ON YOUR HORSES, BOYS
Part 13
Chris stumbled through the darkness feeling the chill of night leech every bit of warmth from his body. He was tired, both bone weary and mentally exhausted, yet he knew he had to keep walking until he reached the orange glow beckoning him in the distance. Little by little he made his way across the desert, tripping over dry rocky earth and yanking free of the clawing brush that snagged his pant legs. Time passed painfully slow as he defied his body's desire to give in, to collapse on the ground and pull the night into himself, but his heart crushed any plans his body made. There was someone who needed him and he'd be damned if he was going to fail another living soul.
The glow grew larger with each clumsy step. It also grew more visually intense as the muted orange of a moment ago became a striking array of vivid reds and yellows. After that there was the heat, inviting at first then overwhelming as tall flames reached out into the night seemingly to ensnare him. His aching limbs welcomed the warmth, but there again his heart overcame his body's need and forced him to skirt the edges of the blaze as he neared a cavernous hole filled with flame.
He looked into the pit of fire and momentarily entertained the thought of throwing himself in. Some part of him craved the release it offered, but he ultimately found the cowardice of such an act so distasteful he decided against it. He narrowed his eyes against its intensity and searched its borders for the person he knew he'd find. There not twenty feet from him, Ezra stood, hunched over, arms bound behind his back and bare feet touching the very rim of the burning crater. His lean form shook with fatigue, or fear, or a combination of both, and when Chris caught his eyes with his own he saw hopelessness and despair. It was as if the heat from the pit below was sucking the life from the Southerner and he had to do something to stop it.
"Ezra!" he shouted above the crackling of the fire below. "Don't move!"
The gambler's haunted eyes stared at the flames as they snaked their way from the pit and licked at his feet. The desire to move away was evident, written all over his face, but his body wouldn't oblige. Instead, one foot slid closer, actually curling over the edge. Large tears filled his eyes as they stared blindly into the fire. "You can't save me," he said with a husky voice as he choked on heavy black smoke.
The gunfighter clambered over ash-covered rock. "I can, Ezra, just don't go any closer."
"I'm sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry about, just stay put. I'm almost there," Chris answered with a grunt as his foot slipped off a slippery stone.
"I didn't know he'd come back."
"I know you didn't, just hang on. I'm almost…there."
Chris cleared the rocky perimeter ringing the well of flame and stood within ten feet of the man he meant to save. It was then he heard the familiar sound of a gun being cocked. He searched the smoky haze surrounding Ezra's head and caught the glint off the barrel of a gun, his own gun. His eyes followed the barrel to the hand of Hank Connelly and he unconsciously stumbled back when he saw the look on his father-in-law's face. Fury, betrayal and revenge filled Hank's being and Chris knew it was every bit aimed at him despite the gun being held to the gambler's temple.
"Hank, what are you doing?"
"Just giving you what you want."
"What I want? I don't want this, Hank, let him go."
"And deny you the joy of seeing someone you supposedly care about burning in the fires of hell?"
"What are you talking about? I don't want this. I never wanted this. Just put the gun down and let's get the hell out of here."
"No," Connelly said, forcing the gambler to lean over the pit.
"Hank, don't do this. Shoot me if you want, but let him go!"
The old man's face cracked a smile that turned Chris' stomach. It was a smile of madness, which came dangerously close to resembling evil. In an instant, Hank turned the gun from his original target and pointed it towards him. It exploded, adding its own little puff of smoke to the fire's larger cloud and sending a bullet straight into Chris. The impact doubled him over and sent him to the ground.
"Say goodbye, Chris Larabee, to another lost soul," Hank said, laughing.
Before the wounded man could gather his wits, Connelly had Ezra by the neck and shoved him over the rim of the crater. Chris watched helplessly as the Southerner twisted just enough to reveal a face filled with terror, then screamed as he fell from view into the raging inferno below.
Chris fumbled to cover his stomach with his hand as he rolled over and scrambled to the rim of the deadly blaze. The expression on Ezra's face lingered in his mind as he sought the hungry flames for any signs of his friend's remains. But he was gone, burning at the bottom of the cauldron beneath him. He pulled away from the hole and dropped to the ground, curling around both the wound in his belly and the ache in his soul. Not again, it couldn't happen again. Then he heard the sound of boots near his head and knew Hank was standing close. He turned his sight upwards into the troubled eyes of his wife's father.
"Yes, again," Hank said hoarsely as he knelt down, raised the gun to his own head and pulled the trigger.
Chris watched in horror as the gun blast blew away half the man's head and knocked his body backward into the dirt. He raised bloody hands to his face and cried out in mind numbing pain.
M7M7M7M7M7M7M7
"No!! Chris cried as he tried to bury his head deeper into folded arms. His brain was so full of unbearable memories he felt it would explode. He squeezed his head between his elbows and tried to force away the horrifying images of Sarah, Adam, Ezra and Hank. He was certain his mind was surrendering to his conscience as vivid pictures of fear and death flooded his soul. It was finally happening, he was losing the battle he'd fought for so long and it was clear his sanity lay forfeit. Like Hank, he would fall into madness. Perhaps that was the best he could hope for, to drift away from reality and lose himself in a world of delusion and indifference. He thought of how it would be to live without the ache in his heart and the remorse in his soul. At the moment it was the most tempting prospect he'd ever known. But as seductive as it was he knew at his very core a life of apathy was not what his family and friend had bequest. He owed them the memory of their importance in his life and that meant he had to fight. Unfortunately, fighting meant more pain and already the agony in his skull had grown so severe he feared it may be too late. In desperation, he began clawing at his head. He would fight. If he had to physically remove each terrifying memory with his bare hands, he would do it.
Please, God, let me do it.
Give me the strength to end it.
Just make it…
"Stop… make it stop!" he screamed until he could actually feel his own voice push away the threat of madness. He would stay in his own head, suffer his own past and gladly remember those he'd cared about and loved no matter the price.
"Chris!" a voice called from the distance, its tone defined by its urgency.
He was so startled by the sound, he couldn't help but listen.
"Come on, Chris, let go!"
Strong hands grabbed at his wrists and pulled them away from his head. He fought back, tried to loosen the hold, but whoever had him was determined in their labor to break through. He pushed his assailant to arm's length hoping to create enough room to defend himself with his legs, but the moment he raised his knees his middle was seized with crippling pain. His body jerked hard as his lungs sucked for air.
"Chris, settle down," the voice shouted.
A deep, hacking cough took hold of him and any chance for escape was gone. He fell back, drained, surrendering to whatever the fates had planned. His entire body burned, most likely from being too near the flaming pit, and every muscle twitched out of control. "Stop," he muttered in a last ditch effort to save himself, "p-please stop…"
"Easy, Chris," the voice said softly, "you're all right; just settle down." The strong hands, still firmly gripping his wrists, pulled his fists together and held them to his chest.
He took another harsh breath and listened to the reassuring tone hanging above him. Repeatedly the voice spoke promises of safety but it wasn't until the hands let go he believed it. An oppressive heat still clung to him but as the agonizing pain in his belly subsided to a more manageable level, he felt the flames within lessen. A cool hand came to rest on his forehead and he heard the voice say, "Easy, that's it. Don't try to do anything right now except breathe." A moment passed before the voice spoke again but this time it didn't seem to be addressing him. "He's gettin' real warm, what d'ya think?"
Another hand, colder than the one before, touched his cheek. "You're right; fever's startin' to take hold. I figured it would seein' he left that wound so long without treatin' it. Now I've got two patients in trouble."
A heavy sigh preceded a long pause and then a sloshing sound came within inches of his head. "Bathe him. Keep him as cool as ya can. And try to wake him enough to get some of this tea down him."
A groan sounded nearby.
"You go," the first voice said. "I'll take care of him." Footsteps walked away, and then the hands were on him again. "Chris?"
The gunfighter tried to swallow but there was so little moisture in his mouth he couldn't manage it. He pressed his lips together and nearly whimpered when he couldn't even muster enough saliva to wet them with his tongue.
"Easy there, pard," the voice said just before something soft was pressed against his mouth.
A damp rag dabbed at his lips several times before it moved over the rest of his face. When it washed away the crustiness around his eyes it dawned on him he hadn't tried to open them. Perhaps now that they didn't feel as if they'd been glued shut he could manage to crack them enough to see who was wiping his neck and arms. Concentrating his attention on his eyelids, he finally felt them flutter open and saw a large dark silhouette, backlit by daylight, looming over his upper body.
He heard the gentle voice begin to mumble words of worry. When he realized the concern was meant for him he made an effort to reassure whoever was there he was fine. He tried to lick his lips again and drew a careful breath, then relaxed and tried to speak. The words he'd chosen in his mind left his mouth a garbled mess, but at least whoever was fretting over him stopped rubbing his skin with that cold rag and came closer for him to see. It took several seconds to focus on the face beaming down, but when he saw who it was he felt an overwhelming relief wash over him.
"B-Buck?" he asked, making sure he wasn't dreaming.
A hand came to the side of his head and moved it just a little so he was actually facing his friend and not the dark blob, presumably a piece of furniture, over his shoulder. A wide grin greeted him as he clearly made out the man's features. "Yeah, pard, it's me," Buck said, a nervous chuckle betraying his fear. "How do ya feel?"
The gunfighter thought about it for a second. "Like hell. What happened?"
"You passed out while Nathan was diggin' for that slug you caught."
A look Buck had seen many times crossed Chris' face.
"I know you're pissed we didn't keep you awake, but I reckon your body had other plans."
"Ezra!" Larabee cried as memory returned. He tried to pull away from the well-meaning cowboy and get off the cot he'd been laid on, but Buck's hands were instantly, and successfully, pushing him back to the thin mattress.
"Whoa there, he's right here."
"I-I heardhim screaming," Chris said, his brain still fuzzy.
"You probably did, Nathan and Vin worked on those feet of his for a long time," Buck replied, looking sadly over at the man on the bed.
Chris followed his friend's gaze and caught sight of Ezra, looking very small amongst the large number of pillows and blankets piled around him. His face was drawn and pale in the afternoon light and the dark chestnut hair matted to his forehead emphasized how completely drained of life he was. Dark circles beneath his eyes attested to the gambler's lack of sleep and the convulsive twitches in his arm and legs, visible even from where he lay, bore evidence as to how much pain he felt despite being unconscious.
"H-how bad?" he asked.
Wilmington tore his eyes from Ezra and set about rewetting the cloth in his hand.
"Buck, how bad?
The ladies man reached the cloth to Larabee's brow, but Chris weakly grabbed the arm in his face and moved the rag away. "Tell me."
Buck hadn't wanted to add to the guilt his friend had assumed, but knew he couldn't keep Ezra's condition a secret. "One of his feet wasn't cut too deeply. Nathan pulled the glass out without much trouble and stitched up the worst gashes."
"And his other foot?"
"His right foot was hurt worse. The glass pieces were larger and deeper. Some were broke off inside and Nathan had to cut into him to get 'em out. The knife wounds were… more vicious, and…"
Chris waited for Buck to finish.
"And his ankle's broken."
"Broken? I thought they used a bottle and a knife. How did his ankle get broken?"
"It must have happened after I left," Nathan said bleakly as he entered the room from the back and moved to Ezra's bedside. He felt the gambler's face and checked his eyes before he shook his head and took up a seat next to Buck. "I suspected it was broke when you brought him in."
"But how?"
"From the looks of the bruising on his lower leg, I'd say it was stomped. I found marks on him shaped a lot like the heal of a boot."
"Stomped?" Chris repeated angrily as he sat up on the cot, this time roughly shoving Buck's groping hands aside. "To stomp a man you have to have him on the floor. You mean after they mutilated his feet, they dumped him in the floor and deliberately stomped on him?"
Nathan rose from his chair and pushed on the gunfighter's shoulders trying to keep him from leaving the cot. "Chris, sit down before you bust those stitches I put in ya!"
"So help me, when I catch those bastards…" He was so angry he couldn't see straight, but anger could only carry him so far before he began to shake beneath the healer's hands and dropped back onto the cot. He reached out to grab at Buck's shoulder to steady himself before he tilted forward.
"Just keep still, Chris, you ain't in any shape to take on the Nichols right now."
"Why, Nathan, why do that to him?"
"Chris, these people have a way of thinkin' that's so far outside normal I can't begin to know why. The best I can figure is they wanted to break him, to teach him a lesson for crossin' 'em. I just got back from settin' John Nichol's arm over at the jail. That boy ain't right in the head or the heart. Josiah's been tryin' to talk to him, to make him understand that what he and his family've done was wrong and that he's in serious trouble, but he ain't listenin'. He just keeps spoutin' off about how we're all gonna pay."
The gunfighter shook violently, both from fury and pain. "Damn it, how could I let this happen?"
"Aint' none of this your fault, Chris," Buck said.
"Yes, Buck, it is. If I'd paid more attention to the situation here in town instead of runnin' off with Hank, I'd've known what the Nichols were up to. I'd've seen Ezra had set himself up and been here to stop what was bound to happen." He rubbed at his face. "My God, what they did to him."
"What 'they' did to him, Chris, it wasn't you. You couldn't have known what their aim was."
"Has he come to yet, Nathan?" he asked into his hand, not raising his head.
"No, he's been outta his head mostly. Every time we doctor his wounds, he thinks he's bein' tortured again."
"So he doesn't even realize he's safe now." Chris heard the room go silent and looked up at the two men beside him. "What? He is safe now, right? He ain't gonna die."
Seeing the gunfighter was about to launch himself from the cot again, Nathan put a reassuring hand on his arm and said, "No, Chris, it ain't that. If we can get his fever down and prevent more infection from settin' in I think we can get him through this."
"You think?"
"I can only treat what I see. Some of the things he's sayin' in his sleep worry me; they messed with him pretty bad. We're just gonna have to watch him and take it one step at a time."
"Then there's something else," Chris said, getting so riled Buck moved next to him on the cot and put an arm around his shoulder to hold him still. "Stop playin' games, just tell me."
"It's no game, Chris," Buck answered. "There've been two fires in town since last night. Vin's gathered some of the town folk to help put them out."
"The Nichols, the three who escaped mean to terrorize the town. So help me, I'm puttin' an end to that family now." He tried desperately to get up but his friend was prepared. The hand around his shoulder grabbed his bare upper arm while the other pressed firmly against his chest. "Damn it, Buck, let go!"
"No way, you're as weak as a newborn, you ain't goin' nowhere. Besides that, you seem to be forgettin' that the Nichols are most likely gonna come after you before anybody. "
"I reckon I deserve what I get."
Buck felt a cold dread run through him at the sound of those mumbled words. "You don't really believe that, it's just the fever talkin'. You know none of this is your fault. If Hank had had a better grip on reality…"
"If Sarah and Adam hadn't died he'd of had a better grip! He was right, Buck, I wasn't there to protect them."
"Neither was he, neither was I. I loved them too, Chris, I loved them like they were my own family. That little boy of yours, he was as near to having a son as I'm ever likely to know. I understand your guilt -- hell, I share it. I was the one who talked you into stayin' that extra day."
"It was my respons … my responsibility," he stuttered, "not yours!" Chris leaned forward and tried to pull free as he worked an arm over the hand holding his chest. He yanked hard but was quickly reminded by a tearing pain in his stomach that he'd just had a bullet removed. He doubled over suddenly and would have fallen to the floor had Buck not caught him.
"Dang it, Chris, you gotta stop this," Buck yelled as he shoved his friend back onto the cot.
Nathan moved in and quickly scooped Chris' feet onto the mattress. He held them and watched as Buck bent down and once again grabbed his wrists.
"Listen to me, pard, and listen good," Wilmington said firmly. "You need to stay down and let me do the worryin' right now. I swear to you, ain't no one here planning on lettin' the Nichols get away with what they've done. This ain't just your fight any more, it's ours. They hurt one of our own. Ain't nobody doin' that and getting away with it. You got that?"
Chris wanted to answer, but couldn't. He hurt so badly he couldn't manage much more than a groan and a fist slammed against the frame of the cot.
Buck shook his head, put his hands on his hips and turned to Nathan. "You think we oughta tie 'im to the bed?"
"Only if the bed's nailed to the floor."
Buck ran a hand through his dark brown hair. "What are we gonna do with him? He ain't gonna stop tryin' to catch the Nichols no matter how much danger he puts himself in."
"Then I reckon we best be tryin' to stop the Nichols. If he keeps this up, we won't have to worry about them killin' him, he'll do it himself."
Wilmington agreed and wondered where he could find some large nails.
TBC
A/N: A big hug to everyone who read and reviewed! I appreciate the support more than you'll ever know!