders and stirred feebly in the warm wind. Beneath the shade of his battered cowboy's hat, his small blue eyes studied Chris with an eager, arrogant expression, and his skinny, long–fingered hands danced restlessly above the handles of the two Remingtons he wore on his hips.
Chris knew at once what was happening, and sighed. "Oh, *shit*."
"Chris Larabee!" the kid cried again, walking forward as some in the surrounding crowd gasped and backed away. Others, curious and excited, gathered closer. "I'm callin' you out, you mangy yella dog!"
Chris didn't move a muscle as he studied his ugly young opponent. "Go home, kid," he muttered in a cross tone and looked away. Nathan kept his eye on the young man, concerned.
"Not 'til you an' me have it out, Larabee!" was the gleeful response; he was only ten feet away now, and the crowd was getting larger. "I come all the way from Tucson lookin' to draw on you."
There was still no movement from the black–clad man on the boardwalk, except a turn of the head as he appraised the enthusiastic newcomer. "An' you'll take your ass back to Tucson, if you know what's good for you," Chris replied in a perfectly relaxed tone. "I ain't drawin' on a kid."
The young man barked out a smug laugh. "What's the matter, ol' man, scared I'll whip ya?"
Chris's eyes began to smolder.
"Look, kid," Nathan said, standing up a little and holding out a cautioning hand. "You best just get now."
The stranger gave Nathan a nasty look. "Shut up, darky, ain't nobody talkin' to you!"
Chris got to his feet, pulling the cheroot from his mouth. "I'm tellin' you, kid–"
Without warning the kid pulled his gun from its holster.
"CHRIS!" Nathan cried, his own hand flying to the gun on his hip.
As Nathan's voice tore the air, Chris's hand whipped to his side, drawing and firing almost in the same second. Two explosions ripped through the quiet street at once. The kid's shot went wide, nicking Chris's arm and shattering the jail window behind Chris with a mighty crash. Chris's bullet met its target, and the kid fell to the street howling in pain and clutching at his wounded gun arm as his weapon toppled harmlessly into the dirt.
The crowd gasped; several cried out in surprise that it happened so quickly. Wyatt came pushing out of the mass of bodies, coming to the kid's side as Nathan and Chris watched, puzzled and angry, Chris's arm bleeding a little.
"You Goddamned bastard, you *shot* me!" the kid was shrieking, struggling to get out of Wyatt's iron grip and staring at Chris with open hatred.
Chris stared back as he holstered his gun. Dammit, he thought. Dammit! He hated this every time.
"Lucky he didn't kill you, kid," Wyatt said, looking at the wound. "Bullet's still in there."
Nathan stepped forward. "We can get him to my clinic, it's–"
The kid scooted away, his eyes fixed on Nathan as if the healer was a repulsive monster. "You ain't touchin' me, darky! I want me a real doctor!"
"I'll take 'im to Ben's place, Nathan, you can see to Chris's arm," Wyatt offered, hauling the young man none too gently to his feet. "You all better stay here 'til we got him calmed down some."
Chris nodded. "After you patch him up, send word. We got a nice cell waitin' for him."
"Yup." Wyatt pulled the still–protesting youth down the street towards Frederick's office and disappeared into the crowd.
As the people began to dissipate, Nathan checked the crease on Chris's arm. "Don't look too bad, Chris, he just winged you a little. C'mon, let's get a bandage on it."
Chris complied, his eyes still blazing. "Thought those days were over, Nathan," he muttered, his blonde hair falling into his eyes as he stared at the kid's blood soaking into the street. "I haven't had anyone call me out in over a year."
"Just some hotheaded kid lookin' to make himself a name," Nathan said with a shake of his head. "Guess he didn't know you ain't a killer no more."
Chris noticed how some of the townfolk were looking at him with disapproving eyes. A memory dashed across his mind, of the other day at the tobacconist's, when he had also been scrutinized unfavorably by the townsmen.
He gritted his teeth as they walked away. "Not sure the people here know that, either," he said quietly, and nothing more was said as they went their way.
The closer Wyatt and the kid got to Frederick's office, the rougher the former sheriff's grip became. By the time they reached his door, he was practically strangling the kid.
"Dammit, Wyatt!" the young man gasped. "I–"
"Shuttup!" Wyatt hissed back as he pushed open Frederick's door. Inside the doctor was sitting at a table, reading a book, and looked up startled as Wyatt shoved his captive in and closed the door.
"Irving!" Fredericks cried, jumping up. "What the hell happened?"
"That damn Larabee shot me, that's what happened!" the kid replied hotly as Wyatt pushed him onto the examining table.
"I oughta kill you for how you botched that up, Huston!" Wyatt barked, giving the young man a smack on the back of his head and knocking his hat off. "You weren't supposed to shoot him, dammit! You were just supposed to cause a scene!"
Huston rubbed his head and gave Wyatt a hurt look. "But, Wyatt, think how famous I'd get if I killed Chris Larabee!"
Wyatt came up to the boy and stared him straight in the face, his eyes snapping. "This ain't about bein' famous, Huston!" he growled. "It's about gettin' rich, an' I don't need your stupidity ruinin' this plan!"
Huston cowered a little, the first glimmers of contrition showing on his scarred face. "They didn't suspect nothin', Wyatt," he mumbled.
"No, an' they better not," was the icy response. "I didn't work on this idea for seven months to have you undo everything in two seconds!"
"Oh, calm down, for God's sake," Fredericks said as he prepared to mend Huston's arm. "These rubes don't suspect a thing. All the boys know what to do–look, Roy attacked that Travis lady, and Irish shot at that tracker, and not a soul knew they were both working for you. And they never suspected that dead body in the desert was just some guy we ambushed instead of Roy. And look at me!" He smiled. "Everyone thinks I'm a kindly old country doctor–they love me here. Soon there won't be a soul goin' to that uppity black any more."
Huston snorted out an ugly laugh. "Yeah, good thing they don't know you been two years in a Kansas jail for killin' that woman patient of your'n."
"You watch it, or else I'll make sure you feel every stitch!" Fredericks commanded crossly before looking back at the former sheriff. "It's all working out, Wyatt, so just relax."
Wyatt harrumphed and glared at Huston. "We're gonna have to let'em jail you, Huston, just to keep up the game. Maybe you can reconsider your decision while you cool your heels for a bit."
Huston's eyes grew round. "Y'ain't gonna leave me there, are ya, Wyatt? I hate sittin' in jails!"
"Oh, stop sniveling!" Wyatt snapped, giving the boy a small slap on his unwounded arm. "Don't worry, after a few days you'll get sprung. Them lawmen are gonna get a phony telegram sayin' you're a wanted man in Jericho."
Fredericks looked up. "Jack's sendin' that, right?"
"Right," Wyatt affirmed with a nod. "I'll volunteer to take you over, then let you go once we've cleared town."
Huston blinked. "That sounds right good, Wyatt, but-can't ya just spring me, like ya did Roy?"
Wyatt sighed angrily. "Now Huston, two fires set near the jail is gonna look mighty suspicious! They're not stupid, after all, you can bet they won't fall for that again. And I can't give you the extra key I kept when I left town last year, 'cause they'll probably search you. Just leave everything to me an' stop being so damned antsy. You're making me nervous!"
"Relax, Wyatt," Fredericks advised as he worked. "You got no reason to worry. Everyone knows their part in this."
Wyatt began to pace, whipping off his hat and running his hand through his dusty hair. "I know the boys know what to do," he said in an anxious tone. "Hell, we've all been working together since I fell in with you in Purgatory. An' after your boss Willie got gunned down at the border, you've let me lead you to greater riches than even that old bastard could have dreamed of. But this plan means a lot to me, Ben, and I can't tolerate even the slightest chance that it could fail."
He sighed, and went to the window, looking out over the bustling streets as Fredericks continued with his work.
"It's a good plan, Irving," Fredericks assured him as he picked up his probe. "And now that the boys know how rich this place is–why, they'll do whatever it takes to put you back in power."
Wyatt grunted, still staring out into the street, his eyes greedily appraising the area. "This town wasn't always this way, Ben," he muttered. "When I left, it was a rotting corpse just waiting to fall down. No sane man would've fought to defend it, an' when those cattle drivers started shootin' it up, I said to hell with this an' took off." He chuckled and shook his head. "Sure never thought it'd wind up like this."
"Here, drink this," Fredericks said to Huston, shoving a bottle of whiskey into the young man's good hand. Huston willingly complied as Fredericks began to employ the probe. "Yeah, bet you were real surprised, Irving."
"Huh!" Wyatt huffed, leaning on one elbow against the wall and continuing to look out. "That don't begin to describe it. I thought the place'd die for sure, but then one day I hear from one of the boys that it's not only alive, but thrivin'. Look at all the new stores, an' the railroad comin' right nearby. An' who's reapin' the rewards?" He shook his head slowly. "Seven God–damned hired guns. Sittin' in my place an' takin' what rightfully belongs to *me*."
He paused, then turned to his comrades, his eyes dark and predatory. "But that's about to change, if we have no more mistakes." He eyed Huston severely. The young man winced and went back to the whiskey. "The sheriff who owns a town this prosperous would be sittin' mighty pretty, if he knows what to do. Since old man Travis appointed those men, I can't make them leave. But if the good people want them gone, and if they don't want to stay, that's a different story." He grinned. "Isn't it?"
"Don't you worry, Wyatt," Fredericks said with an oily smile as he pulled the bullet roughly from Huston's arm. The kid yelped and bit back an obscenity. "By the time we're done, the townfolk'll be beggin' you to be Sheriff again, an' them seven men won't have nothin' to say about it."
Wyatt smiled, the normally pleasant action rendering his expression more fearsome than friendly. "And then, my friends," he said with anticipatory glee, "the real fun will be just beginning."
JD sighed to himself as he walked slowly by the glittering cases of Hoffman's jewelry store. So many beautiful things, but nothing he could afford.
There were five other people in the small shop on this warm spring morning, but as they bent intently over the gleaming glass cases and whispered questions to the young men who worked as Mr. Hofmann's assistants, JD could tell they were seriously looking to buy something. Feeling slightly awkward, he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and kept studying the wares before him, hoping to see something that Casey would like for her birthday, and that wouldn't deplete his already meager resources.
Ezra had given him two dollars because Chaucer had almost wrecked his stall after getting into a snapping fight with the horse stabled next to him-Wyatt's new horse, if JD remembered correctly-and JD had cleaned up the mess, but even that didn't stretch his money much.
Rings blinked and sparkled from their velvet-lined beds. Bracelets and necklaces twinkled in the morning sunlight. Silver and gold earrings silently shouted their beauty. Gem-encrusted pins of all shapes and descriptions tempted him on all sides. Silver and gold-plated trinkets, from thimbles to tea sets to dainty scissors, seemed to surround him. There was luxury everywhere, all shouting the same message: You couldn't afford me if you lived to be a hundred.
JD sighed again, and decided that shopping for a girl could drive a man crazy.
"Is there anything I can show you, Mr. Dunne?"
The young lawkeeper started a bit and looked up to see Mr. Hofmann watching him from behind the counter. He was smiling pleasantly behind his small spectacles, the morning sun glinting off the silver-gold curls which frothed at the nape of his neck.
"Oh," he said, grinning back and feeling a little embarrassed, "just, uh, seein' if there's anything here for a...friend of mine. Her birthday's comin' up, an' I can't get her a frog gigger again."
Mr. Hofmann smiled, his eyes bright with understanding. "My supply of frog giggers is pretty low anyhow, I'm afraid," he said lightly, his German accent evident in every syllable. "Perhaps I can help you find something she might like even more."
He came out from behind the counter, the silver-headed cane in his hand thumping rhythmically against the polished wooden floor as he led JD towards the back.
"Mary's paper said you were in the War, Mr. Hofmann," JD remembered as they walked along.
"Yes indeed, my young friend!" was the proud reply. "The 107th Ohio. Saw some damn hot fighting, I'll tell you, until the day I lost my leg below the knee to a cannonball."
"I'll bet," JD said, impressed. "But, um, I'm sure sorry you got hurt."
They stopped at a counter laden with gold-plated items, and Hoffman looked at JD, his expression wistful. "I am as well, Mr. Dunne, but for what your country has given me, I consider a limb but small payment. It has been hard work, but worth every moment for me to be able to come here and realize my dream. It is not every man who can do so!"
JD smiled, remembering how excited he was when he came West. "I know just how you feel, Mr. Hofmann."
The older man smiled, clapped JD on the shoulder, then bent over the cases. "Now, my young friend, I will be happy to help you, and I will give you a special discount even, since you are one of those brave men who fight to keep the peace here. All right?"
Flattered, JD shuffled his feet a bit. "Thanks, sir, but...you don't have to do that..."
"'Specially since he ain't gonna be a lawman here much longer."
JD and Mr. Hofmann both looked around, surprised at the softly spoken but clearly heard comment. Not far away stood one of the townsmen, a sullen-looking farmer who was staring at JD. Nearby stood a woman, apparently his wife, looking over some earrings and ignoring the proceedings.
JD felt his cheeks tingle. "How's that, mister?"
The other man grunted and continued to chew the piece of straw in his mouth. "Nothin'," he mumbled, not backing down. "Just sayin' what lots of folks are thinkin'. The real sheriff's back, so we don't need you hired guns no more."
The woman seemed to hear that, and she gave her husband an irritated glance and said, "Oh, Wilbur, for heaven's sake, hush." Then she moved down to the bracelets.
"I'll hear nothing against Mr. Dunne and his friends in my store, sir," Mr. Hofmann said hotly, drawing himself up as if he had been personally insulted. "From what I have seen, they are all brave men."
The farmer shrugged. "Sure they are," he said in a lazy voice without a hint of sincerity in it. "I'm just sayin' they's through. That's all."
"We ain't goin' nowhere 'til the Judge says so," JD insisted, resisting the urge to call the big blowhard out.
The man simply looked JD up and down and nodded. "Well, we got a say, too, kid," he said, "an' there's some of us don't like hired guns runnin' things here. Mite dangerous, y'see. 'Specially when they's a bit loose on the trigger."
He peered keenly at JD when he said this, in a way that made JD shift uncomfortably. The young man drew up to his full height. "Yeah, an' just what's that supposed t'mean?"
The man's sharp eyes never wavered from JD's face. "You know what I mean, sonny. Ain't safe here when they give guns to boys who ain't got the sense to use 'em without killin' innocent folks."
Oh my God, JD thought, his mouth going dry as his suspicions were confirmed. The man was talking about that awful time JD accidentally killed a woman during a bank robbery. He'd prayed everyone had forgotten about that, even though he knew he never would be granted such a blessing. And here it was, flung into his face again. Maybe it was never going to go away...
JD noticed the other patrons in the store were watching now. They were townfolk as well, except for a tall, sandy-haired young man in rumpled, dusty clothes whom he had never seen before.
JD felt the hot blood rush to his face as he strove to keep his gaze level as he stared at the man. "That was an accident, mister," he whispered, "one I'll be payin' for all my life, but I didn't mean no harm, an' it sure won't happen again."
The stranger narrowed his eyes at the young man. "How do you know? Look, kid, folks are talkin' over how dangerous things been here lately, what with Larabee an' Tanner gettin' shot at. When all that lead starts flyin', how you know you won't get all reckless an' start shootin' folks again, like Annie? You done it before-"
"Sir!" Mr. Hoffman's sharp voice interrupted the onslaught, and its tone offered no avenue for argument. "I tolerate no disorderliness in my store. I must ask you to step outside, and return only when you have regained your manners."
The man flashed an annoyed look at the jeweler. "You takin' his part, mister? He's a killer!"
JD felt his chest starting to burn. "I ain't-"
Mr. Hoffman held up his hand in JD's direction, while never taking his eyes off of the argumentative stranger. "He has said it was an accident, and I have no reason to disbelieve him," he shot back, his German tones becoming thick with anger. "But if you want to punish him for shooting one woman by accident, then you must also direct your anger at me, for I was in the War, and shot many men on purpose. Just as great a tragedy, wouldn't you say?"
The man blinked. "Well-hell, mister, I was a soldier too, an' I don't think-"
"Ah!" Mr. Hoffman exclaimed. "Then you also are as guilty as this young man of taking a life, perhaps many lives. Maybe you should examine your own sins before speaking out against another's."
The man scowled. "Look, them men in the war, they was soldiers too, they wasn't innocents like Annie!"
Mr. Hofmann's glare never wavered. "Not all who died in the War were soldiers, and many were innocents, sir, I can tell you. So it would seem we all have something to atone for, a matter which is best left to ourselves and God and no one else. Now be good enough to go, before my assistants and I are forced to escort you to the door!"
The farmer gave Hofmann a dark look.
"I think the owner of this business just asked you to leave, mister," JD said in a firm but quiet voice, drawing himself up and putting his hands on his hips. One hand rested lightly on the handle of one of his Colt Lightnings. "You gonna go quietly, or wait until he asks me to throw you in jail for disturbin' the peace of his store?"
The man frowned, but seemed out of wind, so he threw one final glare at JD, turned and walked with his wife out into the street. The other customers gave him a wide berth, muttering among themselves.
"I appreciate your assistance, my boy," Mr. Hofmann said, his tone one of slight annoyance as he glared after the couple.
JD tried to shake off the shaky feeling clutching his heart as he turned back to the counter. He looked up at the older man. "I'm obliged to you too, Mr. Hofmann. I was about ready to call that guy out!"
The jeweler waved it away with a sympathetic smile. "I do not like to hear such talk under my roof. This is a place of beauty, it should remain that way as much as possible."
JD nodded and leaned on the display case with a sigh, folding his arms. "Been hearin' too much of that talk against us lately," he muttered with a shake of his head. "That Wyatt guy's got folks all stirred up. They're thinkin' he's some kind of hero or somethin'."
The other man shrugged. "If he is a good man, then he deserves the praise he gets," he said calmly. "If he is a bad man, this will be discovered, too. It is all in God's good time."
"Yeah, I guess," JD muttered, throwing one last look back at the path the quarrelsome farmer had taken. "Just...sorta wish He'd hurry up a little so I can stop worryin'."
They turned back to the jewelry and fell to discussion on that topic. Neither of them noticed the sandy-haired young man stare at them for a moment, then smirk and walk out of the store, apparently highly amused.
Ezra studied his cards with as much nonchalance as he could muster, but he had to admit to himself that for once, his mind was not on the game.
The saloon was lively this early spring evening; the excitement caused by the attack on Chris the day before had died down, although Ezra could still hear people talking about it. Normally the suave gambler paid no attention to gossip, unless he himself was generating it for financial purposes, but the content of the latest whispers proved too disturbing to ignore.
He had always known that he and his fellow peacekeepers were looked on with some suspicion by certain elements of the town. He had no trouble with this, of course, was in fact quite used to being instantly suspected wherever he went. But never before had these elements spoken in the terms they now employed, in such serious tones.
"It's getting dangerous having these men in town," the whispers said. "First that man shot at Tanner, now Larabee. What if one of our women get hurt? The kids ain't safe here. It's as bad as when the place was full of outlaws. Our old sheriff is back now, we should just tell Travis we want Wyatt." The seven had their defenders, but their voices did not seem as strong as their detractors.
This talk bothered the Southerner more than he thought it would. Despite telling himself that this was just a job, his associates mere business partners, the thought that they might be ousted caused an uncomfortable burning in his gut. The gambler tried to dismiss the uneasy feeling as crass sentimentality, or sadness over the thought of losing his free board. It couldn't be because he had begun to think of this place as home, or because he might be separated from the only men he had ever even come close to trusting. There was no room for such emotions in his hard profession.
But something was making it damn hard to concentrate.
Finally he stirred, and looked at the motley collection of farmers, travelers and saloon residents ringing the table. "Very well, gentlemen," he said, licking his lips. "Time to ante up."
They all tossed in their bets, and Ezra glanced expectantly at the heavy-set businessman to his right.
"I'm in," the man said around his cigar, pitching a chip onto the table. Ezra nodded, and glanced to the next man, a rather ragged-looking farmer.
He was a tall, very thin man, with an air of anxiousness around him. He looked nervously at Ezra and tossed all of his cards into the middle of the table.
"I fold," he said quickly.
Ezra was taken a bit aback at how suddenly the man gave up. "Are you certain, my friend?" he said smoothly.
"Yup," the man said in a clipped voice.
Silence fell, and Ezra had to shrug. He couldn't force the man to play.
The businessman won the hand, and as he raked in the winnings with glee, Ezra shuffled the cards and cursed his luck. He had to focus, and not allow himself to be distracted. Even if they lost their position here, he would just move on, as he always had.
Alone...
He shook his head, trying to throw off the pain in his gut, and dealt again.
The bids went around, and Ezra noticed that once again the poor farmer folded quickly, during the first round of bidding. This was damned odd, he mused; even the most impoverished players usually put in at least one bid, just to save face.
"Is everything all right, son?" he inquired, eying the man's dwindling resources with mild concern.
The man peered back at him, his gaunt face set and unreadable. "Just gettin' bad hands is all," was the terse reply.
The gambler pursed his lips. "Perhaps you should retire; the good Lady Luck may not be with you today," Ezra suggested, unwilling to see the man lose his last dollars.
The man shook his head with vigor. "Nope, I got to stay in. Deal 'em."
Ezra frowned a little, and decided to see about switching things around a bit, as much out of curiosity than anything else.
Taught to shuffle practically in the cradle, Ezra skillfully manipulated the deck, and as the cards went round he dealt the farmer three of a kind. Surely, he thought, the man would bid on that.
No good; as before, he folded instantly.
"Are you sure?" Ezra inquired, surprised.
"Yup," the farmer replied, and gave the Southerner a keen look. "Why?"
Ezra hesitated; he couldn't very well confess that he knew what cards the farmer held without causing the other players to erupt in outrage. Anything that even smelled like a cheat could have disastrous, possibly fatal, consequences. He had seen fellow gamblers shot for just such a thing many times.
"Oh, nothing at all," he said quietly, and continued to play under a heavy cloud of apprehension.
He dealt the man four of a kind.
The man folded.
Ezra now had little interest in who was winning any more. "My friend," he said to the farmer, as a miner took in the pot, "are you quite sure you know how to play this game?"
"What the hell kinda question is that?" the farmer snarled, glaring at him. "I been gettin' bad cards, is all."
"Your money is almost gone," Ezra pointed out. "I would strongly suggest that you retire-"
"I ain't goin' nowhere," the man replied, his words laced with anger. "A man's got a right to play if he wants to."
"Hell, let him play," the businessman chuckled. "He wants to go broke, that's his business."
"C'mon, deal," groused the miner.
Ezra scowled, shuffling quickly. This was the strangest poker game he'd ever played. Well, second-strangest-at least in this one, he was wearing his clothes.
In the next hand, he dealt the farmer a full house. The man was down to his last dollar; only a lunatic would fold on the first bidding with a full house in his hand.
The man tossed in his last dollar, went through the first round of bidding, then folded.
"Guess that's it," he sighed, an air of total dejection settling over him. "Got nothin' left to bid with."
"Perhaps you have some valuables?" Ezra urged; he knew the farmer held the winning hand, if he would only stay in. Although Ezra hardly fancied himself a philanthropist, even he couldn't take a poor man's last dollar.
The man shook his head. "Nope." He backed away towards the bar, fixing his eyes on Ezra as he grew more and more distraught. "You've taken everything I had. Every dollar."
Half the saloon was watching now, and Ezra began to feel very ill at lease. "Look, my friend," he said, rising and taking up some of his winnings. "Clearly you were not in your best form today-"
"You took it all," the man cried, his voice breaking as it rose into a shout. "You damn gamblers-I've got nothin' left-"
Everyone was staring at the man, some in derision, others in sympathy. Ezra frowned and took a few steps forward, holding out the bills in his hand, but before he could say anything, the man pulled out his gun and placed the barrel against his own temple.
Cries of alarm rang through the saloon; some people ducked, others stared. Shocked, Ezra lunged towards the man to stop him, but before he was able to reach him, another man who was closer tackled the suicidal farmer and threw him to the ground, disarming him.
It was Wyatt.
Startled, Ezra stared along with everyone else as Wyatt pulled the man upright.
"Easy there, mister," Wyatt said. "You don't wanna do that, do you?"
"Leave me alone, dammit!" the farmer spat back angrily, struggling a bit. "Got nothin' left to stay for..."
The crowd began to move back and murmur as Wyatt, maintaining a protective grip on the unfortunate farmer, looked up at Ezra. His long face bore an expression of thinly veiled anger.
"You can get out of here now, Standish, you've done enough," Wyatt said in a low voice.
Ezra felt his self-control ebbing as he glared at the former sheriff. "Your assistance is appreciated, Mr. Wyatt," he said in a decidedly unfriendly tone, "but I feel absolved from any guilt in this matter. This man had no business gambling, I tried to stop him several times."
Wyatt grunted as he helped the shaken man to his feet. "Not too hard, obviously," was the contemptuous reply.
"Hey now, Wyatt," said a slender, middle-aged townsman from the back of the saloon. "It's true, Standish tried to get him to back off."
"Then why did he continue to deal him in?" was the former sheriff's indignant response. "And where's his cash? In Standish's pocket?"
The Southerner's green eyes began to blaze as he stepped closer. "Here is every cent of his money," Ezra declared, holding out the small number of bills in his hand. "He can count it himself. I refuse to accept it."
"Sure didn't bother you to take it at the table," Wyatt shot back, as he helped the farmer lean against the counter. The man was silent now, his face in his hands.
"I warned him more than once!" Ezra protested, his voice rising in indignation. "If men insist on losing their money, that is hardly my fault."
Wyatt grunted. "That's what all you gaming men say," he retorted, and snatched the money from Ezra's hand before leading the distressed farmer out of the bar. The crowd looked after them, their voices mingling in a babble of excitement and surprise.
Ezra stood for a moment, bewildered. After a pause he noticed that some of the men were appraising him with less than friendly eyes. A few of them were talking to each other in low and critical tones, studying Ezra as they spoke.
"Saw that happen in Eagle Bend once, man shot himself after a gambler took every cent he had," one whispered.
"Oh, c'mon, Pete, Standish ain't like that," returned another voice.
"How do we know? We sure don't need that kinda reputation here," remarked someone else.
The Southerner pursed his lips in disgust and went back to the table, which was now empty, and sat down, glowering as he mulled over the situation. He gazed idly at the path Wyatt and the farmer had taken out of the saloon.
Then he cocked his head, and the green eyes which a moment before had been clouded with thought slowly narrowed with suspicion.
"So there I was, just standin' at the bar an' mindin' my own business, when this big ol' hooligan comes up, an' pow! Just like that!"
Buck's voice echoed through the old church as he sat in one of the dusty pews, bathed in the morning sunlight. Josiah stood some steps away by the altar, checking the multitude of candles that were burning there and relighting the ones that had burnt out. Plainly visible in the newborn morning's glow was the black eye which now marked Buck's handsome visage.
"Not even an introduction, huh?" Josiah asked with a slight smile as he continued his inspection.
Buck snorted and threw his long arms across the back of the pew. "Not unless you call 'Stop messin' with my sister' an introduction."
Josiah couldn't stop from chuckling. "Best tame them rovin' ways, my friend. Next time it might not be just a black eye."
"Aw, hell, Josiah, I been hit by angry brothers before!" Buck remarked in an agitated tone. "But I got no clue what that feller was talkin' about. I keep thinkin' on it, an' no gal I been with for the past two months had any brothers that came close to lookin' like this guy."
"Maybe you just lost track," said the preacher as he relit one of the votives, its fire springing back to life with a small hiss.
His friend shifted a little and looked embarrassed. "Shucks, Josiah, I ain't been *that* busy. Then this varmint spends the whole night tellin' everyone in the saloon how no gal is safe with men like me around, an' y'know what? I think some of them fools were listenin' to him!"
Josiah sighed. "Yeah, since Wyatt came back, the spirit of the town seems to have shifted against us. I'm startin' to feel like we're bein' shown the door."
Buck settled down and peered at Josiah. "You used to live around here, Josiah. You remember anything about that guy?"
Josiah shrugged and turned to him. "Not much. Never saw him around when I was in town, I think he mostly stayed in the jail. Got the job done, I guess, but towards the end the place was gettin' pretty lawless."
Buck scratched his mustache. "You think he's really sorry for what he did, ridin' out on the town?"
The preacher drew a long sigh as he took a few steps towards his friend. "Sure would like to think he is. This all reminds me of the parable of the Prodigal Son-he was a proud and foolish son who was given a fortune by his father, then wasted it and returned home in rags repenting for his sinful ways. He was willin' to be a servant in his father's house if it meant he could be home again. His suffering in poverty had taught him the virtues of humility an' gratitude."
Buck nodded as he sat back in the pew. "You think bein' away has made Wyatt think twice about what he did?"
Josiah's blue eyes were thoughtful for a moment, then he shrugged. "Maybe. Anyway, some of the townfolk sure seem to think so."
"Yeah, he's got 'em sayin' he's the biggest wonder since the telegraph," Buck stated with a snort, sitting up and fiddling with the hat he held in his hands. His voice became softer as he spoke. "Gotta say, it's got me a little worried."
The preacher walked down to him, wiping off his hands. "Don't let your heart be troubled, Buck," he intoned. "Only the Judge can kick us out, an' he's a smart ol' cuss. Don't figure Wyatt can fool him like he's foolin' some of these townfolk."
Buck's mouth twitched, and he nodded. "Yeah, I guess, but...seems like everyone's jumpier'n a snake on a hot rock lately. Chris an' Vin ain't said ten words all week." He sighed and gingerly rubbed his swollen eye. "First that dang prisoner escaped on me, now this. Wonder if I done broke a mirror somewhere an' just don't know it."
Josiah's chuckle was interrupted by the sound of the church door opening. Both men turned their gaze to the front of the sanctuary. There, silhouetted against the rays of the sun, stood the slender form of Mr. Sudbury, the town banker.
"Welcome, Mr. Sudbury," Josiah said, stepping down to meet his visitor. His blue eyes were guarded, however; Sudbury never came to the church, and the unusual nature of the situation made him instantly suspect trouble.
Buck said nothing, but scowled openly at the thin, bespectacled man.
"Morning, Mr. Sanchez, Mr. Wilmington," Mr. Sudbury replied in a thin, uncertain voice. His manner normally was one of fussy efficiency, but now as he stood amid the dust in his tailored suit, he seemed nearly undone with nervousness. He was tightly gripping a folded piece of paper in his hands.
Josiah stopped before him and knit his brows. "You all right, sir?"
Mr. Sudbury sighed. "Josiah, you must understand, I had nothing to do with this. I tried to dissuade the man, but it was all perfectly legal."
"What was?" Josiah asked. Buck had risen from his seat and now stood behind the preacher.
"Sudbury, if this is bad news, you best just spit it on out," Buck warned.
The banker took a shaky breath. "A Mr. Shannon, from Ridge City, came to town today. He was looking to purchase property to build his business on, and..." He ran out of words, sputtered for a moment, then shoved the paper at Josiah. "I'm sorry, Josiah, but-he bought the property the church is on. You have to vacate."
Both men started, amazed.
"Vacate?" Josiah repeated, slightly stunned.
"I'm afraid so," was Sudbury's hesitant answer. "He wants the building empty by tomorrow."
"Now hold on there, Moneybags!" Buck cried, infuriated. "You can't just waltz in here an' kick out Josiah!"
"I'm not enjoying this, Mr. Wilmington!" Sudbury snapped. "But the fact is, Mr. Sanchez has no legal claim to this building. Strictly speaking, he's squatting on abandoned property owned by the town. Nobody cared as long as the bank held the deed-certainly I have no trouble with it-but that's changed now. The lot has an owner, and that owner wants this building emptied."
"Who is this Shannon guy?" Josiah asked with a frown.
Sudbury shook his head. "Frankly, he looked like a pretty shabby sort-not the kind of man you'd think would have money. But he said he liked this lot and wants to tear down the old church and build a business. Put up quite a bit of money for it, too."
"So you just couldn't say 'no', huh?" snarled Buck, his words dripping with rage. Josiah was looking away, one finger to his lips, his face contorted with anxious thought.
Sudbury's patience was running out. "The town needs the funds, Mr. Wilmington, and Shannon has promised to build a new church next door. But he wouldn't hear of allowing Josiah to stay, and I did try." He paused, then brought his small hazel eyes up to Josiah's face. "I...truly do apologize, Josiah. It's business."
A grim smile crossed Josiah's lips. "Just sorry you couldn't find it in your heart t'put God before mammon, Mr. Sudbury," he said in a tone tinged with sadness.
"You know what you can do with that 'business' of yours, Sudbury!" Buck huffed. "Josiah ain't goin' nowhere."
Sudbury straightened, apparently in preparation of ending the conversation. "That's his choice, of course, but as soon as Shannon arrives he'll have Josiah arrested for trespassing." His tone became quick and efficient, all traces of sympathy now gone. "And while Josiah will need a roof over his head, I don't think the jail is the best solution. The best thing to do is accept this and move on. I can't do anything more about it."
With that, he handed the paper to Josiah and walked back out into the bright morning sunlight.
Buck stared angrily after him, then looked at Josiah. The preacher was staring intently at the paper, his eyebrows knit together.
"Now don't you worry, Josiah," Buck said, putting a hand on his comrade's shoulder. "Me an' the boys, we're gonna fight this. You busted your hump on this place, put your soul into it, they can't toss you out like you just been squattin' here."
"Can't go against the law, Buck, even when it's wrong," Josiah reminded him, still looking at the paper. Confusion shrouded his face. "But this all seems mighty strange."
Buck was aghast. "You ain't just gonna roll over an' take this, are ya?"
His friend eyed him, then walked up to the altar and began to gather his belongings. "To every thing there is a time, Buck," he replied lightly, "an' I've had to do a lot of copin' in my life to situations a lot worse than this. But just 'cause I'm not fightin' right now doesn't mean I'm rollin' over, by a long shot."
"Now you're talkin'," Buck said with a grin. "So-what's your plan?"
"Get my things and take 'em to the boardin' house," Josiah said as he folded his long duster over his arm, "then head over to the tavern an' see if the boys are there. Two heads are better than one, as they say, but I think we're gonna need all seven of ours to figure out just what's going on around here."
Two lone figures galloped through the trees of the mountain forest, taking advantage of the thick underbrush as they avoided the trodden road. Both men had the appearance of outlaws, from their cold eyes to their grim expressions.
In the distance loomed the ruins of a mining town, once prosperous but now abandoned. Only a few structures remained, including the withering shell of the only large house built in the short-lived community. Once it had been the splendid home of the town's richest resident, but it now sheltered an entirely different breed of men.
The riders reined in at the crumbling stable nearby, carefully hiding their horses before proceeding inside. The interior of the house had been gutted of all valuables long ago; the dirty walls were bare, the fireplaces broken and cold. Around the room lounged five rough-hewn men, all loading or cleaning their weapons, eating, or playing cards. Every one of them lifted their heads-and their guns-at the sound of the opening doors.
"Don't worry, boys, just us!" bellowed the larger of the two riders.
"Roy!" cried one of the card players, as he slipped his weapon back into his holster and nodded at the second of the two riders. "Tyler an' Wyatt finally got you out, huh?"
"Piece of cake, Jack," was Tyler's smug reply. "Had to lay low in the desert for a while, but other'n that it went just fine."
"They ain't still lookin' for 'im, is they?" asked one of the card players with a worried expression.
Tyler waved him away with a snort. "Nah, we bushwhacked this guy who was about Roy's size, put Roy's ol' duds on 'im an' let the cougars an' wolves gnaw on 'im fer a bit. By the time we buried 'im, his own mother wouldn't know the guy."
The outlaws shared a hearty laugh over this piece of information.
"That was Wyatt's idea, I bet!" Jack exclaimed. "Good thing you had more'n one outfit, Roy."
"Was borin' as hell sittin' in jail, though," Roy announced as he slung his saddlebags into one cobwebbed corner. "How's the plan goin'?"
The other card player chuckled. "Sure wish you coulda seen me with that gambler yesterday, Roy. I had every rube in that bar convinced I was gonna kill myself."
He thought for a moment and his expression changed, an angry gleam coming into his eye. "You know, though, I think that Southern feller was on to me. Got some real good hands there. I think he was tryin' to smoke me out."
"Aw, don't worry about that Reb, Earl," Jack said to his anxious comrade with a wave of his hand. "They can't do nothin' without proof, an' ol' Wyatt's too smart to give anythin' away."
"I'd worry more about Huston," grumbled Tyler as he dropped his saddlebags near Roy's. "Dang kid ain't got the sense of a mealy worm. He better not blab nothin'."
"I got to punch that mustached fella right in the eye," exulted one of the outlaws, a burly dark-haired ruffian.
"You all had all the fun, Walt," complained the third card player as he slapped down a queen. "All I got to do was shoot at that tracker fella. Pretty damn boring, least if I'da kilt him we coulda had that five hundred dollar bounty!"
"If Wyatt's plan works out, Irish, we'll all be seein' lots of excitement and money real soon," Roy said with glee as he helped himself to a nearly-empty bottle of whiskey.
"That plan damn well better work out, Roy!" griped Earl. "We had to use our entire stash to buy that church land so's the preacher would leave."
"Yeah, an' I think that banker feller was mighty suspicious of me," said another of the outlaws, a thin sandy-haired hooligan who was leaning against a windowsill cleaning his gun. "If he'd been any smarter, he might not've agreed to it."
"But he did, Parker, so that's all we gotta worry about," Roy pointed out as he eyed the young man keenly. "You get inside that jewelry store?"
Parker chuckled and nodded, grinning. "Oh yeah. Lot of nice stuff, an' the cases look easy enough t'get into. An' you shoulda heard this fight I saw between some farmer and one of them lawmen. I swear, it ain't gonna take much to get those seven men throwed out of town. Some of them folk hate them hired guns."
"No big surprise there," Jack said in a highly amused voice. "God, can you imagine hiring a hair-trigger gunslinger like Chris Larabee to be a lawman? He's killed more men than all of us put together!"
"Or that colored guy," Irish added, shaking his head. "A darky with a badge-never thought I'd see that happen! Lord! I bet they'll be beggin' Wyatt to get those men out of town an' be sheriff again by the end of the week."
Parker snapped his gun closed and peered at Roy, his gray eyes restless. "How long we got to wait, anyhow? It's been almost three weeks, an' no word from Wyatt-it's makin' me nervous. What if Wyatt decides to take that town for himself, an' cut us out? We don't know what he's doin' stuck out here."
Roy grunted as he swallowed a mouthful of whiskey. "Hmph! Relax, Parker. Wyatt ain't that dumb," he said with a shake of his head. "He's been a better leader than old Willie ever was. Guess nobody knows better'n a lawman how to break the law." He chuckled.
"Yeah, but Wyatt's got his whole mind set on gettin' that town back," Jack pointed out. "When he becomes sheriff again, he might get greedy an' take it all."
The others muttered their agreement with this.
Roy sighed and leaned against the cracking mantelpiece, whiskey bottle in one hand. "I got no problem with waitin' a bit longer to see what Wyatt does," he proclaimed, swinging the bottle idly. "But if he does stab us in the back-Well, then we might have to pay that town another visit...with a plan or two of our own."
Chris sat back and frowned to himself as he watched the afternoon crowd move through the Standish Tavern, his chin cupped in one hand with the index finger touching his lower lip. From his corner table he could sweep the entire saloon with one glance, but no one was paying much attention to him, or the other man at the table. Which was just as well, since his present mood was not one that invited an audience.
Vin did not look any happier as he lounged in his chair, his hat on the table before him, next to his barely-touched mug of beer. His expression was as pensive as that of his comrade, but a good deal less angry.
"I ain't aimin' t'be gone more'n a few days," Vin said, looking up at his friend with grave blue eyes. A gentle current of persuasion ran beneath his words. "Just til I get this whole mess figured out."
Chris didn't move as he studied the tracker with keen green eyes. "Folks here don't blame you for what happened," was his reply.
A snort escaped from Vin as he looked quickly away. "Hell they don't! Well, some of 'em," he shot back, swinging his gaze back to Chris. "But I can live with folks whisperin'. Never bothered me an' it never will. But..." he drew a deep breath and leaned forward. "That guy might come back, Chris. An' if he don't, well, others might follow 'im. If he heard I'm here, other bounty hunters probably know it, too."
He blew out a breath and shook his head, sitting back again. "Won't be too long 'til main street'll look like a shootin' gallery. I ain't scared for myself, but I ain't too keen on some townsperson gettin' hit by some one gunnin' for me." He dropped his gaze to the table and shrugged a little. "So, thought I'd ride on out for a few days, see if I can find his trail, an' do some thinkin'."
Chris took a sip of his whiskey and nodded as he looked out over the crowd. "Fine with me, Vin. After what happened to me the other day, I might be doin' some thinkin' of my own." He absently rubbed his healing arm.
Vin smiled a little and shook his head, plucking at his hat. "Lord, we sure got a talent for attractin' trouble."
"You can say that again!"
Vin and Chris both looked up at the sound of Nathan's voice, startled at the fierce anger it held, and saw the healer coming towards them with Josiah and Buck close behind.
"This the table for wandering vagabonds?" Josiah intoned as he sat down.
"Don't know how you can be so calm 'bout this, Josiah!" Nathan snapped as he took a seat. His brown eyes were fairly blazing with rage.
Chris didn't like the hot burning in his gut as he looked at the three new arrivals. "What happened?"
Buck plopped next to Chris and reached for the whiskey bottle. "Oh, nothin' much," he said, in a voice cold enough to freeze fire. "Josiah just got kicked outta the church, is all."
Vin's eyes flew open wide. "What the hell?"
"Hell might be involved somewhere, for all I know," Josiah remarked, setting down the shoulder bag he'd been carrying. "Just spent an hour wranglin' with ol' Sudbury at the bank, but seems it's all legal."
Chris's face twitched with fury as he sat up. "Hell with legal," he spat, "it ain't *right*!"
"Legality and righteousness are rarely intertwined, my friend," came a voice from nearby, as Ezra appeared and sat down next to Buck. He glanced at Josiah while setting down his mug of beer. "Did my ears hear correctly, Josiah?"
Josiah sighed. "If they heard about the church, then, yep," he said, sitting back. "When this Shannon guy gets to town he's gonna hear a thing or two from me, though. This isn't over."
"You need a place t'stay, Josiah, I won't be usin' my wagon fer a few days," Vin offered.
The preacher indicated Buck. "Thanks, but brother Buck has offered a spot in his rented room 'til somethin' opens up at the boardin' house. Though by then, I hope to have this whole mess straightened out."
"Where you goin', Vin?" Nathan inquired, leaning forward and crossing his arms.
"Just ridin' out for a bit, see if I can find the varmint who shot at me," Vin answered. "An' do a bit of thinkin'."
Nathan grunted with irritation. "Lemme know if you want any company. I'm startin' t'feel if I stay in this town one more hour, I'm gonna burst."
"This sure has been one lousy coupla weeks," Buck agreed with a firm nod. "One thing after another!" He paused, then cast a look over at Josiah. "We make God mad or somethin'?"
"I would suggest a far more earthbound source of our troubles," Ezra said quietly.
The others looked at him expectantly.
"Got somebody in mind?" Chris asked.
The gambler appeared totally at ease as he looked up from the ever-moving deck of cards in his hands. "Perhaps the good Irving Wyatt?"
Vin grinned a little as he sat back. "Sure you ain't just sore cause his horse keeps pickin' fights with your horse?"
"That is a slander, sir," Ezra admonished him with a glare. "Chaucer is a discriminating fellow and merely has a strong reaction to bad company, humans and fellow equines alike."
Buck chuckled. "The man's a royal pain in the butt, Ezra, but what makes you think he had anythin' to do with this here shiner I got?"
The Southerner offered an elegant shrug. "The evidence is all circumstantial, I'll warrant," he replied, "but I have noticed some very odd things occurring since Wyatt's arrival."
Chris looked sideways at him. "Hell, Ezra, I been called out before."
"This ain't my first black eye, neither," Buck pointed out.
"Both perfectly accurate assessments, I'm sure," was Ezra's answer as he scanned the faces of his friends. "But their timing is, shall we say, quite suspect. Mr. Larabee, when was the last time you were called out before yesterday?"
Chris thought. "That time with Top Hat Bob, 'bout a year ago. Nothin' since."
Ezra nodded and looked at Buck. "And you, Mr. Wilmington. If I recall, you have not been manhandled by any angered males since our arrival in this fair town until the other day, and you swore at the time that you had no idea who your assailant was."
"True enough," Buck said. "Ain't been with any gals that had a brother like that guy. It's been puzzlin' me somethin' fierce."
"And I myself have been confronted with a man who was apparently driven to the brink of suicide by my cruelty," Ezra went on as he continued to shuffle, "despite the fact that he was dealt several excellent hands that any man with even the most rudimentary gaming skills would have won with."
Nathan cocked his head, his expression amused. "Stackin' the deck, Ezra?"
"In the name of justice, sir," Ezra responded. "Only to confirm what I suspected, and now firmly believe. Sirs," he stopped shuffling and placed the deck on the table with a solid *thump*, "I propose that we are the victims of a very elaborate con."
Josiah frowned. "By Wyatt?"
"None other," Ezra stated. "Our troubles did not begin until he arrived, and have mounted rapidly, always to his benefit. Now, either he has reformed and become a shining exemplar of virtue and morality, or else he is perpetrating a hoax to regain his position." He folded his hands and sat back. "Given human nature, I invite you to speculate on which is the more likely case."
"Sure would explain a few things," Vin said.
"Wouldn't put it past 'im, neither," Nathan added. "but-you sayin' all these men who've been makin' trouble work for him?"
"Could be," Chris offered, sitting forward. "We don't know where he's been all this time. I've seen some gangs with ten, twelve men, he might've gotten in with one of 'em. Then he'd have all the men he needed."
"He was at the fire when the prisoner broke out," Buck remembered. "An' he was there Vin an' Chris were shot at, too!"
"An' he took the kid to the doctor," Nathan noted. "Maybe Fredericks is crooked, too. They might all be lookin' to cash in here, with Wyatt leadin' 'em."
"You think he let that guy outta the jail?" Buck asked, sitting up.
Ezra peered at him knowingly. "Who else might have a key to our jail cell? He may have absconded with it during his last sojourn out of town."
"But why would he set a fire that might burn down the whole town?" Nathan asked, rubbing his lip with one finger.
"He was also fightin' it, Nate," Buck interjected, "Heard he was workin' hard at it, too. He mighta set it knowin' it'd be put out quick. An' when it was over, he said he wasn't gonna let the town burn to the ground."
"'Cause he wants it back," Vin mused.
"A growin' place like this would prove mighty tempting," Josiah agreed, "'specially to someone who had it an' gave it up."
"Hey, guys!"
JD strode up to the table, holding two pieces of paper and looking around at his comrades.
"Have a seat, kid," Buck said, pulling out a chair. "Y'oughta be in on this."
"Thanks," JD said, plopping into the seat and looking at Josiah. "Hey, is it true what I heard about the church, Josiah?"
"Think so, JD," the preacher answered in a cautious tone, "though now I ain't so sure."
Nathan pointed to the gambler. "Ezra thinks Wyatt's behind all this trouble in town lately."
JD frowned and handed a telegram to Chris. "Even this?"
Chris took the paper and read it over. "From Jericho. 'I am asking all lawmen in the surrounding area to be on the lookout for a man who killed my brother two weeks ago, name of John 'Huston' Kingsley. Twenty years old, five feet ten, red hair, very thin, large round mole on his left cheek'."
"Sounds just like the kid who shot you," Nathan observed.
Chris nodded. "Says if we have him to bring him to the Jericho jail."
"Least we can sweep that guy out the door," Buck grunted.
Ezra thought for a moment, then glanced over at the gunslinger. "If I may, Chris, I would like to escort our young guest to his new home. He, too, may be in league with our wandering sheriff, and it may prove useful to interrogate him."
"You cookin' up somethin', Ezra?" Buck asked, studying the gambler with a knowing glint in his eye.
Ezra grinned. "If the lad is, as I've heard, a nervous and rather dull sort, it might not be too difficult to gain information from him that would prove valuable in proving our case, if he is indeed involved in any dubious activities. A few hours alone with him on the trail should be all I need."
"No back-up?" Josiah inquired. "Could be dangerous."
"Your concern is appreciated, my friend," the gambler said sincerely. "However, he may feel more willing to confide to only one pair of ears. I will be fully alert and armed, I promise, and before tomorrow night, we may have all the answers we seek."
"An' if I find out Wyatt's been behind all this," Chris vowed in a voice heavy with dark intentions, "it'll be his turn for troubles."
