48 Hours

Synoposis: Buck finds himself in a trouble with apparently only Ezra to help him out of it. Fantastic story.

Thanks, Heather, for helping me with information about horses and ideas on how muscles would react after surviving a hanging. And lots of other great suggestions.

48 HOURS

Mother -

Ezra Standish's hand, as he presented the missive to the telegraph operator, was at less than its manicured best. But then, his hair was in disarray, the long gash that disappeared into his hairline was weeping again, the bruise marred his jaw and cheek even more now that it was fading, and the frills of his linen shirt had worked their way up inside his jacket sleeve. The gentleman con artist didn't seem to give any notice to his appearance.

Just as the clerk reached for the yellow flimsy, it was snapped up from the counter by dirty, meaty fingers. The uncharacteristic flinch this caused in Ezra did not go unnoticed. The pinpoint black eyes that watched him seemed to flash with amused light. Ezra Standish reconfirmed his first analysis of this man. Jake Goodall, like the other deputy, was a cold-blooded killer who would only find humor in another man's misfortune.

Goodall was clearly hired for brawn not brain. He struggled to read the words; sounded each one out to himself like some six-year-old. But he figured it out at last, and when he did, he flashed a derisive, cigarette-stained grin at the smaller man. It was met with a well rehearsed poker face, one that somehow still hinted an air of superiority, but it was subtle, nothing more than a feeling, nothing that could consciously antagonize the rough older man or spark retaliation.

The yellow and gray smile evolved into a sardonic snort, but the deputy marshal finally passed the telegram to the wireman; tacit permission to send it on…

The gambler might have been calculating odds as he stepped out of the telegraph office. He fingered his copy of the wire he'd sent the day before. There was still no reply. No reply. And time was running out. He tried to find some comfort in the fact that this telegram had at least gotten through, unlike the ones he'd tried to send directly to Judge Travis and Larabee. But he concealed that faint and waning hope in the practiced slump of his back.

Every bit the Southern gentleman as he walked out onto the main street of Mineral Wells, and knowing he was in hostile territory and under constant surveillance, his well-honed instincts were telling him to get on his horse and get out of town. He looked down the street to where the ever present mob was gathered outside of the saloon. Even in the early morning hours the rabble was near fever pitch.

The crowd had swelled during the night as every cowpuncher and farmhand had come in with drawn wages. Seeing nothing but profit - certainly not a human life in the balance - the bartender had stayed open all night. Cheap, watered down whiskey and warm beer had flowed freely and still did. The whispers were becoming shouts - "Justice", "An eye for an eye", "Lynch 'im up." For the benefit of his audience, Ezra Standish squared his shoulders, tugged his shirt cuffs into place, flicked an imaginary speck of lint from his lapel, and walked across the street to the marshal's office. For all the world, he gave the appearance of a man who was deceiving himself about what the future held.

The Southerner was prepared for the strong lye and pine resin scents that were unique to this jail. He was even prepared for the living quarters the Marshal kept off of the main office area to be as neat and pristine as if they were maintained by a spinster schoolmarm. What he wasn't prepared for, and what had his gun leaping into his hand, was the scene in front of him. "Ah should drop you where you stand," he said, with deadly sincerity.

"It would be hard to explain shooting a sworn lawman in the back." The cigarette-hoarse voice responded. And, indeed, the man kept the back of his wrinkled shirt to the door.

"Cut him down." There was no hiding the threat in the proud Southern drawl. Playing cowardly or weak or ineffectual were at times his weapons, used to make his marks underestimate him. But not this time. He wanted this man to fear him and obey him. Or, by God, he would shoot.

He shouldn't have left, Ezra berated himself, and it was like a mantra. For in the short time he'd been gone, Buck Wilmington had been strung up spread-eagle against the outer bars of one of the three cells. He was held there by manacles locked around the highest crossbar, near the ceiling. His shoulder blades protruded painfully beneath the skin, suffering through the unnatural position the cuffs held them in. There was an angry bruise on his left cheek. His eyes were closed. Blood flowed from at least six deep, ragged gashes inflicted on his back by the whip still in Halpin's hands.

The damned lawman coiled the blacksnake whip with long, dexterous, gun-honed fingers. He didn't make any move to release the prisoner.

"Buck, can you hear me?" There was no answer. Ezra turned his attention back to the lawman, "Get him down from there and onto a cot." The precise articulation reinforced the order. "And I shall put a bullet in you for every new bruise Mr. Wilmington incurs between now and then, Deputy Halpin."

Ezra was just stepping inside to close the door when he felt a metal cylinder pressed into his back. "The only reason I don't drop you where you stand, is that I don't condone what my deputy is doing." US Marshal Ezekiel Coltrain stated unemotionally as he took Standish's gun from the now limp hand.

There would be time enough later when Ezra would curse himself for being so focused on Wilmington's condition that he let the other man get the drop on him. There was no excuse to sacrifice self-preservation. How could you help someone else, if you couldn't help yourself? 'Ezra, Ezra, when did the first priority of helping yourself become so that you can help someone else? Oh, Mother, what has become of your son?'

Recognizing that, tactically, there was nothing to be salvaged of this situation, Ezra started to move forward and do what the deputy would not, which was to help his friend. A waggle of Coltain's gun stopped him. Standish recognized that the duly appointed Federal Marshal Coltrain was going to reinforce the fact that he was in charge.

"A confession coerced by torture would hardly hold credence in a legitimate court of law." Ezra baited the lawman. How could this self-righteous popinjay see himself as a soldier for justice? "Get him down." Ezra demanded, despite being outnumbered and outgunned, "Or do you think that your badges put you above the law you accuse us of violating?"

"He killed Welch." Larry Halpin, the deputy, pled his case even as he toyed with the whip. As if he considered it some kind of threat directed at the gambler. Ezra ignored the man.

"Buck Wilmington had no part in killing your deputy, Marshal Coltrain." Standish had given up on talking with Halpin long ago. He directed his statement to the senior peace officer, and with enough conviction to make the usually apathetic man blink.

"You vigilantes and ruffians try to run this territory," Halpin spat at the gambler, "Civilized courts can't control the likes of you." The words were carefully selected to fuel his boss's contemptuous opinion of local peacekeepers.

"You sir, are supposed to enforce the law and make it work, not use the fact that you can't control the men who settle these lands as an excuse for violence." Ezra, like the deputy, geared his argument for the benefit of Coltrain's strong convictions. The Marshal was wont to implement the letter of the law rather than the spirit of the law. "In beating Mr. Wilmington, is your deputy enforcing the law - or breaking the law?"

Halpin knew he'd lost this round, and complied, none too gently. But at last, and with Standish's gentling touch, Wilmington was sitting on the cot inside the first cell, facing the wall, with his brutalized back turned toward the other men in the room.

"Get me some medical supplies for his wounds." Green flint sparked from his eyes as he gave the order. Without waiting to be obeyed, Ezra strode back to the office part of the jail and to the water bucket standing by the door. He ladled the clean liquid into the dipper. Then he snagged a towel from the fastidious stack of linens beside the bucket and dipped it in the water. Turning back to the cell, the southerner "accidentally" brushed the rest of the stack of towels onto the floor. He would have liked to make it flagrantly obvious that he caused the disruption on purpose. But he couldn't afford to further antagonize these men.

"You plannin' a jail break?" Halpin asked sarcastically, ignoring the earlier request for first aid. Standish knew what the man was hinting at. While they had Standish's one gun, they had yet to relieve him of the shoulder holster they knew he wore as backup.

The conman read the deputy easily and could see he would get a certain satisfaction out of forcing a man he saw as a threat to hand over his weapon. The deputy used his tone of voice to insinuate that, by turning over the gun, Standish was begging to be allowed to see to his friend.

A thought flittered across Standish's mind as he stared down the two bigger, authority-welding men, 'What am I doing here? I've only known this man three weeks. Ride out, Ezra. Ride out.'

After what seemed like hours, it was Halpin who looked away first, but not without another sarcastic challenge, "Give me the other gun if you're man enough." But even more, as Halpin met the smaller man's eyes, he silently sent a message, 'I know you're up to something. Try getting him out and running for it now.'

Ezra weighed the situation and then, with no apparent hesitation, graciously, perfunctorily flipped his gun to offer it, butt first, to Coltrain. He refused to give the bully any satisfaction.

Intelligent, green eyes tried not to narrow in amazement or acknowledge the fact that the marshal took the gun gingerly with his thumb and forefinger. He treated it as if it carried the plague. Not for the first time Standish recognized the fact that this man was almost afraid of dirt.

The gambler wished for a moment that Josiah were here. They could discuss the philosophical - that perhaps this fanatic somehow saw a metaphor between soilage of any kind and the criminals he arrested? Who was he kidding? He didn't want a theoretical discussion; he wanted to figure out how to use the phobia against the man.

Categorizing the information until he could use it, Ezra chose not to alienate the head lawman.

He unbuckled his gun belt and handed it, empty, over to Halpin - him, he would alienate, "Thank you, my good man." It was a dismissal of the hired help. The educated marshal didn't miss the slight to his man, but chose to ignore it on his deputy's behalf.

Coltrain, as if he couldn't stand the disarray anymore, moved to compulsively refold and straighten the stack of towels.

No sign of hatred or apprehension leaked through Ezra's calm façade as he addressed the deputy, "Don't presume for a moment, that I don't recognize that you beat Mr. Wilmington for the sole purpose of incapacitating him and thereby preventing any escape attempt."

Halpin simply stared, the hint of a derisive smirk defying Ezra to do something to get himself arrested as well.

The Southerner started to push harder, but was distracted and surprised when he looked back into the cell and met the two dark blue eyes staring at him from beneath the swollen lids. They were trying to tell him something. Ezra thought he knew what it was and didn't want to accept it, "Mr. Wilmington?"

"Let me lock you in that cell. I may or may not let you back out," Halpin dared.

Standish strolled into the cell and allowed the door to be locked after him, "I still expect those medical supplies," he said loud enough for the marshal to hear.

"I'll see if Mrs. Oltorf has supper ready for the prisoner. Get a few bandages while I'm out," Coltrain stated. Ezra suspected the sight of Buck's back, not neat and tidy and clean, disturbed the man and he was looking for an excuse to leave. "Prisoner only gets to visit for five minutes," he ordered and was gone.

Ezra waited until Halpin had moved away from the cell before going to his friend, "Mr. Wilmington?"

One rangy leg draped off the cot, the knee almost touching the floor. The right leg was akimbo across the flat pillow and threadbare blanket. The strong torso was slumped bonelessly until it almost touched the leg bent along the cot. The long arms, usually so animated, so open, were locked around the broad chest closing the man in on himself even more. The dark, sweat-beaded head leaned against the cinderblock wall for coolness and support.

Every third or fourth open-mouthed breath turned into a shuddering fight for air. Hunched over as he was, he gave Ezra a clear view of the shredded shirt and bloody gashes that crisscrossed the tanned, muscled back.

Blood was already drying and sticking the stringy and raggedly torn ends of the shirt to the whip inflicted wounds. The rivulets of sweat that trickled into the enflamed edges had to add to the pain.

Studying him made it hard for Ezra not to want to extract some measure of retribution. Standish allowed himself no comfort in the fact that the beating would have been much worse if he hadn't returned when he did. This guilt was a singularly new and unpleasant emotion to the conman. He could easily see how Chris Larabee chose to convert all of the gentler and more personal emotions to anger and deal with them that way.

He shouldn't have left, Ezra berated himself, and it was like a mantra. Now it was too late.

He'd been gone for such a short time. And he had only left to try to get word to the other regulators in Four Corners.

The Southerner moved around to hunker on the floor in front of his friend and attempted to get an angle that would allow him to contact the midnight blue eyes, "Buck, can you hear me?" He tried to keep the worry out of his tone.

Finally he was rewarded with a partial nod that dislodged a single drop of sweat. The soft eyes did opened at last, but stared down at the cot.

"You need to let me get that shirt off." There was no response. "At least try to get more comfortable. Lie forward." Ezra knew that was a useless request. In studying the men he had found himself riding with, he had noticed that Mr. Wilmington would not lie down when injured unless he was too weak to sit, or unless Chris Larabee was nearby. Apparently the moody gunfighter had somehow earned this rogue's trust, even in a vulnerable position.

As the gambler predicted, Buck gave a quick negative, almost frightened, headshake at the suggestion. The eyes came to meet his now, hardened and opened wider, "Ain't gonna be flat on my back and helpless 'round the likes of them."

And so there it was again, that dark past the man hid so well, but that affected everything he did, and had gotten them into this situation in the first place.

Buck noticed that the angry bruise left on Ezra's left cheek from the day before had drained toward his jaw line in ugly yellows and grays. The blackened eye on that side was still partially swollen shut. There was an angry red gash on his temple.

Ezra reflexively reached up to touch the cut that disappeared into his hairline, "It's nothing."

"Most assuredly not. How would I answer to Mr. Larabee if I left you here alone?" He knew the words sounded hollow. And yet, something in the southerner's makeup had him trying to make light of the situation, trying to portray his loyalty to this man as stemming from a perceived threat from their leader. He wasn't ready to admit, even to himself, that the loyalty sprang from a growing friendship. He tried not to see that feeling as a weakness.

"We aren't even sure of the seriousness of Mr. Tanner's condition. Mr. Larabee is unaware of your plight. Once he learns that you are in the more immediate peril he will find a way to circumvent the decision whether to stay with Mr. Tanner or come after you. He wouldn't choose ..."

The eyes snapped up and met the green ones. There was an intensity there, a hypnotic intensity that hurt. Ezra found that he wanted to look away from the helplessness and defeat there, but somehow felt it would be the ultimate betrayal to do so. And he forced himself to meet the rich dark eyes and try to project friendship and confidence.

But the next words were like a wall against any such comfort, "He didn't choose, Ezra," Buck demanded in defense of his friend, but the hidden, more than likely subconscious accusation was that the choice had, nevertheless, been made. And the eyes closed again, "Me and Vin … both … was all my fault." There was a pause. "I want you to leave. Don't want you to see me hang."

Only then did it register to the southerner, the sounds that must envelope his friend like a shroud. The crowd outside was still calling for blood and laughing as they did it as if they were at a rowdy Mardi Gras celebration instead of gearing up to hang a man without a trial. And the sounds enveloped Ezra as well.

Ezra closed his own eyes and placed a gentle hand on the other man's arm and wondered, 'How have we come to this?'

The day had been crisp, blue and spring-like. The lady Sun was just preparing to kiss the horizon goodnight and let her sister Moon rule. The long feathery clouds, multi-colored in the sunset, were harbingers of rougher weather to come before dawn.

Relishing a rare, fine Cuban cigar, Ezra Standish was studying the coming evening and contemplating his thirty day commitment to this dusty burg. Had it been only a week since he had struck the deal with the circuit judge to help protect this burgeoning town and its territories in return for a pardon?

He had been a bit surprised to realize that he was good at law enforcement. At least the free-form version that passed for the law in Four Corners. Here, what was right and what was wrong was more important than what was written in a book somewhere. And, as rowdy as the town was, the men who shared the peacekeeping duties had enough dark secrets of their own to be willing to study each incident for what it was, for its shades of gray and not how it appeared when compare to how "right" and "wrong" were defined on paper somewhere.

It also gave the con artist time to hone his skills at appraising men. Like the four hombres riding into town at the moment -- he knew immediately that they screamed trouble. Easy read. So he turned his people-watching skills toward the black wraith who had become the leader of the regulators.

Chris Larabee seemed to have come to the same conclusion about this group, and stepped off of the boardwalk to meet them head on. JD Dunne casually slid his jacket behind his holsters and followed. So far, everyone was behaving as Ezra would have predicted.

The obvious leader of the men coming into town rode a proud buckskin. His dress was a cross between Doc Holiday and Bat Masterson. He wore a flat brimmed black hat pulled low, a thigh length, wool long coat and a black string tie over a button down bleached white shirt. Standish suspected the crisp bandana he wore at his throat was strictly utilitarian and would be removed now that he was no longer on the trail. A silver watch fob dangled from his embossed ebony vest. A more ominous glint of silver peeked at Larabee when the occasional waft of wind would lift the black on black lapel.

One of the men riding with him looked like a barely domesticated mountain man. The other two had cold, dead eyes.

Four killers. And if Ezra had correctly read that glint of metal on the leader's vest, they were killers hiding behind a badge.

There was some mutual recognition as the fancy dressed honcho reined his horse toward the leader of the Four Corners regulators. He pulled to a stop and dismounted. The other three automatically spread out as if expecting trouble.

The man had two or three inches on Larabee as he moved into the gunfighter's personal space. He had bulk on the lighter man, too, though there wasn't an ounce of flab to be seen, "I'm Marshal Ezekiel Coltrain. These are my deputies, James Welch, Jake Goodall and Larry Halpin." He announced coldly.

Larabee didn't respond. And he wasn't going to until the bigger man backed away to what could be considered a civilized speaking distance between strangers.

"Wooweee, Ezra. This fella's gonna give you a run for your money with them fancy clothes." The gangly, lazy-gaited form of Buck Wilmington somehow wove his way into the slight space between the two gunmen, forcing them both to take a step back. And both men did, jockeying for position. Because their trigger fingers itched. This was going to end badly.

True to form, the fourth peacekeeper had made his appearance, seemingly out of nowhere. On the surface it seemed he was trying to diffuse the situation. Maybe he was. Maybe he was giving the newcomers fair warning they were about to be outflanked. At any rate, as was usually the case, and as Standish would have predicted, this was the man who would bring Ezra, himself, into the equation. "On the contrary, Mr. Wilmington, I don't feel threatened by someone with the fashion sense of a mortician." The southern accent was honey-made-from-magnolia-blooms as he insulted the intimidating stranger. He examined the red tip of his smoke instead of the outsiders.

Larabee cocked a quick eyebrow in the direction of their resident gambler, not sure if Ezra was trying to get two digs in at once at both of the men on the street who preferred to wear black. Damn cocky gambler.

Wilmington read the thought on his old friend's face and laughed, almost making it sound like they were all old friends joking with each other. "US Marshal," Buck proceeded. He craned his neck around as if trying to get a better look under the long coat and see more than the two small points of the star visible there. He never touched the lawman.

"We've been tasked with tracking down fugitives in the territories. There are several teams such as ourselves."

"Must be an election year," Ezra offered with an affected aside to JD Dunne beside him. He intentionally made it loud enough to be heard, "No one cares about the territories until there is a political position to be gained," he explained in response to the confused look on the younger man's face.

"Seems like you boys could find a better place to earn your pay. We got it pretty quiet around here," Buck offered with "gosh-darn"-good-ole-boy charm.

"On the contrary, I believe that it is important that this area have some sort of controlled law enforcement rather than the vigilante justice we've heard of around these parts." Coltrain gave a derisive snort at JD and the badge he was wearing, finally acknowledging the younger man.

"You sure, Ezra?" Buck continued with his earlier observation about Coltrain being competition for the gambler, "He even sounds like you." Standish knew Wilmington would have definite thoughts about the marshal singling the young sheriff out for verbal attack. But he wasn't showing it. Yet.

"What he sounds like is that he is the one with political ambitions and hopes to make a name for himself." Ezra returned the cold glare that statement garnered him with a cool, amused façade and a slightly raised eyebrow.

Buck laughed at how the man could read a mark's motives so clearly and irritate the hell out of him by playing on the more selfish of those objectives.

Coltrain took another step back and unconsciously wiped at his immaculate jacket.

Larabee glanced across to an alleyway from where he sensed Vin Tanner would be watching. The tracker let himself be seen by Larabee and Standish alike; let it be known he had their backs covered, then slipped again into the shadows. He wouldn't go begging for trouble by showing himself. "Predictable," the Southerner thought to himself, but then a thought occurred to him, "When did predictable become so comforting?"

The bear of a man, Welch, took it upon himself to match Buck's intrusion into the first confrontation. And then the predictable routine, how each man would act and react, how the threat would be contained, all changed - Ezra Standish couldn't say why - and it all went wrong.

Where Wilmington had been careful not to touch either man, an unwritten, accepted code among strangers with guns, the other man played on his wide girth. Knowing how big he was, he used his bulk to intimidate.

He pressed his considerable form against Wilmington, who, in turn, was pressed forcefully against his old friend. The tense bodies sandwiching his own, the smell of musk and alcohol and fetid breath pulled a red veil of long suppressed memories across his consciousness. He struck out in a fear born and suppressed in childhood. The heels of Buck's hands came together and he rammed them like a piston under Welch's jaws and chin. The bearded head snapped back and the body sailed several feet from the force of the single blow. The man landed hard on his back.

It looked like Welch bounced. For all his size, the man was back on his feet and with a bull roar, tackled Wilmington to the ground by plowing his head into the ex-lawman's breadbasket.

Larabee had seen it happen before when his volatile friend got pinned in between bodies or a crowd. Not all crowds or tight situations had this effect. He was never sure what set if off, and this time he was too slow to stop it.

Coltrain pulled his gun as if he thought to put down a mad dog. Until he heard two hammer's cock on either side of his head. The look in the green eyes of the Southerner and mountain pool eyes of a new player dressed in buckskins and buffalo hides, said this was no rabid dog, more a guard dog, and its loyalty was appreciated and reciprocated.

The sawed off mare's leg held by the buffalo hunter moved slightly to include Halpin and Goodall in his sights. But those two just watched, amused, as if seeing what they wanted to see.

Chris Larabee wasn't a weak man by any definition. But even with JD's help, he was having no luck in separating his old friend from Welch. His frustration was turning to anger. It registered that Tanner had come out of hiding to cover their backs and he didn't like that risk being taken. The anger notched up.

Suddenly Josiah's considerable presence imposed itself in the fray. He pried Buck from the mountain man's grip and practically threw him back toward Chris Larabee. Chris grabbed hold, but it was mostly out of habit. The two men hadn't been back together long enough for the grieving widower to realize he was almost ready to move beyond the self-destructive mourning period he'd been living in. He certainly didn't realize that, to be reborn, he needed his old friend like the dark winter needs spring.

JD Dunne, however, was a completely different story. He had run to his friend's side to try and keep him safe and out of more trouble. He knew how much he needed the older man. In the boy's eyes, Chris Larabee was a hero; Chris Larabee was bigger than life; Chris Larabee was … well, he was Chris Larabee. But that still wasn't good enough when it came to watching Buck Wilmington's back. That was a job the young sheriff had taken for himself.

Standish watched all of this out of the corner of his eye and found some relief as things appeared to be getting back to the earlier disrupted predictability.

It took Sanchez and Jackson's combined strength to hold Welch back. Ezra wasn't sure where Josiah and Nathan had come from, but he was thankful for that part of the routine.

"Sheriff," Coltrain turned sarcastically to JD, "He attacked a duly deputized officer of the law."

"Even if you were man enough to wear that star, I out-badge you seven ways from Sunday. Now, lock him up."

Buck would have gone after the marshal if Larabee hadn't held him back. No one was going to talk to the Kid that way. Chris knew how Buck felt but was still trying to ward off trouble. Going up against four men that thought badges gave them the right to do anything they wanted, would always end badly.

JD Dunne wasn't about to lock up Buck Wilmington or any of the men he worked with. He remembered how he felt the other day when he had jailed Ezra on the judge's orders. But the officious, impressive looking lawman was intimidating. JD didn't know what to say.

"Sheriff," Ezra purred, pouring all the respect into the title he could offer to the boy, "I witnessed this shaggy Neanderthal physically assail Mr. Wilmington. If anyone should go to jail, it is that man."

"That's what I'd call a Mexican stand-off, Son." Josiah smiled at the situation. "Oh, no, wait," he continued innocently, "Three against seven? That's not a Mexican stand off. That's us winning."

At the first touch, Buck had pulled out of even Chris and JD's familiar grasp. But he was behind them and at least no longer making any attempt to get to Welch.

Coltrain analysed the situation with cold efficiency. It was clear the burly missionary's son spoke the truth. There was no doubt that to get to that loose cannon, they'd have to go through the others. And Larabee and the young sheriff would clearly take on a regiment if it tried to get to the one behind them. And finally, the truth was that Welch had over-stepped his authority and gone looking for a fight.

Ezekiel's eyes lit on the young sheriff whose dark bangs had fallen in his eyes. The boy held his ground with the older men, but little eye jerks showed his weakness - he wanted to check on Buck. Coltrain realized the youngster thought he and the older men were friends, not co-workers, "I'd watch it, trying to run with this sort," Coltrain addressed JD when their eyes finally met, "They eat their own." It was his parting shot. He moved off. And it was a sign for his men to follow after him.

JD ignored Coltrain's allegation. 'Eat their own' That's not how it happened in the dime novels. More importantly, during his time with these men, that's not how it happened in real life. He turned around and headed back to see if Buck was hurt.

Ezra's eyes sought out Sanchez. That one should have been a con artist. His ability to read men was almost unparalleled. But then he was a former priest, right? In Standish's eye there might not be that much of a difference. The look Sanchez threw back at him confirmed what Ezra thought. They both knew what was coming next and that there was no way to prevent it.

The seven had only been together for two weeks, fighting Anderson and then fulfilling their obligation to Judge Travis. But oh, yes, Josiah knew what was coming. Larabee and Wilmington. They were like saltpeter and charcoal. Their friendship was the sulfur in the mix. Any outside force that took on one would have to deal with both. Like gunpowder, they were a force to be reckoned with, but they were just as dangerous to themselves - and to each other - as they were to outside influences.

"What the hell was that?" Before JD could get to Wilmington with his concerned touch, Chris grabbed Buck's arm and spun him around. The bigger man pulled away almost wildly. This berserker rage scared Larabee if he would admit it. He'd seen it before but never understood what turned his gentle, easy tempered friend into this stranger.

Chris put both palms out. He'd learned not to touch Buck in this state. "I don't need you fightin' my battles for me, Buck." Intruding, he added to himself, because you think you can calm things down when all I'd do would be push them right into a shootout.

"Hell, Chris," Buck's smooth voice still held a sting, "You've been damn near sociable for what? Almost two days now? I was looking for my own fight. Plumb been borin' around here lately what with you not trying to slit anyone's throat."

Chris Larabee had too much self control to let himself flinch visibly in response to words. But he grimaced to himself. He knew Buck was referring to the day not so long ago that he himself had put a straightedge to Buck's throat. He still regretted the impulsive way he handled that situation. Sometimes he just didn't know how to get his old friend's attention.

Chris had known Buck was angry about the incident when he'd refused to ride the path Larabee chose later that day. But Buck had been there when he was really needed.

They'd never talked about it again; had acted like it never happened. Like they always did. And yet, the infamous gunfighter sighed to himself, that surprisingly fragile heart was still holding onto the hurtful words and deeds.

Oh, Buck would stand up to his old friend, there was no doubt about that. But only on behalf of lost-puppy idealists or wandering seekers or down-on-their-luck prostitutes. He would stand up for JD or Ezra, but never for himself.

Wilmington should have cussed him, or punched him, or let them punch each other, work it out of their systems. But Buck Wilmington wouldn't do that. Chris had always fretted at the way the other man would hang onto hurt and let it fester and poison who they really were to each other. This stranger in his friend's skin, the one who showed up occasionally when no one was prepared for it, he was holding onto it, too. He was goading Larabee. Defying him to deny their friendship. He wanted a fight. Wilmington harbored a guilt that still wouldn't let him trigger a fight between them. He wanted Chris to start it.

Ezra noticed there was something defensive in Buck's actions, but he couldn't understand it yet. He could also tell that while this was out of character for what they'd seen of the man, it was a part of him Larabee'd dealt with before. The usually tacit and abrupt Larabee seemed to cajole this mood like he would a skittish yearling.

"You start a fight with that crew, what about JD?" Chris thought he could use Wilmington's natural protective streak to calm the man down. If he could get that soft heart worrying about the others, his anger would evaporate like dew. "Coltrain's looking for trouble, too. You start something, do you think JD can handle him and his men?" Buck looked like he'd been slapped. Maybe the words were getting through. "You pulled Vin out from cover and him with a wanted poster sitting in there waiting for the Marshal to pick it up."

"I can watch out for myself …" Vin began. He didn't like being used to give the good-natured ex-lawman a guilty ride.

"No." And, as quiet as it was, Buck's voice was like thunder from the mountain, "What are you doin'? Already settin' it up to be my fault when someone else you care about gets hurt? It won't be my fault. Never again." And he was walking away in ground eating strides.

Chris tried to think where things had gone wrong, what words he could have changed. He had only meant to call on Wilmington's protective instincts. To get him thinking about someone else was the best way to keep that one safe and balanced. But … then it hit Larabee how the words had been interpreted and he stormed after the taller man.

Chris motioned for the others to break up and leave this to him. Vin melted back into the alley's shadows. Josiah and Nathan herded JD away. The older men all realized this was an irrational overreaction to the situation and much more was going on. Larabee'd known Buck a long time. They all assumed he'd know how to handle it.

"Mr. Larabee," Standish called after him, even as he mentally kicked himself for getting involved with his co-workers. This position was a means to an end. It was his pardon from the judge. Nothing more. So why was his mouth ignoring his brain? Larabee didn't hear him.

"Mr. Larabee…" Ezra repeated. He was seeing something Chris missed in his own anger and confusion over his old friend's attitude. Something that had happened had thrown their resident rogue into the past somewhere. Maybe not the words he was using now, but the emotions and where they were coming from were a much darker time and place and they had taken over how Buck was seeing the here and now.

Before Ezra could call out again, Chris caught up with Buck and, ignoring the recent display over being touched by another man, he grabbed an elbow and spun his friend around, "It's plain you were raised by a bunch of women. You're as moody as a spinster before her 30 day cycle."

Wilmington was taken aback by the statement, but only for a moment. "Why?" He demanded, "Because I have opinions that don't match yours, Chris Larabee?" It all came out in a hissed whisper, the words low and meant only for Larabee to hear.

It was a weakness to let others know you could be hurt by words or deeds. Larabee knew and used it against him. No one else would get that chance. "You think I like having a straight edge put to my throat? Or you actin' on the street like you don't want people to know we rode together? 'Like I said, you can always count on Buck'." He quoted Larabee's sarcastic barb from the day he'd refused to go to James' ranch and get his head shot off with Larabee, "Of course I heard you. You meant for me to hear."

Damn the man, Larabee thought about his old friend. He lets those things eat at him instead of clearing the air - knocking some sense into me, "That's another thing those women taught you. You hold onto things and tick'em off back to a man when you're havin' words." Chris tried to make it sound like a joke, in his own way admitting that there were a lot of things he should have done differently upon being reunited with his old partner.

Again, his friend took the words in the worst possible light, "Ain't no man gonna call me a woman. Ain't no one gonna treat me like that."

Ezra wanted to step forward. Larabee was doing a remarkable job of trying to hold his temper. And even in the moment, Ezra couldn't help but evaluate the fact that this was out of character for the gunfighter. It said a lot for how he valued Wilmington's friendship that he hadn't decked the younger man or turned his back on the accusations and walked away.

But while Wilmington was using his words to call Chris regarding recent truths, Buck was fighting old, buried demons that even he, himself, didn't recognize; old fears, maybe self-guilt, self-recrimination. And so what he was trying to say, trying to fix, didn't fit with what Larabee was trying to make right. And things were just getting worse.

"If you'll calm down, this'll all pass." Larabee offered through gritted teeth. And it was almost an order.

"Let it pass. That's what I'm always supposed to do, right?" Before Larabee could respond, Wilmington continued, "You know what? You got a pard now that don't talk back to you. Who ain't responsible for any of your loss." And he raised his voice to a shout for the first time, "Hey, Tanner! Good luck!" But he didn't really care if the scout heard. This was still between him and Larabee. And then, more softly to himself, he added, "You're gonna need it."

Standish was startled that the last name of the wanted man had been said so loudly and so freely.

It said much to how intensely they were focused, the giving and taking of guilt, that neither of the other men realized the slip.

They were almost nose to nose now. "At least Tanner's there. At the Seminole village, at the end, where were you? You palled up with Francis."

"Francis'd been trying to kill us minutes before." Picking up steam again, and remembering how afraid he'd been he'd lost his friend that day, he continued, "Francis and JD almost got you killed and scared the hell out of me."

"That man had just betrayed a friend he'd loved and admired for years because he couldn't stand by that friend's actions."

"You saying you were wrong to stand by me after Sarah and Adam di - died? Say it!"

The silence dropped like a boulder and stretched like waves lapping at the shore, the motion carrying a lonely piece of flotsam away from the solid ground it was used to and into the endless waves. All the heat was gone from Buck's voice when he spoke again, he laughed, all friendly like, "It ain't gonna work, Larabee, us hookin' up again."

Larabee didn't respond. Everything he said in the last few minutes was given the worst possible spin by the man in front of him. And now his old friend had gone back to hiding behind a quick smile, a clown personality. One wrong word and Buck would be out of town and spending himself in dirty border town after border town. The man would be lost. The prostitute's son didn't know how to get over a confrontation. He took so much shit because when he finally talked back, he didn't know how to face that person again. Like he just knew they wouldn't be friends after Buck spoke his mind.

Chris broke the eye contact and slid his gaze to Standish, wondering if that one had any ideas. It was a mistake. Buck, maybe for the first time, realized one of the others had witnessed this lapse. As vague and confusing as his statements had been, the southerner could tell that Buck felt he had revealed the dark secret of his past. The big man was going to bolt.

It was falling into place for Ezra; being a student of motivations as his profession demanded. Being raised in a whorehouse, of course the boy who would become Buck Wilmington witnessed the fact that those women never voiced an opinion that opposed their clients. Confrontation was a last resort, probably ended badly and usually didn't happen until it erupted violently and emotionally. Possibly more than any man Ezra had ever known, Buck Wilmington was a product of his environment. And he didn't know how to make up after a fight.

Before any man could speak, a muffled gunshot came from two alleys back of them.

Guns drawn, they ran toward the danger, thankful for its reprieve from the fragile kind of emotional tension that was harder to make right.

James Welch lay spread eagle just inside the mouth of the alley. His sightless eyes were frozen upward. Blood darkened a small patch of his shirt and jacket right below his heart.

Chris and Ezra immediately moved into the small street to check on the slack form of their friend lying in the dirt.

Buck kicked the gun away from Welch's motionless hand out of habit and knelt down to make sure the man was no longer a threat. Then he turned to watch the others examine the tracker.

The unconscious Tanner, his body propped against the wall, looked as if he were asleep. There were no bullet wounds. In fact, he showed no obvious wounds until Chris, checking him over, pulled his hand away from the back of the long hair. Even in the dim flickering light of the street fires Buck could see it was covered with blood.

Chris's head snapped up as he replayed their argument. The words hit him. Whatever he was thinking, he didn't let it show. Instead, he turned to Ezra, "Get Nathan."

Chris stood and tried to read the signs; to figure out what had happened here. But too much didn't add up. His mind was busy on other matters, namely protecting their friend while he couldn't protect himself.

Wilmington, with a quick nod, started over to help move their smaller friend. Guilt was still clearly etched on his face. And after he had just vowed that he wouldn't be the cause of another person Larabee cared about getting hurt.

A warm hand in the center of his chest stopped him. "If we just move him, there'll be questions. They'll be looking for a suspect. Coltrain will have him locked up and find out who he is and about the bounty."

Buck waited. His expression asked the question. What do you want to do, Chris? Do you have a plan?

"I need the others," The natural leadership instincts took over, but Chris kept his voice gentle. This man had been ready to bolt mere minutes ago, "Nathan to tend Vin, Ezra's snaky mind to figure out what happened. J -"

Buck held up a hand to stop him. The word expendable - he'd heard it enough in the war - sprung to mind and he pushed it down, "Go."

"Go." Buck pointed toward the back of the alley with both hands in that way he had when he was trying hard to make a point. He cocked his head. The sounds of men running in response to the shot were louder.

Buck helped the blonde quickly maneuver the unconscious form over a shoulder and manhandle him toward escape in the back shadows. Then he, himself, moved back toward the front of the alley.

Coltrain led the crowd that turned in from the street. Only Wilmington, who had so recently fought with the dead man at his feet, was in the alley.

JD, standing beside the Marshal, gun drawn, took in the scene with wide eyes. Then he turned to Buck for answers.

Wilmington dropped his gun and raised his hands. "I didn't kill him," he stated for the record…

Remembering back, Ezra had to admit that he had been surprised when he arrived with Nathan, to discover Buck in the Four Corners jail as a murder suspect and Vin nowhere to be seen.

" 'No good deed goes unpunished.' Isn't that what you always say?" Buck asked with an unconvincing laugh. And the words brought Ezra back out of his thoughts and into the present.

He had to wonder for a moment what old, cloistered thoughts had brought to mind the question. The southerner had his doubts whether it had anything at all to do with Tanner. But it removed any lingering doubts. His friend's uncharacteristic, poorly concealed moodiness was just as debilitating as any wounds.

"Not this time." The gambler barely moved one arm across the forearm of the other. Ezra had never had to give away the fact that he wore a sleeve gun. The lawmen didn't know to ask for it. He was still armed.

"You keep that peashooter where it is." Buck took a breath, as if fighting the pain from his scarred back, then added, "The last thing I need is to go to my Maker - you swinging beside me 'cuz you tried to help."

Ezra fought down the panic he felt at the resignation in the other man's voice, "We are getting you out of here. We only need to get to Judge Travis. He'll assure you a fair trial."

That brought a laugh, "I have escaped from many towns and several jails." There was a hint of indignation, as if the conman thought his criminal abilities were being questioned.

"They wouldn't let you send telegraphs to Chris or the judge. You said it yourself, this beatin'…" he had to take a moment to breathe around the pain, "… was to make sure I weren't in no condition to move that far that fast. How do you think you can saddle the two horses we'd need to ride out on and the Marshal not know about it?"

Ezra acknowledged the truth of the statement by his very silence. He also acknowledged that something else was going on, something sinister. The desire to lynch a man without a trial was all too present first in Four Corners and now here. Ezra didn't know what was going on, but wasn't willing to wait and see if Buck Wilmington would survive to get a fair trial.

Wilmington thought the younger man was on the verge of conceding the situation. But the next words from the agile tongue were the opposite of what he expected. "Humor me. If I devise an acceptable scheme to get you out, will you participate?"

Buck seemed to think about something and then come to a decision, "I'm not hurt as bad as I'm makin' out. Figure I'll have a better chance of makin' a move if they think I'm not able. You come up with somethin', I'll hold up my end."

Standish studied the other man. Was the one trying to con the other? Could the rowdy gunhand be trying to hide the severity of his injuries so that Ezra would be more willing to leave him? There was no doubt that the whip marks had to be debilitating. The southerner studied his friend with a hard gaze. Buck never looked away; he showed no guilt or deception.

Well damn, Ezra's face brightened and the smile was returned by the dark-haired man. It had finally all fallen into place. Ezra had just figured out Buck Wilmington. And, if you knew where to look, it was predictable.

While young Mr. Dunne seemed to have a split personality, Standish wrote it off to his embracing manhood. One day JD would act like a child, the next he was mature beyond his years and experience. Only later would the conman's insight let him see the dichotomy as the alternating influences of Larabee and Wilmington and, to a lesser degree, the other peacekeepers the youngster looked up to and admired.

Nathan Jackson he saw as a mixture of survivor's guilt and ambition to be something the status quo would never allow him to be. But the ex-slave was very much a doctor in everything but title. How the man must stumble, questioning himself as to how much the word, the title, really meant.

Josiah Sanchez was easy as well. Or so Standish believed from their few days of acquaintance. He presupposed the preacher's son was conflicted by being raised in the belief that religion and a man of the cloth were inexorably good; while alcohol and "sins of the flesh" would damn you to hell. But life hadn't proven the theory. He was only now understanding that it is often mankind's interpretation of religion and not religion, that fails and that religion and God are not one in the same. Ezra suspected that Sanchez regretted the years he spent lost, confused and wandering; looking for answers. But for the most part, he believed the big man had come out on the other side whole and better than most for the journey.

Vin Tanner? He kept to himself. But Standish sensed that one was trying to tame his violent side - not his wild, untamed side - he thrived on that. But whatever had made him a killer of man and beast somewhere, somehow, seemed to have been burned out of him. The tracker seemed to like the man he was now, better than the one he had been. And that six men he admired accepted this man, made it easier. He was a work in progress.

Larabee? Ezra didn't understand the man. He was an enigma. He was distant and violent, but, damn, such a leader, and his very presence demanded respect. There had to be something more. Because Ezra couldn't help but see Larabee through the eyes of the man with him now. There had to be so much more to the brooding shootist, or he could not demand that kind of friendship; that kind of loyalty. And he would not be able to offer that same friendship and loyalty, in his own way, in return. No, Chris Larabee would take more study.

But the paradox that had been Buck Wilmington had finally come into focus. Usually a clown, never serious, he often acted younger than JD Dunne. He could be irritating and boorish and sometimes seemed stupid. But then the man could speak eloquently in defense of a friend, lay out strategy and tactics, read and write, forgive almost any slight and be loyal without being cloying and charm almost anyone. How was it that this man could be such an exceptional teacher to JD? Why would Larabee so value the friendship, even if he didn't want to admit it? And Ezra was sure that Larabee did value the friendship.

And why did Standish himself seek the good-hearted man out as a friend and not as a mark?

No doubt the boy that would become the man had learned most of his behavior in the brothels where his mother worked. And those women would no doubt hide their intelligence because it would be seen as a threat to most of their customers. And in hiding their intelligence, by acting stupid or silly, they allowed themselves to be underestimated time and again.

How many times had Maude Standish "played dumb" or "played weak" until it suited her? Ezra might even acknowledge that he had learned that same lesson well from his mother.

Not to take away from his sincere, boisterous love of life, Wilmington, in fact, reveled in it, and let people interpret it as they might - until it was too late, or until he trusted them enough to give them a peek that there might be something more.

And that was what was happening now. Buck was pretending to be seriously injured until he could once again take advantage of being underestimated. And he was trusting Ezra Standish with that truth.

Well, Buck was sneaky, but Ezra had been raised by Maude Standish. His mind had already devised a plan to exploit the scenario Wilmington had established.

He had been quiet too long, lost in his thoughts. Buck was speaking again, questioning his judgment in trusting the gambler. After all, they had known each other a very short time, "I need you to leave, Ezra, so I don't have to worry about you when I make my move."

"We have already established that it will be easier with both of us working on your escape …" He held up a hand as the other man started to protest, "If there is a way to get the horses saddled?"

"We'll both be wanted then. For jail break." Buck sought to be sure Ezra knew what he was getting in to.

"We would need only travel as far as to get out of this circuit judge's venue and back to Travis. You'll be cleared in a fair trial."

"Why, Ezra? It don't make sense you taking a chance like that for someone you practically just met."

Ezra couldn't agree more. This protective streak went against everything Maude Standish raised her son to believe. Truth be known, he didn't understand it himself. He only knew he would manipulate, control or rearrange what fate seemed determined to dole out. Buck was waiting for an answer. Why?

"Mr. Wilmington, the world would be a darker place without you in it. It is more than worth the risk." Egad, Ezra blanched. Did sincerity always have to sound so maudlin?

But the look on the gentle maverick's face had the gambler re-evaluating the value of the words.

"Thanks, Ezra." It seemed he didn't know what else to say. It was almost like no one had ever said anything like that before. To Ezra's surprise, he understood. How would he feel for someone to say something like that, feel like that, about him?

Then as if embarrassed by the moment, Buck was speaking again, strategizing again, clearly, to Ezra's trained ear, he was changing the subject, "We still don't know what happened. I still look guilty."

Ezra was taking a frustrated breath to continue his argument when Buck added, "But I'll take my chances. If you're sure."

Buck's mind was immediately working out the details, convincing Ezra that his recent evaluation of the man's intelligence was correct. "That deputy, Halpin, he lets you stay in here way too much. Almost like he wants us to try something."

"I agree," Ezra said as his expression changed to a contemplative frown, "He's up to no good …"

All too soon, the door to the jail opened and a voice cut through the room, "What the hell … this isn't a social club. Why is that man still in that cell?" Coltrain demanded as he entered carrying a basket covered with a red and white checkered napkin.

Halpin all but ignored his boss's anger as he got up from the desk and took his own sweet time sauntering over to the cells.

The marshal, fastidious to a fault, ran his finger across the corner of the desk looking for imaginary dust before he put the food basket down. He had already dismissed the order he had given as well as the men in the room.

Ezra hissed quickly to Buck as the deputy approached, "Play along, please. But believe this, I will be back."

"If something happens before then …" Buck began, and unconsciously rubbed his throat.

"I am not running out on you! Do you understand that? I'll be back." Ezra hissed quickly. The deputy was almost to the inner cell itself with the keys. They didn't have time to second guess each other now.

Damning himself for his reputation and the opinion he had given these men of his trustworthiness, Ezra knew he didn't have time to convince Buck of his plan. He was surprised by the next words.

"Hell, Ezra, I never doubted that. You can't run out when you want to. A man like that sure as hell can't turn tail just because it's the smart thing to do."

The "Buck logic" slapped the gambler in the face. He didn't understand it, but felt a warm tingle down his spine at the concept behind the words, "2:30 tonight, my friend …"

He was interrupted by Halpin's bullying voice, "Hey, boy," He snarled, finally making his slothful way to the inner door, "Get out now or stay in there."

"Showtime." Ezra whispered to himself. He straightened his jacket as he stood. Halpin moved back for Ezra to leave the cell.

"This man still requires bandages and medical attention." Ezra said, rising to remove himself from the cell.

"What?" Halpin barked with amusement, "You want to keep him alive for the hangin'?"

"No one hangs without a trial." Coltrain glared at his deputy with a finality that he thought would close the discussion.

"Vato, that mob ain't gonna wait for a judge to tell them what they already know. And I ain't gettin' killed keepin' your friend from stretchin' a rope." Halpin whispered into Standish's ear as he had to pass the deputy to get through the cell door. He said it low enough for the disinterested marshal to miss, but for the accused to hear well enough, "You better get while the gettin's good," It was clearly a threat.

The conman took a deep breath and let Halpin read the message he wanted him to see on his face -- that Ezra believed they would let him hang alongside Wilmington, "Perhaps you are correct. It is the law's responsibility to see that this man get a fair trial. As the good marshal so often points out, I don't wear a badge." It sounded like he was rationalizing what he was about to do.

"Ezra?" Buck's incredulous voice came from inside the cell. The sense of loss in that one name had the gambler hoping it was, indeed, an act. But he held firm, he had to for the con to work.

"It is the law's responsibility to see you get a fair trial. I fear, perhaps, my presence complicates matters."

"That yeller streak don't go so good with that fancy purple coat," Halpin laughed accusingly, "Better run, gambler. 'Cuz if I can stick you in that cell I will. And if that lynch mob wants two for the price of one …"

"Deputy." Coltrain reprimanded unemotionally. There'll be no lynching on his watch. The marshal handed Standish his guns and rigging to put on before he left. It was a tacit order to get out.

"I'll hold you responsible for his safety, sir," Ezra confronted Coltrain with just the right amount of blustery bravado.

"Mr. Wilmington, what did you expect of me?" Ezra quickly fumbled with the holster and putting his second gun back in its shoulder sheath.

He started to look back toward the cell, didn't and stumbled over his words as he moved toward the door, "Gentlemen … I need a drink." And he was out the door before he lost his nerve.

"I understand, Ezra." Buck's voice wafted from the cell and chased him out the door, "I don't blame you," After the briefest of pauses, he continued, "Take care of my horse … give the kid my guns …" It sounded like a last will and testament. For a second time, Ezra almost lost his resolve. But he knew they were timing it close as it was.

By now Ezra had forced himself out the door and was walking quickly past the alley that the cell window faced, "Standish! To hell with you then," Buck called from the window, as if he could no longer conceal the hurt and realization of this betrayal by a friend, "Get out of town. Save your own hide. I thought we were friends …" Buck, his burst of energy apparently spent, sank back to the cot. He sagged against the wall and, through half slit eyes, watched the office.

The midnight blue eyes fell on Halpin. That one was enjoying himself immensely watching the drama unfold. Damn the man. It was like he fed on the suffering of others. How'd he ever get a badge? Well, unfortunately, Buck knew the answer to that one. A man like him was the reason the chivalrous gunfighter no longer wore a Ranger's star. 'Be careful, Ezra.' The tall cowboy said under his breath.

It had all seemed so easy to Ezra P. Standish. It was the sort of con he pulled all the time. Convince the local constabulary that he was a coward and leaving under the pretense of going for help …

He kept telling himself it was a workable plan. It was a good plan. He would leave town with his horse and Wilmington's. The marshal and his deputies would think he was running for his life. Halpin and Goodall would probably think he was stealing the second horse. He would come back and affect the escape.

If either of the deputies were watching, they would see in Ezra Standish a man on his way to drinking away his guilt. For once Ezra didn't have to put on a front. What he wanted to show his marks and how he really felt were in exact synchronization. The Southerner picked up his pace.

Maybe he should ride out. Yes, he'd go after Larabee and the others. Maybe there was a town close by and he could send a telegraph from there that would get through. Maybe he could still be back in time to break Buck from the cell. But then, his horse would be spent. But would he need the horse to be fresh if he got word to the others? Of course they had time to get here. He was over-reacting. There couldn't possibly be a trial for another week. In fact, there was plenty of time to get all the way to Four Corners and get back with help before then.

He must be picking up on Mr. Wilmington's unease to think he should try to execute the rescue by himself.

The problem was, all of that hinged on there being a trial. That the lynch mob was all talk, no action. And Ezra knew in his gut that wasn't the case. He could feel it. There was something more going on than a bunch of tempers burned short by the oppressive summer heat.

He just didn't want the responsibility for Buck Wilmington's life. He didn't have any experience at protecting friends; protecting someone who trusted him to do the protecting. When the hell had he moved from studying people and rating them as marks to an active participant in life? Damn. Damn. Damn.

Suddenly a wild commotion had him jumping reflexively to the side, his hand going for his gun. Only then did he realize he had left the wooden walkway where it broke for the livery. He was by the corral and his pace had startled the man-killer, unbreakable stallion boarded there. The animal kicking at the timbers that held it and its derisive snort jolted Ezra back to his senses.

The stallion had come over to protest the human in his space. The usually in-control Southerner couldn't help but personify the sound as if the horse were chastising the human for being so lost in his thoughts.

His point apparently made, the big strawberry roan pranced a short distance and kicked out at the round pen.

Some local rancher, with more money than sense, had bought the beast for breeding stock. Ezra wished that he had met the man before he made the purchase. It was just that sort of fool who was an easy mark for the conman. It was a magnificent beast, no doubt about it, prancing now, shaking its head. It would come close and kick at the crossbeams of the fence that contained it, as if knowing that no one would punish him for it. The rancher apparently thought the stud was worth the money for his brood mares. If he couldn't breed out that wild streak, or at least harness it, he'd wasted the money.

Ezra watched the animal. Proud and independent. But not really, because he was clearly aware of the fences that imprisoned him. And though he railed against them, in a very real sense, he accepted them. He pretended he didn't care and continued to preen and posture. So, Ezra mused, he was proud and he looked good, but he wasn't that smart. Or that independent. Or he would have taken the risk and kicked the fence down and run for freedom, run for his own destiny.

Ezra caught himself and silently thanked the horse for the insight. For he, too, was running around in fences, invisible fences his mother had constructed. And even the thoughts that he should abandon Wilmington were a part of the pen he was allowed to run in, and pretend he was free. The thoughts weren't his own, not any longer, and he mentally kicked that gate open. Or maybe he'd done that several weeks ago. When he had started running with a wild herd that accepted him for his maverick tendencies, and even challenged him with their own.

More than ever, he needed a drink. His steps, more controlled, still led him toward the saloon.

Ezra settled himself in an advantageous corner of the saloon. He would watch. If the group became too rowdy, and a change of plans was in order, he wanted to know immediately.

The talk of hanging a man would ebb and flow like the tides. It would seem to slack off, and then an unseen voice would stir them up again.

No one seemed to challenge Ezra, or his acquaintance with the accused. And, as long as he kept his opinions to himself, he was welcome enough at the card table and the locals were more than willing to hand over their money to him and Lady Chance.

But that in itself seemed unusual in Ezra's experience. Guilt by association was more the order of the day in the mob mentalities of which he had all too often been on the receiving end.

Ezra Standish was again struck by something … contrived … manipulated about this situation. And the other men at the table weren't nearly skilled enough in the art of poker to keep his mind occupied. So, as he seemed to sociably, and, of course, by Luck's good graces alone, take their money, his mind was free to try to solve the mysteries he knew were there, even if he couldn't put a finger on them.

One clue that eluded him had to rest in the minutes immediately after the body had been found. His memory drifted back to what he could remember of that time …

Standish mused as he watched Nathan Jackson examine the body of the recently deceased US deputy marshal James Welch. Everything was off kilter. Not by much, but growing worse exponentially. It was subtle, too, or maybe seemed that way since they'd known each other only a short time.

It had started with Wilmington. Who was now sitting passively in a cell, offering no alibi and accused of killing a man he'd fought mere moments earlier.

Standish had to admit he'd been surprised when, instead of waiting for him to bring Jackson to the downed tracker, Larabee bundled the unconscious man up the stairs to the clinic.

He also had to admit he was surprised that Wilmington was being held for the crime.

The gentle gunfighter had an alibi. Standish and Larabee could vouch that he didn't kill Welch. But that would put their Texan at risk wouldn't it? Was there a choice to be made there? Had it already been made? And whose choice was it to make? Buck seemed more than willing to serve as a distraction - - or had until Nathan brought word that Tanner had awakened but didn't remember what happened, how he came to be in the alley or anything about gunplay.

Standish's quick mind pondered the facts as he went through the dead man's clothes and wallet. What wasn't a surprise to this reader of men was that their surly leader ensconced himself in the clinic at the lanky marksman's side. There was no doubt those two saw something vulnerable and in need of protecting, each in the other's flinty veneer.

He thought the final surprise was that, instead of keeping their healer nearby to tend to Vin, Larabee had sent Nathan to examine the body. Ezra himself had been directed to leave his game and accompany the former slave. Neither man knew what he was supposed to look for.

But one last surprise greeted Ezra when the undertaker's door opened. He looked up, going for his gun. After all, there was a murderer on the loose. Then he relaxed. Larabee stood in the doorway.

Larabee shook his head, 'No'. "I left him sleeping. Josiah's with him." The infamous gunfighter looked at the body, "You find anything to get Buck out of that cell?"

Standish was slowly coming to the conclusion that Larabee's loyalty to his old friend was exponential to how much he tried to hide it. Whether he was hiding it or denying it to himself or others was something Standish had yet to determine.

"The man died instantly." Nathan commented. There was fairly little blood from the small hole, "His heart must've stopped beatin' right then."

"There are powder burns on the victim's clothes." Ezra mused. He'd let his killer get close. "I do not understand the bruisin' that develops on the side of a deceased nearest the ground." He added, "I am familiar with it enough to know it is a part of death."

"And as it has just begun to appear during Mr. Jackson's examination, and on the man's back …"

"So there's no chance someone killed him earlier somewhere else and moved him there," Larabee growled.

"Why would Vin hold his ground against the deputy? Him bein' a wanted man and all?" Nathan questioned out loud, "He ain't the type what needs a fight to prove something."

"The alley had another egress." Standish added to the mystery. Even his fertile mind couldn't create a scenario where all the parts fit.

Larabee stared into space. His face was unreadable. Without a word he stepped out of the building and onto the covered boardwalk.

The brim of Larabee's black hat pushed back as he turned his faraway gaze into the coming dry line.

"I hope that storm doesn't slow up the judge too much." Nathan observed as they watched the lightning race to the ground in the west, "I don't like the idea of Buck sitting in that jail. What with them marshal's tryin' to run things."

"Buck always lands on his feet." Larabee said, as if trying to convince himself.

"I'm gonna check on Vin," Nathan muttered. Larabee headed back to the clinic with the former slave.

Nathan studied the man beside him without being obvious. He didn't like Larabee's cavalier attitude regarding Wilmington's incarceration. Because he didn't know how it translated into the man's allegiance to his other fellow peacekeepers. This man had saved him, a perfect stranger, from a noose, Jackson reminded himself. But look as he might, he couldn't see any loyalty at this moment to Buck Wilmington.

Buck said he and Larabee were friends. But the indifference the notorious gunfighter had shown since their getting back together, even the cool, aloof, almost apathetic support he gave the man after the near fatal saber wound at the Seminole village, made Jackson doubt the comradeship.

Wilmington didn't seem like the clingy, hanger-on type that might stay with the gunfighter to associate with the notoriety. But Buck's commitment to the friendship seemed one sided. He reminded the healer of a hound that followed blindly but was treated as a tool, like a cattle dog or ratter, instead of a pet.

On a personal, self-preservation level, it had Nathan wondering when he could trust Larabee to watch his and Josiah's backs. Or when would the gunslinger find them wanting and disregard a dangerous situation? What triggered the gunfighter's protectiveness; what triggered his apathy? Jackson had only known this group a short time. He'd know Josiah much longer. He knew Josiah was his friend and would stand by him no matter what. The others, even Larabee, had proven themselves in life and death situations. But in many ways, showing a friendship and allegiance in the quiet times was harder to do. The irony was that it was in the quiet times, the emotional times, the sad times, that trust was formed for the dangerous times. Nathan Jackson was still watching the quiet times, and not sure he liked what he saw.

For reasons he pretended not to fathom, the Southern loner thought to make his way to the jail and check on things. Their impressionable, barely tamed eastern hooligan had chosen to stick around and act as a buffer between the marshal and Wilmington especially since they were in "his" jail.

With visions of dime novel heroes dancing in his head, there was no telling what that one would do if he thought it was to protect his friend or his honor.

The storm was getting closer. The gentleman peacekeeper put his head down that the brim of his hat might protect him from the debris cast so recklessly about by the gusting wind. While rain was always appreciated in the near desert clime of Four Corners, it was rarely gentle, more often forcing itself violently on the land. It was beautiful in its own way, the white/blue flashes of lightning and the powerful thunder. But he would most certainly prefer to be inside to appreciate it.

For now he would let the events of the day simmer at the back of his mind. His mind often worked better if his conscious thoughts were preoccupied with moving, riding, gambling or, heaven forbid, some sort of menial labor. It seemed as if, somehow, conscious action freed his subconscious mind to solve the problem. And there was an answer here. The parts just weren't coming together. So, for now, he would take the patrol and later a game would serve his purpose.

He had calculated how to beat the rain, and end his rounds about the time his gaming table should be seeing attention. They were working hours that suited him just fine.

So why, he wondered to himself as he flipped Gambit's reins over the hitching post, was he disrupting his schedule to stop by the jail?

Ezra knew his sixth sense, the one for self-preservation, was working when he suddenly keyed into the words around him; voices he would otherwise have chosen to filter out.

The loud words that drew his attention came from just inside the crowded, rowdy saloon. Some of the locals were drunker than usual. There were more strangers milling around and several had overflowed onto the boardwalk in front of the bar.

One of the men drinking at the bar leaned back on his elbows and spoke loudly to anyone who would listen, "What kind of town is this? You'd let a hired gun kill a U.S deputy and sit here, doing nothing?"

"Wilmington didn't kill a man for no reason," came a quick response from one of Four Corners' residents.

"Hell, Mister, there weren't no woman involve." This garnered a laugh from several of the regulars.

"Do yourself a favor, Sir, don't let Larabee hear you talking like that," the banker advised as he finished off his beer. The cowboys who drifted in earlier in the day had been buying rounds for the house.

"You scared of him? That a yellow streak down your backs keepin' you from doin' the right thing?"

"Pard, you'd best be gettin' afore Larabee gets wind of what you're tryin' to stir up."

"I ain't scared of some drunken has-been," the drifter at the bar bellowed defiantly, "He's guilty."

"Larabee and his gang own that judge that's comin' in. You 'men' gonna let killers run your town? Show 'em who's boss," the second unfamiliar voice chimed in.

"You certainly appear anxious to have someone declared guilty of that crime," Ezra's voice drifted through the bar.

The locals all turned to face the batwing doors where the gambler now stood, the doors partially open, a wrist casually resting on each one. A couple of the locals smirked. "As you have observed, no one in this rustic community believes that Mr. Wilmington is guilty of said crime. No one in this town is willing to be a part of killing an innocent man."

Old Henderson whispered that he wished he had time to place a bet with the Southerner as to whether or not he would end up shooting one of these men with that sneaky little derringer he carried.

The softness in the Southern drawl froze over. "Get out. Now. Or you won't have to be worried about a 'drunken gunfighter'. You'll have your hands full with a son of the South."

Now faced with someone who would do more than talk or listen, the instigators slinked into the night.

Cat calls followed the strangers' hasty retreat out of the drinking establishment. Standish was surprised when the bar erupted in impromptu applause and calls of encouragement and acceptance.

The gambler touched two fingers to the brim of his hat in acknowledgement of the locals' support. But he kept his features impassive, aloof. Ezra kept up the facade until he himself was hidden by shadows. Then he allowed himself a self-depreciating smirk. When did he become a protector? He was worse with Mr. Wilmington, even the others, than Wilmington himself was protecting JD. It could only bring trouble and duress. The smirk turned to a genuine smile. But it sure felt good.

The smile lingered until the Georgia Reb opened the jail door to find himself staring down the barrel of a .24 caliber handgun. A small bore, but big enough when it is inches from your face. Especially when it was in the hand of deputy marshal Larry Halpin. Especially since that man was distracted by pointing his usual weapon of choice, his .44, at JD.

The tableau froze. Ezra's eyes took in the others. The marshal and his deputy were trying to remove Wilmington from the premises. JD had apparently gone down fighting to keep Buck inside the cell. On the floor and backed up against the far wall, he nevertheless had both of his handguns out and aimed at these two lawmen. His too long raven bangs had fallen in his eyes, and a black eye was beginning to make itself known. A souvenir from the deputy marshal no doubt.

Marshal Coltrain, in his turn, had both of his ivory grip .45's pointed at the youngest regulator.

So, their juvenile delinquent was playing true to form. The marshal had taken over the jail but the young hot head refused to leave his friend; one of the precious few things he had found to help him tell right from wrong. Standish found himself wishing Sanchez had stayed to baby-sit the youth. Once that wild Irish spirit had gotten over the shock of killing his first man at the Seminole village, visions drawn from dime novels had formed a distorted image of life, death, honor and heroism.

The boy was still finding his way out of a fantasy world he'd created out of loneliness and need. Somehow Wilmington had become the boy's lifeline to reality. Fighting against a threat to the older man made him reckless.

"JD, boy, put your gun down." The tall rascal was demanding; a death grip on the bars.

"Drop 'em, Kid, or I'll drop you." Coltrain promised the young easterner; he was obviously repeating the warning.

"Don't move, fancy pants, or you'll lose your head." Halpin easily split his attention between the newcomer and the boy.

"Gentlemen …" Ezra found his voice as he took in what was happening. He kept his hands at shoulder level, clearly away from his guns, and he moved into the middle of the confrontation.

"Why? So you imbeciles can kill each other?" Standish cautiously positioned himself where the young man would have to shoot through him to hit the adversaries.

JD started to scramble forward, nursing his black eye, ready for a second round.

Ezra moved in front of the boy, "JD, stand down. If anyone gets hurt, it will be Mr. Wilmington. Can you see that?" The young sheriff hesitated and finally calmed down long enough to think.

"Lord, boys, go to the saloon. Get a drink." Buck pleaded. No one moved. The Marshal had enough sense to give them time to work through this.

"Orchestrating your own jailbreak, Marshal?" Standish's quick wit was already categorizing all the possible scenarios and he didn't like any of them. He resisted the urge to go for his own gun.

"No change of venue requires the transfer be made under cover of darkness." Ezra responded.

"Goodall's heard all about your "pet" judge," Halpin said of his fellow deputy. "There's no real justice here. The town's afraid to back us …"

As if on cue the second deputy came in from the back door. "Horses are saddled -," he broke off as he registered the drawn guns.

Goodall's entrance drew Ezra's attention for a heartbeat as he tried to appraise this new element in the equation.

Too late Ezra heard a scraping sound behind him. It felt like a bolt of lightning itself struck him and the white sparklers exploded behind his eyes. Halpin, effectively having used his gun butt as a club.

Standish collapsed onto Dunne. The young man reflexively splayed his arms to catch his friend. In the time JD's pearl handled .45's weren't aimed in his direction, Halpin leaned over Standish and slapped JD hard with the .24 He and Goodall each grabbed one of the regulators, disarmed them and forcefully dragged the two of them, still dazed, to their feet.

Dazed, but not unconscious, Ezra was nevertheless having trouble coordinating his movements. "Only reason I don't gun you down is a shot would draw too much attention." Halpin snarled as he took the second, shoulder rig gun he'd seen Ezra use during their short stay in Four Corners and toss it toward the jail's desk.

"Standish, please," Buck entreated, "Get the kid out of here. The judge'll hash things out in a couple of days." Even as he spoke, he knew this wasn't an option open to the lawmen.

But as Goodall and Halpin tossed the stunned younger men into the empty cell, Wilmington could at least hope they would survive this alive.

Coltrain dragged Buck from his cell, manacled his wrists, grabbed the pristine bandana from his own throat and gagged him. And damn if the prick didn't have the gall to wipe his hands after he'd handed the prisoner over to his deputies.

JD staggered to the cell bars, "Why aren't you looking for the real killer?" he yelled in desperation.

Dunne did his best to shake the immoveable bars out of their mortar. Ezra was on his hands and knees trying to push his uncooperative body from the floor. He was barely aware of the fact that Wilmington was being dragged out the back door.

In the narrow alleyway, Buck was hefted onto one of the livery's raw boned rental horses. Goodall quickly added a length of rope that tied the irons on Buck's hands to the saddle horn. Then he mounted his horse and the four of them were on their way out of town. No one was in the alley to see the getaway.

Ezra wavered to his feet. Despite his best efforts, he had to hold onto the wall for a moment for the vertigo to pass. Even the minimal lamplight had him flinching as he held a hand to his forehead.

"Ezra, gawd, Ezra, are you all right?" He heard the voice and forced himself to focus on it. "They took him. Ezra, we got no keys. I never thought they'd draw down on me. I mean, I thought about it, me drawing down on them I mean, I thought I might break Buck out, get Buck out of here, but then I could tell the troublemakers weren't having any luck with all that talk about a hangin'. So I decided the judge should tell that marshal off, it would mean more, because he doesn't care what we think, you can tell, you know? Ezra, please, the keys are in the desk drawer. What are we gonna do?"

JD's panicked running commentary gave Ezra something to grasp to as he got his thoughts together. His head ached unmercifully, he had to wipe a trickle of blood from his eye, but his thought process was on line again.

JD split his attention between shouting for help out the tall window and watching Standish. He seemed to be willing the gambler to take one step after the other. This was not right. The marshal was one of the good guys. He believed in justice and the law. Why would he take a prisoner out in the dead of night?

JD's eyes widened as his injured friend pulled the two parts of a lock pick from behind the lapel of his fine jacket and finally looked around.

It took several more agonizing minutes for the gambler to manipulate the tumblers. Standish was beginning to question his ability before he finally heard the satisfying "click" and pushed the door open.

"Get the others, JD," He directed as he staggered for the door, "Follow us. I'm going to try to keep up, leave you sign. Get the others. Get Chris." He left the young sheriff and was gone.

Every second would count with this storm moving in, with the hotheads in the saloon who could, at any moment, get wind that their prey was suddenly in a much more vulnerable situation.

Sipping his drink in the shadows of the saloon and thinking back on it, Ezra had no doubt that JD had gotten to the others as quickly as possible, and they had followed, but Mother Nature had contrived to foil the rescue. The deluge burst almost as soon as Ezra, riding hard, caught sight of the lawmen and their prisoner. Not only had the rain washed out any sign he thought to leave, Vin, the one most likely to be able to follow it was still bedridden.

The marshal and his deputies had led Buck out due north only to turn east when the rain began. Later Ezra would come to understand the move was to get out of Judge Travis's jurisdiction as quickly as possible. North was Eagle Bend. East had been Mineral Wells outside of the Judge's venue.

Arriving in Mineral Wells, he hadn't been able to accomplish anything. The deputies had taken turn dogging his every move and had made it clear any telegraphs meant to obtain backup would not be sent.

So now here he sat, Ezra Standish, Mr.-Look-Out-For-Number-One. He was the only thing that stood before a man he'd known less than three weeks and a lynch mob. And he'd put himself in this position with no monetary gain in site. Just the opposite. Because if somehow he failed, and Chris Larabee heard nothing but the marshal's version of that last conversation, no matter how contrived, the notorious gunfighter would no doubt find new and innovative ways to kill him slowly.

What made the intuitive spirit stay in town, a not-so-silent sentinel watching over the treatment of his friend? Responsibility. He'd avoided it; been taught it was wrong. Didn't know how to handle it. What would Larabee do? Jackson? Sanchez? Too often lately he found that being a yardstick for his actions. And with those stoic, ethical, logical role models why did he always migrate to the emotionally juvenile decisions based on the loyalty or idealism of a Wilmington or Dunne?

A defense mechanism in his mind that didn't want to follow that train of thought did what it always did. It solved the problem his subconscious had been working on - as a distraction for the self-examination.

It had him suddenly focusing on the voice he was hearing outside the saloon among the crowd milling out there impatiently and raucously. That one voice suddenly stood out above all the others, "Prove you're men. If the Marshal won't see justice done, pass judgment yourselves."

Ezra recognized the voice. It was the stranger, the primary agitator who had tried to stir up a lynch mob in Four Corners. Ezra perked up and headed immediately toward the door.

"Most towns I've been in, they'd string a coward up for killin' a lawman. Gives your town a bad name." The second faceless voice repeated the words that hadn't worked for him in Four Corners.

Both instigators were here. Why? How? They hadn't seemed to know each one another last night, even though they readily agreed with each others views.

Why had they followed the lawmen to Mineral Wells? How had they followed in that storm? They would have to have known … someone would have to tell … and why was the first one peeling off from the rabble they had so efficiently instigated now that Ezra had spotted them?

"I'm buying for the house." The second voice called, "Belly up to the bar boys. Let's celebrate bein' men and doin' what men have to do." The words stoked the alcohol-reduced inhibitions of the townsmen and strengthened the resolve of the saloon's customers toward violence. But it did something else. As the crowd rushed the doors and back inside the bar, Ezra was like a salmon going against the current trying to get outside and follow his target. The second, scroungy long haired drifter admired his handiwork, pulled his Stetson low as if trying to disappear and faded into the shadows of the night.

Ezra immediately began shouldering his way through the crowd. Some were unwilling to be budged. Several got in his way trying to get to the free beer and whiskey. The crowd, where it still spilled onto the boardwalk was equally dense and riled up. More alcohol thrown on this mob could only be an intentional incendiary to add fuel to the flames of anger and retribution.

By the time Ezra made it to the fringe of the mob, both drifters had disappeared. Ezra looked right then left. His well honed senses told him these men held the answers. Where the hell had they gone?

Standish heard the devil horse. It was challenging humans who had invaded its territory. Better than a watch dog. Ezra headed that way. He covered the space quickly without giving the impression of being rushed.

The gambler slowed his pace. He was prepared to confront the men. He wasn't prepared to see the drifters and two other strangers laughing viciously with both of Coltrain's deputies.

And there, in that moment, Ezra understood the "what" of it all and the "who". He still didn't know the "why" … he didn't need to.

Backtracking, headed toward the jail, he barely acknowledged the cowboy he shouldered into. They both muttered apologies and went on their way.

Despite his situation, Buck Wilmington had watched in fascination as US Marshal Ezekiel Coltrain dusted the jailhouse. Dusted. This alone had Buck considering the man a little unstable.

'No jail should be as clean as this guy keeps his,' Buck thought, and couldn't help but be amused, even in his current situation. 'At least it makes for crispy clean sheets,' But he had to admit that he missed the normal, familiar smell of old wood and gun oil that should permeate a building like this.

Now the man was meticulously arranging wanted posters. 'Hell, yeah, you asshole. That's a good idea - in case the outlaws ride in alphabetically.' Even in this situation, Buck couldn't help but find humor in people who took themselves so seriously.

Buck looked up at the Regulator clock above the desk and tried not to smile. It was almost 5:00 in the afternoon, not even coming on dark yet. He had a while to wait.

2:30. Their gambler might not like sleeping out in the elements, but Standish paid attention to nature's details. Wilmington, himself, guess-timated that the moon would rise about 3 am. Not a full moon, not enough for anyone short of a Vin Tanner to follow sign, but enough light to make a run for it. Maybe luck was smiling on them at last. What Ezra said was probably true, that he had more than his share of experience escaping from jail. Buck smiled and shook his head as thoughts of that rascal and his conniving ways brought to mind all sorts of mischief they could get into.

Wilmington leaned against the wall to save up his strength for the mad dash for freedom later tonight.

He was startled when the front door slammed open. Despite his preoccupation with neatness, the marshal was fast. He had his gun unholstered and pointed at the intruder even before he recognized him. Buck quickly came to his feet, his pretense of being hurt forgotten, when he realized it was Ezra making this dramatic, if early, entrance and the marshal might take it the wrong way.

While Standish held his hands in plain view and was clearly unarmed, his real weapons - his mouth and his wit were keenly sighted in on the lawman, "Marshal Coltrain, we must get Buck out of here immediately."

"Don't make any difference. He's deadly with it. If you're thinkin' to try anything …"

"On the contrary, I remember being confronted with the weapon and it left no doubt that Halpin is lethal with it. But he is also up to no good. He killed Welch."

"Welch was killed with a .24 caliber weapon. Mr. Jackson removed the bullet from the corpse …" Ezra's mind flashed back to the small hole below the corpse's heart. It was all falling into place.

"Then why not tell us that before we left? Or since we've been here. Like Halpin said, he had an accomplice." The man was a pompous ass, but he was a good lawman. His mind immediately hit on the contradictions of the story and knew, or thought he knew, he was being lied to.

"Marshal, there were reasons, but this is not the time. Your deputy is in cahoots with the men orchestrating this lynching." Now Buck was listening. This was not good. "We must remove Mr. Wilmington from harm's way. Then I will explain."

"If you are so concerned with justice, why did you prevent me from wiring our friends in Four Corners to tell them where we were?"

"I didn't prevent nothin'. I don't care about who witnesses a fair trial. Outside of that town you own, you don't scare me."

"If that is true, your one deputy not only killed the other, he is preventing the truth from coming to light."

"Because a good old-fashion necktie party is the best distraction you can have - when you intend to rob the bank." The soft, self-confident purr came from the back of the jail and Halpin finally walked in and made his presence known. Behind him followed Goodall and five other men including the two Ezra had picked out at the saloon. And the stranger Ezra had run into as he left the clandestine meeting. They all had their guns leveled at Standish and Coltrain.

The marshal's face showed confusion and disbelief. Ezra's sharp eyes were darting about, looking for something to give him an edge. Buck was completely frustrated by his helplessness behind bars.

Halpin smiled. Without being directed to do so, two of the men strode into the room and disarmed both the marshal and the conman. Halpin motioned for Wilmington to move away from the bars as he unlocked them and added two new prisoners.

"Why?" Buck asked, curious in a morose, detached sort of way. He wasn't willing, yet, to admit this could very possibly doom him to the rope.

"I told Welch our plan, find one of Coltrain's 'fugitives' get a lynch mob all hot and bothered and rob the bank while the good citizens of the town strung the guy up." He shrugged as if it was the most logical thing in the world. "Damn fool said 'no'. Said marshalin' was easy enough money. He was gonna tell Coltrain our plan."

"I have to admit I was surprised you were in the alley instead of that scraggly buffalo man, but it didn't matter. And you," he turned to Standish, "Well, you're a persistent little rotter. I'll just have to adapt." The smirk was intolerable. Ezra couldn't get to him to wipe the look off his face. He did the next best thing. He turned and slammed his fist into Coltrain's jaw for all he was worth. The marshal flew back against the cinderblock wall. The crack of his skull hitting the solid surface gave Standish little satisfaction.

"Perfect. That mob's a powder keg. Once we light the fuse, everyone who's in town will either participate or be watchin'."

Halpin looked over to the reliable regulator clock above the sheriff's desk, "It's 5:00." The bank would close at 6. "We'll make the move when the last customer leaves for the day." He turned to Wilmington, "You got a date with a rope, Pard."

Wilmington, standing beside the cot, would only have to crane his long neck slightly to look out the smallish window high in the drab gray wall. Last time he looked, the crowd had swollen so that he could see the outer fringe of the self-appointed judges, jurors and executioners. Having moved out of the saloon, they were even louder in their self-righteous drunkenness.

Standish, sitting beside his friend on the thin mattress, wanted to yell at him to stop looking, as if acknowledging the mob empowered it. He knew that the one didn't add up to the other but his frustration and helplessness were boiling up as anger. He kept his peace. He wouldn't blast the surprisingly private man for dealing with the stress in his own way. But he was so quiet.

The sheriff was sitting on his coat to avoid getting dirty as he had been regulated to the floor by the much smaller gambler.

"Those folks don't even know me and they want me dead." Buck started to pull himself up to look out the small window again, but decided he didn't really want to see out there and slumped back down on the cot.

Ezra closed his eyes, took a breath that hitched in his throat and replied, "They want a show. They want some drama to break up their mundane, pathetic existence." The vitriol was thick. "They can't afford to get to know you, or they would all be here with me instead of out there. This is exactly why they had to spirit you out of Four Corners. No one there would allow the situation to have evolved as far as it has here."

To Ezra's vexation, the gentle gunfighter's only response was to stand up and again look out the window. He glared at Deputy Goodall across the room who paid just enough attention to make using the lock picks impractical.

Buck couldn't help it. There was something morbidly fascinating about watching his last moments of life in the hands of strangers.

It was already growing dark. The heavy rain clouds, clinging to the day, made it even darker. The mob at the saloon seemed to swell every time he checked on it. The street fires had already been lit. They flickered and ebbed, adding a demonic aura to the undulating shadows imposing themselves on the gathering.

Although the storm had lingered, it was finally pushing east. There were breaks in the clouds to the west. It would be one last, glorious sunset, it brought fond memories to the tall, good-hearted soul, "I used to tell Ma - when I was real little, mind ya - that when I went to heaven I was gonna ask God for a job helpin' paint the sunsets." There was a pause before he added in a soft whisper, "Wish I had remembered I wanted that job more often. Figure I would've tried harder to make sure I got to heaven in the first place."

Ezra's head spun up and around in surprise. He couldn't help himself. It wasn't so much that this man had such a poet's spirit, but that he was sharing it, even in this situation. Before he could even consider a suitable reply, the soft, contemplative voice continued, "Do you believe in heaven, Ezra?"

This question was another jolt for Buck's southern friend. He didn't know the answer. He didn't know what to say, "Do you?" It was out of his mouth before he could think whether or not it was the right thing to say.

The child-like truth he heard in the western troubador's reply was so alien to the conman whose mother had never let him be a child. He ached to know that feeling. The emotions pummeling him from the inside out were almost unbearable. He threw a scathing, hate-filled glare at the marshal, demanding him to see this man he had sentenced to death.

"I have no doubt you will be reunited with your Momma when it is time," Somehow he couldn't spout false hope, it hurt too much. But he noticed he hadn't yet resigned himself to the fact that this was the day he would lose his friend. There was always a chance. One of his few attributes was that he believed in fighting to the end, no matter how hopeless the situation appeared. He knew the tall man beside him was of the same ilk.

"What'd'ya think it's like, Ezra? Closing your eyes that last time to open them to … what?"

"Your reward, my friend," was Ezra's soulful reply, "Well earned and well deserved." There was friendship, respect and truth in the words.

Wilmington couldn't accept the absolution, "You get the chance, when your time comes … you choose to go fast. Don't give yourself time to ponder all you've got to answer for."

"See yourself through your friends' eyes. You'll see an honorable man who should be proud to stand before his Maker."

For a long time, there was no reply. But the condemned man couldn't find peace in the words, "You don't know what all I've got to answer for."

"Buck," Ezra stood up and met him, eye to eye, "It is not the individual shortcomings or momentary lapses by which you will be judged. It is what is in your heart. The true heart that guilt and misplaced responsibility won't let you see. I see it. Mr. Larabee sees it. Mr. Dunne thrives on it. The Good Lord put you on this earth as a protector, a teacher, a nurturer. When you stand before him, he will smile and say, 'Well done.' I put money on it. And you know I abhor leaving anything to chance," he offered with a hesitant smile.

The older man seemed to find some truth in the smile, if not that statement, and, perhaps some self-validation. "Thank you, Ezra Standish," the low voice croaked around its emotion. The ex-Ranger swallowed hard and turned his watery eyes back out the window. Standish knew tears wouldn't fall. Men didn't cry.

The shouts from the crowd filled the otherwise silent space. When Buck spoke again, he was back in control, "Tell JD something for me."

"Tell him yourself." Ezra threw back. They were both still alive. There was still a chance. There was still his hole card.

"Tell him that the law and justice are only as good the man wearing the badge. Don't let what's going to happen change him. He's good wearing a badge. He can make law and justice mean something."

Standish's toe began to tap and his head bobbed ever so slightly, pent up energy and frustration demanding an outlet. And he was getting just plain pissed that this man would give up on himself.

"Chris will feel guilty. He might think it's something else, something … softer, maybe even caring. But it will be guilt."

"I'm not afraid of dyin'," Wilmington thought he was changing the subject, "I just want to make sure it's really my time. I don't want to go pushin' and lookin' for death until the Lord finally gets tired of coverin' for me and lets me get myself killed. That'd be the same as suicide, don't you think? My scales are gonna tip way too far one direction already. I don't want to stand before St. Peter and answer for that, too."

"And you don't want Mr. Larabee to stand before his Judgment and answer for that, either?"

Wilmington wasn't sure he, himself, had realized he was still thinking and talking about his haunted friend until the gambler made him face the fact. Once it had been pointed out, the gunfighter didn't deny it, "He'll listen to that scraggly Texan. They got a friendship that … His eyes get all soft around the edges when he talks to Vin. JD, too, a little, lately. Like something hard and cold is melting a little bit."

"Whatever is there that you are seeing, it's there when he speaks with you, as well."

"Well, I do get ol' Chris heated up," Recent and distant memories brought a wide, sincere smile to the dark face, "Maybe I get him so mad he melts a little, then these two come along and show him that big heart's still there and how to use it. Maybe I did some good after all."

"And ol' Josiah," Buck continued as if Ezra hadn't spoken, "I could never get over him takin' a bullet for me. Why would he do that? Still makes me feel right uncomfortable around him. And Nathan …"

Ezra realized his friend was sinking in the emotions of the moment, and spoke to give him some hope, "Perhaps we should be working on getting out of the current situation. You'll have time to ponder those answers and see you need to give yourself more credit," The gambler answered with a defiant look and barely moved one arm across the forearm of the other.

Buck's eyes widened then he looked quickly toward Deputy Goodall at the desk to be sure he hadn't noticed the move. Ezra had never had to give away the fact that he wore a sleeve gun. The lawmen had never seen him use it in Four Corners. They didn't know he had it. They didn't know to ask for it. He was still armed.

"Mr. Wilmington, do you think they will let me live, knowing what I know? I prefer to go down fighting."

"I can get you out of here," Buck stated firmly. It was clear the older man had been thinking about Ezra's situation as well as his own and had an idea, but before he could voice it, he was interrupted when the jail door flew open. The cries for violence, drunk and rowdy, were louder for a moment and then were muffled again when the door closed.

Goodall had been perched on the edge of the desk, spinning the cylinder of his six shooter as he waited impatiently. He stood quickly as Halpin swaggered inside followed by his men.

The question on Goodall's face was easy to read and Halpin answered cockily, "Ain't a soul in the bank but a teller." He turned back and pointed out his men, "You two, get that mob over the edge." He turned to the others, "Take the front. Goodall, Swenson and I'll come in from the back as soon as they get our 'killer' out on the street."

"You can't do this," Coltrain demanded impotently as he stood and moved toward the cell bars.

Goodall just laughed as Halpin strolled over with a mocking leer, "You want to die tryin' to save him from hangin', be my guest."

Buck paled as the finality set in. Four of the cowboys moved off to play their parts. Goodall and the one they called Swenson headed toward the back door as Halpin strutted toward the cell.

"Ezra …" Buck's throat was dry. There was so much still to say. His eyes whispered that he was afraid the good guys weren't going to win this one.

They could hear the throng already moving toward the front of the jail. The voices stimulating the lynch mob were a dull roar filtering through the window.

With the crowd getting closer, louder, Halpin decided he could no longer afford the entertainment of taunting the prisoners He turned to leave. Ezra began to raise his arm only to find that Buck's lanky frame blocked his aim. And to trigger the weapon into his hand before he could take his shot would only take away his advantage of surprise. He was furious that Buck was keeping him from using the gun.

"Wait," Buck stayed between the gambler and his targets as he moved to the bars that imprisoned them.

"Money." Wilmington breathed softly so that Halpin could hear but not Goodall or Swenson.

Halpin moved closer to hear Wilmington out. Goodall and the other man shuffled impatiently at the back door. They were more preoccupied with the sounds approaching from the street.

"I killed … I killed a fella in Texas. Standish was a witness. He can supply details."

Standish could hear this even if Coltrain and the other men in the room could not. His eyes widened in shock.

"$500.00 bounty on Tanner. You prove I'm the killer - death bed confession - you can get the bounty transferred. Ezra knows … details … prove …", as he repositioned himself closer to the bars, it pulled at the scabs on his injured back. He had to talk around the pain.

Halpin looked suspicious. The name Tanner sounded familiar, but he couldn't remember where he'd heard it. "Why tell me now?"

"To keep Ezra alive. You'll have to have the details he knows to prove my story. I don't want to go to my Maker knowing an innocent man is being hunted for what I did. I want to clear Tanner's name."

"I'm buyin' you some time, Ezra, make the best of it." The words held one meaning for Halpin but a completely different one for Standish as his friend gave a subtle nod to where the sleeve gun was concealed.

Buck was questioning the selfishness of his next action almost as soon as he put it into motion. But he didn't want to die. He didn't want to give up without a fight. He would rather face a bullet than the rope.

So when Halpin's greed made him careless and he unlocked the cell door as if fate had already been written, desperation saw an opportunity. Goodall and Swenson were still at the back door, guns holstered and paying more attention to the coming crowd than what was going on inside the room.

As soon as the barred door began to open, Wilmington grabbed it and shoved it back into the deputy with all his might. No stranger to a brawl, Buck pushed his advantage. The outlaw behind the badge suddenly found himself tackled onto the immaculately clean jail floor just outside of the cell and being pummeled with cool efficiency.

The suicidal move almost worked. Buck knew that Ezra would see the opportunity and even the odds with his derringer. He had depended on it.

He hadn't factored in Coltrain's prejudice against territorial regulators. With a bull roar, the man leapt forward to take advantage of the situation and save the day single-handedly. He shoved past Standish in his dash for the door. He thought if he could get to a gun he could make things right.

All he did was draw the attention of the other two outlaws and keep Standish from making his play.

Buck's adrenalin induced spurt of energy gave out quickly when a gunshot echoed through the enclosed space. From the corner of his eye, he saw Ezra thrown back against the wall by the force of the bullet to slump bonelessly on the cot. A dark red flowered against his plum colored jacket. Buck could tell that his bid for freedom - or at least a quick, easy release - could cost three lives instead of one if he continued. He sat up, still straddling Halpin and held his hands at shoulder level in surrender.

Coltrain was frozen in a crouching position, still reaching for Halpin's gun. Goodall had a pistol to his head. Coltrain had been a wild card. He had ruined everything

As Halpin scrambled away from Wilmington, Goodall reached around and used his pistol butt to backhand the gangly ladies' man who went sprawling.

"You're a dead man," Halpin snarled as he staggered to his feet. "Why don't you have the good sense to lie down and die?" With that he kicked the gunman, catching him in the kidneys and the already injured back, and kept kicking him until he had him rolled back inside.

Halpin stopped him as he rubbed his brow, thinking hard. His plan was already skewed. He was trying to think through all the adjustments he might need to make to have the best chance of success. How would seeing the bleeding gambler affect the enraged mob? Empower them? Or give them pause? How had they reacted to the gunshot? Had they even heard it above their own blood thirsty shouts?

Wilmington was fighting to get air in his lungs. He struggled to get to Ezra and check on him.

The southerner was holding his right shoulder. Blood was seeping between his fingers. He was fighting desperately to overcome the shock of the impact of the bullet, to get his arm to work, to raise it enough to activate the sleeve rig. This time, determination, desperation and courage couldn't overcome the fact that muscle and sinew weren't able to function. It had all happened so fast.

Suddenly Halpin reached in, grabbed Ezra by his uninjured arm and herded him out of the cell and toward the back door and Goodall, "C'mon, ya little rooster."

"Where the hell are you takin' him?" The second deputy asked impatiently as he locked the others in the cell.

Ezra had to admit Halpin's criminal senses were finely honed. The man obviously didn't want to share the $500.00 bounty. In the blink of an eye he had come up with a ruse to explain why he would keep a witness alive - at least temporarily - and it sounded perfectly logical.

Halpin grabbed the key ring from his partner and threw it toward Coltrain through the bars. "You want to die tryin' to keep him alive, be my guest." He knew that Coltrain would.

But, as security, he added a low order to Goodall, "Make sure he ends up dead one way or t'other."

Goodall nodded his understanding and grabbed Standish's other arm, helping drag him out the back door. Ezra craned over his shoulder, trying to make eye contact with his friend one more time.

No sooner was a still unsteady Ezra hustled out the door and down the alley, he heard the sound of the front door splintering. The window shattered. The voices were a dull roar, not even angry, more like mindlessly manipulated. Maude had taught him that the human race was made up of sheep, followers who could be conned into anything. Ezra had inherited her disdain for such followers. He had never hated them before.

Buck was vaguely aware when Halpin and his men had finally dragged Ezra out the back door. At least the reluctant hero was still alive. It might not have been enough in the long run, but Buck had done all he could to keep his friend alive long enough for him to devise his own escape. And maybe, just maybe, he'd helped Vin and Chris along the way. He tried to find some peace in that knowledge.

Coltrain unlocked the cell door and then damned if he didn't lock Wilmington back inside before hurrying to the gun cabinet and grabbing a scatter gun.

Coltrain hesitated for a beat. This was too much, too fast. This man was innocent, but, other than being manipulated cattle instead of standup men, the townsfolk were equally innocent. Could he give this one man a gun to fight for his freedom at the expense of the lives of men who were simply misled? Could he himself take those lives? Finally he made a decision, "We ain't gunnin' down townsfolk for the likes of you."

"Hell, man," Buck pleaded, "Throw the keys in here!" He couldn't help thinking the mob, while willing to hang a man as a group, would be less likely to shoot an unarmed man through the bars. Firing a gun took the conviction of a single individual, not the community-brain they were running on now. If he could buy time, give them pause, they might listen to the marshal tell them he was innocent.

Then it was too late. The crowd splintered the door and smashed the single front window and were inside. Choosing the long gun turned out to be a tactical mistake on Coltrain's part. The marshal didn't have time to raise the weapon before the closer men were holding it down, grabbing his arms, pinning them to his side, groping him until they found the keys and opening the cell door.

Buck had thought that, perhaps, in the light of day, the townsmen would lose their bloodlust. But whatever Halpin's men had said, it had them stoked to a fever pitch.

They had the cell door unlocked and boiled into the small space, each trying to be a part of this moment. They tied Buck's hands behind him with a thick, coarse, scratchy rope. Then they pushed and shoved him out of the building. They called him murder, killer, son-of-a-bitch.

Ezra was being hustled away from the jail, the lynch mob and toward the bank. His only thought was that Buck had arranged that he not give away the existence of his derringer rig. Now he needed a chance to use it before it was too late. Just a small chance and he could be rid of these men and go back to help that bighearted scoundrel.

Goodall held one of the gambler's arms, Swenson the other. He saw the three remaining who were not stoking the mob, covered them from the street as they moved toward the back of the financial institution. They stopped just short of the door. Ezra strained to see back toward the jail.

Then a roar of success went up. The townsmen formed a knot as they pushed and shoved Wilmington out of the jail. A few of the men fired their guns in the air in celebration. That was the signal. Halpin kicked in the back bank door and with no compunction, gunned down the unarmed teller. Two men entered the front and went for the vault and tills with their saddle bags open. Goodall was already there, stocking up.

Halpin watched the goings on in the street. Swenson held the muzzle of his gun to Ezra's head and dragged him over to their boss, "Want him dead?"

"Not here. He's gonna disappear with the loot. We're gonna be the posse that tried to save the town's gold but couldn't keep up with this slick son-of-a-bitch." Then he turned to Standish, "Hey, come here. You wanna see stretch out there die, don't you?"

The lackey pushed Standish toward Halpin. The corrupt lawman held Ezra's face to the window. His cheek was pressed painfully flush to the glass. Ezra's eyes burned. He had tried, damn it, he had tried.

Buck was being hefted onto the bed of a buckboard now as one man flicked a rope over an awning support. Right there in the middle of town, damn them to hell. Another man tightened the noose around Buck's neck.

Even from here Ezra could see the noose was rough shod. Buck would suffocate instead of a merciful snap that would end it quickly by breaking his neck. And then the buckboard was swaying. The boisterous, angry crowd had the horses skittish and stutter stepping. Buck kept a precarious balance to the end.

Buck tested the grips that held him time and again on the short march between the jail and being lifted onto the shaky buckboard. But he was held firm by several men. A few got in his face and accused him, damned him. The self-righteous party atmosphere enveloped him. Nothing seemed real.

His one fear had always been to die without the chance to defend himself, to not have the chance to fight back, to be a helpless victim. And here he was. Helpless. A victim. I'm sorry, Momma.

The faces of the men were in such clear detail, even in the darkening evening light. Some part of his mind wondered if they would remember his face once they learned they had killed an innocent man.

How could this moment seem to last forever and at the same time be coming to an end all too soon?

The men still shouted, an unrecognizable roar, like blood rushing to his head. For some reason he noticed fine, lacey curtains moving in a couple of windows. Proper women, no doubt, taking a peek at the violence even though they knew it wasn't respectable.

He looked around for the bank. It must be behind him. He wouldn't know if Ezra made it out okay.

He thought he should pray, to ask God to receive him mercifully. But he'd been told for too long that just because of his birth that could never be. It whispered across his thoughts that he was sorry he'd never had a chance. But a stronger voice, one borne of experience said the God he felt when he looked at a baby or winter turning to spring wasn't like that. Josiah had told him those who would judge a child were malicious, cruel humans trying to use their Lord to make them better than their fellow man. Like a breeze wafting through his mind, Buck knew he was about to learn the truth and thinking on it wouldn't change what would come. Trying to be a good friend, trying to stand up for those who couldn't defend themselves… Trying … well, he'd find out soon enough if trying could make a difference.

Buck had never been one to dwell on what he couldn't change. But he was sorry he'd never share a last drink with Chris, or tell JD he was proud of him, thank Nathan, laugh with Ezra, be inspired by Vin's ease with nature and himself or thank Josiah for saving him at the Seminole village. It felt good for his last thoughts to be of friends, to have friends worth thinking on.

The noose was pulling tight even though the wagon was still a solid, if wobbly presence under his feet. He had to fight for each breath, he was getting light headed.

Buck's mind seemed to detach itself from the situation at some point. And he looked toward the west, toward the setting sun. The top half of the giant red sphere seemed to span the horizon. He wondered if he would feel the rope's final tug or hear it first. Maybe the jolt as the buckboard darted out from under him would be the last thing he felt.

Or had it already happened? Because he was suddenly seeing dark spots on the sun. Two of them. Then, strangely, there were more. And they seemed to be growing longer, misshapen, elongated across the heat-distorted horizon. And they seemed to be getting larger, coming closer. In silhouette, all detail blacked out by the bright sun, he wondered if the gates of hell had opened and these things were coming to take him back to their fiery home?

Then there was a shout, louder than the others, and then another. These voices were tinged with fear and anticipation. It seemed to break the hypnotic moment. And the mystical beasts coalesced into what they were - men on horseback riding hell bent for leather into town. Chris …?

Then the buckboard jolted and the rope pulled taut. Buck couldn't breath. There was no longer anything solid under his feet and his body swung slightly like a pendulum working its way to center to come to a final rest.

His friends were here, at the outskirts of town. So near and yet so far. Buck's eyesight tunneled down to a pin hole surrounded by darkness.

Ezra watched helplessly from the bank. His soul cried out silently. There would be vengeance. Ezra had never thought of revenge before. It had all been strictly business. But this time, there would be reprisal. Ezra vowed he would use the second chance Buck had given him. He would survive this day, this moment. He was a survivor. And these men would pay.

Chris Larabee led the others. This wasn't happening. His horse ran as if it were inspired. He was low over its back and the animal's hooves barely hit the ground. JD was at his right, and the geldings were nose to nose. There was too much at stake.

As good as the others were on a horse, as much as their missing friend meant to them, they didn't have the same emotions motivating them, urging them on. And so the others were falling behind in this last sprint.

Vin Tanner had slowed intentionally. He could tell that they were going to lose this race. Two hundred yards was all that separated them but it was too much. He saw one man point them out, then another. He saw the third man pull back his hand to bring the whip down on the rump of the horse hitched to the buggy. Too late.

Tanner pulled hard on his horse. The loyal animal read the signs and almost sat down, skidding to a stop as the bounty hunter whisked the rifle from its scabbard. The lean Texan stood in the saddle, over the black's head and gripped with his knees. The horse froze. He'd played this part before.

Tanner took a breath, released half of it and then caressed the trigger like it was a lover. The bullet reverberated through the muzzle just as the wagon shot forward and the rope tightened around his friend's neck.

It seemed, to Chris Larabee, that the echo of that rope pulling taut was like thunder across the mountains. It sounded louder than the bullet exploding from Tanner's gun. He was too late again. But not late so that the ashes were cold, rather so close that the sight would haunt him forever and the question would eat away. What could he have done to be five minutes earlier? How much he was losing could never be put into words. The individual emotions were too powerful, too painful to separate and study. And so, as was his way in recent years, he let the emotions come together into rage. It was only his fury that kept him urging his horse forward when every other fiber of his being wanted to turn and ride away. He wanted to ride away from the guilt, away from the body suspended by a single strand of hemp, and away from the grief the others would try to share with him. But the anger won out - anger at Buck, anger at the lynch mob, anger at himself.

Before JD could even register that the rope had remained in tact after Vin took his first shot, the marksman was aiming again. But then the rope snaked over the support and the body dropped bonelessly to the muddy street.

The adrenalin that played the mind game on Tanner and Larabee and Standish, was mercifully lenient with the youngest regulator, Josiah and Nathan. The time between the buckboard moving, Vin's shot and Buck falling to the ground was in real time for them, and separated by only a few heartbeats.

The men on the periphery of the mob saw them first, the five vengeful horsemen bearing down on them. This threat seemed to bring them out of their bloodlust, like coming out of a trance. Even as they realized what they had done, they recognized vengeance bearing down on them. They were too confused, some too appalled by what they had done, to move. The others scattered like cockroaches in the light.

The marshal who was being held by the crowd spun around trying to determine what was happening.

But Halpin's men knew the farce was over. And they ran toward the bank to help gather the loot and escape.

Ezra saw the rope go taut and turned on the man beside him, released his derringer and pulled the trigger. Swenson's eyes went wide and white as the tiny bullet did its job.

Without waiting to see if the man was dead, Ezra was already putting his full weight behind slamming his wounded arm and shoulder into the plate glass window, shattering it and, covering his face with his good arm, diving into the street. "They're robbing the bank!" He shouted.

It says a lot about a man, how he reacts to tragedy. JD and Nathan rode straight to Buck. Nathan went to their unmoving friend and with infinite tenderness rolled his face out of the mud, his first thought being to remove the offensive rope from his neck.

JD leapt from his horse and, both guns raised, stood between his friend and the crowd. JD would shoot if given the chance. Unlike Coltrain, JD had no qualms about shooting innocent townsmen. They weren't innocent in his eyes. His eyes showed a rage beyond his years and those men who hadn't quickly melted away from the event, avoided eye contact and circled at a prudent distance.

Vin stopped his horse beside these two. The threat from the rabble was gone. The moment of mob violence had passed. And the reader of men sensed that JD, if he hadn't unloaded on them by now, would not do so unless provoked.

Chris and Josiah were like wild dingos. They saw the men who chose to run, they saw prey, and gave chase. Their retribution would be swift.

The faster of the two outlaws who were being pursued by the gunfighter and the preacher skidded around the corner into an alley behind the bank. The second one, hoping to discourage the chase turned to take a shot at the horsemen bearing down on him. A bullet from Larabee's gun hit the man's thigh before he could pull the trigger. He went down grabbing his leg with both hands, trying to staunch the flow of blood.

Vin was looking for Standish who he knew should be in the area. He saw Larabee and Sanchez's horses pull up in surprise as a familiar wine colored jacket burst through the splintering glass and rolled on the street in front of them. It was so close that flecks of mud, kicked up by the hooves, speckled the gambler's fine woolen coat.

Three gunmen ran out of the bank's door, saddlebags over their shoulders. One had a rifle, the other two .44's. They all had their weapons aimed at Standish. One of the men with a hand gun was able to get a shot off. It went wild. Larabee and Sanchez cut him down.

Sanchez shot the second man three times before that first one, wounded, fell into the water trough.

One of Larabee's bullets slammed into the rifleman. Its force threw his chest back, but his feet kept moving. The message from the brain that the body was dead took a few minutes to reach the feet. Then they slid to a stop pushing up tiny pyramids of muck at the worn down heels.

Without acknowledging the two rescuers, Standish staggered and swayed back to the dead men, snatched up one of the .44's on the run and headed back through the bank doors.

"Preacher!" Larabee called, and with a nod toward the surviving gunhands, he left the bigger man to take care of the dead and wounded and the crowd gathering in the street. The dark gunfighter took off to back up the gambler.

Larabee's eyes didn't need to adjust. The bank's lighting wasn't that much off from the dusky evening outside. His instincts clicked in. A dead man was spread eagle on the floor, a small bullet hole between his eyes. Ezra's work. The thought registered in Larabee's mind as he looked around. Most of the broken glass was outside but a few shards twinkled beside the corpse. Sensing no threat, the regulator was already through the low swinging door that separated the front of the bank from the back.

The teller, his visor askew on his brow, lay dead, slumped against the counter. Paper money was strewn about. Obviously it had been dropped in someone's hasty attempt to take what they could on the run. The back door was ajar.

Larabee ran to where the alley met a back street in a "T" intersection just in time to see three men making a break on horseback. The man in the lead he recognized as one of Coltrain's deputies. The corrupt lawman still had his own saddlebags over a shoulder, having decided not to take time to secure them to the saddle. Some of the stolen money was escaping on the wind and danced behind the horses.

Larabee, head down, as if a decision was being made, took two unhurried steps into the middle of the street. Then, with his body at an angle to the oncoming horses, he raised his right arm, the gun had been an extension of that move for many years. Ignoring the bullets directed his way by the oncoming horsemen, the gunfighter methodically gunned down one after the other. The riderless horses continued past the man in black as he casually walked up and studied his handiwork. He would by damn keep the devil busy and give Buck time to slip through those pearly gates.

Then he realized Ezra was still missing. Long strides carried him in the direction from which the shots had originally come.

Ezra heard the noise behind him, looked up quickly and identified the leader of the regulators.

At the same time, the sound of a hammer falling on an empty chamber echoed from the back wall. Once. Twice.

"Gambler!" Halpin sang out, "I'm out. I give up." The gun sailed across the crates the deputy had been using for cover. "I'm unarmed. Comin' out." Slowly, hands raised, the smiling lawman sauntered from behind his protection.

Moving his gun in a downward motion, Ezra quickly directed Larabee to stay back, stay hidden. The cold, determined look so out of place in those green eyes, had Larabee complying.

Standish cautiously moved forward. His wounded arm had him listing heavily to one side. He staggered, slipped in the mud, but seemed to somehow force one foot after the other. Then it happened. His knees gave out. He fell. The gun jarred out of his hand, skittered and slid across the muddy narrow road and came to a stop just inches from Halpin's boots.

Halpin dove for the handgun, grabbed it, rolled, and came up aiming at Standish. The deputy had only the time to recognize the fact that there was now a small derringer in the man's hand before he heard the explosion.

Standish watched the man through the slight smoke wafting from his derringer. He saw the moment the mean eyes recognized they were dying, that they'd been outmaneuvered and beat and then the light left them forever. The body slumped to the ground.

Ezra was finding that he was in fact surprisingly weak and having trouble getting to his feet when a strong hand grabbed his upper arm and pulled him up.

"What kind of damn fool stunt was that?" Larabee demanded even as he reached the black sheep of what had been evolving into his dysfunctional family unit. The taller man pulled off the bloody jacket, handed it to the gambler who took it weakly and haphazardly in his good arm. Larabee pulled back the once white shirt and as gently as possible probed the entry wound for the bullet.

"I was aghast to find that some of Mr. Dunne's simplistic dime novel codes were influencing me. I couldn't kill the man in cold blood." Then the cloudy green eyes turned to the ones that had been murky with self-hate and anger for much longer, "But that man needed to be dead. He had to die." He didn't say it was because Halpin had heard the words Tanner, bounty and $500 in the same sentence and that made him a threat. He didn't say this was the man who masterminded Buck Wilmington's hanging. He didn't need to. Whatever Larabee was seeing in those eyes was enough.

Despite his best effort, Standish's legs finally gave way and he began to slump to the ground. Strong arms caught him and guided him toward the main street, "Nathan's here. He'll take care of you," The surprisingly gentle voice promised.

Larabee took the burgundy jacket from his friend. He noticed a worn piece of paper fall from a pocket. He stuck it in his own deep pocket as they made their way back to the main street.

Night had settled uncomfortably over Mineral Wells. Larabee supported Ezra as they made their way back to the main street. The sky had cleared and the moon's light was sufficient to see by. The occasional street fires added texture to its silver quality. A part of Larabee's mind noticed that the bodies of the would-be bank robbers had been removed from the mud.

Ezra seemed to be holding his own. His body trembled slightly. Larabee convinced himself it was a natural reaction to the letdown following danger, action. Shock.

Spotting Josiah and Vin they headed that way. When they were close enough to see that their two fellow regulator's heads were bent over the long hank of rope still knotted at one end in a noose, the gambler's step faltered. He swallowed twice, hard, battling and finally mastering his rebelling stomach. Larabee wrapped his arm more tightly around the injured man and forced them both to take the next steps toward the inevitable.

'Where's Nathan?' Chris thought to himself, 'Ezra needs help … at least doctorin' can help him. It's too late for Buck … Shut up! Don't go there! Larabee demanded of his own thought process. 'Keep walking… hold onto Ezra. There's Vin and Josiah. What's Josiah holding? The rope …STOP!' He mentally pushed any thoughts of his dead friend from his mind.

Since completely losing it immediately after the death of his wife and son, Larabee had become proficient in ordering his mind away from thoughts he wasn't ready or willing to dwell on. An emphatic, internal denial to himself could stop a painful line of thought and crowd it out with rote orders. And it worked, right? For, oh, all of two minutes before free association dragged him back to the inevitable. Then he started the cycle again. Larabee was well self-disciplined in not letting regrets and haunting thoughts overcome him until he was alone. But then, sometimes, he was lucky and something of substance could distract him, he frowned, like now, 'Who the hell's that fat piece of grizzle standin' next to my men?'

Larabee picked up the pace to reach the other two. The long hair and graying head raised at their approach and matching blue eyes greeted them.

A tremble worked its way down Larabee at the words. It was so subtle that no one saw it. But Standish felt it.

It was the paunchy, old man with thinning, wispy, white hair and Ben Franklin glasses who spoke next, "I'm Dr. Wilkins. I'll see to …"

Somehow Larabee kept supporting their gambler and at the same time became a buffer between him and the stranger, "You got blood on your hands," The gunfighter hissed, referring to the fact that the doctor's face was one of the ones he had memorized on the fringes of the mob. He wouldn't touch the southerner.

"On the contrary," Ezra spoke up weak but determined, "I concur with Mr. Larabee. I will wait for Mr. Jackson's ministrations," The cold emotional finality of the statement had the doctor taking a step back and pushing the metal rimmed glasses higher on his nose.

"Mr. Standish," a stove pipe of a man bustled up completely unaware of the tension surrounding the group. He carried pants and a shirt which he thrust forward at the conman, "I'm Mayor Thornson. We've arranged to supply you some clean clothes. I hope you will accept them. We sent some over for Mr. Wilmington…"

Before he could finish the sentence the reedy man found himself starring down the barrel of the revolver of the infamous gunfighter Chris Larabee.

"Clean clothes?" Larabee's emotion-filled voice was choked down to a whisper, "What good does that do Buck now?"

The mayor, who had thought offering the clothes with a Good Samaritan attitude would indeed placate these men, stood frozen in the moment. He was afraid to breathe lest any move be enough to set off this madman. And he was insane. One only had to look in those dead green eyes to see that.

The politician's legs almost gave out and he flashed his eyes pleadingly to Larabee's companions. What he saw was that they, too, were afraid any movement would see Larabee pulling the trigger.

It was Vin who finally registered the meaning of his friend's words and slid up to his side, "Buck's not dead, Chris."

Larabee's body was like a statue, the arm fully extended and never wavering from the mayor's brow. Everything that was Chris Larabee migrated to his brain trying to understand the words he'd heard, daring himself to believe them. Finally his eyes slid toward Tanner with a silent plea, 'Tell me I heard your right.'

Josiah moved then, carefully holding the rope up for his leader's inspection, "Hell of a shot." He said softly.

Still only the eyes moved and took in the end of the rope. One half was severed cleanly as if by a knife - or a bullet. The other half of the rope, weakened, had unraveled under the weight of a man.

"Bathhouse," the ex-bounty hunter confirmed with a quiet little smile that spoke volumes. Then he gave a slight nod in the right direction.

The man who had lost so much finally lowered his gun, ever so gently handed the gambler into the preacher's care and without a word walked that way. He was quickly lost in the shadows that camouflaged his soul as well as his body.

Ezra tried to follow but Sanchez gently but forcefully sat him on the boardwalk. He was swaying. His arm was bleeding. All the ex-preacher saw was that the smaller man needed to rest. "Take a minute, Ezra, then we'll get you over to Nathan." The big man pulled back the bloodied shirt to make sure they could take this short respite; that it didn't need immediate attention. There were small cuts along Ezra's neck and face. Slivers of glass might be embedded in two of them. These didn't seem too serious.

A single glance from the ex-preacher's ice blue eyes demanded the townsmen back off and give them privacy. The mayor, doctor and a couple of others who had dared come forward quickly found someplace else to be. They still weren't sure of all that had come to pass. Two deputies lying dead in the mud beside bank robbers told a story. What changed the ending was that the bank robbers had instigated the hanging. And outlaw and lawman alike had died with saddlebags of stolen money over their shoulders. Before he disappeared into the saloon, US Marshal Ezekiel Coltrain had said little more than Wilmington was innocent and the town owed him and Standish a debt for what had almost happened.

A debt the town didn't know how to repay and one that Wilmington, Standish and their friends seemed unwilling to accept.

Standish couldn't stand on his own, couldn't catch his breath; wasn't making it clear to Sanchez and Tanner that he needed to confirm Wilmington's health as badly as Larabee did. Or so he thought. But then the former bounty hunter hunkered down to meet him at eye level, "Ezra, let's give Chris a bit with Buck if it's okay with you." Something in the gentle tone said this was important. Standish nodded slowly. Vin produced a very fine brandy, "Compliments of Mineral Wells," he smiled and offered the bottle to his friend.

The lanterns supplied soft, peaceful lighting to the back room of the bathhouse. Scents of kerosene, rose water and lye soap hung heavily in the humid air around the three men who stood in silence like three points of a triangle.

The door slung open. Nathan's head whipped around to check for danger. Young JD instantly leapt from the bench and put himself between his two friends and anything - anything or anyone - that might come through that door. He had his twin six shooters out and aimed.

Jackson immediately recognized the dark form of Chris Larabee. He noticed the gunman kept a death grip on the door and door frame. It was like he needed the extra support or his legs would finally give out under the extra burden of guilt, fear and even barely-controlled panic he had been carrying on his shoulders.

Nathan, in that moment, seeing the tension Larabee was afraid to let go of, thought how as recently as two days ago he himself had questioned Larabee's friendship with Buck.

A vision came unbidden to the black man's mind. One of a young mother. She might be sewing, cooking or chatting with friends, but on every level that was important, she was focused on her small toddler as he experimented and tested the ever-fascinating world opening up around him. If he turned over a rock and dozens of sow bugs began to crawl on his hands and feet, with their hairy, tickly centipede-like legs, she was there to brush them off. Her calm presence told him there was nothing to fear. So he'd sit down, watch them and feel them crawl, roll them into tiny balls and enjoy what was new.

A mother would watch closely but from a distance as the toddler approached a potential new friend, be it of the four legged or two legged variety. Either way, she'd make stew of them if they hurt her baby, physically or emotionally. Two legged or four legged, she'd tan their hide on the barn door if the two year old started to cry. Oh, the mother kept her distance, knowing life had matured her and taken some of her optimism. She didn't want the baby boy to lose his zeal and love of life. To let the child grow tall, and independent and confident, the hardened, frontier mother often let him go out on his own. It was only in the quiet moments when she thought no one would see, that the light in her eye or secret smile showed her pride and love. And, because of that distance, many of the times parent and son came together it was for discipline, to angrily admonish the child for taking risks or not taking care of himself. But there were comforting times, too. And no one could comfort the boy like the mother who had so earned his devotion and trust. And no one could console the mother when the child was missing from her sphere of protection.

A human mother's love was so different from a grizzly or cougar. Love colored the instinct to protect with amazing hues. And the kind of love that was more often associated with a mother than any other relationship, was so different from a father's, more ever-present, if only because a father was working much of the time. More nurturing. But it was this familial devotion Nathan had seen in Chris when Buck had disappeared; a devotion so beyond the bounds of friendship that sometimes the simple friendship was easy to miss.

The healer's heart soared that these two men had not lost each other. And it was warmed by the realization that Larabee's subtle kind of warmth had slowly been surrounding them, protecting them all. And it would again now that the friend who had taught him all these things was back among them.

Nathan's mind came back to the moment when Larabee finally found the strength to step deeper into the bathhouse.

"I'll take care of him." Chris stated in his normal unemotional voice, never taking his eyes from the fourth man in the room.

"Last time you said that, things didn't turn out so good, Mr. Larabee," the boy blurted out quickly. Otherwise he might lose his nerve to stand up against his hero.

Jackson flinched. This wasn't the time to get between Larabee and his objective.

Surprised by the defiance, the eyes of the hero brushed down to met the eyes of the hero worshiper and saw something different there.

Wilmington didn't move. Larabee suspected he was unaware of anything around him. The hazel eyes flicked from the tall man all but concealed by shadows back again to the small man in front of him. Larabee could see that Buck was barely holding it together. But he also realized that the boy in front of him would have to be dealt with. The gunfighter took pause to realize he hadn't thought much about the boy. He was good in a fight, but in an all too anxious to prove himself, juvenile delinquent kind of way. He admired a man for his reputation, the written word even though, if he himself would take a close look, the man was very different from the myth.

The hero worship was still in the darker eyes. But something else burned there, too. A determination to protect a friend, even if it meant angering his idol.

'I'll be damned,' Larabee thought to himself, 'Buck's right again. This one could turn into a fine man.' He took a step closer and met JD's eyes, "I have a lot to make up for. You gonna give me the chance?"

JD turned enough to see that his friend hadn't moved or reacted to the goings-on in the room. Buck needed something. JD didn't know what it was but the youngest hadn't been able to supply it. So he turned back, relaxed his stance and nodded.

Larabee put a compassionate hand on the small shoulder, but spoke first to the healer, "Nathan, Ezra took a bullet. He needs patchin' up."

Jackson packed up his saddle bags which, as always, were full of medicinal supplies. He gave Chris a reassuring pat on the arm as he moved to the door. He paused to wait for their youngest.

"Go to the saloon and get them started on supper." Larabee suggested to Dunne, "Check with Nathan, but I'm thinkin' Buck'll watch us eatin' steaks while the Doc has him sippin' broth," he added with a rare smile.

JD couldn't help but return the smile this man offered, "Yes, sir, Mr. Larabee," and he joined Nathan on his way out.

"JD," Larabee called, and they both turned back, "Don't you think it's time you started callin' me Chris, son?"

Chris Larabee turned back to the remaining man and realized he was completely oblivious to what had been going on.

Buck Wilmington stood beside the heavy copper bathtub. He had on clean, new Levi's. He had yet to tuck in the new shirt. In fact, his entire world had focused down to getting the first button through its hole. His trembling fingers just wouldn't cooperate.

Larabee strode over and brusquely swatted the hands away, taking over the job himself. The shirt was too big. Damn townspeople and anyone else who didn't get to know Buck. Because he was tall, and strong, they thought he was broader and heavier than he was.

Buck didn't raise his head and seemed more than content to let Larabee take over the chore. Larabee could tell his subdued friend was fighting to maintain control. One move and Buck was afraid he'd lose it.

Larabee got three buttons done before his own fingers, resting on the fourth button, were trembling too much to continue. He could feel his partner trying to be brave, "They're gone," Larabee advised. He knew his friend wasn't ready to show weakness in front of their new allies, "But I'm not goin' anywhere." He waited. It was still like Buck was living in another world, "Stop holding it in." He demanded.

"So was I." There was more raw honesty there than the gunfighter usually allowed himself.

His eyes were on the angry red burn around his friend's throat. It was covered by a prickly, bloody rash where the rough hemp strands had physically been jerked into the flesh when the buckboard left him dangling. Close. Too damn close.

"So … scared …" Buck spoke again, almost embarrassed at what he perceived as cowardice. His voice was coarse and he had to swallow to get enough moisture to loosen the words from his quickly swelling throat.

"So was I." Chris repeated fervently, "Damn them all to hell," Chris spat out. He rested his forearms with butterfly gentleness on Buck's collar bones, wrapped both hands behind the still damp hair and pulled their brows to touch. They stayed that way for a time, for Buck to absorb the strength freely given and know that he wasn't being judged for his perceived weakness.

Finally, to get answers before his throat gave in to the swelling, Buck croaked, "Ezra?"

Chris realized how shaken this man was. He hadn't even heard the earlier conversation, "He's good. Nathan's having to stop up a bullet hole in his arm." Buck started to move toward the door. Chris stopped him, "He's fine." Chris reinforced. Buck hesitated, he wasn't ready to go back out to the town.

"Good as new." But there was a guilty tone in his voice that Buck misread and the tall man pulled back. He moved stiffly. His neck and shoulder muscles, torn and pulled painfully by holding up the suspended weight of the man, protested the slightest move.

When the blonde took his arm and steered him toward the bench, he complied. He had to turn his entire body at once. His neck and shoulders and back protested the slightest independent moves required of them. It was like his body, from the waist up, had no joints, no separate moving parts.

Chris leaned back against the wall, warmly moist from the steam of the recent bath and closed his eyes. He was still trying to absorb the fact that things had turned out as well as they had.

Buck leaned forward. It pulled at torn muscles but was better than trying to rest his ravaged back against anything solid.

They were both lost in their own uncomfortable thoughts. Chris was a man with many types of quiet. And Buck had been around them all. He missed the contented quiet. He was all too familiar with this angry quiet.

It was Chris who broke the silence, "I'm sorry." Why were those words always so hard for him?

Buck's brow furrowed in confusion. Other than that, he didn't move; it hurt too much, "You just saved my sorry ass, Chris. Hope that's not what you're sorry for."

"We should have moved Vin and left Welch alone in that alley. You didn't need to set in the cell to distract them. Ain't like we wouldn't have to find the real killer to get you out." Larabee gave himself a small, self-depreciating smirk. Giving them a suspect only made it harder on everyone even if the deputies hadn't had their ulterior motives.

Buck frowned again. It had sounded so logical back then, leave a decoy while they saved Vin. But Chris was right. The mystery of the murder's identity would have existed whether there was an immediate suspect or not.

Buck bent his head and swallowed around his torn throat. He thought Vin's safety had clouded Larabee's decision-making.

"I thought, 'what would it hurt?' Keepin' you locked up someplace until you calmed down."

"What?" Buck turned at the waist despite the pain, just enough to look back at the other man. The planes of his friend's face were shadowed by the lamp light.

Buck squinted harder, trying to figure out what was being said when Chris continued, "I will never figure out what makes you think you don't belong all of a sudden."

Buck finally registered that they were discussing the argument before Welch was found dead, "I shouldn't a said …"

"You don't have the right to tell me when I'm bein' snake-mean? Hell, Buck, if anyone's got the right, it's you."

"There's nothin' you can say's gonna make a permanent difference between us, Buck. Nothin' that'll make me want you gone." Larabee would usually reckon he'd said enough and let Buck figure between the lines for the rest. But he'd almost lost too much today and wanted to make sure they were clear, "You stand up to me for other folks. I listen. I will listen if you stand up for yourself."

Twelve years of friendship was warring with lessons learned by a child, "Vin," Buck found the word through his ragged throat. He was frustrated that he had to fight for every word.

This time it was Larabee who took advantage of their history together. Only the few people who knew Larabee best would know to give him credit for the flash of insight that helped him read the mind of his frustratingly insecure friend.

Larabee heard guilt and acceptance of responsibility in the single word. Did his oldest friend somehow think there would have to be a choice, the past or the future, Buck or Vin? Did Buck believed Tanner's quiet acceptance of who Chris Larabee was held more importance to the man than Wilmington's more verbal battle to keep him alive and separate from the demons that haunted him?

He could no more choose between those two than choose whether to cut off his left hand or his right. He sensed that saying that wasn't enough in this vulnerable time. Buck would know if he heard less than the full truth. He always did.

"I dance on the dark side, Buck, more than you've ever been willing to admit. And Vin, well, he knows those steps better than you do. But when I do hear my conscience, it has your voice. And when I can't find my heart, I rely on that big one of yours to hold us both up and pull me back from the shadows." He paused, but finally continued softly with a voice heavy with emotion, "Why won't you trust our friendship enough to let me help you fight whatever you're always running from?"

Buck shook his head slowly. He couldn't do anything but let his friend's sincerity wrap around him like a warm, homemade quilt. Those rich hazel eyes held his own. Truth be told, that same, suppressed five-year-old's voice from the past was demanding that he run from this all too personal conversation. The blonde must have seen it. Sweeping the long strings of bangs from where they'd fallen across his face, the gunfighter held that gaze demanding the darker man read the honesty there.

"Do you remember riding up on what was left of the ranch?" Larabee spoke again. As painful as the memory was for the inconsolable widower, he knew it was no easier for his friend.

Buck bowed his head, thinking on the time he referred to. The trip to Mexico, coming home to smoldering ruins.

"Remember that feeling, between the time we first saw …" Chris couldn't say it, he didn't need to, "… and then the race to the house, praying, denying, fighting God himself for it not to be true? The house not be gone … Sarah and Adam not … It seemed like forever. What was it? Minutes?"

A lifetime of torture, Buck thought to himself. When living and having a family turned into existing and trying to keep a stranger alive.

"I just spent the last eight hours reliving that feeling." Chris Larabee said, his head still resting against the wall, his eyes closed again, "from the time we got the telegram I felt like I was racing to the end of the world. Then that twice damned rope went tight when you dropped. It all caught in the back of my throat, I couldn't breath, and the world ended again."

"I … Chris …" Buck, completely taken unaware by the raw emotion in that declaration, was at a loss for words. If he knew what to say he would've forced the words out.

The blonde opened his eyes then and they were immediately held by the cobalt blue ones staring back. He watched in amazement as his words sank in with the lanky rogue beside him and touched that generous, if somewhat surprisingly and secretly guarded, heart. Then in a moment of clarity, the dark gunfighter saw that Buck was comparing Chris's statement to all the times their friendship had barely survived the death of Chris's wife and son. And the moment strengthened that amazing friendship that had seen them through the good times and the bad.

Nearly dying, his talk with Chris and all the memories it churned up - the emotions were all too close to the surface. Processing everything that had happened, everything that had been said, left Wilmington with a euphoric contentment he wished he could share, he grinned, "We're … still here." And they were. Looking into Chris's eyes, maybe that said it all.

Chris reached out to rub Buck's back in a comforting gesture that would further reassure them both that they were still alive.

The hand came down between the broad shoulders. The surprise weight on his too tender back had Buck flinching from under the touch. Because the sore muscles prevented him from moving just his back, reacting to this new pain, had the gentle gunfighter twisting in a way that he fell off the bench and on his knees, gasping for breath beyond the hurt.

A commotion at the door told a part of his mind that JD was trying to get inside to see what had happened. He was thankful for whichever of the guys were keeping him back.

The other man raised his hand asking for time to regroup. His voice was all but gone.

Chris knew something more was wrong. He reached around to lift the too long tail for his friend's shirt. Buck couldn't move fast enough to keep the hands from reaching their goal.

"Who did this!" The cold voice demanded when the blonde discovered the whip marks.

"Chris …" Buck cursed silently that he couldn't work any more words through his swollen throat.

The anger had flared again. Larabee realized he'd never lost his need to extract some measure of vengence for the injures done to his friends. It boiled over and his feet had him out of the door before his thoughts fully recognized who he was looking for.

Larabee completely ignored his fellow peacekeepers who were gathered and waiting patiently for their brothers.

Nathan looked up from putting Ezra's arm in a sling to protect his injured shoulder.

JD was back at Buck's side, "Where's he going?" the boy asked as he moved quickly to put a hand on his friend's arm.

"Marshal …" Buck crunched his eyes shut in frustration that nothing more would come out.

"You intend to deprive Mr. Larabee of his retribution?" Getting between Larabee and his revenge didn't sound like a very good idea to Standish.

The big man laughed, "Hell no. But if Chris is going to have a 'Come To Jesus Meeting' with Coltrain, I want to be there to enjoy it."

Ezra held back. He flicked imaginary lint from his new shirt, unwilling to meet Buck's eyes. He knew Buck would see too much.

Wilmington, for his part, waited patiently for Standish to raise his head. Maude Standish's son could feel the midnight eyes on him, not intense, but determined. Finally looking up, the first thing he saw was the angry damage done to Buck's throat and wondered if there would be a scar. The shoulders were slightly stooped, sore and getting sorer. But the smile was brilliant and immediately found itself reflected back from the gambler.

Buck wrapped one long arm around the smaller shoulders and pulled them close, "Thank you," Wilmington forced out.

"No, thank you," Ezra responded. 'Thank you for staying alive, thank you for teaching me about friendship, thank you for teaching me who I really am.' But the moment wasn't spoiled by additional words.

They finally turned to where the others were waiting. Ezra was a bit embarrassed by his display. But the others were smiling, not laughing at him.

JD, impatient not to miss anything, especially Chris Larabee in action, was nevertheless unwilling to be any further from Buck's side. Buck slowly reached his hand up to give the youngster's neck an affectionate squeeze and steered him toward the door.

Vin and Nathan slid in to unobtrusively offer the gambler the support he wouldn't admit he needed. They followed the others toward the saloon.

It was the early morning hours. Standish had convinced the bartender that if he could stay open for a lynch mob he could stay open for the Seven. One look at Larabee who was listening to the conversation and the barkeep had agreed. The leader of the seven hadn't been able to track down the Marshal. He hadn't been given an outlet for his temper. He was looking for a fight and no one wanted to oblige him.

A few regulars were taking advantage of the situation and ordering late drinks. But they stayed in the shadows and stayed quiet. They were fascinated by the group of men that had so recently come into their town and the events surrounding their arrival.

In the end, Chris Larabee had possibly skooched his chair a little closer to Buck's than was absolutely necessary, but he seemed to have settled down, so no one said anything. His long legs were stretched out so that he had distanced himself some from the table. He had slumped down in the chair until he was almost prone. He slouched now, with a little black cloud hovering over his head. He might concede the others had the right to put their stories together; how each sequence of events came about; but he didn't have to like it. He knew all of the story he needed to know. He didn't need to hear it gone over down to the minutiae. But he wasn't willing to leave Buck's or Ezra's side to avoid the discussion. Tanner had tried to tell him it didn't matter either way. Things had turned out okay. Nothing was going to change that. Chris just didn't see the need to rehash it. But he stayed.

Buck hadn't been able to eat, not even broth. Nathan was forcing his patient to take regular sips of water despite the pain. The lanky form couldn't get comfortable. Nathan said the strain of his back, shoulders and neck suddenly supporting his weight would have him stove up for some time. And it would get worse before it got better.

The town had offered them room and board until Buck and Ezra were better. They had both responded with an emphatic, 'no'. Ezra alleged that he wanted to get back to his feather bed. Buck had said that if it was going to get worse before it got better, he would ride now and recuperate in Four Corners where regular massages from Miss Iris and Miss Michelle could soothe the pain. Larabee had started to protest until, several times during the night, he had seen those cobalt eyes glaze over, watching something no one else could see. Getting the hell out of this town might be the best medicine.

Next to Buck, JD was passed out, his head resting on his arms on the table. He had held it together remarkably, but in the end, had given in to his first serious bender.

Vin sat between Chris and Ezra, matching Larabee as he reposed in one of the mismatched chairs. He was quiet, working his way through the part he had inadvertently played in all of this. He would head out for a few days when Buck and Ezra were safely back home. He needed to practice with that rifle. Everyone tried to tell him he'd made a one in a million shot; that no one else could have done it. That almost hadn't been good enough.

Jackson watched Wilmington. That one was still trying to figure out how to get whiskey or at least some beer down his swollen throat. At least it gave him something to distract him from darker thoughts.

The healer's rich coffee eyes slid to Standish. That one was trying to use alcohol as an anesthetic. His eyes could get the same glazed look as Buck's before he pulled himself back to the moment. That damn Reb needed some rest but he refused. Jackson worried their Southerner was awake to ward off nightmares that he wouldn't admit to.

Jackson didn't think any of the others had noticed when he snuck off to get a second opinion from the town doctor regarding the condition of his friends. He knew neither the gesture nor the man's help would be appreciated. Okay, he acknowledged, Josiah knew, but Sanchez always seemed to try to know where Jackson was. But Josiah was more accepting than the others.

The ex-preacher wasn't drinking. Nathan suspected the big man was afraid to allow himself the luxury. Maybe later he could talk to Ezra.

"I'm still amazed so much happened in such a short period of time." Nathan mused as his gaze moved from around the table back to his beer.

'Damn,' Larabee thought to himself. He had hope this conversation had finally died down.

"We had sent telegrams out to find where you and Coltrain came to roost," Josiah explained to Ezra and Buck, "but until we got word, we were concentrating on finding the killer."

"Like we thought he was still in Four Corners." Nathan added with a self-depreciative snort.

Buck scribbled something on the paper he'd been using all night when he needed to communicate and handed the note to Vin. Vin looked at the letters and with a carefully concealed panic, looked back at Buck.

Ezra read the note over Tanner's shoulder and spoke, "I, too, would like to offer my thanks for the timeliness and accuracy of your shot today."

Vin studied the gambler's face. If he had figured out the former bounty hunter couldn't read, he gave nothing away. But he had certainly carefully worded his statement so that Vin would know what the note said.

"Cain't rightly imagine life if it'd turned out any other way," The Texas said with an open, sincere smile.

Josiah finally broke the awkward silence, "Until we got that telegram from your Ma … how did we get that telegram from your mother, Ezra?" the older man's befuddlement was clear in his voice.

"Gentlemen, that missive …" The gambler's voice belied a tiredness he tried to hide. Before he could finish, Larabee was standing from his chair, finally finding a release for his pique.

Discussing the telegram had caused the gunfighter to dig into his pocket for the yellow flimsy he'd picked up earlier. Whatever was on the paper, had him on a rapid boil, "You said this? You thought this?"

Buck tried to take the paper for a look and Larabee jerked it out of reach, "Did you say this to Buck?"

Larabee grabbed two fists full of Ezra's shirt and jerked him to his feet, "You sent this telegram to your mother instead of wiring us?" Ezra was trying to loosen Larabee's vise-like grip, "Do you know how close we came to being too late because you wired your Mother instead of us? What if she didn't think to contact us?"

Ignoring his aches, Buck was the first to reach the two. He grabbed one of Larabee's arms to try to pull him off, but he didn't have any strength. Josiah had the other arm. Nathan took over for Buck and they were able to break the two apart. Vin put an arm out to steady Standish. JD grumbled something in his drunken stupor, fidgeted a bit in reaction to the ruckus, but nothing more.

No Telegraphs Out. Buck scribbled furiously in bold letters and held it up for Larabee to see. Larabee held evidence to the contrary crumpled in his fist.

Wilmington moved over to supply his support to the southerner who had stuck by him.

"Cowboy, whatever burr got under your saddle, figure Ezra's earned the right to speak for himself," Vin drawled. Somehow it was more of an order than a request or suggestion.

Josiah and Nathan had a death grip on their leader. Buck was desperate for the confrontation to end. And Ezra. Ezra looked like he'd just awakened from a dream and reality was what he had expected it to be, but not what he had hoped for. He sank back to his chair.

With a cool, distant aura, Ezra Standish straightened his shirt, brushed his hand down the front as if to smooth the wrinkles, tugged on his cuffs as he spoke, "Mr. Larabee, if I may?" He nodded to the missive crumpled in Larabee's fist. Larabee handed it over with a suspicious glare.

Ezra borrowed Buck's pencil as he spoke, "As Mr. Wilmington pointed out, it went against the recently deceased deputies' plans for us to communicate with you."

Buck still wanted to see what had set his friend off, but Larabee held him back.

"Having yet to meet the woman in question, you are unaware that calling her 'Mother' would set off prearranged alarms. While the telegraph itself had to sound believable - something I might send, the fact is that addressing her as 'Mother' instead of 'Maude' would have her reading every fourth word of the missive for the real content." As he spoke, he underlined every fourth word in the telegraph. "SEND LARABEE HERE SOONEST. LIFE. DEATH. It was remarkably close to the words in the telegram they had received from Maude Standish, St Louis, Missouri in the early morning hours.

In the silence that followed, JD stirred again. Wilmington rubbed his back and soothed him back to sleep.

"I apologize for not being more proficient in protecting Mr. Wilmington," There was no hint of sarcasm hidden in the statement.

Green eyes met green. One set evaluating what they saw, the other defiant. Larabee's eyes slowly reverted to the rich hazel that meant he had relaxed and nodded. A single nod. Standish nodded back. Josiah got the feeling this was a truce. Nothing had been settled. In fact the two hard-headed men's eyes were dueling and feinting. Until a guttural sound of frustration from Buck drew their attention.

Buck shook his head 'no'. He had already gotten the point across that he wasn't ready to close his eyes. He nodded up the stairs for the others to get a couple of hours sleep before he, himself, headed outside. He was frustrated with whatever was going on between Chris and Ezra and irritated that he couldn't voice his feelings or play his usual role of peacemaker.

For his part, Nathan was even more certain that it was a good idea to get the others out of town. They were all prowling for a fight. To that end, he moved to help Josiah manhandle JD up the stairs to the rooms the town had graciously arranged for them. He knew that Larabee would watch after Wilmington.

Chris watched the two parties separate. His eyes again met those of Standish. He jerked his head toward their troubled friend as he retreated into the night. It was an invitation, not an order. The gambler started to balk. Then there was a mischievous glint in his eye. Tanner saw it and followed them out. He was certain he wanted to see what happened next.

Morning found young JD moving as stiffly as Buck would be. If Buck were around. The boy was moving gingerly so as not to jostle his throbbing head. Nathan had given him some willow bark tea. He hoped its painkiller kicked in before they had to get on the horses.

They could leave if Buck would show up. 'I thought he wanted to be long gone by sun up,' JD grumbled to himself. What the hell kind of trouble had he gotten into now? Probably none, JD had to admit to himself, especially since Chris, Vin and Ezra were missing, too. Truth be told, the young man was wishing he was with them and wishing he hadn't passed out when he had told himself he would stick by Buck after his recent experiences.

Nathan and Josiah were eating a hearty breakfast much to the disgust of JD's weak stomach. The two older men had saddled the horses to give themselves something to do. Buck would have to ride the rough livery horse they'd thrown him on, what? Was it only two nights ago?

Then he heard it. Snickers? Giggles? Ezra and Buck appeared out of the alley. Through the saloon's plate glass window the two lost lambs could be seen to stumble past the horses and into the bar. They were laughing so hard they had to use each other for support. They had apparently been doing this for some time because they'd carefully figured out what hand holds caused the least discomfort.

Buck was carrying a sturdy oaken bucket. He had found a bandana and was wearing it higher than usual around his throat. It hid the ugly rope burns and torn flesh. JD wondered if Buck was sensitive to his appearance with the wound.

Chris and Vin sauntered behind, not only entertained by the other two, but looking extremely pleased with themselves.

"JD!" Vin called excitedly. The boy flinched as the voice impacted with his headache, "You're cute as a little spotted pup under a bright red wagon."

Buck had just lifted the bucket to his lips. At Vin's comment, he spewed the contents through his teeth.

JD just sort of gaped at the comment, so out of character for their quiet Texan.

"Buck Wilmington!" Nathan piped up, "How the hell did you get enough liquor down your throat to be drunk?" The healer immediately went to check on Buck's and Ezra's injuries only to be shooed away.

The town regulars who had crowded into the bar for breakfast were obviously curious.

"Where there's a will, there's a way" an unusually talkative Tanner volunteered in a slurred voice.

Marshal Ezekiel Coltrain was sitting in a back corner eating his breakfast. He only graced the noisy group with one quick, disapproving peek. He had shed his fine wool coat, and draped it precisely over his ladder back chair. The sleeves on his pristine white shirt were rolled up above his elbows in crisp, matching lines.

"Useless as tits on a boar hog and lower than a rattlesnake's belly in a wagon rut," Tanner opined of the marshal with a silly smile on his face. Buck smiled proudly. It was becoming apparent that Vin had taken it upon himself to supply any commentary he thought Buck would offer up if he had his voice.

Larabee produced a whiskey bottle and raised a complimentary salute to Tanner and his Buck-speak. Tanner sauntered over and took the bottle in his turn. Then the tracker turned and offered the bottle to JD, "Hair of the dog?"

Buck had gone straight to the bartender and had him fill the oak bucket with foamy beer. Securing his liquid treasure, Buck staggered over and solicitously patted the young man on the back, then lifted the oaken pail to his lips again. Wilmington was moving stiffly and gave the appearance that there were no joints or moveable parts between the base of his head and his hips. Larabee realize that he missed the gangly way Buck's head and neck often preceded the rest of his body in that cocky, ornery way he had. Chris missed the easy boneless movements and was ready to make someone pay all over again.

"Jail. Interrogating the prisoners." Ezra slurred and took the bucket from Wilmington for a sip. And another. And another.

"Those feller's'd rather climb a tree and lie than stay on the ground and tell the truth," Tanner offered, taking the bucket in his turn.

Vin offered the beer bucket to Larabee. The gunfighter held up his whiskey bottle indicating that was his current drink of choice.

"However, I'm not sure a rattlesnake would fit in that particular human orifice," Ezra continued, almost to himself as if he were a scientist contemplating a theory.

"Only if we had stopped drinking somewhere during the previous night," Ezra offered.

"Itsy, bitty pygmy rattler," Vin was still trying to justify the threat Larabee had apparently made to the prisoners.

"Hey," Coltrain called from across the room. He stood from his table and headed across the floor.

"Eventually," Ezra went drunkenly back to his story, "the men recognized Mr. Larabee's sincere intention of conducting his experiment with the snake."

"You will acknowledge me when I speak to you," Coltrain demanded as he grabbed Larabee's shoulder and tried to spin the black clad peacekeeper around.

Larabee shook the hand off and turned slowly. His head was down, looking at the offending hand, but then the black hat rose until he met the Marshal's eyes, "I don't know who told you that you could replace your missin' cajones with that badge. But they were wrong."

"I've been wantin' to ask you how you could let one of the finest men you'll ever know get lynched by men you hired? Men you gave badges to?" Larabee took a step closer. It forced him to look up into the taller man's eyes, but intentionally invaded his personal space. Chris poked the marshal in the chest with a stiff finger and kept poking him, forcing him to back up until he could go no further, pressed up as he was against the cool mahogany of the bar.

Vin, slouching against the bar, a half smile on his face, seemed to be enjoying the moment.

"What kind of man hides behind a badge?" Larabee accused, loud enough for the room to hear.

"You're upset, man, possibly with justification. I shall not indulge in fisticuffs while you are emotionally unstable," Coltrain sniffed haughtily.

Larabee's face went still. His fists clenched and unclenched. He would not throw the first punch, he would not throw the first punch, "You ain't no man at all. Just hopin' that badge'll hide the fact.

The man stood, stoic, trying to give the impression he was taking the higher ground, "Would you dare to call me out, Sir?"

"He's gonna take his sweet time beatin' some sense into ya, though," JD chimed in.

Larabee turned and raised an eyebrow at JD and then turned back on Coltrain, daring him to take the challenge.

Vin sauntered over to Buck, "Never saw Larabee talk so much before he threw the first punch?" He formed it as a question to Larabee's old friend.

Ezra separated himself from the others and went to whisper something in Larabee's ear.

The feral grin that grew on Larabee's lips was surprisingly similar to the one Standish wore. The gambler stepped back to his place with the rest of the seven and then one step further back. With his good arm he pulled a pencil and tally book from inside his sling and began quickly taking bets as to whether Coltrain would fight. There were extra odds as to whether Coltrain would throw the first punch.

Larabee gave the Southerner a few minutes to set the odds. When he got a nod from the smaller man, Larabee casually reached down and picked up a spittoon resting on the floor by the bar.

JD's eyes went wide as his hero proceeded to pour the contents of the copper pot over Coltrain's immaculate jacket.

Josiah laughed out loud. Nathan shook his head in amusement. Buck shook his head at the inevitability of putting Standish and Larabee on the same side. Vin slid over to help Ezra with the bets.

Coltrain fought to maintain the composure he had established as proper, important and part of his persona as a respected lawman.

Larabee took off his duster, then his gunbelt and handed them back to Buck. JD intercepted them so Wilmington wouldn't be using his pulled muscles.

Larabee's eyes met Tanner's. The tracker held up a wad of paper money. His eyes sparkled. Ezra was still busy taking bets. Tanner gave Larabee a nod.

Larabee turned back to the Marshal and drizzled the remaining contents of the spittoon across Coltrain's crisp, white shirt.

Completely, utterly disgusted, Coltrain ripped the shirt off, popping buttons that went sailing across the barroom.

Vin and Ezra immediately closed the betting as to whether Coltrain would fight or throw the first punch and started taking odds on who would win. The thought filtered into Standish's mind that he was glad they were in a strange town. No one in Four Corners or its surrounding towns would be betting so heavily against Larabee in this mood.

Coltrain, bare-chested, charged Larabee like an enraged bull. Chris sidestepped him like a matador. The feral smile had yet to leave his face. Coltrain threw a roundhouse punch. Larabee ducked easily. Chris's punch connected squarely with the marshal's jaw.

The fight lasted longer than was necessary. Tanner made a note to ask his friend if that was to give Ezra time to get the betting up or simply the satisfaction Larabee got from beating the guy to a pulp. But the tracker suspected that directing the brawl out through the batwing doors so that he could scour the dusty main street with the man and then throw him in the horse trough in front of the town he was supposed to protect, was more than happenstance.

"Men like you must … be settled," Coltrain tried to save face with his own brand of philosophy, "before this land can be settled."

"It's men like us who'll tame this land," Chris growled, referring to himself and his six men now standing behind him, "Then men like you will come along and try to break her spirit." Touching his knuckle to his busted lip, the leader of the Magnificent Seven turned to head back toward the bar,Vin at his side. Josiah and Nathan flanked Ezra, trying to get a feel for his winnings.

Buck stood staring at the man on the ground. Visions of what might have been creeping up his spine and into his brain like living nightmares.

Then he felt a surprisingly gentle touch on his arm. Chris was there, his face open, helping fight away the images. Beside him stood JD who wouldn't even start toward the building until Buck took the first step. The others waited outside the saloon and watched. With a little pressure in the hold on his upper arm and a nod at the bucket of beer Buck still held, Larabee was encouraging his friend to join the others. And he did.

Buck looked at the pail as if remembering something and a bright smile appeared on his face as if the waking nightmares had been chased away.

JD had temporarily forgotten about his hangover during the action. It was weighing on him again as he trudged toward the batwing doors.

A big hand on his neck stopped him. He looked up into a mischievous Wilmington grin and a wink. The big man gave a little head nod down the street. JD looked, but all he saw was the filthy marshal storming toward his jail. JD looked back to his friend for an explanation.

His tall friend was already gone. JD knew that, whatever was going on, he was way out of his league when he saw that Buck and Ezra had begun to sneak across the main street and follow Coltrain as if they were trying to be invisible, Chris followed with Tanner close behind. Something was going on. Nathan and Josiah bundled their youngest friend between them and took off to follow; curious to see what was what.

The four drunks paused on the other side of the street and down a ways from the jail. They swayed as if to a music only they could hear as they waited, anticipated.

"What the Sam Holy Hell!" the Marshal's voice bellowed. The tone was indecipherable.

Ezra smiled a gold toothed, dimpled grin and bowed at the waist, offering Buck, Chris and Vin the opportunity to proceed him toward the jail. Buck took the offer. Chris and Vin both gave Ezra a good-natured shove in that direction. When he was in one of his conniving moods, they didn't want to turn their backs on him.

Nathan looked at Josiah. Josiah, still not sure what was going on, smiled widely, bowed as Ezra had and offered Nathan the chance to go first. Nathan and Josiah moved down the street. JD had hurried ahead with Buck. His hangover seemed quickly forgotten once his heroes were up to something.

The look of complete admiration Josiah and Nathan saw on JD's face, the loud ruckus and more shouts from inside the small jail, had them picking up the pace. They shouldered their way through the crowd already gathered at the door of the marshal's office.

Coltrain stood inside the door with an unrecognizable, green substance on shirtless chest. His hat was on the floor, lying in the same goo.

The loco stud horse was in the small office space. He didn't like finding himself there, but every time one of the townsmen moved in to help Coltrain remove the stallion, the animal would kick out, leaving his mark on the walls.

The two surviving bank robbers were backed against the far wall of their cell as if they questioned that the bars would protect them from the crazy stallion.

There was an empty bottle of mineral oil lying on the floor next to a bucket suspiciously similar to the one the rogue had carried back from the saloon. Another bottle had been shattered under the powerful hooves. The last remnants of fresh green grass and some hay lay on the floor along with maybe a little more alfalfa than he should get this time of year. And he'd obviously been enjoying the feast all night. The hay, when it finally had come out the other end was runny and loose from the green grass and mineral oil. Every time the Marshal or one of the other men tried to get close to the animal, it would flinch away, pin his ears back, put his head down and scurry around in the small confines trying to avoid them. The back half of its body would pirouette around the front. With each such move, the horse slipped in the manure around him, and would kick out with the residue still on his hooves to at last come to rest decorating the walls.

Chris craned his head in and up to admire the fact that there was more than a little filtrate adorning the ceiling. Both chairs were broken, there was a hole in the desk.

Coltrain pulled himself tall and walked right up to the stud horse as if to intimidate the animal. The horse lowered its head, flattened his ears and lunged at the tall lawman. Coltrain lost his footing as he tried to backtrack to safety. He fell in a pile on the floor.

"How'd you get the mineral oil down him?" JD asked with awe-inspired respect. He'd worked around horses enough to recognize the symptoms.

"Beer," Vin chimed in when Buck tried to talk and couldn't, "Ain't no red-blooded, American Stud don't like his beer."

As if on cue, the horse snorted when he recognized the pail Wilmington was carrying.

Nathan caught this out of the corner of his eye and wondered what else their conman had up his sling.

Undaunted by being out of mineral oil, the tall, mustached rounder put his bucket of beer on the ground, only to find his sore muscles wouldn't let him do much else. Larabee reached over with one leg and with an easy kick, slid the bucket over to the stallion. The manure supplied the needed lubricant for it to skate easily over to the soft, waiting muzzle. Wilmington smiled a drunken, satisfied smile.

The horse was happily slurping the unadulterated beer Wilmington had been sipping from the pail. Chris handed the whiskey bottle to Vin who took a swig and passed it around their little group. When Buck got it, they realized the adrenalin was wearing off when he passed up the bottle without trying to take his share. Chris looked over, caught Ezra in an unguarded moment and realized he was hiding the pain of his injuries.

Coltrain looked over and saw that the men from Four Corners were laughing at him. Even that oily gambler. Behind them the townspeople were laughing as well. Trying to save face, the marshal again started over to get the stallion out of his jail. The horse shook its head belligerently and pawed at the floor, grinding the manure deep into the cracks between the wooden slats. He was protecting his lager with the best of them. The place would never be clean again.

Satisfied, Chris turned and left, followed by his men. Buck and Ezra both needed a little help, but finally they were all mounted on their own horses and rode out without looking back.

48 Hours

By Mitzi

48 HOURS

Mother -