Part Three
In the light of day they all look like hell.
Pasty-faced, unshaven and coated in grey dust.
Ezra's slept for an hour or so since Larabee woke him to make sure, apparently, that he wasn't dead. Which he supposes is what all the poking and grousing at him was for. Vin's just coming to, groggy and punch-drunk, and Chris himself looks like he needed several pounds of steak on his face too many hours ago.
They drink water and nibble reluctantly on stale biscuits tipped into a cloth. None of them has anything to say for a while. Vin leans on a rock and dabs at his swollen eye with two fingers as he chews the dried-up crumbs. Chris scratches at his coming beard. Ezra fiddles with the packs because he doesn't have any cards to keep his hands busy.
"Let's get goin'," Vin says as soon as he's finished. He replaces the lid of his canteen, puts a hand down to push himself up.
"All right to ride?"
Vin limps past Chris with a scowl. "Well I'm sure as hell not stayin' here any longer."
"C'mon, Ezra, shift yaself."
Ezra blinks gritty eyes. He has a pounding headache and his fingertips are tingling. The biscuits have not settled his stomach as effectively as he had hoped.
Delightful.
For the first time he's glad of the presence of Chris behind him when they get moving. He's glad that they don't ride hard, glad when they stop in shade and he can close his eyes while Vin and Chris fetch water, even though they complain that he's sleeping on the job.
After another couple of hours, Ezra realizes that the headache is no longer emanating from where he hit the boardwalk. It's centered over his left eye, radiates strongly into the area of his scar, reminds him of those first days of wretched consciousness upstairs at Nathan's.
He's afraid of this headache, and that makes him angry.
"Watch yourself, Vin," Chris says when this becomes apparent. "Somethin's rattlin' Ezra's cage."
And Vin laughs a low laugh.
It truly gets wearisome, Ezra thinks, to always be either the object of contempt or the butt of a joke.
They stop again. Ezra knows it's because of him, because he's finding it hard to sit upright. Neither Chris nor Vin challenge him, which he supposes he should be grateful about. They just watch him with a deep suspicion that he could easily misinterpret should he have a mind to and which makes him determined to give them no satisfaction.
No, sirs. I am not performing for you today.
Night comes on again and that helps a little. The horses are all used to the dark, stay in the middle of the trail. There's only an hour or two when the way seems black as tar through the cliffs and jumbles of a canyon and there's no moon at all. Vin has the rudiments in his saddle-bag to rig up a torch that lasts just long enough.
Progress is pretty slow, too, because Vin's in pain and favoring one side to try and take pressure off his knee. He'll admit it, be honest about the difficulty, but he won't let them do anything. Ezra tries to move ahead a little, allow Vin some time in the slipstream, but Chris growls at him to stay right where the hell he is. It's all becoming a moot point anyhow since, once the torch has extinguished itself, they can hardly see. Lucky they're all accustomed to negotiating the outlying miles into Four Corners at night.
It feels late and still when they finally spy the first of the night fires in the distance.
Late or not, the welcome committee assembles itself pretty quick as they ride in. Town is almost as quiet as it was when they left.
"What the hell?" Buck demands, first to reach them. He catches hold of the leading rein of Chris's horse, lets Larabee grip his shoulder as he slides to the ground with a groan of discomfort. "They have to beat the story out of you?"
"Palmers got off," Chris says, moving to give Vin a hand down.
"They what?"
"Acquitted."
"Ah, shit," Buck says with feeling.
"Nothin'?" Nathan's voice is tinged with disbelief. "Not for the payroll? For the shootin's? For Ezra?"
"Nothin'."
"So ya didn't even need to go," JD says. "You coulda stayed right here and it wouldnta made any difference."
Chris sucks his teeth. "'Course," he says grimly, "if Ezra'd told 'em what we all know to be true, it mighta helped."
"Mr Larabee, your refrain is becoming tedious." Ezra dismounts, feels the ground is racing up to meet him way too fast and is grateful that someone - he bets on Buck - steadies him. Ezra's keeping his eyes slitted against the light spilling out from the saloon and he's not sure he can handle going inside. If he's even allowed to move, that is.
Yes, the big hand grasping enough of his clothing to pinch his upper arm, is Buck all right.
"Anyone hurt proper? Or you just need hot food and cold beer?" asks Nathan.
"Yeah."
They all know what Vin means.
There's stew on the stove in the saloon's kitchen. Of course. It'll be some recipe of Josiah or Nathan's. As a group they've been self-sufficient from the start, needing no instruction on the many and varied ways they can watch one another's backs. The stew's warm rather than hot, somewhat dried up, and the beer isn't exactly cold, but there's no hesitation when the three of them plump down around a table and Josiah piles plates and glasses in the middle. They are allowed a few minutes to eat in peace before the questions start coming.
"So that defender feller, what he say?"
"Palmers run you outa town?"
"How'd they get away with this?"
"They gonna be headed this way anytime soon?"
"Boys," Chris says eventually. "I don't aim to gift 'em our hardware. We need to go back." He picks at a bit of meat lodged in his teeth with a thumbnail. "But not tonight."
Nathan has been walking around them while they eat, not saying anything, just sizing up the cuts and bruises. He touches a couple of fingers on Chris's cheekbone, tips up Vin's chin and frowns. It is to his credit, Ezra thinks, that neither of them resist him. They just carry on chewing. Vin swallows his last mouthful, wipes the back of his hand over his bottom lip carefully.
"Ezra got a bang on the head," he says.
There's a collective intake of breath. Ezra squints across the table at Vin, outraged at the betrayal but not altogether surprised by it. He feels better for the food, but all he wants is to retire unobserved from the company, wash off some of the grime and lay his head down in the dark. Not engage in fruitless discussion about the condition of his cranium.
"Well shit, that's not good," Buck says.
Nathan returns for another look and Ezra submits, granite-jawed, just spreads his hands to indicate that Nathan could stare all he liked he wasn't going to find anything.
"How you feelin'?"
Lord preserve us, what is wrong with you people?
One minute they're following him about like he's a rabid dog they might have to shoot, next they're asking stupid questions.
Ezra could tell them that he feels seasick. That there's a low-level prickling in his ear and his palms are clammy. That a headache is coming and going in waves so strong it's taking all his concentration not to put both arms over his head and whimper. That he fears he's going to be deaf, dumb and blind with pain in a matter of hours.
Unexpectedly, Chris saves him from having to tell them anything. He pitches in, all swagger and defensive bluff.
"We got knocked three bitchin' ways from Sunday, Nathan, whaddya think? Checked him over on the trail. He kept his seat, talked no more nonsense than usual."
Nathan stops what he's doing, looks faintly offended, like he's been chided for something unfairly. Ezra reflects that none of them are immune from locking horns with Chris Larabee and he can't help a little smirk over his shoulder because, just for this particular few seconds, it's not him.
There's a general scraping-back of chairs. Someone moves to give Vin an arm as he suddenly seems to be staggering, bad knee and good as wobbly as one another. It's a good moment to make a getaway. Nathan is declaring that he needs to bind up the hurt, do something to help Vin sleep and Vin's gone mostly pliant because he obviously feels so bad.
"Lean on me," Josiah says. "And if you don't want what Nathan's got, I'll bring you a bottle of whisky."
Vin's slurring and chuckling like he doesn't know which way is up. Ezra pats him on the back as Josiah and Nathan begin to guide him from the room, then he jams his hat over his eyes, bids them all goodnight and goes upstairs, one hand firmly on the rail. He doesn't know if he's observed. If Buck and JD hadn't gone out to see to the horses, he would have expected Mr Wilmington to clump up behind him on some ridiculous pretext of having left something in Ezra's room.
He's got as far as sluicing some water over his hands and face from the half-full pitcher under the mirror when there's a tap on the door. Throwing the grubby towel over one shoulder he moves to open it. And lets out a long-suffering sigh.
"Mr Larabee, as I live and breathe ..."
"Cut your infernal crap, Ezra. Came to give ya this from Nathan."
Chris holds up a little pouch and drops it into Ezra's hand.
"Pot pourri? How thoughtful."
"Ya brew it up for a headache. Nathan says."
"Interesting. I don't have a headache."
"Well if ya did."
Ezra closes his fist around the pouch, feels the contents scrunching against his palm. He knows he walks a line, narrow and flimsy. He knows he is always just a whisker away from disaster, from being of no use to anyone in Four Corners anymore. And that this may be the man who will judge when that moment comes.
"Do leave me alone," he says tiredly.
"I'm goin'."
A mutual understanding lurks between them, that there may be something to discuss but that neither of them are going to attempt it. Chris mutters something as he turns away, moving like a man who may just fall asleep where he stands.
Ezra shuts the door, tosses the pouch so it lands next to the pitcher, skids off the table and drops into the gap behind. He lets the towel fall to the floor, steps over it. Loses his boots and vest, unbuttons his shirt. Then he stands at the window with his eyes closed, pressing the pad of his thumb as hard as he can into the point above his ear where it feels like there's something that might burst.
Eventually he stops, runs his hand through his trail-matted hair. The pain is steady and relentless. It tries his patience, makes everything an effort.
And to be honest, Ezra's a relative stranger to pain. Physical pain, at least.
He vaguely recalls his whole body hurting when he had scarlet fever, aged seven. And he clearly recalls the drag and bite of the dislocated shoulder that Nathan treated in the Seminole village. While he still doesn't appreciate anyone swinging on the weak joint, he finds the occasional flare manageable, particularly with whisky. The bullet wound from Stutts's shot is not a particularly unwelcome memory either, so freely floating had he been on Chris Larabee's praise and approval at the time.
This is all different. This pain is wicked and lies in wait. It's insidious, takes his breath away. Although he might smile at Nathan's sincere optimism on a long-term prognosis, deep down Ezra is convinced that an impact he cannot even recall will haunt him for the rest of his life, then despatch him one day without pity.
The temptation to give in to such a bleak prospect, to weep helpless tears of frustration, is strong, but Ezra likes to think he's stronger. He goes and sits on the side of the bed, thumps the pillow instead.
It's about typical, he thinks, that his Derringer's in the hands of someone else.
Because, if it comes to it, he fully intends to discharge the delicate little piece directly between his eyes.
----
There are many ills that breakfast, a hot bath and a shave will cure.
Vin's black and swollen kneecap for a start. By the time Ezra reaches the bath-house in the morning, on advice that a bath has been ready prepared, Vin is already there, sunk deep in one tub, bad leg fully immersed, face covered in soap. He looks like he might be dozing and Ezra, fresh suit of clothes over one arm, creeps in to lay claim to his own source of relief.
"Mornin'" Vin says without opening his eyes. "If that's you, Ezra, you c'n swaller ya chat. This is the quiet place."
"Believe me, if I wanted conversation of any kind, I wouldn't come to you."
"Good."
"How's the leg?"
"Fair."
"Are we the first, or has Mr Larabee already been and gone?"
Ezra dunks a hand into the freshly-drawn and steaming-hot water and swills it around. He's slept well enough that there's a layer of almost giddy abandon over his headache, although the world keeps tilting unexpectedly. Sugared coffee and pancakes slippery with syrup have given him enough bravado to last the morning.
There's a pristine bar of soap sitting on the side of the tub, a rare treat. He examines himself all over for bruises, and there are plenty, but the lucky result of having been knocked out so quickly means that his face has escaped all but a mild contusion along his jaw. "I trust you slept well, my friend." He slides into the water, lets it rise up his chest, feels the steam pooling around his face. A long sigh escapes him. "Oh, my good God, that is exquisite. That is very, very fine."
A grumbled "Shush," comes from the other side of the room.
Ezra submerges his head, wags it a little under the water to try and dislodge some of the grit, and then rises again, sweeping his hair back over his forehead with two hands. Ben Freeman, who runs the bath-house, has come into the room with two more jugs of water and some hair-soap. He grimaces a little at the water on the floor from Ezra's wallow.
"You gents gonna let Jethro do a proper job on ya?"
"Well if by proper job you mean cut mah throat, then no, I don't think so."
Freeman tuts. "He'd only cut ya throat, Mr Standish, if ya wouldn't stop talkin'."
"I have mah razor thank you, Ben."
"As you please."
Vin is smiling when Ben goes out but he still hasn't opened his eyes. The ends of his hair are trailing in the water. He's still there, in the same position, when Ezra is finished with all but the final ablutions. Standing in stockinged feet, pinstripe pants that only appear slightly shiny at the knees if you look closely, crisp poplin shirt and favorite vest, he studies his face in the mirror. It's smooth and damp, pink from the heat. The ever-present rings under his eyes are smudged darker than ever. He draws a brush cautiously through wet hair, lifts it slightly to avoid the scar. Two fingers from each hand check the sharpness of his sideburns. When his boots are on, he empties a still-hot jug of water into Vin's bath, which elicits no more than a slight snore. Then he shrugs on his jacket and goes to collect his hat from Ben, who'd been charged with brushing it until it looked like new.
Coming up the street from the bath-house he meets Buck.
"How ya doin', hoss?" Buck's tone is light but his eyes are sharp.
Ezra just makes an impatient face. "Are we under orders?"
"You're safe. I ain't seen Chris yet."
"Small mercies, Buck, small mercies."
"Hoowhee, Ezra!" JD has appeared at Buck's side. "You smell like ... money ... piles of it, a fifty thousand dollar jackpot!"
Buck claps both of them on the back. "Now that is a very unkind thing to say, JD. He was just off to grub for nickels and dimes and there you go puttin' an image like that in his head. Why, I think you've just about done ruined his day."
"That's right, you go on and mock me. Just don't expect to share mah winnings when they come. That jackpot will be all mine."
"Hell, Ez, there's no-one in town with a tarnal cent to their name," JD says.
"Bin deader than the grave for days," Buck agrees.
"Well, if you'll allow me to run some errands, I may have to see if I can liven up proceedings." Ezra smiles, feels the tender skin on his jaw stretch. "I'll see you gentlemen over the way shortly."
Buck and JD are smiling, too, in anticipation of amusement and company, and Ezra feels a faint twinge of something in his chest. Although much of the time he wonders how he's managed to get himself into his current predicament (which is far, far away from anything he ever envisaged for himself), sometimes he just cannot believe his good fortune. Despite being the eternal outsider amongst his associates, he does feel he has a place, of sorts. It gratifies him that the tight little duo of Buck and JD let him in so readily. Nothing of the kind has ever happened to him before.
The headache is there or thereabouts. Not like last night, but winding up to jump him sooner or later. So far, Ezra's covered up the worst of such episodes. He can feel them coming like an approaching thunderstorm, hours, sometimes days, in advance, and makes an effort to do what he does best. Conning people. And most of the time, it just about works.
"You all right, Ezra?" Chris demands when he finally puts in an appearance. He's spent half an hour shooting the breeze with Vin and when he spots Ezra he's across the street like a flash.
Ezra's heart pounds against its bars.
"Don't I look all right?" It's become something of a defensive parry.
"Dunno. You look like you just lost the family diamonds."
"How little you know me."
"Well hell yeah. That is part of the problem."
"If ah'd lost any diamonds whatsoever would I be standing around discussin' it?"
"Guess not." Chris appraises him some more. "Just ... checkin'"
"Do consider me checked won't you." Ezra drawls it as much as he dares.
Chris, who has more cares on his shoulders than Ezra would like to handle, shoots him a final penetrating look, and moves on. Doubtless, Ezra thinks, to bother another of their number. He has to stand where he is, concentrate on remembering what it is he intended doing, try and order some thoughts so he isn't entirely focused on the steady thumping behind his eyes. He'd hoped, he'd really hoped, that with sleep and food and not much to do, it would fade away, like it mostly did.
Seems not.
Ezra's very afraid that this, when it gets the better of him, will be like nothing he knows how to explain or escape from.
tbc