TGFD

TITLE: The Great Fight
AUTHOR: Sue
EMAIL: DelanySis1@aol.com

DISCLAIMER: The characters from the program The Magnificent Seven in this story are not mine and are owned by Trilogy, CBS and MGM. I am making no profit from their use. Honest.

RATINGS: PG-13 for violence and language-nothing too shocking, though.

ARCHIVE: Yes

SUMMARY: A story of Ezra's early days as a boxer, and how he got his gold tooth.

SPOILERS: For my earlier fic, 'Dealer's Choice', which is currently archived in the Reading Room at www.thewateringhole.com.

NOTES/COMMENTS: This story has been rolling around in my head for some time, and came up again earlier this summer when we were discussing how Ezra got to be so muscular considering he's a rather sedentary gambler. I've always speculated that at one time he might have run a boxing con, and this story resulted!

A few comments: This story's main characters are Ezra and Julian St. Clair, Ezra's old friend and partner who previously appeared extensively in my fic 'Dealer's Choice'. The story is told mainly in flashback and doesn't really have most of the seven in it. Sorry! They'll be in the next one, I swear!

I'd like to say a big thanks to my sister Sarah, my roommate Carla, and my wonderful beta NotTasha for helping me so much with this fic, and www.hickoksports.com from which I downloaded the Marquis of Queensberry rules! :) They came in handy, believe me!

Feedback is always welcome-I'm very interested to know your opinions on this story!! Please feel free to drop me a line at the above address.

Enjoy!!

Sue :)
EBB, etc.


The dusty streets of the small frontier town of Four Corners lay ablaze beneath the bright July sun, its inhabitants rushing about in happy excitement despite the heat of the day. Red, white and blue bunting fluttered in the arid breeze as laughing children dashed along the boardwalks, waving tiny flags and grinning in eager anticipation of the evening's fireworks. The adults watching them smiled as well, happy for a day of rest and recreation in the midst of the hard work of life in the West.

As the townsfolk met and chatted on the sides of the street, they paid little attention to the three figures casually striding along in the center of the road, despite the fact that their safety lay in the hands of these unlikely individuals. For their part, the men studied the crowds with sharp eyes, their hands kept close to the weapons worn low upon their hips.

"I ain't seen the town this excited for months," one of them exclaimed as a small boy nearly barreled into him. The young man laughed a little and sent the boy running along with a pat on the shoulder, using his other hand to set his dusty bowler hat more firmly atop his thick black hair.

"These folks'll take just about any excuse to shake off the dust an' have fun, JD," replied the tall, handsome man strolling by the young man's side, his hands hitched casually into his belt. His blue eyes twinkled as he chewed on the toothpick that jutted out from beneath his neatly trimmed black mustache. "Tamin' this land's hard work, they got to blow off some steam now an' then, an' there ain't no day to do it like the Fourth of July."

The third member of the group glanced at his companion, an amused expression on his pursed lips. "Or, JD, you may follow Buck's example and treat every day as an opportunity to relieve the pressures of frontier life," he said in a wheedling Southern drawl. "That is, if his recent and frequent sightings with one Miss Viola Wilson are any indications of his need for release."

Buck appeared miffed and shot the third man an annoyed glance. "There ain't no law says a man can't start the celebratin' early, Ezra," he pointed out.

JD laughed as they walked along. "You been courtin' her since the end of May, Buck!"

A smile split Buck's face at the thought. "That's right, junior, an' while you all are watchin' them fireworks outside of town tonight, we're gonna be sendin' up a few rockets of our own."

Ezra scanned the boisterous crowd with sharp green eyes. "I am sure we wish you well in your pursuit of passion, my friend," he said as they neared the saloon, "but in the intervening hours I suggest we remain vigilant. The liquor will be flowing freely today, and there may be some who desire to start the fireworks before sundown."

"Chris an' Vin already had to bust up a fight over at Digger Dan's," JD observed as they stepped onto the boardwalk and settled themselves into three old wooden chairs in front of the post office. "Guess these two fellas got into a brawl an' had to be pried apart."

"I believe we will be able to keep a close eye on things from here," Ezra remarked, looking up and down the street. From this point they had a good view of the saloon across the way, as well as most of the town up to the old whitewashed church at the end of the road.

Buck was leaning back in his chair, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He chuckled. "I remember gettin' into one hell of a fight on the Fourth of July, back right after the War. It was in this little mining camp outside of Kansas City. Dang! That was a wild one. Me an' these other fellas just about tore ol' man Mitchell's saloon apart, an' I had me two black eyes for three weeks."

JD looked over at him as he turned his chair around and sat down, his arms leaning on the back of the chair. "What were you fellas fightin' about?"

There was a pause, and a look of confusion passed over Buck's face. "Don't rightly remember, son," he confessed after a few chews on the toothpick. Then he shrugged. "Hell, maybe there wasn't a reason at all. Mighta just felt like cuttin' loose."

Ezra removed a deck of cards from his vest pocket and began to shuffle them in a lazy, familiar manner, not even looking at them as they flowed through his nimble fingers. As he did so, he looked over at Buck and shook his head. "Really, Mr. Wilmington, all that exertion for nothing? I would have expected there to be a woman involved, at the very least."

His friend grunted. "Shoot, Ezra, there wasn't a woman within fifty miles of that place." He cocked his head, a small grin appearing. "Maybe that's why everyone there was so dang testy."

"A reasonable assumption," Ezra said with a nod as he carefully watched two scruffy-looking individuals stagger out of the saloon. "As for myself, sirs, I have also indulged in fisticuffs on this date some years back, for a perfectly logical reason which I recall quite clearly."

Buck looked over at him in a bored manner. "An' what would that be, Ezra?"

The Southerner returned his gaze and smiled, sliding the cards easily from one hand to the other. "Money."

The other man snorted and looked back out into the street. "Sure hope you came out better than I did."

"You were fightin' over money?" JD asked, squinting over at his comrade. "Was it 'cause of a card game?"

Ezra stretched his legs out and crossed them as he continued to shuffle the cards, his gaze growing distant. "A good guess, JD, but in fact I was battling *for* money, not because of it. Before journeying to this fair territory, I managed for some time as a pugilist."

Buck's blue eyes bore a look of surprise as he studied the gambler. "You were a boxer, Ezra?"

"Like John Sullivan?" JD appeared quite impressed. "I was readin' about him in Mrs. Travis's newspaper. You fought bare-knuckle and everything?"

"Indeed I did, Mr. Dunne," Ezra announced, his gold tooth flashing as he grinned broadly at the memory. "And I am pleased to say I was able to retire with a nearly perfect record."

This proclamation earned a skeptical grunt from Buck, who eyed the Southerner with doubt. "Hell, Ezra, I know you can sure hold your own in a fight, but even Sullivan doesn't win every fight he's in!" He paused. "Was them fights fixed?"

Ezra scowled at him. "I am shocked at your lack of faith in my abilities, sir," he huffed. "Is it so unbelievable that I might win without cheating?"

Buck frowned. "At cards? Sure. At fightin'? All I know is, I'm lookin' at a nose that's never been broke an' a face that's still got all its teeth, 'cept for that gold one. Was it a con or somethin'?"

His friend seemed to grow annoyed, but this quickly passed and he sighed, smiling once again as he resumed shuffling the cards. "Very observant of you, Mr. Wilmington," Ezra replied, regarding his comrade. "Indeed, it was one of our most lucrative swindles."

JD peered at him. "Your ma was working with you on this?" he inquired with surprise.

The gambler shook his head, chuckling at the thought. "No, Mother was in New Orleans then, involved in her own affairs. My partner at the time of the boxing con was Julian."

JD and Buck exchanged cautious looks. They both knew about Julian St. Clair, Ezra's former partner and old friend, but it was not a happy memory at all. After leaving their partnership, and unknown to Ezra, St. Clair had become the leader of a criminal ring, whose activities involved extortion and murder. Some time ago, the seven had helped to transport Ben, the only surviving member of one of St. Clair's gangs, to Yuma Prison. St. Clair had been so desperate to find the boy and silence him that he had tried to extract Ben's whereabouts from a captive Ezra, resorting to brutality when simple questioning failed. Ezra had refused to betray his duty, and Julian was caught and eventually died by his own hand, but JD and Buck knew that Ezra still bore the scars of that experience in both mind and body.

"Hey, look, Ezra," Buck said, clearing his throat, "you don't got to go into it, okay? We know you probably don't want to talk about Julian."

Ezra glanced at him, but his green eyes were clear and untroubled. He hesitated, then looked down at the cards. "I appreciate your concern, my friends," he said with a covering smile, "but I do not consider the Julian St. Clair I knew as a young man to be the same ruthless person who saw fit to imprison and torture me. We had some remarkable times together during the three years we roamed the country, and they are times I will always remember fondly."

An understanding light crept into Buck's eyes as he regarded the Southerner. "Guess this means we ain't gonna be able to shut you up, right?" he said in a gently chiding tone.

Ezra smiled. "Indeed not, sir, especially as I consider my time in the ring to be one of the highlights of my career."

The three men settled back in their chairs, their eyes on the crowd as Ezra's drawling voice wafted through the hot July air.

"It was about six years after the War..."

Southern Missouri, June 12, 1871

"Don't stop now, boy! Hit 'im again!"

The full-throated bellow stirred the hot summer air and mingled with dozens of other, similar cries until the voices blended into an indiscernible roar. The men from whom the shouts issued interspersed the yells with cheers, oaths, and enthusiastic exclamations as they waved lit cigars and sloshing mugs of beer.

It was a rough crowd, comprised of men from every social class. Well-heeled gamblers rubbed elbows with ragged wanderers, while affluent men and their poor brothers shared a rare moment of camaraderie as they each gave loud voice to their excitement. Behind them up a narrow dirt road sat a small town, seemingly deserted; all of its men, it seemed, had come out to watch the fight.

In the center of the crowd was a large roped-off area, and in that space, two combatants lunged and sparred at each other, seemingly heedless of the throng of spectators around them. They were shirtless, their bruised and scraped torsos glistening with sweat in the late afternoon sun. As they circled each other, bare and bloody fists raised and ready for another attack, their eyes remained locked in a deadly glare, as if no other being on earth existed except their opponent.

Of the two, one man clearly had the advantage. He was larger that the other contestant, broad-shouldered and muscular. His hair, once fair and long, was plastered to his skull in dark, sweaty clumps, and he bore the marks on his body that told of a bitterly fought match. But his bruises were fewer, his movements more alert and skilled, and it seemed only a matter of time before he knocked his rival to the ground.

Not that the other man didn't have spirit, the spectators would agree. He was a young man as well, with quick green eyes and a lean, well-toned body. But he was easily getting the worst of the bout; his handsome, smooth face was marred with swelling and contusions, and his chestnut-colored hair was even more limp and wet that his opponent's. Fire was still in his expression, but it had hardly seemed a contest.

As the sparring continued, two men stood nearby watching. One was the referee, in this case the town clerk, a thin, dark-haired young man with a long face and studious eyes which keenly perused every aspect of the fight.

The other man was standing just behind the rope, his sharp black eyes following every move. His attitude was relaxed as he stood with arms folded, his natty attire barely dusty despite the hot weather. His long black hair curled from beneath the brim of his fashionable tall hat and caressed the nape of his neck, and his mouth was tightly pursed beneath his thin black mustache. His face was handsome and swarthy, his expression relaxed. In one pocket of his coat was a leather book and a wad of money.

The sun sank lower in the sky as the fight went on, the crowd continuing its cries as each man swung his raw fists at the other.

"That's it! Send 'im to the dirt!"

"Call that a punch?"

"You better win, mister, I put ten bucks on you!"

Some distance away, a small group of the town's more moral citizens gathered to shake their heads and frown. They did not interfere, however.

The larger fighter sent his fist crashing against his opponent's jaw. The smaller man staggered to the right, lurched to a stop, and teetered dangerously.

The group of men hushed and took a collective step closer, eager to see the final blow. The dark-haired man unfolded his arms and looked concerned.

Just as the larger man came close enough to deliver one last crippling blow, his rival took a deep breath, clenched his jaw, and sent his right fist surging upwards. It caught his opponent squarely under the chin, sending his head snapping back. Without a groan, the Goliath stumbled backwards, then crashed to the ground, where he sprawled unmoving in an amber cloud of dust.

As the smaller fighter took a few unsteady steps away, wiping his face with one trembling, bloody hand, the referee fell to his knees beside the unconscious man and began looking him over.

The crowd was stunned, then erupted into amazed murmurs.

"Look-the big feller's out cold!"

"Can't be!"

"That little guy couldn't beat my baby sister!"

"Don't you worry, Mike'll straighten this out!"

The rumblings died down as Mike, the town clerk, slapped the big man a few times on the cheek. Nearby, the upright combatant leaned on the rope and watched, gasping for air and wiping the sweat from his glass-green eyes.

Finally Mike got to his feet, slapping the dirt from his slender hands, and began to count to ten. As each number passed, the crowd's mood swiftly moved from amazement to disappointment and shock. Ten was reached, without the larger man stirring a muscle. Sighing, the clerk walked over to the other fighter. Looking incredulous but resigned, his grasped the man's right wrist and hoisted his arm into the air.

"The winner by a knockout-Eli Simpson!"

The men gasped in unison, astounded, while the dark-haired man barely suppressed a happy grin.

"Damn, Mike! You sure?" exclaimed one older, well-dressed gentlemen.

Mike shrugged. "He's out cold, boys."

"He's fakin' it!" cried a skinny young man in shirtsleeves and dark pants. "It's a fix!"

"You best give us our money back, mister!" another young ruffian shouted to the dark-haired man.

The man stepped into the blood-spattered ring and held up his hands. His every move was graceful and practiced, as if this was not an uncommon occurrence.

"Gentlemen, please!" he pleaded in a smooth voice tinged with the drawl of South Carolina. "I swear this is no fix. Do you not trust your own fellow townsman, Mr. Blanchard, to make a fair call?"

He gestured to the clerk, who looked sheepish.

"And surely we could not have fixed anything with this poor fellow-why, before he volunteered to fight Mr. Smith, neither I nor my friend here had ever laid eyes on the man, and I will swear to that on the Holy Book!" he went on, prodding the motionless form of the fallen fighter with the toe of his gleaming leather boot.

"Now," the man concluded, straightening his fine coat, "Most of you bet against my associate Mr. Smith, and I don't blame you, for surely he appeared unlikely to emerge victorious! But as gentlemen, I ask that you hold your tempers before the ladies and accept your losses gracefully."

He nodded to the small crowd of townwomen watching from a distance.

There was silence for a few moments.

"Mister," a burly man near the front of the group growled, "you an' your friend best leave now afore we decide we don't wanna be no gentlemen."

The dark-haired man's eyes widened a bit.

"Point taken," he said quickly, and grabbing the arm of the victor, he stepped out of the ring and helped the weary fighter over the rope. They then hustled away, with the crowd's angry murmurs following after them. In the ring, the town doctor tried to revive the fallen man.

Ten minutes later, Eli Simpson and the dark-haired man were riding hurriedly away from the small town, looking back occasionally to see if they were being followed. Finally the dark-haired man turned to his companion.

"How are you holding up, Ezra?"

Ezra groaned and ran one hand over his swollen face. "I believe I shall live, Julian, although it may be less than a pleasant experience," was the tired reply. "Any sign of pursuit?"

Julian looked back up the narrow, tree-lined road. The humid air hung still and heavy, and completely silent except for the buzzing flies.

"No," he sighed. "Looks like they decided to be good Christian men and take their losses honorably."

He and Ezra looked at each other for a long moment. Then, at the same instant, both men burst into triumphant laughter and spurred their horses up the road at a trot, grinning all the way.

They had scarcely gone fifty yards when their path was blocked by a third horseman. It was the losing boxer, dressed now in sweat-stained clothes, his jaw still black and blue from Ezra's knockout punch. He glared at them as they reined in.

Neither party spoke for a full ten seconds.

"Well?" the losing fighter barked, his tone full of anger.

Julian drew himself up. "Well what, my friend?" he asked calmly.

The fighter paused, then broke out into a wide grin and said, "Where the hell's my cut?"

All three men began to laugh, Ezra and the larger man forgetting their pain and bruises. Julian pulled the wad of cash from his pocket and counted out a portion.

"There you go, Patterson, just as we agreed," he said, riding forward and handing the money over. "With the odds at five to one, the take this time was quite handsome indeed. And I must say, you took a very nice fall this time. Even better than in Newhaven."

"Well, Ezra got me pretty good," Patterson admitted as he stuffed the money into his pocket. "Thought for a minute there he wasn't fakin'!"

"My prowess is genuine, sir," Ezra replied with a smile. "Perhaps someday we shall have a real match and I can prove it to you."

"Not as long as this boxing con keeps making us rich," Julian said with glee as he folded the remaining money carefully and tucked it into a leather wallet. "I'm telling you, boys, as long as we stay careful we'll make enough to get to San Francisco by year's end!"

"An' t'think my pa wanted me to stay on the farm this summer!" chuckled Patterson, shaking his head as he picked up the reins. "Well, reckon I best git. Where to next?"

Julian sat thinking. "How about Jack Creek? That's far enough away, we shouldn't run into anyone from around here that far south. We'll meet you in the saloon there at the usual time, on...hmm, let's say July 4th? Holidays always put people in the mood for excitement, shouldn't be too hard to find men eager to watch a fight."

Patterson nodded his round head. "Okay! See you there, fellas! Can't wait t'do this again, this is sure more excitin' than shuckin' corn!"

With that, the young man spurred his horse down the road.

Ezra laughed a little and looked at Julian. "I imagine most activities *would* be," he muttered.

"Hm," Julian smiled as he picked up his reins. "Well, let's get going-we have to find a quiet place to lay low for the next few weeks, while you heal up. Can't have you looking too rough for the next fight, you know!"

They began riding slowly along through the woods, passing in and out of the dappled sunlight.

"You seem to be enjoying this too much, Mr. St. Clair," Ezra said with a small smile. "It's not your body being pummeled black and blue."

"Now, Ezra," Julian said, keeping his eyes on the road before him, "you're the one who volunteered to be the boxer. We both agreed it made sense, didn't we? You've had the experience, fending off all those ruffian older cousins Maude kept leaving you with when you were a child."

"Yes," Ezra muttered, unhappy memories filtering through his mind of being left with uncaring relatives while his con-woman mother pursued her money-making schemes. Having to defend himself against older, larger adversaries had helped him to develop a skillful combative style which had proven quite useful in getting them out of all manner of scrapes. It was easy to impersonate a boxer when he'd been doing such fighting all his life.

"Besides, " Julian continued, "you know our agreement. Anytime you want to stop this con, just say so, and we'll work on something else. You don't have to take one more punch if you're getting tired of it."

The younger man road quietly for a few moments, then turned to his companion. "If we continue to enjoy this good fortune, my friend, I have no objection to our ruse. A few bumps now will be well worth it if we can return to New Orleans in high style."

Julian laughed. "Your mother would certainly agree with that! Imagine how surprised she'll be when she sees how much I've taught you since we left. Between her teaching and mine, I can honestly say that you already know more about this business than I did at your age."

Ezra shifted in his saddle. "Well, the urge to escape poverty does give one the most extraordinary desire to learn," he admitted, a somewhat somber light flickering through his expression as he looked away. "After spending most of the past twenty years swinging between feast and famine, I find feast far more agreeable to my tastes."

Julian smirked and waved one hand towards an unseen point in the distance. "Such as the banquet awaiting us at Jack Creek?"

The other man looked up the road for a moment, an eager smile spreading slowly over his smooth, handsome features. He turned and met Julian's gaze in silent agreement, his eyes bright with the anticipation of the excitement that lay ahead. Along with the glow of a young man's yearning for adventure, there lurked in Ezra's expression the beginnings of a harder, sharper hunger, one that was gradually overcoming the softness of youth which still lurked around the edges. Julian's face wore this predatory look completely, the result of four more years' experience of life and the influences of the gambling halls and saloons of the South. In his younger friend's countenance, however, there yet glimmered the vestiges of boyish innocence and idealism, still peeking hopefully out from beneath the overlaying mantle of cynicism.

Julian, however, saw only the budding avarice in his protege's eyes, and laughed.

"I thought so," he said. "Stick with me, Ezra, and you'll be rich before you're thirty."


Jack Creek was not terribly large, but the holiday crowd had swelled its population, and people were bustling everywhere, all in an excited mood. The streets were bursting with life and noise, every door and window festooned with banners and ribbons of patriotic colors. Horses trotted down the jammed street, past the freshly painted gazebo where a small brass band was bravely trying to work its way through various stirring melodies.

Ezra sat inside the town's largest saloon, nursing a beer and waiting for Julian to come back. Three weeks had passed, and all signs of the previous fight had vanished. As he relished the cold drink and waited, he ran over the plan in his mind, although by now the elements were quite familiar.

Julian would announce a bareknuckle fight to be held outside the town at about dusk, with Ezra as the champion, and ask for a volunteer to fight him. Patterson, who by now had been in town long enough for people to think he was a traveler or something, would be quick to volunteer, and bets would then be taken.

Since Patterson was much larger than Ezra, the bets would go mostly in favor of him. During the fight, Ezra would land a "lucky punch", Patterson would go down cold, and Ezra would be declared the winner. They would then leave town with the losers' money-and since most of them had bet on Patterson, that amount would be large.

It hadn't failed yet. Getting local men to act as referee had proven successful; the townsmen might not trust Julian, but they couldn't quarrel with one of their own. Since Patterson had an uncanny ability to fake unconsciousness, even a doctor couldn't tell that it was all an act.

And now they were poised once again to add to their already healthy purses. Mother would be amazed.

Julian had gone to arrange things with whatever townsmen was in charge of amusements, leaving Ezra to study the crowd and watch for Patterson to show up.

He sipped the cool beer with immense satisfaction; he really was enjoying himself. It felt so good to be out of New Orleans, to be riding with Julian and learning so much about the gaming life. New Orleans was exciting, of course, but during the past few years he had been getting the feeling that it was time to get out and see what else the world had to offer. He loved his mother dearly-she was his only family, after all, since his father had died when he was five-but lately she had begun to hint strongly that he should leave her tutelage and strike out on his own.

Then he had met Julian at one of the gaming tables, and they had hit it off instantly. He smiled at the memory of Julian's shocked face when Ezra bested him repeatedly at poker, and his even greater consternation when Ezra had explained to him how he had figured out which system Julian had been cheating with. It wasn't long before the two young men were trading schemes and impressing each other with their money-making ideas.

Ezra turned and scanned the room, seeing if there were any pretty girls around. Partnering with Julian had definitely turned out to be a good idea; his mother had taught him a lot, but Julian's mind worked in shrewd ways even Maude couldn't match. In the two years since leaving New Orleans, Ezra and Julian had plied their luck in innumerable gambling halls, racetracks, casinos, and riverboats, trying out various cons and often emerging victorious. This boxing scheme was simply the latest adventure.

The game certainly was thrilling, he mused as his green eyes darted around the large, smoky room crammed with drinkers. The planning, the execution, the anticipation of success-what man could resist this life? It was all he had ever known, and he reveled in how perfectly it agreed with him. Of course, one day his partnership with Julian would undoubtedly end, it couldn't go on forever, but by then he would be skilled enough to work by himself. Ezra felt sure he could handle being on his own; in many ways, he had spent his entire life alone.

His eyes lit on an attractive black-haired girl in a modest but neat blue dress seated at the other end of the room. He pursed his lips, looking closer, and was disappointed to see that she was seated with a man.

Something about the couple caught his attention, however, and he frowned. The man seated with her was a barrel-chested fellow, a little larger than Ezra, with a sharp, angry face. His thick black hair was unkempt and greasy-looking, and his cheeks were framed with equally wild sideburns. He wore no coat, only dirty work pants, muddy boots and a stained shirt-altogether a very rough-looking individual, and he appeared to be having heated words with the young woman. For her part, she sat looking at her hands, obviously upset.

Ezra couldn't hear the conversation, but a few men nearby approached the man, and it looked as if they were trying to pull him away from the woman. The man threw off all attempts, his eyes blazing with anger, until three or four men crowded his table. Shouts resulted, and as Ezra watched, intrigued, the black-haired man jumped up from the table, gave one of the men a vicious shove, and walked to the bar. As two of the men helped the trembling girl to her feet and escorted her away, the large man banged his fist on the worn wooden bar and bellowed, "Beer, dammit!"

One of the barkeeps nervously pushed a drink in the man's direction. As the man glared after the two men and the girl leaving the bar, he reached back, picked up the glass without a word to the bartender, and began to drink, his expression dark and full of hostility.

After a few minutes, the man turned to look out of the large saloon window into the street, where the girl and the two men were standing, discussing something. His expression was intense as he stared at her, and Ezra perceived that he was determining to go after them.

The girl and the two men walked away. The ruffian downed his drink and headed for the door, his eyes lethal. With a shiver, Ezra recognized that look-he had seen it often on some of his older cousins when he was a child, just before they came after him.

Ezra thought a moment-this was none of his business, but the girl and her companions seemed to be in danger, a fact which overrode his burgeoning selfish instincts. After a brief hesitation, he rushed after the man, jumping between the lout and the door. "Excuse me, sir!"

The other man stopped, his eyes wide with surprised annoyance. "What?" he roared, his voice loud and deep.

Ezra paused, and peered at his face keenly. "Haven't we met before?"

The man's reply was a look of irritated confusion. "No, mister, I ain't seen you before-now get the hell out of my way!"

He took another step towards the door. Ezra continued to bar his way, his eyes flicking out to where the two men were helping the girl into a buggy.

"I feel sure we've met," Ezra went on, digging his heels in a little. "Natchez, perhaps? Or Tupelo?"

The other man's gaze turned ominous and he grabbed Ezra by the lapel of his dusty blue coat. "You must not hear so good, you piece of Rebel shit!"

The two men climbed into the buggy with the black-haired girl, and with a flick of the whip it was moving quickly down the street. Ezra waited just a moment until it was out of sight, then shook himself free from his opponent's grip and straightened his rumpled coat.

"Problems, Mr. Simpson?"

It was Julian's voice, and Ezra turned to see his partner eying him quizzically from the doorway of the saloon.

"No, Mr. Row, everything is fine," Ezra replied, giving the baffled goon another look. "Merely a case of confused identity-I mistook this fellow for a gentleman."

The large man snarled an obscenity at them and pushed his way out into the street.

"What was *that* all about?" Julian muttered as they walked back to the bar, glancing after the oaf with a frown.

"Oh, nothing," Ezra said, grasping his mug of beer. "I was merely trying to prevent that oaf from accosting a local girl. It seems he has atrocious manners."

Julian snorted and signaled the bartender for a beer. "Lord, my friend, be more careful! That fellow could have broken your neck like a twig."

Ezra took a drink and glanced at Julian. "It was under control, I assure you."

"Not by much, judging from the killing look in his eyes," Julian said quietly, leaning over his beer. "You shouldn't get involved in things like that, it's dangerous. Let other people look after their own affairs, it makes it much easier to look after your own. That's what it's all about, in the long run. Taking care of yourself."

His younger friend scowled a little into his beer. "I would hope that taking care of myself would not mean that gentlemanly virtues are to be ignored," he responded in a quiet voice.

Julian fished a cigar from his pocket and bit off the end with a derisive grunt, spitting it onto the floor. "You're sounding like your father, if what you and Maude told me about him is true. I've found that chivalry is just fine, as long as it doesn't get you into trouble. What if our burly friend there had decided to take a swing at you? It's better not to stick your neck out for other people, they'll just take advantage of your good nature."

His younger friend winced a bit, staring into his beer. Deep down, he knew Julian was right; there were times, just now and again, that his instincts led in a direction contrary to the hard, solitary path he had set his feet upon. A very small part of him, well hidden away, thought that there was something cold and empty about this way of life, something the money and excitement couldn't replace. Doing a decent turn now and then, such as helping the girl in blue, seemed to ease the emptiness somewhat, even though it went against everything his mother and Julian had taught him.

But Julian was right, it was also dangerous. There had been enough pain in his life; asking for more seemed quite insane. Besides, as soon as they were able to put even more money into their pockets, the confusion would go away. It always did, and stayed away longer every time. One day, it would go away for good, and he would be as confident and successful as Julian, able to turn his mind completely to his own interests and prosper. Why would he want anything else?

Julian lit the cigar, took a few puffs, then noticed Ezra's contemplative expression and gave him a firm thump on the back. "Oh, hell, Ezra, don't look so down. You're still young, that's all. You'll learn."

Ezra smiled a little and looked at his friend. "And how fortunate I am to have you here to teach me."

"Damn straight," Julian agreed firmly, leaning on the counter as the smoke from his cigar swirled and drifted around his head. "If I wasn't here to tell you these things, you'd have to learn from experience, and that's a much harder way to go, let me tell you. Is, um, he here yet?"

"He's over in the corner," Ezra replied quietly, finishing his beer and not looking at where Patterson sat behind them.

"Then we'd best get started," Julian said quickly, taking one more hurried puff on the cigar. "The commissioner is more than willing to let us set up outside of town, and he agreed to referee. It'll make it all look nice and square."

Ezra grinned. "This should be a piece of cake."

"Mm-hmm," Julian agreed, stubbing out the cigar and looking around the room, his sharp black eyes taking it all in with one glance. "Now let's go make some easy money."

Ezra's response was a short nod, and he followed Julian as his partner pushed his way towards the back of the room. He smiled a bit in anticipation; Julian loved this part, and it was always amusing to watch him rouse the crowd.

Julian strode over to an empty table, pulled out a sturdy-looking wooden chair and leapt nimbly on top of it. Ezra stood nearby, ready for his cue, as his comrade lifted his arms and took a deep breath.

"GENTLEMEN, MAY I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION, PLEASE!" he shouted. Julian had a booming voice, and his words drew the eye of every patron in the room. The talk slowed to a murmur, glasses were halted halfway to their destination, and puzzled drinkers turned in their seats to see what the yelling was about.

Once he was satisfied that he had their ears, Julian flashed one of his dazzling smiles and began to talk in a rapid patter, his manner as smooth and confident as a ringmaster's.

"Gentlemen, my name is Henry Row, and I come before you today with a sporting proposition. Are there any among you here who have a taste for clean, honest sport?"

Ezra chuckled inwardly at the 'honest' part and took off his coat.

"What you sellin', mister?" a curious drunk inquired.

"Excitement, my friend!" Julian replied with gusto, whipping off his tall hat, his black eyes wide with frenzy. "The sort of excitement that sends the blood of any true American man pounding through his veins. The thrill of competition, as raw and savage as nature intended, the sheer astounding drama of man pitted against man in a lonely battle for supremacy!"

Julian put one leg up on the nearby table, balancing skillfully as he continued to speak. "Sirs, with your commissioner's kind permission"- here he nodded to a thin older gentleman who was watching from the bar- "I am able to invite you to witness a battle which this county will be discussing for years to come! A fierce, bloody contest between two untamed brutes, trusting only their strength to emerge victorious!" He gestured with his hat towards the door. "Outside of this town will be drawn a ring, and at six o'clock tonight the battle will commence-a bare-knuckle brawl the likes of which you have never seen before! Wagers will be accepted, and your fortune may be made today!"

"Who's fightin'?" came a lazy voice from the crowd, which was followed by a distinct brassy 'ping' as the speaker made use of the nearest spittoon.

Julian smiled and motioned to Ezra. With a cocky grin plastered across his handsome face, Ezra stepped forward, arms crossed, his wide chest thrown out. Without his coat, he appeared muscular but not terribly strong.

"My associate here, Mr. Eli Simpson, has won every bout he has ever fought, and that is the Lord's truth, gentlemen!"

He drew a breath and scanned the room. Patterson was waiting for his cue; after Julian's next sentence, he would step forward and 'volunteer' to fight Ezra, just as he had in the last three towns.

"And his challenger," Julian went on, doing his best to not look obviously at Patterson, "shall be whoever feels lucky enough t-"

"I'll do it!"

Julian and Ezra both froze. Patterson froze as well, stunned; he hadn't even opened his mouth yet.

All eyes turned to the source of the sound. Standing at the door of the saloon stood the black-haired ruffian, his dark face wreathed in a scowl as he stared at Julian and Ezra.

"Sir?" Julian said as the man walked into the room. The patrons were eying him and muttering, some amused, others disgusted.

"You was gonna say he'd fight whoever wanted to get in the ring with 'im, right?" Barber pointed at Ezra, who was completely thrown. "I want to do it."

Julian was a bit disconcerted as well, but tried not to show it. "Sir, the invitation was not properly issued," he said smoothly. "These other gentlemen didn't get a chance to-"

"The hell with 'em!" Barber shot back. He looked back at the other men in the room. "Did anybody else want to fight this guy?"

The air was filled with negative mutterings.

"He's all yours, Barber!" one man exclaimed.

Patterson looked around, then swallowed and stepped forward. "I was thinkin' on it, mister!"

"Yeah?" Barber replied, clearly unimpressed. "Well, looks like you thought too long." He looked back at Julian and Ezra. "I spoke first, an' so it's my fight."

Several townsmen agreed, apparently eager to bet on Barber. Ezra threw a wide-eyed glance at Julian, who was biting his lip and trying to think of a way out of this.

"Now see here, gentlemen-" Julian began, holding out his hands in a plea for calm.

"I'm afraid he's right, Mr. Row," the commissioner announced. "Barber did speak first."

"What's the matter?" Barber said in a loud, challenging tone. "Is this fight rigged or something?"

Julian and Ezra froze again. A few of the townsmen were looking suspicious; if their con was discovered, it could be dangerous. Or perhaps even deadly.

There was a pause, then a smile slid smoothly over Julian's swarthy face. "Of course not, sir," he responded indignantly. "We'll...be happy to accept your challenge."

The saloon erupted into activity as the men began to pull out their wallets.

"Who's takin' the bets?" asked one white-bearded patron eagerly, waving a fist full of bills.

Julian pulled a thin leather book from his coat. "I will be happy to receive your wagers, sirs," he said easily, back in his full stride. "And please accept my assurances that this fight will be completely fair and square!"

The men crowded towards him, pushing past Ezra and Barber. After a moment, Ezra, his head spinning, turned to see Barber giving him a very lethal look.

"You kept me from goin' after Anne, didn't you?" Barber growled at him. At this distance Ezra could see that his eyes were a very dark and angry blue. "You just wait. This'll be one fight you won't win."

He paused, then turned and walked out of the saloon. Ezra could only stare after him, dazed, his mind trying to figure a way out of this. After a moment he glanced at Patterson, who seemed just as confused, but nothing could be done now; they couldn't even let on that they knew each other without exposing the con.

Ezra's gaze wandered over to Julian. The money was flying fast now, and Ezra had no doubt as to whom they were all betting on. His stomach sank.

Suddenly New Orleans wasn't looking so bad.


"All right now, let's just consider the situation..."

Julian's voice cut through the humid air as he paced back and forth in the small hotel room. Despite the afternoon heat, the window was closed, so that he and Ezra could figure things out in complete privacy. Ezra sat in a chair nearby, leaning forward with his hands folded together in contemplation. Both men had removed their coats in an effort at comfort, but true ease seemed elusive considering the present circumstances.

"Our options appear somewhat limited," Ezra admitted, rubbing his chin with one finger. "The people here are expecting a fight."

"Yes, well, expectations are often in vain, aren't they?" replied Julian in a testy voice. "We could slip out of town with the money. It'd have to be a fast ride, but perhaps we could get into the next state without getting caught."

Ezra bit his lip. "It seems too much to hope for to think that might be successful." He paused. "Suppose we simply go on with the fight?"

Silence fell as Julian furrowed his brow, studying Ezra with an expression of great uncertainty. "Think you could take him?"

"I believe I have at least an even chance," was Ezra's reply as he sat back and shook out his arms. "As you know, we've pulled ourselves out of scrapes with larger fellows than this gent."

"Yes, but this Barber's no drunken barroom ruffian-he looks like a seasoned fighter," Julian muttered, pacing again. "*And* he as a grudge against you. Dammit, Ezra, I told you you shouldn't have interfered in his business! Besides, you should see the amount of money that was bet on him-why, we'll go broke paying all those bets off if you lose."

"However," Ezra countered, his green eyes gleaming, "if I should succeed, our fortune would be assured."

This thought seemed to strike Julian rather sharply, and he stopped his restless pacing and gazed at Ezra with newfound enlightenment, rubbing his chin as his mind whirled. For a moment he actually seemed to consider the idea, then shook his head firmly, his black curls flying limply in the damp air.

"No. No, Ezra, it's out of the question," Julian stated with finality. "You've never fought a real match, and if you got hurt I'd never forgive myself. And I won't even think about what Maude would do to me!"

"If Mother knew how much money was at stake, I believe she would be willing to risk my hide," was Ezra's dry response.

Julian paused at the window, his handsome face illuminated by the soft reflected glow of the afternoon sun. He fiddled with the worn curtains for a moment, frowning, then looked over at Ezra. "You're not insisting on this just because of what he did to that girl, are you?"

His young partner blinked at him. "Girl?" he asked, even though he knew full well who Julian was talking about.

"Damn it, Ezra, you know who I mean," Julian snapped, walking over to stand in front of his friend. "If you're going to fight that rather disagreeable fellow, I want to know that it's for something reasonable. Emotions can cloud judgment, you know, and you might let them carry you into a battle you're not ready for. You're going to need a clear head for this. Our aim is to ride out of here with a good deal of money, and that's what you should focus on. If we decide to simply abscond, fine; if you decide you are able to beat this man, fine, but I don't want you risking your hide - and our highly lucrative partnership - based on nothing more than antique gallantry. The consequences could be disastrous."

Ezra was about to assure his partner that the hope of monetary gain was all that lay behind his desire to thrash Barber, but something stopped the words in his throat. Of course money was the only reason, what else could there be? Barber was a bully and a cad who needed a lesson, but surely that wasn't the cause of his hesitation.

He remembered the hot anger which had stirred in him at the sight of Barber forcing himself on the girl in blue, and the relief at knowing that he had stopped him from going after her. It had been one of the few purely altruistic things he'd done in years. But Julian was right, such sentiments were dangerous in this business. It was a miracle Barber hadn't started a fight right there.

However, Ezra thought with confusion, he hadn't felt frightened at that prospect. His only thought had been for the welfare of the girl and her brothers who were protecting her. And according to both his mother and Julian, those thoughts had been wrong, those instincts the very thing he should be learning to curb.

Perhaps here was the perfect opportunity to learn to do just that. Then the confusion would end.

Ezra returned his mentor's gaze for a few more moments without saying a word, then took a deep breath. "I assure you, my friend, my vision on this matter is perfectly clear."

"Good," Julian said quickly, stepping back. "So-be absolutely sure now-do you think you can take Barber?"

Ezra considered the question with exceeding care. Barber was only a little larger than himself, and he had taken on more fierce competitors before in saloons and back alleys all across the South. The thought that Barber's defeat might make the bully think twice about harassing anyone else flitted across his mind, but he pushed it away, determined to keep his focus clear. The money was all that mattered, as Julian had said; what happened to the town after he and Julian rode out of it couldn't be his concern.

He raised his eyes, but before he could say a word, there was a knock on the door of their room.

Julian looked at Ezra quickly, apprehension in every line of his face. "Yes?"

The door was slowly opened, and a young man appeared, dressed in a neat suit. Ezra instantly recognized him as one of the men he had saved earlier, and behind him was the black-haired girl herself. Both of them appeared slightly nervous.

Ezra got to his feet, and he and Julian studied them in mild surprise, waiting.

"Pardon us, gentlemen," the man said in Eastern tones, taking off his bowler hat. "We were told we'd find you here-is it true you're fighting that Barber fellow?"

"Well-" Ezra began, glancing over at Julian.

"One of our friends in the saloon told us you stopped him from following us," the young woman continued, gazing at Ezra with green eyes full of pure gratitude. She seemed very young, no more than seventeen. "I-I just wanted to thank you, sir, and wish you luck. I don't think he took the news that I'm going with my family to Denver very well, he's been pursuing me for months."

"You're a brave fellow, sir, I haven't seen too many men with the nerve to take on that windbag," the man said, digging into his wallet and handing a five-dollar note to Julian. "I'm putting five dollars on you!"

The girl gasped. "George! Ma will thrash you if she knows you've been gambling!"

George tucked his wallet back into his jacket. "It's all right, Anne, I'm sure Mother would approve if she saw how courageously this man has comported himself! Such valor must be supported, eh? And we can certainly use the extra money." He straightened his jacket. "So, when is the fight?"

Julian folded the bill and tucked it in with the rest of the money. "Six o'clock, at the east end of town," he replied with a smile.

"George!" his sister repeated, even more aghast. "Mother isn't going to let you attend a boxing match! We've got our farewell dinner with Rev. Peter tonight!"

George took her arm. "Don't worry, darling, I was just curious. Well, farewell, good sirs, and good luck!"

As they went out the door, George turned when he knew Anne wasn't looking and indicated with a wave and a look that he would be at the fight, no matter how disappointed Rev. Peter might be by his absence.

"Interesting family," Julian chuckled when they had left.

Ezra smiled, then sighed. "Well, I suppose that seals it. If George is willing to risk a thrashing on my behalf, the least I can do is be present."

His older friend pursed his lips, a frown creasing his handsome brow. "I don't like this, Ezra. I'm more inclined to just get the hell out of here. But if we're caught on the road, we'll get at least a tarring, if they don't decide to just hang us."

He took the wad of money from his pocket, weighing it carefully as he pondered the situation. Ezra watched him closely, his own feeling tumultuous. He didn't relish the idea of coming under Barber's fists, but at the same time, he couldn't get over the fact that their two recent visitors had considered him brave. No one had ever called him that before; it was an odd feeling.

Finally Julian sighed and stuffed the money back in his pocket. "All right, Ezra," he said firmly, meeting his friend's eyes. "You can fight this fellow. I can't risk walking away from a pot this large, but I don't want to get shot in the back for it, either. But you've *got* to beat him, understand? If you lose, we won't even have our horses left."

Ezra wondered why he felt vaguely relieved instead of concerned, but he simply said to Julian, "Trust me, my friend, losing is not my intention."