RPS3

Mary finished hanging up the last copies of the Clarion to dry and let out a weary sigh as she let her arms drop. Another issue done, she thought as she glanced outside at the morning crowd bustling along the boardwalk just outside her printing office. Usually she allowed herself to relax a bit at this point, but her heart was too anxious to allow any such luxuries today.

The situation between Wyatt and the seven hired gunmen lay far from easy, and she was increasingly worried that the town might become split over the issue. Her father-in-law, circuit judge Orin Travis, had hired the seven men, and only Orin could dismiss them, but she could not turn a blind eye to the fact that the former sheriff was rapidly gaining forgiveness in the small town. Many in the community, led by Mr. Conklin, were becoming actively vocal about their desire to oust the hired gunmen.

As she busied herself cleaning up, a sigh escaped her lips at the thought of Wyatt returning as sheriff. For a long time she had been one of the people unhappy with the idea of using hired guns to protect the town, but they had proven more reliable and courageous than Wyatt had been. She didn't like remembering how they had been left helpless in the face of violence and disorder; did everyone really want those days to return?

The sound of a knock at her open door reached her ears, and raising her blue eyes she saw Mr. Conklin standing in the doorway, a sheet of paper in one hand. He took off his hat and said with a slight smile, "I'm not disturbing you, am I, Mary?"

A small knot of instinctive dread rose in Mary's stomach as she straightened. "Not at all, Mr. Conklin," she said with forced friendliness. "What can I do for you?"

He came to her and handed her the sheet of paper. "If it's possible, I need two dozen copies of this printed up as soon as possible. Sorry for the short notice, but this is something thst has to be resolved quick as possible. I'll pay whatever it takes."

Anxiously, Mary read the notice: "ATTENTION! Special town meeting to be held TONIGHT at the Grain Exchange to discuss the issue of our town's current law situation. 8:00. Harry J. Conklin presiding."

Oh no, she moaned to herself. She looked up, incredulous. "Law situation?"

"Oh, you know," he said with a wave of his hand. "Those men the Judge hired. Now that Wyatt's back, a lot of people here think we don't need them anymore. Time to get this out in the open."

"I know a lot of people like Wyatt," Mary replied in a frosty voice, "but a lot of people also think our 'current law situation' is just fine."

Conklin grimaced. "I know that, Mrs. Travis, but...well, it just doesn't seem right for our town to go so long with no real sheriff. I'll bet we're the only place in the whole territory that has to rely on hired guns for protection. It's dangerous."

The young journalist stared at Conklin, aghast. "Dangerous? These men have stood between this town and danger time and again. I don't believe Wyatt can say the same."

"All that's in the past now, Mary!" Conklin assured her. "You've seen how he's been lately. Seems like a whole new man."

"And you don't find that just a little strange?" Mary asked, cocking her head.

"No stranger than putting our town in the hands of a killer like Chris Larabee," the old man retorted. "Think you can get these printed up by, say, one o'clock?"

For a moment, Mary felt strongly tempted to refuse. Then she pursed her lips and nodded.

"I don't agree with this meeting, Mr. Conklin," she said in cold, professional voice, "but I'll print your posters for you. Everyone in town should know about it and be allowed to have their say."

"Good!" Conklin exclaimed, a smug smile spreading over his face.

She produced her receipt book and a pencil and began to write the order. "But you might be surprised at how many supporters Mr. Larabee and his friends have in this town," she noted as she wrote. "If Mr. Wyatt thinks he can just have his old job back without a fight, he's going to find himself sadly mistaken."

"Oh, I'm sure he expects a fight," Conklin returned as he glanced at the cost and began counting out his cash. "But a lot of us think it's a fight he'll win. This town's moving out of the old days, Mary, and it'll be better for everyone when they all decide to move with it."

Mary's lip twitched as she ripped the reciept out of the small book and handed it to him. "They'll be ready by one."

Mr. Conklin grinned as he took the receipt. "Thank you, Mary. Good morning."

He tipped his hat, turned and walked out of the office. Mary watched him go, her heart filling with trepidation. She had to admit he was right-there were many people who had never accepted the hired guns, and would take any sheriff, even one like Wyatt, if it meant Chris and the others would be released. And at one time she might have agreed with them.

But not any more.

She shook herself and went back to work, sweeping away the mess from the paper in order to begin work on the poster. As she went about her task, her mind sped along, trying to figure out the best way to prepare herself for the fight she'd surely face at the town meeting that evening. She had to convince her fellow townfolk to continue to trust Chris and the other men. The safety of her home and her friends depended on it.


Conklin smiled to himself as he hurried to his store. It was sure going to be good to get those gunslingers out of town. With a true sheriff in place, Four Corners could once more take its stand as a modern, civilized community.

"Say, Harry?"

The voice startled Conklin, and he turned to see Wyatt walking towards him from the street, looking puzzled and a little uneasy.

"Oh, mornin', Irving," Conklin said with a smile. "I was hoping to find you. We're having a town meeting tonight about getting those gunslingers out of here, I think we got a good chance of getting you your old job back. Hope you can make it."

"Of course I'll be there," Wyatt said, but the smile on his face seemed a bit lopsided. "Say, I just went to the jail and the prisoner we arrested the other day is gone, the red-headed kid who shot Larabee."

"Oh, him!" Conklin coughed, scowling. "See, that's why we need you, Wyatt, this town's getting dangerous with all these gunslingers around-"

"Yes, yes," Wyatt cut him off, almost impatiently. "Do you know what happened to him?"

"Who, that kid? Well," Conklin paused and scratched his chin. "Yeah, I saw that gambler, Standish, riding off with him in tow about half an hour ago. Guess he was taking him to another town or something."

Wyatt's expression froze. "The gambler took him out of town?"

The other man frowned a little, bewildered by Wyatt's startled reaction. "Yup-looks like they were heading West. Everything all right?"

Wyatt paused, thought a moment, then patted his friend's shoulder. "I'm sure it will be now, Harry. I'll see you tonight." He nodded and walked quickly away.

"See you then," Conklin said crisply, his smile returning. With a hopeful heart he went on his way, giving his exchange with Wyatt no more thought. He even had the courage to give Larabee a bold glance as he passed by the saloon. He said nothing to anyone of Wyatt's words, and soon forgot the conversation entirely.


The beautiful morning sunshine did little to dispel the heavy air of sadness hanging over the little old white church. Josiah walked through the dusty sanctuary slowly, reluctantly, his blue eyes traveling over every inch of the room as if memorizing every nail and board. Buck watched him from the doorway, unwilling to interfere with his friend as he said goodbye.

It looks so empty, Josiah thought as he scanned the large chamber. All of his personal things were gone now, and it looked pretty much the same as the day he had first arrived there. Repairs sat half-completed, the doors and windows sanded and waiting for their new coat of paint which might never arrive. The pews sat bare, facing an empty pulpit; all of the candles before the altar sat cold, their light extinguished.

Josiah sighed deeply, fighting to control the overwhelming sorrow building within him. It felt as if he were abandoning a dying friend.

His gaze wandered over the unfinished repairs, the scars that still needed healing. This place, so like his own incomplete, injured soul-how could he leave it behind? They were going to be healed together. It felt completely against God's plan to continue his journey alone.

A flicker of anger flickered and grew in his heart. He had no intention of letting the old church fall to the hands of strangers without a fight. When this Shannon came to town to collect his land, Josiah would be there to meet him.

But that was yet in the future; for now, he had to leave, and despite his determination, he could not ignore the possibility that he would never set foot in the old church again. His soul ached as he picked up the last of his belongings and cast a final glance about. He could sense God's presence still, whispering and hidden in the shadows but still there, just as in his own troubled heart. He felt rooted to the spot, held by the fragile chains of searching faith which refused to let him stir one foot outside the door.

Buck's sympathetic voice stirred through the musty air as he looked down the street. "Sudbury's comin', Josiah. Looks like he's fixin' to lock 'er up."

Josiah sighed again and settled the box of his possessions in his arms. "Yeah," he muttered in a low voice full of mourning. "I guess we better go."

He turned and walked quickly out, knowing that any further lingering would only sharpen the pain. In a few steps he was on the landing of the staircase, blinking against the bright sunshine.

"Don't you worry, pard, this ain't goodbye," Buck promised as they paused at the top of the stairs.

Josiah nodded as they began their descent. "That's what I'm tellin' myself, brother," he stated, his voice becoming firm with resolve. "Hate leavin', though, even for a few days. Guess I didn't realize how much I'd miss the old place."

Sudbury walked up, key in hand and a very uncomfortable expression on his face. The two men didn't bother with politeness as the banker met them.

"Couldn't wait, huh?" Buck growled, nodding at the key.

Sudbury's small eyes snapped defensively. "I'm no happier about this than you are, gentlemen," he retorted in a cold voice. "I'm merely fulfilling my professional duties."

Josiah gave a short sigh as he clutched his box closer and fixed the banker with a keen look. "Yep," he said shortly, "I believe the Roman soldiers on Calvary said pretty much the same thing."

The two men said nothing further and walked away, neither of them desiring to watch the banker lock up the church. As they made their way towards the boarding house, they failed to notice Dr. Fredericks standing at the door of his office, keeping an interested eye on the banker's actions. As Sudbury secured the doors of the old church and headed back to the bank, the outlaw doctor smiled to himself with satisfaction and went back inside. Wyatt was going to be very pleased.



The mountain road to Jericho lay quiet and deserted, save for the two lone travelers now making their way down its dusty path. The morning had given way to early afternoon, and as Ezra kept a sharp eye on his companion, he ran through a number of plans intended to reveal the truth he sought.

He looked once more at the prisoner, studying him closely. The lad seemed very nervous, and had been ever since Ezra had announced that he would be taking him to the sheriff in Jericho. The announcement that he was being delivered to justice there had not unnerved the outlaw in the slightest; it was only when he realized he would be going with the gambler that his uneasiness began. Ezra noticed this quickly, and made note of it.


For his part, Huston could barely contain his anxiety. Confused, troubled thoughts flew through his mind. Where was Wyatt? Why was this guy taking him to Jericho instead of the former sheriff? Wyatt had promised that he'd take him outside the town and let him go once nobody could see them, but that hadn't happened. Huston was really a wanted man-in Red Rock, not Jericho, but still they might find it out. Maybe Wyatt had lied to him.

And what would happen once they got to Jericho? Huston began to sweat. That telegram about him being a wanted man there was phony, and Jack was surely back at the hideout by now. When they arrived at the jail and found no one waiting for him, they might start suspecting that it had all been a trick. Then they'd start asking him some very difficult questions, like why he agreed to go to Jericho knowing full well he wasn't a wanted man there. What if they beat him up to get answers? And what if Wyatt stood by and let them do it?

Huston didn't like Wyatt much; he missed old Willie and wished he was still their leader. Willie didn't mind much that Huston was so young and not as bright as the others; all he cared about was whether the kid killed every man he aimed at, and Huston had no trouble with that. All Wyatt did was yell, and if Huston had had anywhere else to go, he would have left. But the gang was all he had, and Wyatt did bring in more money for them than Willie ever had.

But now it looked as if Wyatt had betrayed him. He probably wouldn't even send anyone to get him out of the Jericho jail; he might even tell them himself that Huston was wanted in Red Rock. Huston shivered and hoped the fancy man didn't notice. Huston hated jails, and at that moment wanted nothing more than to kill the gambler and ride away. But he had no weapon.

The longer they rode, the more the prisoner fidgeted. Finally he looked at Ezra and said, "When we gettin' to town?"

The gambler smiled a little. "Anxious to face your accuser, Mr. Kingsley?"

"Uh, no, no," Huston said quickly, in a clumsy attempt to cover his disquiet. "Just wondered, is all." He looked over at Ezra, confused. "You one of them seven lawman?"

Ezra sighed. "Unfortunately."

The red-haired kid blinked. "How come?"

The other man turned his green eyes towards him. "How come what, my articulate friend?"

"How come it's unfortunate?" Huston pronounced the long word with difficulty, as if his tongue was not used to any words longer than a few syllables.

Ezra uttered a bitter laugh. "If you saw what I had to endure for the paltry sum I make, your curiosity would be more than satisfied." He shook his head, then looked around and leaned closer to the young man. "And between us, sir, I must say, congratulations on your bravery. I only wish I had your courage."

Huston stared at him, bewildered. "What I do?" he drawled.

"Why, you took a shot at the great Chris Larabee!" Ezra replied in an amazed voice, as if it were obvious. "Lord, how many times I've wanted to put a bullet in that bastard's heart. I only wish your aim was more true."

Huston was beside himself with surprise. "Don't you work fer Larabee?" he sputtered.

"*With* him, sir," Ezra stressed, his eyes burning as he looked at his companion. "I work *with* Larabee. I would never work *for* that arrogant ass, or for anyone other than myself, despite whatever sad delusions that old Judge Travis may possess. That is what makes this job so detestable." He spat out the last word with great vehemence. "To think someone of my talents should be so misused! I long for release every day, but it only seems to move farther into the distance."

Huston puzzled out the words. "You mean, you wanna quit?"

Ezra gave an angry laugh. "Not an option, I'm afraid-I would be hunted down like a wild animal. But if there were a way to hasten an end to our servitude, I would wholeheartedly embrace it." He spurred Chaucer along. "Perhaps this Wyatt fellow could be of some assistance."

"Wyatt?" Huston tensed.

"Indeed," was the easy reply. "He's the fellow who stopped you from killing Larabee, a sin I can easily forgive him for if he resumes his former post as sheriff of that wretched town and frees us from our obligations. If the situation does not improve, I may even offer him my services." He sighed and absently scratched his chin, gazing idly at the passing scenery.

Huston bit his lip, thinking hard. Wyatt would want this guy's help, anything to get his old job back. Maybe if he told him what was going on, the gambler would agree to join Wyatt. It seemed pretty obvious that this man didn't like his job, and since he was one of the lawmen he could fix things from the inside. Maybe then Wyatt would be grateful to him and stop yelling at him so much.

But what if he was wrong? Maybe this was a trick. He listened as the gambling fellow went on, describing how much he hated his life as a lawman and wanted to be free. No, he sounded pretty sincere. But if it was a trick, Wyatt would kill him, and Huston didn't want to make a mistake. His heart began to beat faster as he tried to decide what to do. He could tell this guy everything and maybe get him to help them, but if Huston was wrong and this was a trap, Wyatt would kill him for sure. On the other hand, he could tell this man nothing, but then his fate would be to sit in the Jericho jail. What if Wyatt decided to just leave him there?

His breathing became heavy, and he could feel the tiny beads of sweat cooling his forehead. They would be at Jericho soon-he had to act now.

Then, a third option opened up before him, and he realized he didn't have to choose.

He could simply run.


Ezra was in mid-sentence when suddenly Huston gave his horse a sharp jab of the spurs and sped off in a mad dash, enfolding the gambler in a cloud of dust.

Without wasting breath on a cry of surprise, Ezra urged Chaucer into a gallop and tore after him down the mountain road, cursing himself at his own carelessness. The boy had seemed attentive, and appeared ready to talk any second. Why had he taken flight?

Steep, rocky walls lined the road, and Ezra could see the prisoner up ahead, riding at a breakneck pace. He bent low over Chaucer's neck and urged the beautiful chestnut on; Huston would not be able to go far in this wild, mountainous country, and Chaucer would easily be able to catch up to the lad's less talented mount.

They pounded down the road, and as Ezra suspected, he was soon very close to the frightened prisoner's horse. A few more moments, he thought, and it would be–

*BANG!*

The sound was close and loud, and before Ezra could even feel surprise, the pain struck him with blinding force and wrenched him from his saddle. He struck the ground with a cry, sheets of agonizing flame erupting from the deep wound in his side. Good Lord, he thought as one shaking hand clutched the thick stream of blood cascading from the wound. Oh hell, Huston didn't have a gun, what-

"Wyatt!"

It was Huston's voice, and Ezra struggled to lift his head, trying to ignore the agony coursing through his body with every movement. On the second try, he looked up, and saw the prisoner trotting back towards him. Someone was riding carefully down from the rocks above the road, holding a rifle, and Huston met him with a grin of recognition as he reined in only twenty feet from where Ezra lay. It was Wyatt, whose own expression was not as congenial.

Ezra fought to stay conscious and keep his mind clear, straining to hear their every word.

"Trying to get away from our agreement, Huston?" he growled, gripping the rifle in one hand. His horse was moving restlessly, its ears back as it stared at Chaucer. Chaucer flattened his ears against his skull and bobbed his head at the other horse, clearly not happy.

"Aw, hell no, Wyatt!" the kid swore. "Where you been? You was supposed t'take me outta the jail an' let me go."

So they are working together, Ezra realized as the pain lanced through him. Lord...

"Suppose they changed the plans," Wyatt replied, shooting Ezra an angry look. "Good thing that old man Conklin told me about it."

"Not so good fer him," Huston chuckled, following his boss's gaze.

Wyatt studied Ezra as if he were a dying dog. "Well, couldn't let him get you to Jericho, could I? He'd have found out the telegram was fake, and then he'd start getting a little too nosy."

"Sure am glad you's such a good shot," the kid said with a nod, his ugly face splitting into a grin. "Let's get his guns."

"I'll take care of it," Ezra heard Wyatt say. "You get to the hideout, and tell the boys everything's going fine. They're having a town meeting tonight, and I shouldn't have any trouble convincing them to kick out those gunmen. In a few weeks, I'll be back where I belong and Four Corners will be mine again, as it should have been all along."

Ezra's gut twisted at the words. He had never been so sorry to be right in his life.

Huston gave his boss a puzzled look. "Don't you mean it'll be ours, Wyatt? You said the whole gang was gonna get somethin' once you took over that town."

"Oh," Wyatt waved his free hand. "Of course, if everything goes as planned. There's plenty of that place to go around, long as the boys do what they're told."

Ezra blinked and peered at the two men before him, trying desperately to concentrate. He heard a quiet shuffle behind him, and felt a warm, soft nose graze his cheek. Chaucer was standing over him, his large dark eyes worried as he nuzzled his fallen master. Ezra gave a reassuring smile to the animal, but kept his eyes glued to the two outlaws.

"When we gonna move in on the town, Wyatt?" Huston was asking, his voice somewhat anxious. "Been almost a month now, they're gonna want to know-"

"You tell 'em to hold their damn horses 'til I say otherwise!" Wyatt snapped with a scowl. "I've waited a whole year for this, they can damn well wait a few more weeks! They're lucky I let them in on this at all."

The young man grimaced at the outburst and said no more, eyeing his boss with mute fear, and Ezra clearly saw the anger smoldering in Huston's expression.

Wyatt was riding towards Ezra now, the rifle held firmly in one hand. He dismounted, shoving the rifle beneath his saddle. With an easy stride he approached Ezra and reached his side, regarding the injured gambler with a cold eye.

Ezra glared at him and flexed his right arm. The hidden derringer sprang into view, but before he could fire it Wyatt lashed out savagely with his boot, kicking the tiny gun from Ezra's grip. Reaching down, he removed Ezra's Remington from his holster, straightened, then retrieved the derringer, and calmly put them both in his saddlebags before returning to Ezra's side. The two men regarded each other with angry eyes.

"Nice try, Standish," Wyatt snarled, and delivered a swift kick into the Southerner's side. Pain exploded through him in a great irresistable wave, and Ezra had no strength to fight as it swiftly bore him into a deep and dreamless oblivion.



"You gonna blow his head off, Wyatt?" Huston inquired as he watched the former sheriff search the gambler's pockets until he found the key to Huston's handcuffs.

Wyatt palmed the derringer and Remington as he rose and walked back to Huston's horse. "Maybe," he said offhandedly as he slipped the tiny silver key into the lock on the manacles. The cuffs instantly sprang open, and as Huston shook them off, Wyatt continued, his voice becoming sharp. "You get your ass back to the hideout and tell the boys to lay low until I give the word. Anyone who moves before I say so gets cut out, and if they're caught I'll let them hang. Got it?"

Huston gathered up the reins of his horse and nodded, his expression uncertain. "Uh, yeah, Wyatt. Sure."

Wyatt climbed up on his own horse. As he settled in the saddle, he noticed that Huston was still there, and his dull eyes actually looked as if he might be thinking very hard about something. Wyatt scowled. "What's the matter?"

Huston swallowed. "You'd really let 'em hang?"

"Hell, yes!" Wyatt snapped angrily. "Anyone stupid enough to jeopardize this plans is going to get what he deserves. Now let's get the hell out of here, I've got a lot to do before the meeting tonight."

Huston winced a little and nodded, then looked at Ezra. "What about him?"

Wyatt cast an impatient glance back at the place where Ezra lay curled on the ground, motionless. Frowning, he rode over to the gambler, studying him closely. There was blood everywhere, and he didn't seem to be breathing.

Chaucer stood over his master's body and nickered in low, threatening tones, glaring at Wyatt's horse. Wyatt ignored him.

After Wyatt had stared at Ezra a few moments, Chaucer took a step forward, swinging his head at Wyatt's horse, his ears pinned back. Wyatt's horse snorted and backed away, its head bobbing wildly.

"Whoa!" Wyatt muttered, eying Chaucer angrily as he tried to calm his mount. Once seperated, both horses seemed to quiet down, but Wyatt never took his wary gaze from the spirited chestnut.

"No need to worry about Standish," Wyatt announced, watching Chaucer as he gripped his reins. "He's dead, and he and his damn horse can rot here. If anyone finds him, they'll just figure you got his guns and shot him."

Huston's eyes grew wide. "Shit, Wyatt, they'll hunt me down fer that!"

"Then you'd better get your ass to the hideout," Wyatt snarled, and took off down the road towards town. Huston watched him ride off, his expression a mixture of uncertainty and fear, then he kicked his horse into a gallop and rode away. Clouds of golden dust rose and swirled in the air, wafting in lazy puffs before settling down once more to earth and over the body lying perfectly still in the dappled sunlight.


Ezra drifted in the darkness for only a few minutes, it seemed, but when he next opened his eyes the sunlight was slanting sharply, indicating that several hours had passed. For a moment his mind was blank, and he stared at the blue sky waiting for memory to return. It did quickly, in a blinding flash. Hell, he thought, Wyatt. That damned two-faced carpetbagger, he really is trying to pull a swindle. As much as he really didn't want to move at the moment, he had to get back to town and tell the others what he'd seen before that meeting was over. They had to know the truth.

He groaned and tried to get up. Pain arced through his body, and several swear words coursed through his mind as he resolutely tried to ignore the searing agony. Damn you, Ezra, he scolded himself, you've been hurt worse than this before. Surely, it's not so large a matter to stand up and get in that saddle. Not with so much at stake.

Very slowly, he pulled himself into a sitting position, gasping with every inch of movement. One hand gingerly explored the wound as he gritted his teeth against the necessary pain. It didn't feel as if the bullet was still there, and the bleeding had slowed. The left side of his clothing was saturated with blood, and for a second he mourned the loss of such hard-to-get finery. Wyatt was going to pay for this, in every way possible, even if he did do Ezra the rgeat favor of not killing him before he left.

He looked up, and met the eyes of Chaucer, who still stood patiently waiting at his side.

"Ah, my old friend," Ezra panted as he struggled to sit up on his elbows, "you must...forgive my rudeness at not rewarding you for your loyalty, but I fear...all of the sugar cubes in my left pocket have been quite thoroughly spoiled."

Chaucer nickered in reply.

After resting for several minutes, Ezra gazed up at the saddle, which seemed a hundred miles away. He knew he had to get himself up there, and felt strong enough to do it, but damn, this was going to hurt.

He took a deep breath. "Very well," he said to himself, and lifted one arm to grasp the stirrup. The muscles in his side shrieked in protest, and he bit back the cry which strove to burst from his mouth. Gasping as the sweat beaded on his forehead, he slowly lifted himself to a sitting position.

The world tilted and spun, and Ezra squeezed his eyes shut, riding out the unpleasant sensation until it subsided. How tempting it was to just stay here, to simply wait until either death or help arrived. But there was no time. Wyatt was dangerous, and the sooner everyone knew that, the better. He only wished there was someone else to deliver the news.

He braced himself and gripped the stirrup, carefully hoisting himself to his knees. If he moved slowly, the pain and dizziness was tolerable. He smiled grimly to himself as he worked; how many towns had he ridden out of in a similar condition, after being attacked by unhappy victims of his cons or cardplaying? This would be the first time he'd ever ridden *into* a town with a bullet wound in him. Perhaps this job truly had driven him insane.

Ten more minutes passed. He managed to get to his feet, his hands tightly grasping his saddle as he stood. But the worst was far from over; now he had to get into the saddle.

He paused, staring at his objective as his injured side throbbed in anger. It was hurting worse now with all the movement, but there was no help for it. If he didn't act, Wyatt might win, and everything he and the others had worked for would be gone. None of the others had the proof he did that Wyatt was pulling a con.

Lord, he thought angrily, how he hated this. He didn't want others depending on him, he didn't want to be noble and kill himself riding to save the day. He wanted to find a nice, comfortable place to lay down and rest, to do what he had always done-take care of himself first and foremost, and to hell with everyone else.

He closed his hand around the cool, slick pommel and sighed. The bitter thoughts yielded to a less tangible idea, a feeling more than a solid thought. He was in danger of losing his home, and he could not stand by and let that happen. He had been losing homes all his life, first when his father died, then when his con-woman mother shunted him from relative to relative as she went about her work. But then, he had been powerless to prevent it.

He wasn't powerless now. Damn tired, shaky, and fed up, but not powerless.

These were the thoughts of Ezra's heart, and he recognized the sentiment, even though he could not bring himself to fully admit to it. The thoughts of his head simply said that he had to be strong and find help, to stop Wyatt and give the lying miscreant the sound thrashing he deserved. And, of course, to get back full payment for his ruined clothes.

With all of these resolutions in mind, Ezra gripped the saddle, put one foot firmly in the stirrup, braced himself, and tried to pull himself onto Chaucer.

After straining for a few moments, he stopped, gasping aloud and drenched in sweat. He bowed his head, trying to quiet his fierce trembling. Dammit, he had to do this. He wasn't going to be able to walk back to town.

He tried again. He almost succeeded in getting one leg over Chaucer's back when he had to stop; the pain was becoming stronger and sharper, and he was close to blacking out.

Pausing once more, he closed his eyes and fought back the alluring darkness. Old Travis is going to owe me a raise for this, he thought.

When he felt ready, he dug his fingers into the saddle and made one more attempt, giving himself strength by visualizing all of the horrible things they was going to do to Irving Wyatt once they got their hands on him and his outlaw gang. For attacking Chris and Vin, for taking away Josiah's church, for punching Buck, and for every other sin that would surely be revealed when this was over. And, though he scarcely dared to confess it, for threatening the only halway-secure home Ezra had had for over twenty years.

With a final, mammoth grunt, Ezra dragged his leg over Chaucer's back, and with great effort kept his balance long enough to settle himself in a more or less upright position. He sat still for a long time, panting and drenched in sweat and waiting until he felt he could move without falling off or throwing up.

"All right, my boy," he whispered at length, still bent over Chaucer's neck as he picked up the reins in one blood-smeared hand, "let's go."

Chaucer turned slowly around, and they carefully began moving back towards town.



While Ezra lay unconscious on the road to Jericho, Wyatt arrived in Four Corners. As he trotted back into town in the early afternoon sunlight, he nodded at every friendly greeting he received, his heart growing more confident with every smile he returned. This was exactly as he'd planned it, he hummed to himself with glee; the townfolk here were just as sheeplike and stupid as he remembered, and despised the seven gunmen even more than he'd hoped. This was going to be almost absurdly easy.

He passed the church, and felt his mood soar when he saw that it was locked up and deserted. Everything was going perfectly; the preacher was gone, the healer was gone, the tracker and Larabee would be going, that gambler was dead. Surely Wilmington and that kid wouldn't stick around much longer. The boys had certainly done their jobs well.

His eyes fell on the newly–opened stores as he made his way to the hotel, and Wyatt marveled at how prosperous this two–bit town had become. There was a fortune to be made here, by a lawman who knew how to do it. And hadn't he just spent the last year perfecting that knowledge?

The jewelry store loomed on his right, and as he went by it, he studied the wares glittering in the window and pursed his lips. Yes, there was plenty here; but the boys would want their share. Theirs was a large gang; by the time the goods were divided up, the portions wouldn't be very big.

And what if his deputy showed up and wanted a cut? Wyatt vauguely regretted not shooting the skunk when he said he didn't want to be part of a gang and lit out. After all the work he'd done, all the time spent in bitter reflection as he watched other men take his place and reap his rewards – after all that, the take might still be small.

Unless he simply took it all.

He reined in at the hotel and dismounted, a distant look on his face as he pulled off his saddlebags and his rifle. Perhaps he could figure out a way to ensure his wealth by eliminating those who were looking to share it. All of the men in the gang were wanted somewhere; a telegram to the nearest large city, directing the lawmen there to the hideout – after Wyatt was sure he was safe and wouldn't need them anymore, of course – and he could enjoy his new power in peace while Roy and the rest rotted in jail. Or their graves; if Wyatt was lucky, the gang would fight back rather than be captured and he wouldn't have to worry about them any more.

After all, he mused as he shouldered his saddlebags and walked up the hotel's wide front steps, hadn't he really done all the work? And with idiots like Huston in the gang, he'd really be better off without them. And, more importantly, much richer.

"Irving!"

The sheriff looked up at the greeting as he entered the lobby to see Mr. Conklin hailing him from a chair near the front desk. Inwardly, Wyatt cringed – "Stupid old man", he said to himself in annoyance – but still he managed to plaster a smile on his face as he extended a hand.

"Harry!" he said in a pleased voice as he pumped the other man's hand. "Good to see you! Looking forward to tonight?"

"Am I ever!" Conklin replied with a grin. "Just got done putting up the notices. Irving, you don't know how long many of us have been waitin' to get those gunmen out of here and put some real law and order back in this town."

Wyatt laughed. "Oh, I can well imagine," he said, approaching the front desk. "I have to admit, I surely am hoping you folks wanted me to be your sheriff again."

"Don't you worry about that!" his friend crowed, slapping Wyatt on the shoulder and raising a small cloud of dust. "I'm pretty sure we can swing things our way. In fact, I came over to talk to you about tonight, if you've got the time."

"Sure, sure," Wyatt said with a nod. "Just let me get my bags locked up. Can't take chances with things they way they are, you know."

Conklin gestured for Wyatt to go ahead, and the former sheriff turned to the clerk and plopped his saddlebags down on the counter. They landed with a heavy thud, and Wyatt smiled to himself as he thought of the gambler's guns still concealed inside. They looked to be nice weapons; he'd be able to sell them for a tidy sum when it was safe to do so.

"Put these in the safe again, sir?" the young clerk inquired in a strong Swedish accent, picking up the heavy saddlebags.

"Yup," Wyatt said. "An' I don't want anybody touchin' 'em but me, all right? I've got some valuable papers in there."

The clerk smiled. "Don't worry, sir. Only hotel personnel ever go into the safe. They'll be very secure."

"Good," was the firm reply. Wyatt didn't want anyone finding his stash of money, or Standish's guns, and the hotel locks were too easy to pick. He'd gained the acceptance of the hotel owner, who had no love for the seven gunmen, and felt sure that no one there would disturb his belongings.

"Now, Harry," he continued, turning to the old man with a wide smile on his bruised face, "let's go talk about the meeting. Call me an optimist, but I think it's going to be a very successful night."



The sun was beginning to set as the townfolk of Four Corners started to file into the Grain Exchange. It was a large crowd, and their animated conversation as they walked up the old wooden steps indicated that this promised to be a lively meeting.

From his place across the street, Chris watched the procession, trying to fight down the heavy sense of uneasiness gnawing at him. For every friend he saw – Mrs. Potter, Nettie and Casey Wells – he saw just as many people who had never had much use for any of the hired lawkeepers.

He shifted a little as he leaned on a wooden pillar. Why was he so anxious about the possibility that his duty here might soon end? He'd been a drifter for years, moving on was a way of life he was used to.

But in this case, he wouldn't be drifting. He, and the others, were in danger of being shoved away, by a man whose every action became increasingly suspect the more Chris thought about it. A man who might soon be able to call himself the rightful sheriff of Four Corners.

Chris didn't like that idea at all.

"Looks like quite a crowd, huh?"

The worried voice came from behind him, and Chris turned his head to see JD standing there, hands on his hips as he surveyed the scene before them.

The gunslinger sighed and directed his eyes back to the crowd. "Yup," he said tersely, settling back into his leaning stance. "Buck back yet?"

"Nope, must still be lookin' for Nathan an' Vin," JD answered, walking up to stand next to Chris. "Sure hope he finds 'em. This is lookin' like somethin' we should all be here for. An' Ezra still ain't back yet."

Chris saw Mary ascending the stairs, and their eyes met for a brief moment before she went in. Damn, he thought, she's worried too. Looks like this is gonna be tough.

"It's a long way to Jericho," Chris said aloud. "Should be back soon, though."

The crowd began to thin a bit, and Chris pressed his lips together as if to brace himself.

"Guess it's time to go in, kid," he said in a low tone as he straightened. Josiah appeared, the anxious current in his blue eyes at odds with his calm expression.

"Ready to face the arena, my friends?" the preacher inquired as he regarded his comrades.

JD drew a deep breath. "As I'll ever be, preacher," he said with a swallow. "Sure wish I could stop feelin' nervous."

"Got no cause to worry, JD," Josiah assured his young friend as he clapped a steadying hand on his shoulder. "We've done our duty, now all we can do is hope the good folks here appreciate it."

Wyatt walked up to the base of the wooden stairway, deep in conversation with Mr. Conklin and barely noticing the three gunmen. He was dressed in a clean suit, his hair neatly combed, and gave every appearance of being a perfectly respectable gentleman. After a pause, he glanced over at Chris and the others. No discernible expression crossed his lean face, but the eyes held a cold, smug flicker, and a trace of a smile teased the corners of his thin lips. Conklin followed Wyatt's gaze; his face was composed in a more openly disapproving glower. After scarcely a moment, the two men turned and went up and into the Exchange.

"Might be a long hope, Josiah," Chris said quietly.

The other two men fell silent, considering the gravity of what lay before them as they mounted the stairs and walked into the brightly–lit building.



Roy sat on the ragged porch of the outlaw's hideout, watching the sun go down and impatiently dreaming of the riches that would be theirs when Wyatt had that town in his grasp. In the house behind him, he could hear his fellow gang members pursuing their individual evening pursuits, mostly gambling and drinking.

As the large, black-bearded man idly gazed over the dusty vista before him, he noticed a horseman galloping towards the hideout.

"Hey!" he yelled, jumping up and grabbing for his gun. "Someone's comin'!"

A half-dozen voices inside the house cried "Shit!" There was a general tumult as chairs tipped and crashed and the men scuffled to arm themselves against a possible assault.

Earl, the tall, thin man who had faced Ezra across the poker table, poked his head out of the front doorway. "See 'im, Roy?"

"Looks like just one guy," Roy replied, ready to bolt back into the house should bullets start to fly.

Parker, the sandy-haired young man, looked out of the front window. "Hell, boys, that looks like Huston!"

"Thought Wyatt woulda killed that stupid kid by now," muttered Tyler, squinting out of another window as he tried to see past the long strands of dirty brown hair hanging in his face.

"No such luck," sighed Walt, as the burly outlaw lowered his gun.

"Oh, lay off the kid, least he shoots straight," Roy growled as he holstered his gun and watched Huston as the kid rode up to the house. The young man was covered with dust and sweat, but had enough energy to hop off of his horse.

"Hey, boys," he panted, flipping his mount's reins over its head and leading it to be tethered.

"Howdy, Huston," Roy replied evenly. The other men just watched. "Run into some excitement shootin' Larabee?"

Huston laughed as he tied the horse's reins to a rotting post. "Shit, I coulda killed that ol' man if Wyatt had let me. Everythin' went fine, them folks are all scared as sheep now."

Parker stepped out onto the porch, his eyes burning restlessly. "So when's Wyatt gettin' the town?" he asked.

The young outlaw grunted as he mounted the steps. "Soon enough, I reckon. They's havin' a meetin' tonight t'see about gettin' rid of them seven fellers."

The outlaws relaxed, and exchanged murmurs of anticipation.

"'Bout damn time!" Irish, the outlaw who had shot at Vin, exclaimed. "So we move in tomorrow, right?"

Huston reached the top of the stairs and shoved his hands in his back pockets, his expression becoming uncertain. "Welll...Wyatt said t'tell you all it'll be a few more weeks."

The rejoicing turned to angry dismay.

"What?" cried Tyler. "Shit, we already been sittin' here fer near a month!"

"What's Wyatt waitin' for?" Jack griped.

"We could take that place ourselves in two hours!" exclaimed Irish.

Huston nodded in agreement, clearly unhappy with the turn of events as well. "Yeah, an' I'm startin' to think he ain't gonna give us our share. He was talkin' like the place was gonna be his an' not ours. He said we was lucky he let us in on the deal at all, an' if any of us tried anything now an' got caught, he'd let us hang."

"That double-crossin' bastard!" cried Walt, as his fellow hooligans became more agitated.

"Now hold on!" Roy yelled, holding up one large hand. The others settled into an angry silence and glared at him, waiting.

Roy began to pace back and forth on the porch. "Wyatt's led us to a hell of a lot of money an' good times," he pointed out. "But I'm startin' to think we don't have to wait til he's ready to hand us somethin' we could take for ourselves."

"Damn right!" Earl agreed.

Roy stopped, and looked at Huston. "Town meeting tonight, huh?"

Huston's red head bobbed up and down. "Yup."

"Hmmm." Roy rubbed his thickly bearded chin. "Reckon everyone'll be at that meetin'."

"An' *not* watchin' their houses an' stores," grinned Jack.

Roy thought for a moment, then straightened and put his ample hands on his gunbelt. "Boys," he announced, "I think after all this time, we should stop waitin' for Wyatt an' do for ourselves, like we always done before. S'pose that's the only way we can be sure to get what's ours."

The others whooped and went to saddle their horses.

"Wyatt sure ain't gonna like this," Huston said, grinning ear to ear anyway.

Roy chuckled. "Well, hell, he can always try to stop us. He's a sheriff, ain't he?"

Rough laughter echoed through the old house as the gang prepared to descend on Four Corners.


"All right then, let's have it quiet."

Mr. Conklin's words rode over the nervous chattering pervading the large hall of the Grain Exchange. Every inhabitant of the town, it seemed, was packed into that room; each chair was filled, as well as every space along the wall and every step of the staircase leading up to the offices on the second floor.

Mary sat with four other town leaders at a cloth-covered table placed at the front of the room, watching Conklin carefully as he presided over the proceedings from a small podium nearby. A gavel was clutched in one of his hands, and he tapped it on the old wooden dais a few times to signal the beginning of the meeting.

Leaning against the wall to one side stood Chris, JD, and Josiah, their expressions somber as they silently waited for the start of the discussions. Wyatt, by contrast, sat in a chair in the front row, very close to the podium and in clear view of everyone in the room. Despite a mysterious bruise marking one side of his face, Wyatt appeared very calm and confident.

Eventually the din subsided, and Conklin cleared his throat as he regarded the tightly packed crowd. "Now," he said in an official voice as he adjusted his spectacles, "we're here to discuss a matter which has been causing some concern lately around here. The town council seated here behind me has asked to hear your opinions on the way we've been handling our lawkeeping. And," he held up one hand as if to stop some imaginary protest,"we all know it's up to Judge Travis who our sheriff is. But should the situation warrant, I have here a telegram which members of the council and I have drafted requesting him to review the current situation."

He held up a scribbled piece of paper. There were some general murmurings; Mary shot a "I had nothing to do with that" look at Chris, who accepted it completely. He knew full well who was behind the telegram, and suspected that regardless of the outcome of tonight's meeting, it would be sent out the next day. He had resolved, however, not to let this go without a fight.

"All right," Conklin continued, putting away the paper, "I'm sure there are many of us here who'd like a chance to speak, so we'd better get started. The question before the town tonight is, should we continue to have seven hired guns keep the peace, or reinstate our former sheriff, Irving Wyatt?"

The way Conklin said the words left little doubt as to his own opinions, particularly the way he directed a smug, subtle nod at Wyatt at the end of his sentence. Chris frowned; Wyatt appeared humble and smiled slightly, looking around and nodding to his friends.

It was going to be a long night.

"Now," Conklin said, looking around, "who'd like to speak first?"



"How's that rabbit comin', Vin?"

The evening stars were just beginning to come out as Nathan sat himself next to the campfire, his eyes studying the meat slowly roasting over the crackling flames. On the other side of the fire, Vin lounged against a rock, fiddling with the silver harmonica in his hands, a thoughtful look on his boyish face.

"Reckon it'll be done soon," the tracker murmured, not looking at his friend.

Nathan nodded and settled down. "Thanks for lettin' me come along, Vin," he said as he got comfortable. "Sure does feel good gettin' outta town for a while."

Vin chuckled a little. "Ain't too far out, it's just a few miles that way," he observed, gesturing towards a spot over his left shoulder with the harmonica.

"If Irving Wyatt ain't close by, that's far enough outta town for me," Nathan assured him in a perturbed tone as he pulled out his canteen.

Silence fell for a bit, broken only by the hissing and popping of the fire. The sky deepened, its vast canvas soon covered with brilliant stars. In the woods to their right they could hear the soft scufflings and screeches of the nocturnal animals beginning their hunts.

"How far out you think you might go, if Wyatt decides t'stick around?" Vin asked at length, still studying the gleaming harmonica.

Nathan sighed and glazed into the dancing fire. "Ain't quite sure," the healer confessed sadly as he drew up his legs and crossed his arms over his knees. "Four Corners has been my home for three years now, an' I ain't too keen on leavin' it. But...with that doctor in town, they don't rightly need me."

"'Less Ezra's right, an' he's pullin' a scam with Wyatt," Vin pointed out, his blue eyes fixing Nathan with a pointed look.

Nathan smiled. "Well, that'd be different," he admitted. "Damn hard to prove, though. But I reckon if anybody could smell a con, it'd be another conman." He paused. "But if he is a real doctor, then...s'pose I'd just stay with Rain's people for a while." His voice became quiet as he gave it more thought. "But Lord, I'd sure hate to leave."

Vin nodded a little, his golden-brown curls shining in the orange glow of the fire.

Nathan looked at him and smiled a little. "How 'bout you?"

His friend couldn't return the smile. "I got to go, Nathan. Ain't got much of a choice."

A sigh blew between Nathan's lips as he studied Vin. "Tascosa?"

"Yup," was the brief response as a grim light began to flicker in Vin's eyes. "Got to clear my name now before someone other than me gets killed."

His comrade nodded a little, understanding in his expression. "Well, maybe you'll have company on that trip, too."

Vin shrugged a bit, but couldn't keep a smile from tugging at the edges of his lips. "Yeah, Chris probably, an' maybe Buck. Have t'admit, I sure wouldn't mind it. Wouldn't seem right to just bust up after all this time."

Nathan poked the fire with a stick, stirring up the embers. "Oh, I'm sure some of 'em got their plans," he mused. "Ezra won't want to get too far from that saloon, an' JD ain't gonna just ride off an' leave Miss Wells behind. Reckon they'll stay, least for a while."

Vin's mouth twitched, and he shook his head. "Can't believe they'd ever make that slippery polecat sheriff again."

The other man regarded his friend with somber eyes. "To a lot of folks, he'd be better'n a bunch of hired guns," he observed.

"Yeah," was the slow, melancholy reply, as Vin looked back into the fire. Quiet reigned again as both men were absorbed by their thoughts.

"Have to say," Vin said softly after several minutes, "for a mess of ornery, muleheaded, whiskey-drinkin' sinners, we sure had a hell of a time."

Nathan smiled a little. "Yep, we did." He sat back a little and bit his lip in thought. "An' you know, just 'cause they got a real sheriff, don't mean we'd have to leave just yet. We could stay just for a while, make sure everything's goin' all right."

Vin considered this, then looked away, his face moving into shadow. "I'd sure feel better goin' to Texas, knowin' you boys were still watchin' the place under Wyatt's nose."

"We could do that," Nathan said with a distant smile as he looked up into the starlit sky and pondered. "You know we'd keep it safe 'til the day you ride back into town a free man."

Vin grinned slightly and looked at his friend, his blue eyes twinkling in the dancing firelight. "Sounds like a good plan there, pard. I reckon ol' Wyatt might not take too kindly to us stayin' in town, though."

His comrade laughed. "That's why I like the idea so much. Now let's get to eatin', this rabbit looks 'bout burnt to cinders."

The tracker chuckled and sat up, and soon the two friends were eating their dinner and silently watching as night gently settled over the landscape, with its whispered promise of quiet and peace.


The stout, dark-haired woman stood before the assembled crowd in the Grain Exchange and fixed them all with her firm, brown eyes. She spoke quietly, but the words were underscored with a current of undeniable conviction.

"I don't have to tell some of you what having these seven men in our town has meant to me and my children," she was saying as she scanned the room, picking out every old friend she could find. "You were here when Lucas James gunned down my husband, George Potter, in cold blood, and you know how Mr. Larabee and his friends fought to bring him to justice, in spite of the danger involved-and in spite of how some of you felt about it."

Her voice turned slightly cold at the last few words, and she gave an accusatory glance to Mr. Conklin, who flinched just a little. Those who had been in town that day nodded with recognition; the murder of Mr. Potter had caused quite a stir, but the power and ruthlessness of the James family had caused many, especially Conklin, to believe the crime should simply be ignored. It would be safer for the town, they had said. Chris and his friends, however, had felt differently.

"Because of their courage, Lucas James was brought to justice," Mrs. Potter continued, holding her head up as she studied her fellow townsmen. "And my children know that there are men in the world who will fight for what's right, no matter the odds."

There were murmurs of assent mixed with some embarrassed throat-clearing.

"Now, these men may be rough, and not as spit-shined as many of the sheriffs and marshals of this territory," she went on to say, looking over the assembled throng with a cool steady gaze. "But they've proven time and again for this town that their courage shines brighter than any polished badge ever could. Thank you."

She sat down to some applause, and some appreciative, although embarrassed, looks from Chris and his friends.

Conklin approached the podium, a severely chagrined look on his weathered face. "Thank you, Mrs. Potter," he mumbled politely, although the tenor of his voice sounded far from grateful. "Anyone else?"

One of the townsmen stood up, and Chris bit back a disgusted groan. The new speaker was Mr. Pettibone, the prosperous owner of the local grocery. He was a round-faced, stout, middle-aged man, fussily dressed, with the look of an annoyed ferret.

"Ah! Mr. Pettibone," Conklin said with a pleased smile. "The floor's all yours."

"Thank you, Mr. Conklin," Pettibone replied with a slight, fastidious bow. "Now, I won't deny that Larabee and his men have kept order around here most of the time. But speaking as a business owner in this town, I've got to voice my concerns over the retention of Larabee and the others. Since they took over, we've had more gunfights than we ever did under Marshal Wyatt. My workers are afraid to stand by the window for fear they'll get shot!"

"I'm assumin' they got the sense to duck if trouble breaks out," Chris replied quietly, staring at the man.

"Trouble is, Larabee, it's always breaking out with you men in town!" Pettibone retorted with a scowl. "Remember the time you brought that wagonload of working women into our town?"

"Or when Sanchez there got drunk and stole my horse!" cried another male voice from the crowd.

"Hey, Wyatt stole a horse, too!" barked a man from the back of the room.

Calvert stood up. "Yeah, and returned it in even better shape than she was before!" he announced. "Even had new shoes on her! Bet Sanchez can't say that!"

"An' look at all the trouble they've caused lately!" a thickset man in the third row exclaimed, before Josiah could form a reply. "There's guns goin' off at 'em every minute, it's not safe to walk down the street!"

"And what about the times every last one of 'em have gone off an' left us totally defenseless?" Conklin chimed in. "What's the use of havin' seven lawmen if they won't stay where they're needed?"

"Sometimes it's taken all seven of them to keep the peace, Mr. Conklin," Mary reminded him from her seat at the table. "And many of us here owe them dearly for their efforts." She paused and glanced at where Chris and his men were standing. "I know I do."

"That's all very nice, Mrs. Travis," Pettibone said in a somewhat snide tone, "but a town this size shouldn't need to pay seven men to look after it when only one or two will do. No other town in the territory has more'n two lawmen. It makes folks think we're still a dangerous place to live."

"I wouldn't have called it safe when Wyatt was sheriff, either," Mrs. Potter said softly, stabbing the grocer with a sharp glance. "Or have you forgotten, Mr. Pettibone?"

Pettibone fidgeted a little, then straightened. "Lord knows Wyatt's not perfect, and he'll be the first to admit that," Pettibone confessed. "But at least he's mended his ways. These past few weeks, we've all seen him do his part to keep things safe, and I know I'd feel perfectly confident in putting our town in his hands once again."

He nodded and sat down to his own share of applause, followed by a smattering of heated discussion.

"All right, order," Conklin demanded, tapping the podium with his gavel.

But the talk continued, growing even louder and more animated as the opinions flew between the friends of the seven and Wyatt's proponents.

"They've cleaned up this town a sight better'n Wyatt ever did!"

"They're nothin' but hired guns, we need us a real sheriff!"

"The Judge appointed 'em, that makes 'em real enough for me!"

"I don't want my wife or kids gettin' shot by someone gunnin' for Larabee or Tanner-"

Mary sighed and looked out over the squabbling crowd, meeting Chris's somber eyes after a few moments. Both of them were thinking the same thing: Finding a solution to this was not going to be easy.

Amidst the sea of dissension, unnoticed by anyone, Wyatt smiled.