The Price of Prosperity
The Second Half

Part 16:

“Yeah, sure,” Mort Calendar, the liveryman, stated.  “I remember him.  Paid me pretty good for the first two days, but run out on his tab for the last day.”

“He what?” Buck inquired.

Mort nodded.  “Yeah, he was real particular about how his horse was t’be treated.”

“And run out on his bill?” Nathan sighed, not understanding what was driving Standish.

Mort shrugged.  “It happens.  I was lookin’ forward to a tip he’d promised me.  Didn’t get it.  Typical, I guess.”

“When’d he go?” Vin asked, gazing at each of the animals currently in residence on the chance that Chaucer was still around.

“Well, he was supposed to be leavin’ Thursday morning, but didn’t leave until night.  Run the bill up a bit that way, too.”  Mort snorted in irritation.  “Always tryin’ to screw over the little guy.  I gotta make a living, ya know?”

JD looked puzzled.  “Sure it was Thursday night?”  The dates just weren’t making sense.

“Yep,” Mort said, nodding his head with certainty.  “I know ‘cause that was the same day that Mr. Kyle got attacked in the alley right over there.” He gestured to one side of the stable.

“Mr. Kyle?”  Nathan tried.

“Some travelin’ fella.  Musta just got into town and someone jumped him… just like Jock Hammish.  ‘Least he didn’t get killed like Jock, but got hurt real bad.  Doc figures he’d been left in that alley for hours before someone finally found him.  Mr. Patterson’s been taking care of Mr. Kyle since then.”

“Seems to be a crime wave,” Buck declared.

Mort nodded.  “Yeah, it ain’t right.  We’re tryin’ to make this a respectable place.  Ain’t right that stuff like this keeps happening.”  Mort sighed, resignedly.

“Know anything about Kyle?” Buck asked.

“Hell, no one knows nothing about him.  Musta traveled with someone though, because he didn’t have no horse.  Hardly anyone saw him except for Clawson who found him, and Doc and Patterson.  Oh, and the man who beat and robbed him, of course.”  Mort shook his head.  “Lots of strange stuff going on lately.  Someone ran off with one of my hacks last night, too.   I can’t afford that!   Just ain’t right.”

Vin wandered out of the livery and was outside before Buck and Nathan noted his movements.

“Thanks,” Buck said, nodding to the livery keeper.  “Be sure to let us know if you see that chestnut horse again, okay?”  He handed Mort a coin to ensure he remembered.  Then, he and Nathan followed Vin through the door, stopping to grab a lantern when Tanner shouted that he needed one.

“Whoo boy!” Buck exclaimed as he glanced down the unpleasant alleyway where Vin had disappeared.  “What you doin’ down here, Vin?”

The tracker had moved into the dark depths of the alley.  “This is where that man got attacked,” Vin explained.

“It didn’t have anythin’ to do with Ezra,” Nathan said with a sigh as he carefully stepped through the debris.

“Yeah, but things ain’t right in Prosperity,” Vin responded.  “Things just ain’t right.”  He waited for the others to bring the light. He smiled as the illumination revealed clues.  Pointing to the ruts in the dirt, he stated,  “Someone got dragged in.  Got roughed up here.  Was dragged back a ways.  Had no boots when he got pulled back.  Two men,” he decided, and then squatted down when he noticed balls of paper – obviously left there recently – the paper wasn’t nearly as weathered as anything else in that space.  He picked them up and shoved them into his pocket. 

Buck leaned against a rain barrel and watched the tracker at his work.  Wilmington sighed, thinking that this was an awful place to be ambushed.  As he scrutinized the narrow space, he glanced into the rain barrel and frowned.  Holding the lantern above the water, he noticed something in the depths.  He plunged one hand into the water and came up with a sodden boot.

Nathan was beside him to take it from his hands.  Jackson squinted at the well-made but ruined footwear.  He watched as Buck dredged up its mate.  “Used to be a nice boot,” Nathan stated, turning the boot to let the water run out.  “Hard to tell now, though.”

Vin grabbed the other from Buck and grimaced.  “I don’t like this,” he stated.  “Don’t like this at all.”

Nathan rubbed his chin and nodded.  “Just cause a man got attacked here doesn’t mean that Ezra had anything to do with it,” the healer stated.  “You think Ezra did this?”

“No!”  Vin said sharply.  He made an irritated sound and then stated, “Nothing about this feels right.”


Part 17:

“Oh yes,” Ma Bailey said.  “I remember him.”  She nodded at the memory of the green-eyed man.  “He come through here a few days ago. Paid cash money.  I got no qualms with him.”

Chris questioned, “When you see him last?”

“Thursday morning,” the old woman told them curtly.  “I remember because that was the same day Mr. Kyle got attacked.”  The men nodded at this bit of information.  They had heard it before.  Everyone in town seemed to judge time according to the day that Kyle and Hammish were beaten in their alleyways.

“What was he buyin’?” JD tried.

“He was fixin’ to travel,” Ma said confidently.  “Packed his purchases into his saddlebags.”

“Sure it was morning?” JD inquired.

The old woman laughed.  “I haven’t lost my memory yet.”

Josiah smiled and asked, “Did he say where he was going?”

“No,” she replied.  “I don’t get paid any extra for chatting.  Now, are you boys here to buy anything?”

JD started rooting through some of the bins near her counter.  “Sure we can find somethin’,” he responded.  He settled a packet of matches counter and pulled out his coin purse.

Ma Bailey grimaced when the young man pulled out a couple pennies, so JD picked up a box of cartridges and she became more chatty.  “He seemed distracted about something… troubled.  Didn’t have much to say to me, but I can tell that something was wrong.  Did he make it to wherever he was headed?”

“I don't know,” Josiah responded solemnly.  “He didn’t come home.”

“That’s a sad thing,” she responded.  “Things just haven’t been right around here lately.  You’d think that since we were coming up in the world, we’d have a better quality of people here.”  She sighed soberly.  “First Mr. Hammish was killed, and then Mr. Kyle was hurt.  Now your friend is gone.”  Her bird-bright eyes fastened on Chris’ smoldering blue-green ones.  “It seems that things have just gone wrong here.  I hope you find your friend.”

“We’re trying,” Josiah assured.  He touched the brim of his hat, and nodded to the others.  Time to move on.  They exited the little store and stood for a moment on the boardwalk, contemplating their next stop when the other three of their party came toward them.  Nathan was carrying dripping boots.  Buck followed, a few steps behind after dropping a lantern off at the livery.

Chris pursed his lips, and waited for an explanation. “Found ‘em,” Nathan said.  “Probably belonged to a fella named Kyle.  Got attacked in that alley.”

“Figure that has something to do with Ezra?” Chris asked.

With an unhappy shrug, Vin stated, “Might have somethin’ to do with what got him so upset with all of us.”  He pulled out a handful of paper balls from his pocket and held them out.  “These might tell us somethin’.”

Larabee plucked one of the mutilated notes from Tanner’s hand and pressed it out flat against his palm.  The others watched as Chris’ face drained of color -- before turning red with rage.  Buck, understanding that look better than any of them, pressed an arm across JD’s chest, forcing him out of the way before Chris barreled past them, like a locomotive at full steam -- mainlining it to the telegraph office.

Josiah grabbed at the paper as it fell. “It says it’s from Chris,” Josiah muttered as he scrutinized the note.  “To Ezra.”   His chin dropped as he read it to himself.

“Well, what’s it say?” JD demanded to know, grabbing hold of the preacher’s arm, but failing to move it.

Josiah closed his eyes woefully, before he could open them again and read aloud what the wire had said: “I’D RATHER SHOOT MYSELF THAN SIT DOWN TO DRINKS WITH YOU.  YOU HAVE PROVEN YOUR WORTHLESSNESS. STAY IN PROSPERITY.  NOBODY HERE WANTS YOU BACK.”

Buck took off first, striding after Larabee with Vin quick on his heels.  Nathan, Josiah and JD were right behind them.

Larabee burst through the door of the telegraph office before the others could catch up to him.  At the abrupt entrance, the boy behind the counter jumped to his feet.  The kid gave out a terrified gasp as the gunslinger reached over the counter to grab hold of his shirt and haul him across.  The kid’s shoes clattered on the counter as he was pulled over it. The rest of the lawmen dove through the doorway and latched onto the man-in-black before he could do anything else.

“Chris!” Buck shouted.  “Hang on, now!  It’s just a kid!”

Larabee’s eyes burned bright as coals as he shook the boy.  “What the hell’s goin’ on?” he shouted.

Rattled, the boy could only close his eyes, grit his teeth, and pray that he’d survive this.

Between the three of them, Buck, Nathan and Josiah were able to peel Bert out of Larabee’s hands and separate them – also managing to trap the boy in one corner of the small office.

Josiah shook the note in front of the boy’s face.  “Who wrote this?” he demanded darkly.

Bert glanced at the note and squeaked, “It come from a Mr. Larabee.”

Buck kept his body between Chris and the boy, narrowly keeping Larabee from grabbing hold of the kid again.  “I didn’t send those words!”  Larabee shouted.  “It wasn’t me!”

The boy cowered, and Josiah shoved the note at him again.  “Who WROTE it,” Sanchez tried again.  “Who took the message and wrote it down.”

“Mr. Harper,” the boy told him.  “Mr. Harper done that.”

“Oh God,” JD muttered.  He had taken the rest of the balled up papers from Vin and was unrolling them on the counter.  “Chris, you gotta see these.”  He glanced up at the gunslinger, looking nearly as frightened as Bert.

The gunslinger glanced down at the papers, as JD continued to unroll them and put them in chronological order.  All were sent Thursday morning.  “Son of a bitch,” Larabee growled, feeling sick as he read the words that had supposedly come from him .  “I want the message logs!” The gunslinger ordered.  “I want to see what came and went from this office.”

Grateful to get out from under all those angry men, Bert darted under the fold up counter and grabbed the log.  He shoved it across to Larabee, who in turn pushed it toward JD.  The young sheriff started riffling through the pages, trying to find what he was looking for.  “Ain’t here,” JD told him as he scanned through the messages from that day. “I can’t find any of the messages we got from Ezra either.”

Larabee nodded sharply, as if expecting it.  “There any other record?” he asked.

Shaking, the boy nodded and pulled a pad from his pocket.  “Just what I got here,” he said.  “I make copies sometimes.”  Expecting disapproval, he told them, “I got one pad that I give to Mr. Harper and another I keep for myself.  Mr. Harper blames me for lost messages so I read ‘em and then write ‘em down in my own book so I know what I’ve done.”  He handed the book over to JD.   “I got a good memory,” he tried to explain.  “I got the notes for Mr. Standish up until he left town.”

This time, Larabee took the pad before JD could lay hands on it, and started thumbing through the pages.  There, written in Bert’s simple handwriting, were all the messages he had taken and delivered over the past few days -- and laid out so that it was easy to see -- was the progression of telegrams that had come from and gone to Ezra Standish.

“Son of a bitch,” Chris murmured as he flipped pages.  “Nearly every one,” Larabee commented.  “Goddamn!  Faked!”  He flung the pad at Buck.  “He tried to talk to me!” Chris yelled at Wilmington, needing someone to hear him.  “Goddamn it!  He wanted to fix things and just got shit in return.”

Buck didn’t reply.  He held the notebook, and watched his friend carefully.

Larabee turned his attention on Bert again.  “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Bert cried, pressing himself against the far wall.  “I just deliver ‘em.  I didn’t understand it either.” His gaze flitted amongst angry and concerned men.  “I liked ‘im.  He gave me good tips.”

“Where’s Harper?” Chris demanded to know.

“Gone fishing,” Bert sobbed.  “He’s rented a mount from Morty and went fishing.”

Chris shoved his way toward the exit in the crowded room, pausing when he noted the wet boots that Nathan still carried.  “Kyle,” he muttered.  He swung back toward the kid and asked, “What do you know about this Mr. Kyle.”

“Nothing,” the boy exclaimed.  “Ain’t been any wires for him.  Mr. Clawson found him in the alley and that was the first anyone saw of him.  He got beat real bad.  Doc had to patch him up and Mr. Patterson took him in after that.  Guess he’s still at the Payroll.”

Chris jerked his head at Nathan.  “Check on it,” he told the healer.  “Josiah and JD, go with him.  With all the crap that’s been going on, I want to know if Kyle saw anything.  Buck, Vin, you’re coming with me.”  And he barged through the doorway.

The remaining five exchanged glances and then departed the room, leaving the telegraph office with Bert huddled in the corner.


Part 18:

“Damn it!”  Harper swore.  “Goddamn stupid horse!”  The sorrel mare that he’d been tracking looked up from her comfortable spot near a stand of trees.   She was alone -- no rider.  Harper had been following a rider-less horse for hours! “Son of a bitch!”  he screamed as he approached her.  She strode away from him, not liking the tone of his voice.  He jabbed at his mount, kicking him forward until he could grab the mare’s loose reins.  She stared at him balefully.  I’ll bring her back, he figured.  Surely Mort would have a reward for the lost animal -- so, if nothing else -- he could make a few dollars off this adventure.  There were, of course, other rewards that he’d yet to reap.

He jerked his horse’s head around to retrace the path he had followed.  The mare ponied unhappily beside them.

“Goddamn it!” Frank cursed through gritted teeth.   “The little shit thought he’d get the best of me!  Well, he’ll pay for that.”  Damn it!  Harper groaned to himself, he could have been flaying that gambler by now.  Could have staked him out and been knifing him slowly -- strangling him -- breaking little bones.  Frank had been growing more aroused with every passing moment as he tracked that horse -- and now to have lost that -- to have been outwitted by that concussed son-of-a-bitch was nearly more than he could stand!

He knew what must have happened.  Harper had thought himself to be very clever when he noticed where the horse had taken a detour into a canyon.  He’d disliked the idea of following down that steep slope.  When he spotted where the horse had come back out, he had complimented himself at avoiding that unnecessary route – thought he’d outfoxed the tricky gambler -- but now he cursed himself.  If he’d only been cautious enough to check -- he’d be having fun already.

God! He’d wanted to make Standish suffer.  He tugged at the sweaty reins as he thought about the delicious pleasure that came from giving pain.  Before, he’d only had stray cats and such to relieve this need, but since he’d encountered Jock in that alley, since he beat his lifeless body to a pulp -- he’d envisioned doing the same to a living man.

When Guy came to him with the ‘wild idea’ of getting a professional gambler for his saloon -- Frank had been happy to provide the means of making that happen.  The fact that this idea had failed, was an annoyance, but that unpleasantness was balanced by the pleasure that would come when he shut up Standish for good.

Oh yes, he’d make Standish hurt -- kill him by degrees.  Frank felt his heart quicken at the thought, and an almost sexual pleasure reached him as he imagined what torture he could inflict.  He laughed to himself as his horse hurried back, feeling giddy.  Standish would be his first great experiment.  He’d get to play.

Others would follow.  He licked his lips, anticipating it.


Part 19:

Patterson was gone by the time Josiah, Nathan and JD returned to the Payroll, but the new barkeeper had helpfully told them where to find Mr. Kyle’s room.  They’d learned that Patterson had kept Kyle in the best room -- and in utter privacy.  No one had been allowed to enter that room with the exception of Doc Haley, who had paid his occasional visits, and Patterson , who checked up on him from time to time.

JD knocked cordially.  When there was no response, he knocked harder, and called out.  When only silence was returned, Josiah made a sound, low like the snort of a bull, and charged, shoulder, first at the door.  JD barely had enough time to step out of the way.  He flinched as the door was torn from it’s hinges and Sanchez flung it out of his way.

“Guess that works,” Nathan said softly, ducking into the room before someone came to investigate.  He hoped to find some answers from Kyle regarding Ezra -- but the room was empty.

“Thought Kyle was sick,” JD muttered, looking to Nathan.

The healer shrugged.  “Must have moved him somewhere else,” he decided.

Sun slanted in though narrow gaps left by the shaded windows.  It was a quiet and stark room.  Someone had convalesced there.  They found used bandages in one untidy corner, and an empty bottle of carbolic acid.  A tray of forgotten food sat on a table, buzzing with flies.

Josiah frowned, upset at this lost chance of finding answers, feeling embarrassed at his battering-ram entrance.  “We should go,” he said softly.

JD, not ready to give up, stooped beside a waste pail and tipped it over -- letting now-familiar crumpled balls of paper roll to the carpet.  He pulled one from the collection, looking up at the other two men cautiously.  Nathan sighed and Josiah nodded.  Dunne pressed one of the papers against his knee, revealing yet another telegram.

“It’s the message I sent to Ezra,” Dunne uttered, not surprised at this revelation.  Both Josiah and Nathan let out a breath.  “You think that Mr. Kyle is really Ezra?”  JD asked them, not really needed a response.

Josiah closed his eyes, trying to understand what was going on.  “It would seem so, JD,” he answered quietly.  Nathan looked at the discarded bandages with new interest.

JD brought one hand to his mouth as he read the message that supposedly came from him.  “I didn’t…” he started, looking to Josiah as if he expected the preacher to disbelieve him.  “I didn’t say this!” he declared.

Nathan was beside Dunne in a moment, squatting on the floor, picking up wads of paper and pulling them open.  He gasped when he read another note that Ezra had received, addressed from Nathan Jackson.  He handed the messages to Josiah.  There was little doubt now – Ezra was the one beaten in that alleyway.  Ezra was Reginald Kyle.  Why else would these discarded messages be here?  It started to make sense now – it was all falling into place.  They read silently, wondering how hopeless Ezra has been -- beaten and alone in this room -- receiving such messages.

“Oh God,” JD murmured, rubbing a sleeve under his nose.  “This is horrible!  They’re worse than those first ones.  God, Nate, he’d think we’d gun him down after reading these.  Why?”

“I don’t know, JD,” Nathan responded sadly as he read another poison-pen missive.  He remembered how the message he’d received from ‘Ezra’ had scalded him.  Now, he felt a certain relief figuring that those messages received in Four Corners had been false as well, but at least he’d had the others around him when he’d read those words.  Ezra had had no one.

Josiah moved away from the other two as JD purposefully arranged the messages in their proper order -- wanting to see things as Ezra had.  Sanchez, on the other hand, wanted to see no more.  He glanced about the room with sad eyes, wondering how Ezra must have felt.  How badly was he hurt?  Why was he using the name “Kyle”?  What had gone so hopelessly wrong?

He sat down on the bed, watching JD as he did his busy work, watching Nathan as he stood to examine the discarded bandages.   Josiah chose not to watch too carefully -- not wanting to see the rusty traces of blood.  So he glanced at the ceiling, looked toward the shaded window, observed the furniture and unadorned walls and finally stared at his hands.

It was a quiet and lonely room, Josiah thought.  If the bartender was to be believed, Ezra had received only occasional attention.  He’d been left alone here with his hurts -- both from the beating and from those messages.

When Josiah looked again at JD and Nathan, they were still at their tasks, moving about pointlessly, as if they’d run out of ways to prolong the work.  He stood abruptly.  “I’m going to find Doc Haley,” Sanchez stated before he strode out of the room.

JD carefully placed the discarded messages into his pocket with the others that had been found in the alley, and followed with Nathan right behind.

They found the doctor asleep in his office, a bottle of rotgut clutched to his belly.  Rousing him took longer than expected and the effort provided them with little result.  Haley’s descriptions of the patient contradicted itself, as well as the list of injuries.  They learned little beyond the fact that Haley was a besotted quack.  Had Kyle spoken to him at all?  No, Kyle was unconscious most of the time.   Either that, or he’d been white-faced with pain when Haley changed the bandages -- so he didn’t have much to say on that occasion.  Giving up on Haley, Josiah and the others set their sights on finding Patterson.  The saloon owner should certainly give them some interesting information.


Part 20:

Vin kept the group at a brisk pace -- following a trail that the liveryman had pointed out to them.  Vin watched the tracks carefully, noting that two horses had passed this way.  Harper was following the first horse as it meandered.  The tracker narrowed his eyes, coming to his own conclusion regarding Harper’s behavior.

He kept Peso at a quick pace, knowing that Larabee was hot behind him.  He could almost feel Chris’ breath at his neck as they tracked down the telegraph operator.  Vin had no idea why the man had sent those false dispatches, but he had a good idea regarding why he followed this other horse.

Chris kept close behind the tracker. His anger had changed.  No longer was he pissed off at Standish or disgusted with himself.  Now, he had a new target -- Frank Harper.  Few men had dared to anger Chris Larabee to this extent.  He knew that the messages had been delivered with a purpose -- to hurt Ezra -- to hurt them -- to divide them.  He wanted answers.  Harper would have to do some fast explaining to stay alive.

Buck followed his friends, taking up the rear -- but keeping an eye on both of them.  He knew Chris well enough to expect an explosion from him.   He only hoped that he could restrain Larabee from killing Harper at first sight.  Maybe Harper had a reason for what he did.  Maybe it was all a ruse orchestrated by Standish.  Who knows what sort of ideas ran through that con man’s brain?  Once they found Harper, they might have a clue as to where Ezra went after leaving Prosperity.

They kept moving.


Part 21:

Ezra struggled.  He crawled alongside the little creek that cut down the center of the canyon -- crawled because his legs wouldn’t hold him -- because his head spun when he tried to lift it -- because he was so hot and tired and shook so badly he couldn’t find any other way to move.  He crawled because he had to keep moving.  He had to reach Four Corners.

What was wrong there?  He had no clue -- only the thrumming knowledge that something was very wrong.  The telegrams should have given him a clue to the danger, but he’d lost them and had no mind for remembering exactly what they stated.

His vision twisted and dimmed.  His arms trembled as they tried to hold his weight.  His chest ached as he drew in air, but he kept moving because he had to.  He paused from time to time, resting on his elbows as he drank from the stream.  His thirst would not abate, no matter how many times he rested, how often he drank.  Every time he stopped, it would be a struggle to get moving again -- but he couldn’t stop.

The sun beat down on him, increasing his thirst, wearing him down, burning him.

Finally, exhausted, his eyes glanced upon a recess in the rocks -- a little overhang with patch of shade beneath.  Licking his lips, he tried to come to a decision.  Should he rest there a while, or keep going?  He needed to keep moving, of course.  If he were to stop, he might never get up again.  He stared at the little strip of shade -- lusting after it as he trembled. 

He tried to struggle forward, but his tired arms would carry him no further.  He collapsed in a heap beside the running water.  He lay there, listening to it, watching the sun glint off the surface, until he realized that there’d be no hope for him if he remained in the sun -- in his condition.

He cupped his hand in the water and brought it to his mouth, then brought another handful to his head, washing his too-hot face.  He had to get out of the sun if he wanted to continue this quest.  To keep moving like this would be to die.

With a tired sigh, he forced himself up again and shuffled toward the shade.  His legs hardly wanted to move anymore, his arms strained to drag him forward.  His aching back strained as he kept moving.  His head ached miserably.  Finally, he moved into the little piece of shadow and lowered himself to the ground.

Oh God, it felt good to be still -- to stop trying to move onward.  He buried his head against his arms, wondering if a man could be any hotter.  The creek might make a better resting place.  He gazed out at the water and contemplated making the change in position, but the harsh sun kept him in place.

Ezra closed his eyes.  “Just for a moment,” he muttered to himself.  “And I’ll be moving again.”  Four Corners, after all, needed him -- didn’t it?  The words returned to him -- messages rattled off via telegraph – they hadn’t been legitimate, right?  Had Larabee gone off his rocker?  Had the whole town changed?  Did they really want him gone?  It made no sense… it made no sense at all… and trying to think it through increased the throbbing his head.

It was better to lie here, quietly, and think of nothing -- nothing outside of the noise the creek made as it trickled past.  Where were they?  Why hadn’t they come for him?

Ah yes… yes… he remembered.

Rest was the only thing he had left.  He felt so alone… so totally alone.  There was no one to help him now.


Part 22:

Frank backtracked, light-headed with excitement.  He’d finally made his way to the little canyon that he’d avoided earlier.  Almost there, he promised himself.  Gonna get that son of a bitch.  Gonna get him good.  It hardly mattered what Standish had done anymore -- the fact that someone was hurt and alone in the desert was like an aphrodisiac to Harper.  He’d get to kill a man… take all the time he wanted.

He was dizzy with the idea of it.  He imagined what a knife would feel like when it was plunged into a man’s living body.  Would the knife throb with each heartbeat?  Would it be like cutting up a roast for dinner?   Would it be like slicing up bread dough?  The bastard would beg – and Harper would laugh.

He pictured himself pressing his hand over Standish’s mouth to keep him from screaming -- imagining he’d block the damn gambler’s air until he nearly passed out.  What would the Reb’s eyes look like?  Stark with terror?  Could a man actually see the soul leave the eyes when he’d finished the job? He delighted in the fact that Standish was already sick and unable to fight him.  Jock Hammish had been a problem.  Jock was strong -- he had to be taken down quickly and that took away all the fun.

Yes, he should remember to seek out the sick, the hurt, the weak.  Those that couldn’t fight back would make the best targets -- just like the tender animals he liked to torture.  He had to hurry…hurry before Standish died on his own.  That would be so unfair!  Frank adjusted himself in the saddle as he kicked at the horse, worried that he’d miss out.  Every second he delayed was time wasted.

He jerked the horse to a stop when he came to the creek and he smiled when he noted the new trail, left by that escaping man after he’d lost his horse.  “Thought you could trick me.  You ain’t so smart.  Won’t get away from me.”

He couldn’t get a comfortable seat in his saddle anymore as the horse jogged along, as he closed in on his quarry.  He must be close.  He panted, exhilarated, as he thumbed his knife’s hilt.  Almost there!  He rubbed at his face, scratched at his neck, trying to calm himself -- not wanting to calm down -- loving every second of this feeling -- wanting it only to build.  I must be getting closer!  I must!  He’d burst if it took much longer.

He paused when he saw the little overhang and the body beneath it.  Goddamn, he better not be dead!  He climbed down stiffly from his saddle and nearly danced with anticipation.  Standish!  He’d found the little shit! He was there!  Only one thing would complete this – satisfy all his desires.  He squatted down beside the body and reached out -- grabbing at the man’s neck and holding it to see if a pulse still lived there.

Harper’s eyelids fluttered with exhilaration as he felt that pulse, as the man moaned and tried to twist away.   Standish was hot as hell, sick almost to death, but alive.  Helpless and alive.  Perfect!  Frank laughed gaily, adjusting his hold so that he clutched at Ezra’s windpipe.  Standish’s eyes flew open as one hand stuck out at Frank, dislodging his hold.  Harper laughed again as Standish looked back at him with feverish, wild eyes.

“Now just hold on there, partner.”  Frank gave a friendly smile.  “Howdy, my name’s Frank and I’m here to help ya with somethin’.”

“What?” Ezra asked, confused.  “Get away.  Go.”  He waved off Harper, and rolled over.  Frank chuckled as the man struggled to get to his hands and knees.

“Where you headed, pard?” he asked civilly.

“Four Corners,” Ezra responded automatically.  “Gotta get there.  Gotta go.  Must keep moving.”

“Well now,” Frank chortled.  “Why you want to go there?”

Ezra glanced to him, looking startled, as if he’d forgotten about Harper’s presence.  “They need me,” he uttered.

Frank furrowed his brow, wondering how in the hell Standish came to that conclusion.  “Well, you are a stupid turd, ain’t cha?” he growled.  It was as he feared.  Their whole plan would have come apart if he hadn’t chased the Reb down.  Standish would never see that town again -- he wouldn’t even see another hour.  Damn him!  Standish would have ruined everything.  Gonna make him suffer for that.  “They think you’re nothin’ better than a pile of shit.   They figure you’re a worthless son of a bitch, a conniving bastard.  Ain’t worth a bucket of piss,” Harper spat out.

Ezra flinched, raising himself off his elbows, and pulling himself forward.  “Maybe.  Got t’go,” Ezra responded, as his vision narrowed, as he shook with the effort of continuing.  He had to keep moving.  He couldn’t give up.

“They all know you ain’t worth having around,” Frank continued, as he slowly drew his knife from its sheath.  He fingered it, holding it so that Ezra couldn’t see it.  Not that Ezra could -- Standish looked out at a world spotted with white.  “They don’t want you.” Frank breathed, crouching down beside Ezra as Standish, on hands and knees, kept pulling himself forward, toward Four Corners.  “They’d rather you die so that they wouldn’t have to look at you.  They’d rather someone beat your brains in so that you’d never show your face there again.  Don’t want to bother with burying you.”

Ezra blinked at the sweat that filled his eyes.  His head was becoming heavier as Frank kneeled beside him.

“They don’t want you,” Frank said, grinning.  “They’d never want you back.”  He reached around the crawling man, draping one arm over his back, and wrapping it around him in a strange hug.  Standish was easily restraining him.  “You ain’t worth shit to them.”

Confused at his inability to move forward, Ezra could only stop and pant.  The world was giving up to the white splotches and he could hardly hold himself up.  He leaned forward, letting Frank hold him up.

Harper tightened his grip on the knife, bringing it around until he pressed the tip against Ezra’s belly.  He smiled, feeling hot and excited as he kept a tight hold on Standish, not letting him fall.  A gut wound didn’t kill right off, he figured.  It would give him time to have some fun, to play a bit.  He leaned closer and, as intimately as a lover, whispered into Ezra’s ear, “Everyone just wants you to die.  Why don’t you?”

A buzzing filled Ezra’s head and he hardly felt the blade pressed against his skin.


Part 23:

The gunshot seemed so incongruent to Harper that he couldn’t immediately register what it meant.  He was so intent on plunging the knife slowly into Standish’s gut that the real world no longer existed.  It was only when the voice boomed, “Get the hell up!” that he realized he’d been discovered.  Frustrated as an interrupted lover, he spun to his feet, dropping the knife to the ground.

Three men, with guns drawn, looked down from their horses.  Frank smiled, letting his arms hang at his sides as he looked up at the strangers.  “Is there a problem?” he asked innocently, trying to calm his voice. He’d been SO CLOSE!  He trembled with irritation.  Beside him, Ezra, turned in the opposite direction, had barely managed to keep from falling on his face.

“Get away from that man!” the mustached one shouted as he dismounted.

“Get yer hands up!” the longhaired one added.

Frank continued to grin congenially, following neither of their orders.  “I was just givin’ aid to my fellow man,” he said, gesturing to the shape that huddled beside him.  He kept Standish half-hidden.  Harper wasn’t a stupid man.  He’d heard enough news over the wire to recognize the men; he knew exactly who they were.  He also realized that his only way of surviving this predicament was to keep them from realizing who was beside him.  “I was givin’ him a helping hand.  He needed it.”

He could only keep himself positioned like this for so long.  With any luck, Larabee would shoot Standish upon recognition, but he couldn’t be certain.  No, it was a better idea to get away.  He had to go.  His heart still thudded with the excitement of the kill.  Blood raced through his veins.  He felt engorged.  His hands twitched, wishing he’d completed the deed...wishing these men had never found them.  A flush of disappointment caught him as he realized he would be unable to complete his fun.  His hands formed claws, imagining himself strangling Standish, wanting to do it even as these others watched.

“I said, get yer hands up!”  Vin repeated.

“Do it,” Larabee ordered, his voice as sharp as flint.

“I found him like this,” Harper continued, trying to still his motions, but needing to move.  “I was tryin’ to help ‘im out.”  He knew his voice was shaking.  He wanted to look down on Standish to see if he still lived, wanting to grab that knife again and plunge it into the southerner, but he couldn’t tear his gaze from the three men that approached him slowly. He had to do something about them first.

“Get yer goddamn hands up or I’ll shoot you where you stand!”

Ezra, kept his hands beneath him and tried to look over his shoulder to see who had spoken.  He could hardly hear above the rushing in his head.  The voices, familiar, were speaking harshly.  Hands up? Ezra glanced down as his own.  His arms quavered, so ready to let him drop.  They expect me to raise my hands? Larabee.  Larabee had come.  He tried to turn, feeling nauseous at the motion, looking to Frank as the telegraph operator’s hands reached to his belt.  There, Ezra watched as Harper’s hand closed on a derringer.  God, no!  Ezra thought…Chris!

“I ain’t gonna give you any trouble,” Frank continued to cry.  “Don’t hurt me!”

“Raise ‘em!”  Larabee ordered again, leaving no room for argument.

At those words, Frank pulled his hands from his side, but before the arms were able to raise, the man at his feet, swung about.

Buck, Chris and Vin were dumbfounded for a second as the downed man suddenly came to his knees.  He brought up a knife, swinging it in a wide arc, missing Harper, but forcing Frank to jump back.  Harper yelped in surprise, and brought a derringer to bear on the other man’s head.  Harper’s face contorted with rage.  Three shots were fired before Frank Harper could pull the trigger.

Frank choked, the gun dropping from his hands.  His eyes widened as he fell to his knees, blood pumping from three holes in his chest.  He choked again, blood coming to his lips and flowing down his chin.  For a moment, he tottered, then his eyes clouded and he collapsed onto the man he’d professed to be helping.

“Dammit!” Wilmington exhaled.  “What the hell’s going on?”  He leaped forward, and grabbed hold of the telegraph operator, lifting him away from the other man.  Harper gasped for a moment, a tongue darting at his red lips.  Then he stiffened before going limp in Buck’s grasp.  The Ladies’ man groaned as he dropped Harper to one side.  This isn’t the way they’d wanted it to end.  They needed answers from the man.

It was only after he had shoved Harper aside that he was able to recognize the man in the unfamiliar clothing.  “Oh, God,” Buck mumbled.  “Ezra.”

Vin said nothing, having already suspected what they’d find.  Ever since he realized that Harper was chasing down another horse—he’d expected that the telegraph man was tracking Ezra.  The fact that the trail initially headed toward Four Corners only strengthened that suspicion.

Chris stood above them, as Vin and Buck rolled Ezra onto his back, as Buck touched Ezra’s face with his hand.  “Hot as hell,” he declared.  “Ezra, what did you get yourself into?”

Ezra muttered indecipherably, his eyelids fluttering without opening.

Larabee toed at Harper’s body, angry that the man was killed so easily.  He had no doubts that Harper had something to do with Ezra’s current state, and now he’d get no answers.  He crouched down to retrieve the little gun -- recognizing it as Ezra’s.  He shoved it into his pocket, and wondered what else Harper had that belonged to Standish.

“S’okay, Ezra,” Buck cajoled as Vin soaked a cloth in the creek.  “We gotcha now.  We’ll take care of ya.”  Wilmington sat Ezra up against him, hoping it helped the wheezing southerner breathe easier.

Ezra returned a mutter, lifting one hand and dropping it.

Vin squatted beside them, wiping down Ezra’s face.  “Hang on there, Ez,” he whispered when Ezra tried to move away.  Buck tightened his grip and Ezra gasped in response, opening his eyes and letting his mouth hang open in pain.

“Sorry, Ezra,” Buck sighed, loosening his hold.  He glanced to Vin and Chris, wondering what the hell was wrong.

Ezra blinked as Vin’s face hovered before his, as the tracker tried to cool him with the water.   “Vin!” Ezra rasped in wonder.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Vin responded, smiling softly and glad to hear the gambler recognized him.

"You're back," Ezra gasped.

"Yup. Come back to town yesterday," Vin responded.

“Somethin’ wrong,” Ezra gasped. “Four Corners.  Somethin’ wrong.”

Vin placed a hand on Ezra’s shoulder, feeling the heat, feeling him tremble beneath his touch.  “S’alright, Ezra.  Everythin’s fine,” he stated, even though nothing felt close to fine.

“Trouble,” Ezra whispered, one hand grasping onto Vin’s arm.  “Must…help them.”

“Yeah, trouble… that’s one word for it,” Buck mumbled.

Ezra directed startled eyes at Wilmington, noticing him for the first time.  “Buck?  Buck, gotta go.  Gotta get to Four Corners.  Somethin’s wrong… with Chris…the others...all wrong.”

“That ain’t what’s wrong,” Vin sighed, concern filling his voice.

Ezra swallowed and said urgently, “Four Corners…go there…find out what’s wrong.”  He pressed a hand against Vin’s chest, trying to shove him back, but there was no strength left in him.

“Everythin’s okay there, Ezra,” Buck whispered hoarsely, the worry evident in his face.  “It’s what’s happened in Prosperity that’s got us worried.”

Ezra shook his head, and uttered, “Gotta go to Four Corners.”   His voice was fading, and Vin grabbed the extended arm, holding it tightly.  Sagging further, Ezra turned to Vin.  “Fix it.”

Tanner sighed, and pledged, “I’ll do everythin’ I can, Ez.”

Those words seemed to calm Ezra; he smiled weakly.  Chris stepped back, staying out of Ezra’s line of sight, afraid of how Ezra would react to his presence.  After getting those messages, Larabee doubted that Ezra wanted him around.    He watched as Vin gave Ezra some water and as Standish gulped it down.   As he observed Ezra’s head dip, and his eyes close – Chris pledged, come hell or high water, he’d find out why all of this had happened.

Why?  Goddamn it, why had Harper sent those messages? Was it just cruelty on his part?  Who the hell beat the crap out of Ezra?  What was the reason?

He watched as Vin and Buck gently handled the gambler, trying to figure out what was wrong with him, swearing as they found the bruises on his chest and the welt on his head.  Ezra inhaled sharply as they pulled at the bandages across his back.  Buck cursed again.

Chris ground his teeth.  Even with Harper gone – he’d find answers and anyone involved in this mess would pay.


Part 24:

JD, Nathan and Josiah had gone in search of Guy Patterson.  Certainly, Patterson knew more about what was going on.  Patterson had remembered Ezra.  Why hadn’t he mentioned that Ezra had been going under the name ‘Kyle’?  Was he protecting Ezra?  Patterson could let them know if their friend was okay or not.  But, there was no trace of Patterson in the town.   The bartender told them that Guy had gone on a trip and left no word as to his whereabouts.  They returned to the telegraph office.

Bert looked at them with a dubious expression when they entered as he listened to the wire and scribbled out a note.  He didn’t stop his work until the message apparently terminated.  He then set down his pad and the pencil and faced them.  The boy answered any question they provided, but had nothing new to add -- had no idea where Patterson might be.  He didn’t know where Kyle would have gone.

A search of the telegraph operator’s shop provided further destroyed messages.  Balled up in the wastebasket were Ezra’s later responses to the false telegrams.  JD grimly collected them, fixing them in-between the notes that had been found in ‘Kyle’s’ room, getting even more upset with the situation.  A message to Ezra’s mother was among the paper balls, but revealed nothing beyond the fact that Ezra didn’t know where she was for certain and that he still used a code when wiring her.

Josiah found an unsettling cache, a box that had been hidden up under the counter.  He opened it to reveal a familiar set of cufflinks, a tie-tack, rings and pocket watch.  Sanchez reached in, first picking up the simplest of the rings, rubbing its gold surface for a moment, as if to polish it.  Next, he chose the watch.  His expression fell as he noted that it had stopped.  Please, he thought.  Don’t let this be a sign.  He wound it carefully and set the time before stowing it and the other items in his pockets.

Nathan discovered a set of saddlebags tucked under a tarp in a dark corner.  Nestled within were the rest of Ezra’s belongings -- his guns and hostlers, his traveling kit, his bedroll, his clothing – some of it torn and stained with filth and blood. Nathan shook his head sadly.  “What the hell did Harper do to Ezra?” he asked Bert.

The kid shrugged and told them, “Mr. Harper’s got a strange way about him.  I don’t like him.”  Then softly, he added, “Sometimes, he scares me.”

Josiah spun about and headed to the door.  Nathan slung the bags over his shoulder and followed, with JD right behind.  A glance to the preacher’s face was all the other two needed.  They were going to hunt down Harper, too.  If he’d had anything to do with hurting Ezra… or Mr. Kyle as he was apparently now known… Frank Harper wasn’t going to last much longer.

“Hey,” JD called as they reached the stable, pointing to the road that led into town.  “Look.”  The three men stopped and observed the group that was headed into town.  They broke into a trot to meet them.

Three horseman rode toward them, abreast and trailing two horses behind them.  Buck was in the middle, riding double with Ezra -- holding the gambler up because Ezra was obvious incapable of sitting without assistance.

“You found him!”  JD shouted excitedly, as they reached the others.

“What happened?” Nathan asked, rushing to Buck’s side.

“Damned if I know,” Buck responded as he gave up his charge to Nathan and Josiah.  The preacher and the healer took the burden gently.   Buck rubbed his arms, watching their careful movements.  “Found him with Harper.”

“Good thing we got there when we did,” Vin commented, glancing back to the dead man in the saddle.  “Harper was fixin’ to gut ‘im.”

Larabee had already dismounted and pulled the bloody body free from the saddle, letting it fall with a heavy thud into the street.  The town’s sheriff had come out of his office, intrigued by the curiosity in his street.  Other townspeople gathered round, watching them intently.

Nathan ran one hand over Ezra’s pale face as he and Josiah held him, and then gave the preacher a fearful look.  Without a word, the two carried him to the little clinic run by Doc Haley.  JD turned to go with them, but Chris held him back.  “You find out anything?” he asked, his voice deep with anger.

JD nodded vigorously.  “We found some of Ezra’s stuff at the telegraph office -- his watch and his rings and his saddlebags,” JD responded.  “More telegrams from Ezra. Stuff that never got sent to us.  A note to his Ma, too.”

“Find any reason for this?” Chris bit back.

“We figure that Mr. Kyle really was Ezra.  That’s about it.”

Sheriff Davis spat into the dirt and watched them. “Care to tell me what you and your men done with Harper?” he asked, his tone the epitome of nonchalance.

“He tried to kill my man,” Larabee returned quickly.  “Sent false messages.  Stirred things up.”

Davis nodded, not looking surprised.  “Figure we can talk it out once we got things settled.  Undertaker is over there.”  With a nod, he indicated the way.  Larabee, Wilmington, Tanner and Dunne each grabbed an appendage, and they hoisted the body along toward the undertaker.

Bert stood outside of the telegraph office, watching as his boss was carried away.  He allowed himself a small, satisfied smile, before returning to his work.


Part 25:

“Sure looked like shit,” Buck commented, finally breaking a long silence as he and Vin rode along, out into the open country that surrounded Prosperity.

“Yeah,” Vin agreed.  “Figure we got one of those sons-of-bitches.  But two of them attacked him in that alley.”

“My money’s on Patterson,” Buck growled.

“Yup,” Vin responded.

“Now we just gotta find the bastard.  Figure out why the hell he did it.”

“Got somethin’ else to find first,” Vin reminded.  “See if that man at the saloon was right.”  As they neared the little ranch, Tanner called out a hello, and laughed when, at the sound of his voice, a horse cantered into view from around the far side of the barn.  It came to a stop, some distance from them and snorted as it gazed at them.

“Yes, it’s us, you ridiculous excuse for horseflesh!” Buck shouted at the chestnut gelding.

Chaucer whinnied and trotted a few steps to jump over a fence, and continued toward them as if it was an everyday occurrence to come across familiar faces in the middle of nowhere.

Vin had his attention on the rancher that stepped out of the barn and moved toward them.  “Howdy,” the rancher greeted cautiously.

Vin touched the brim of his hat and returned the greeting as Chaucer reached them, giving Clyde a head butt in greeting.

The rancher watched, able to read horses well enough to note the familiarity the animal showed toward these newcomers.  “He yours?”

“Belongs to a friend,” Vin explained.

“Got stole from him,” Buck added.

“Weren’t me,” the rancher responded.  “I ain’t no horse thief!”

“Weren’t meanin’ t’say that,” Vin responded.  “Would like to know how you got ‘im though.”

“Fella from town sold him to me.  I was gonna take it to market with some of my stock.  Fella told me that the man who owned it ran out on his bill and left the horse in payment.”

“Our friend ain’t the type to sell his horse,” Buck responded.

“Yeah?  Well, that seems about right,” the rancher agreed.  “That creature’s so spoiled, it ain’t hardly usable.”  He smiled as he watched the chestnut gambol about, obviously happy to be back with familiar horses.  “I could tell someone took good care of him.”

“How much you pay for him?” Buck asked.  When the rancher stated an amount, Wilmington pulled out a fold of money and peeled off some bills, annoyed that they’d had to use the money they recovered from Harper’s pockets -- probably Ezra’s.  But, he knew Ezra would see it as money well spent.

“Got his tack and saddle, too.  I’ll get it,” the rancher commented.

“Who sold ‘im t’ya?” Wilmington asked as he offered up the cash.

“Guy Patterson,” the rancher returned, taking the money without counting it and shoving it into a pocket.  “Seemed like a nice fella.”

“Yeah,” Buck commented.  “Maybe not so nice.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know where he is right now?” Vin asked offhand, as Chaucer jostled Peso.

“Not in town?” the rancher asked.  When he received a headshake in response, he stated, “Might have gone to Cougar Lake.  He has a cabin up there.”

“Ain’t heard about it b’fore,” Buck said with a thoughtful expression.  “And we spent the last couple days askin’ a lot of questions about him in town.”

The rancher shrugged. “Me and my boys built that cabin for him.  Patterson said it would be his secret hideaway when he got rich and needed a peaceful place.”

With a serious expression, Buck commented, “It ain’t gonna be peaceful for long.”


Part 26:

Larabee sat in the uncomfortable wooden chair, leaning it back on two legs.  He rested his Peacemaker on one leg, as his feet used the bed as a footstool.  He kept his head down, watching the occupant of the bed.  He watched as Ezra’s hands twitched, as he grimaced and turned his head, muttering senselessly -- as he had for days now.  Ezra asked quiet, frustrated questions, yearning for an answer, but never hearing a word they said to him.

Chris waited, hoping that the southerner would finally wake up.  It had been nearly three days since they brought him here and it was high time something happened.  Larabee waited as patiently as he was able.  So far, they’d been barely able to coax some water into Ezra.  Delirious, Ezra would lash out at them -- recognizing them -- afraid of what they might do to him.  When Larabee saw that fear light Ezra’s eyes, Chris swore that everyone involved in this mess would face punishment for it.  Every time Ezra pleaded to them for explanations regarding those telegrams, Larabee wanted to shoot Harper all over again.  This mess made no sense at all.   They had to track down Patterson!  Get answers.

As Chris waited, Standish moved again and sighed.  His eyelids fluttered and finally opened.  Tiredly, Ezra looked out at some inconsequential point on the wall.  Slowly his gaze moved until he took in the gunslinger leaning against his bed.  Larabee tensed, waiting for the reaction as their eyes met.

For a moment, they simply looked at each other.  Larabee tried to return Ezra’s exhausted gaze with an encouraging look.  Finally, lazily, Ezra drawled, “Mr. Larabee, you look unsettled.”

Larabee chuckled, and smiled.  “Wasn’t the look I was goin’ for,” he commented.

“Do I amuse you?” Ezra asked, quietly.

“Don’t know if that’s the right word,”  Larabee responded, tipping himself forward so that his chair landed on all four feet.  “I’m just happy to have you talkin’ to me.”

“How long have I been … indisposed?”

“Three days since we caught up to you, and then there were a couple days before that.  You gave us a scare.”

Ezra watched as Larabee poured a glass of water.  “I apologize,” Standish spoke softly.  “For any trouble.”

Larabee extended the glass.  “Shut up, Ezra.” 

Ezra said nothing as he hoisted himself into a sitting position.  Larabee let him, seeing that Standish was capable, but he rocked forward, ready to grab hold of the gambler if he collapsed.  Ezra watched Chris as carefully as Chris observed Ezra.  Standish accepted the glass.  He sipped at it, his gaze never dropping from Larabee.

“Those telegrams, Ezra…” Larabee started.

“.. were false,” Ezra completed.  He raised an eyebrow at Chris, seeking agreement.  Larabee responded with a dip of his head.  Ezra nodded, finally able to confirm his suspicion; glad of it.  “If I had been less mentally incapacitated, I may have been able to discover the ruse earlier.  I decided that something was wrong in Four Corners.”  He made a dismissive gesture. “I couldn’t believe that Winston Juje would perpetrate such false telegrams.  The man is nothing if not a perfectionist when it comes to delivering messages.”

“Everything is fine in Four Corners,” Chris told him definitively.  For days they’d been telling Ezra this, and for days he kept asking the same questions.

For once, Ezra seemed to hear him.  He took on a bewildered expression as he asked, “But why?”

“Frank Harper.”

“Harper?”

“Telegraph man here in Prosperity,” Chris explained.  “Faked all the telegrams -- what he sent you -- what I got -- none of it was right.”

“You received notices… from me…that were equally misleading.”

Larabee nodded, trying to keep the anger from his eyes -- anger directed at Frank Harper and not Ezra.  How dare that man do this to them!  Bring up these awful doubts, and in his name.  Larabee didn’t want to imagine how Ezra must have felt -- hurt and disoriented -- getting vile messages from someone he trusted.  Goddamn, Ezra must have felt utterly forsaken.

“I should have realized that sooner,” Ezra commented softly.

“Yeah, well.  I should ‘ave known better, too.”  Chris sighed.

Ezra nodded, accepting this.  He waited a beat before he said, “I recall a disturbing occurrence at a creek.  I’m still trying to get it all straightened out in my mind.  There was a knife…” Ezra trailed off and looked to Chris for further information.

“That son-of-a-bitch, Frank Harper, nearly killed you,” Larabee responded.  “I think we caught up to you just in time."  Chris lifted his chin.  “You remember much of what happened at that creek.”

With a distant expression, Ezra answered, “Vaguely.  I recall a knife laying just in front of me.  I remember looking at it and thinking that if I could just grab hold of it, I would have a weapon.  But, strangely, it seemed like an insurmountable task.  Something gave me reason to try.”

“Hmmm,” Larabee returned.  “He had your derringer.”

Ezra continued in a distracted, disconnected voice.  “Ah yes, I remember now.  I couldn’t bare the thought of him making use of my property.”  He smiled devilishly at the gunslinger.  “And I couldn’t allow you to have all the glory, now could I?”  He took another sip from the glass but, tiredly, let it drop to his lap, barely keeping it from tipping over.

Chris sat forward, taking the half-filled glass from Ezra’s hand.  As the gunslinger pulled the glass away, Ezra’s attention was drawn to his own hand.  He hardly noticed Chris was there as he raised the emptied hand, marveling at the gold band at the base of his finger.  “My ring,” he exhaled.  “You found it.”  Larabee had never seen such joy, such relief, on Ezra’s face before.

“It was in Harper’s stash,” Chris explained.  “Got your other stuff here,” he said, reaching to the bedside table picking up the old pocket watch from among the other jewelry.

Ezra snatched up the watch, his hand immediately closing on the monogrammed cover.  “Thank you,” he breathed, intent on the objects.  He smiled and shook his head, looking delighted.  The expression disappeared as he snapped his attention back on Chris. “Chaucer?” Ezra asked cautiously.

“Vin and Buck gone to get ‘im at one of the local ranches.”

Ezra made a satisfied sound as he laid back into the pillows.  “And is he all right?”

“He’s just as ornery as ever.  He’ll be back as soon as Vin and Buck come back with Patterson.  The rancher sent word that the boys should be back tomorrow morning.”

“Patterson?  Guy Patterson?”  Ezra looked confused.  “Why are they seeking him?”

“We figure he had something to do with what happened. Don’t got any proof except that he kept you here in private, sold your horse and disappeared.”

Ezra crinkled his brow, as he relaxed further.

“You got any idea why?” Chris continued.

Obviously tired out by the simple conversation, Ezra let out a slow breath.  He smiled self-deprecatingly as he closed his eyes.  “Because I was wanted,” he muttered before slipping back into sleep.


Part 27:

Guy Patterson trembled as he waited, tied to his saddle.   First, he’d been frightened half to death by two strangers attacking his shack.  He hadn’t put up much of a fight, but what little resistance he’d offered was rewarded with a black eye and a couple of loose teeth.  He’d been handcuffed and hauled away – back toward Prosperity.  He knew that the whole plan had been discovered when he recognized the chestnut nag that pranced about.  As they headed toward his home, the two men had quizzed him about what he knew concerning Ezra Standish.

Guy had his rehearsed story.  He swore that he hadn’t seen Standish since he left his saloon several days ago. The horse, left behind, was sold to pay the debt.  He’d come to his fishing cabin to relax.  No, he knew nothing concerning Harper’s recent activities and was genuinely surprised and horrified to hear of his demise.

He told them everything he supposedly knew about Reginald Kyle – how two men in that alley had attacked Kyle, how he’d come to stay at his saloon.  Guy was being a good Christian by allowing the stranger to stay with him.  What did Kyle look like? A little shorter than average, brown hair, and green eyes – but different from Standish -- definitely different.  Did Kyle remember anything about his attackers?  No, he slept most of the time.  Never said a word about the attack.  Where did he go?  Guy said he had no idea, but Kyle had run out on his tab, too.  “Folks gotta stop doin’ that to me,” Guy had said congenially, trying to smile despite his swollen mouth.

When Guy arrived in town, he’d watched a man in black approach them, ominous as a storm out of the west.  Wilmington yanked Patterson from his saddle as the man reached them.  Vin stepped forward to meet the newcomer and said darkly, “He’s the man.  He was the other one who beat Ezra.”

“What?”  Guy exclaimed, trying to dig in his heels, but Wilmington was not slowing as he dragged the saloonkeeper to the jail.  “NO! Not me!  I never said anything about that!  I had nothing to do with it!”

Larabee watched the man’s departure with a cold and ruthless gaze.

Vin watched, letting Buck do the work – Wilmington seemed to have things under control.  “Patterson knew there were two men who got Ezra.  Nobody knew that ‘cept for the guys who done it.”

“And us,” Larabee added.

Vin nodded.  “Patterson swore that ‘Kyle’ said nothin’ about gettin’ beat.  Weren’t any other way Patterson would know.”

“Son of a bitch,” Chris responded.

“Yeah,” Vin agreed, then asked quietly, “Ez wake up at all?”

Chris nodded.  “Fever broke last night.  Woke for a bit this morning.  Nate thinks he’ll be okay.”

With a shake of the head, Vin commented, “Patterson had nothin’ but the best things to say about Ezra, and damn if I don’t believe him.  How do you figure a man can do that to another?  Beat ‘im and leave ‘im to suffer for hours without help, put him through all this – and he likes Ezra.”

“Ezra has an idea.”  Chris kept his gaze on Patterson’s back, shooting daggers.  “Figured the man did it to keep him in town.  Patterson wanted Ezra to stay put and work the tables in his saloon.”

Vin had no reply.  He glanced from Chris to Patterson, and his hand twitched toward his mare’s leg.

“Soon as Ezra’s ready to ride, we’re leavin’ this shit town,” Larabee commented as he turned and followed Buck’s path to the jail.

“Yeah, cowboy,” Vin said. “Damn fine idea.”


Part 28:

Three days later, Chris strode out of the jail in Four Corners and quickly scanned the street. God, it was good to be home.  It was funny, Larabee spent years wandering -- a gunslinger without any roots.  He thought he’d never again find a home.  But, ever since he came to this place, ever since he began this work of protecting it with those six men, he’d begun to think of it as home.

Good to have everyone together – no goddamn telegrams messing everything up.  Things are better off with people meeting face-to-face.  Can’t see how a thing like that’ll catch on.

His gaze fell on the sharply dressed gambler sitting outside their favorite saloon.  Ezra relaxed, dressed in his usual finery, with his legs propped up on a crate.  He looked utterly comfortable, resting against his soft pillows. Larabee leaned against the jail’s doorway and observed for a few minutes – watching as Mrs. Potter paused to talk to the gambler – observing as Ezra returned her inquiries with a smile.  Chris could tell, just by observing the conversation, that Ezra was saying something charming to the shopkeeper.  Gloria laughed, covering her mouth, and blushed.  Before saying her goodbyes, she leaned close to him, speaking softly.  Ezra gave her no reply.  He looked a little embarrassed and his mouth quirked into that strange smile he always used when he tried to deflect attention.  He touched the brim of his hat and the older lady continued on her way.

Ezra was doing well.  The trip from Prosperity to Four Corners two days ago had been unpleasant.  Nathan had insisted that Ezra stay put for a while longer, but Larabee had declared that it was time to go, and Ezra had adamantly agreed.  They left Prosperity with a rented wagon -- needing to leave a proper deposit, because everything in Prosperity had a price of some sort.  They’d carefully loaded the gambler into the vehicle.  Ezra’s vehement protests were quelled by Nathan’s ultimatum -- either ride in the wagon or stay in Prosperity.  Ezra chose the wagon, and suffered a miserable ride home.  He was successful in garnering a seat in Chaucer’s saddle for the final approach to town -- with the promise that he’d stay put in Nathan’s clinic until the healer deemed him fit.  Chris chuckled, remembering the negotiations that had take place during that trip home.  Ezra surely knew how to wheel and deal.

Standish had improved considerably since he returned to Four Corners.  The infected wounds at his back were healing under Nathan’s care, his bruised legs and battered ribs bothered him less, and his head no longer throbbed.  As long as he took it easy, the healer promised a complete recovery.  So, Ezra sat in front of the saloon, lazily shuffling, reading, or chatting amicably with the townspeople as they walked by.

Larabee witnessed Yosemite crossing the street to speak to Ezra. The gambler set aside the cards again to converse with the blacksmith.  The big man talked for a minute or so before he gave the southerner a pat on the shoulder and re-crossed the street to return to his shop.  Ezra’s gaze followed Yosemite, looking bewildered as he shook his head.  He scratched at his peeling face, still healing from the sunburns he’d suffered on his attempt to reach Four Corners.  Larabee sighed, wondering at what had driven the gambler to make that attempt.  He pushed off the door and headed toward the cardsharp.

Spotting the gunslinger coming toward him, Ezra settled the deck on his thigh and smiled at his latest company.  “Ah, Mr. Larabee,” he said congenially.  “A pleasure to see you.”

“Taking visitors today?”  Chris asked.

Ezra smiled.  “I believe they’re interested in hearing of my experiences.  Regretful that I don’t have much to tell them.  I have little to say beyond that fact that I was struck down, resigned to a room and undeniably duped.”

Chris sucked his teeth for a moment, but didn’t contest Ezra’s simplified version of things.  They both knew the truth of the matter and making Ezra ‘fess up’ wouldn’t change the con man’s attitude.  “How’re you feelin’?” Chris asked directly.

Gingerly, Ezra shrugged one shoulder and then the other.  “Better,” he replied tepidly.  He gestured to his relaxed position in the chair.  “As you can see, I heed Mr. Jackson’s words and am doing my best to ‘take it easy’.  In fact, I plan to keep this up as long as possible.”  Standish looked about, up and down the street.  “It’s been rather quiet lately,” he stated.

“Kinda like it that way,” Larabee responded.

Ezra cocked his head.  “Pity.  There’s such potential for growth here, for great things to happen.  There could be rows of houses and businesses.  Instead we have one lonely street with a scattering of buildings.  It’s all rather rustic.”

“You ain’t planning on going elsewhere, are you?  Finding a place a bit more to your liking?”

Ezra smiled, showing his gold tooth.  “But Mr. Larabee, where could I possibly go?”  Again, he picked up the deck of cards and effortlessly shuffled them.

Chris lowered himself into the empty seat beside the gambler and watched the cards fly.  Patterson’s trial was scheduled for later that month – as soon as Judge Travis could schedule a visit.  Once Ezra explained his suspicions, and certain well-worded questions were asked, Patterson came clean with his side of the deal.  Of course, once they tried to pin the murder of Jock Hammish on Patterson, they could hardly shut him up.

Frank Harper, the unassuming telegraph man, proved to be a strange soul indeed.  His journal, discovered in his bedroom, unveiled a dark-hearted and disturbed individual.  The man was deranged enough to include disturbingly detailed notes on how he’d killed Hammish and how he’d wanted to try it again.  They had a confession in the killer’s own handwriting; there’d be no doubts.

Patterson, on the other hand, pleaded innocent to any plan to kill Standish.  “I wanted him to stay!”  Patterson had whined.  “I needed him!  He was going to save my saloon!”

He insisted that he stilled Harper’s hand when the telegraph operator wanted to inflict further harm to Standish – but later admitted that he would have let Harper break the gambler’s legs if the need arose later on, that he agreed that maybe Harper should kill Ezra to keep him silent.  When asked if any of the townspeople would notice that Reginald Kyle looked just like Ezra Standish had the plan been successful, Patterson had shrugged and said that he didn’t think anyone would care that much -- a gambler is a gambler and they don’t matter much to people when they aren’t in a card competition.  “That’s why they wear the bright coats,” Patterson had declared, “So you don’t look at their faces.”

Englebert Richardson currently ran the telegraph office in Prosperity.   The kid would keep the communications open until a suitable adult replacement could be found.  He would train the new man when he arrived.  If reports were to be believed, he was doing a stellar job in that position, and would probably take over the telegraph office permanently when he was old enough.

Ezra and Chris sat in silence for several minutes, as people passed.  The only sound they made was the riffling of cards in Ezra’s hands.  It was a quiet and comfortable way to pass the afternoon.

Ezra was right, Chris realized.  This is a quiet place, rather forsaken when compared to the bustling town of Prosperity.  There really didn’t seem to be much potential here for an enterprising gambler.  Finally, Larabee asked the question that had been on his mind for some time, “Did you consider it?”

“Pardon?” Ezra asked.

“Did you consider Patterson’s deal?  Would have been a good thing for you,” he stated as Ezra continued to move the cards about in his hands.  “Prosperity might have proved more profitable to you.”

“I was born to be a gambler, Mr. Larabee,” Ezra drawled.  “Never had much say in the matter, but I think it suits me well.  I’m good at it.”

“You are,” Larabee agreed.

“I enjoy all the things that comes with it: the money, the excitement, the strategy of the game, the competition, the atmosphere of a saloon, the clothing,” he paused to run one hand across his lapel. “…the attention one garners during a particularly engaging match, the money.”  He smiled as he repeated the word.  “Everything about it so… perfect for me.  I understand how to weight odds -- how to factor costs.  I have all the appropriate skills and I do very well at the tables.   I’m utterly suited for it.”

Larabee didn’t respond.  He simply lifted an eyebrow and looked at Ezra out of the corner of his eye.

The cards stilled and Ezra carefully lined up the edges with his fingers.  He pocketed them with one easy movement. “I just think I’m better at being a lawman.”  He didn’t look at Chris.  “I...” he said softly, touching his chest, “…am better for being a lawman.”

Chris smiled as he leaned back in his chair, satisfied with that response.  Yeah, he figured, considering all the routes his own life might have taken, I’m better, too.  We all are.

THE END

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