Witnesses

The clock ticked with a gentle rhythm. It was a friendly sound inthe otherwise quiet place, where the old but reliable piece stood on a small table set beneath the room's only window. Through the fogged panes, the early morning sun entered, illuminating dust in its path and descending on the table and the man who labored there, oblivious of the steadfast clock and all else around him. His head bowed, his blond hair falling forward over his handsome furrowed brow, he worked with a sharp knife in hand, as he concentrated his attention solely on what was before him.

A knock came, and with his startled jump, his hand slipped. "Damn!"

At the expletive, the door behind him opened, and he turned quickly to face the culprit who had disturbed him.

"Chris?" There was a note of inquiry in the mellow voice in the doorway.

Chris relaxed and gave a small smile. "Mornin', Vin."

At the greeting, Vin entered. A few years younger than Chris, he was a good-looking man of average height, wearing buckskin clothes and a pleasant smile. Closing the door again, he strolled across the room.

"Here they are," he said, laying several thin lengths of leather down on the table in front of Chris. "You think they'll do?"

Chris eyed the strips and nodded. "They look good. Thanks."

"Any time. How's it comin' along?"

"Slow," replied the older man, as he stood to stretch his tall lean frame and to rub his hand over the back of his stiff neck. "But I'm still not sure I'll go through with it. I just don't know if it's the right thing to do."

Vin looked down at the table and the object that rested there. "From what you told me, seems like he was kinda askin' for it."

Chris sighed deeply. "Yeah. But maybe he didn't mean it that way. Maybe I understood him wrong and this is all a mistake."

"Could be, but from where I stand, you usually read people and their meanin's pretty well."

Chris's expression lightened. "I've been known to be wrong. Sometimes."

Vin grinned. "When do you meet him?"

"Five o'clock."

"You've got a ways to go before then. How's your hand holdin' up?"

Glancing down, at the appendage in question and at the white bandage swathed around it, Chris flexed his fingers. "It'll do," he said. Then noting Vin's doubtful look, he added, "Nathan's goin' to look at it again later."

"Good. I'll leave you to it. I've got an appointment to go ridin'."

Chris raised a quizzical brow, and Vin explained further, "With my horse. He needs the exercise. Thought I'd take your mount with, seein' as how he's not likely to get out otherwise," he added teasingly.

Chris smiled back. "I appreciate it, and so will he."

"You'd best get back to it. Five o'clock ain't that far off." Vin started for the door and stopped there. "Ain't good for a man to worry too much, Chris. It don't help any, and things usually work out for the best," he reassured his friend, before giving a parting nod of sympathy and slipping silently from the room.

+ + + + + + +

The clock ticked on as Chris paced, unconsciously matching his steps to its beat. The angle of the sun had changed now, and its light diffused more widely about the room. Chris reached the far wall and turned back toward the table and what it held. He'd been at it since dawn, and still it wasn't right. Maybe he should give it up, stop before he'd gone too far with it. But there it lay, now in several pieces, taunting him for a failure. He couldn't leave it that way, and with long strides, he went back to face it once more.

He'd been working but a short while, when again there was a tap at his door and a muffled voice from the hallway calling his name. He laid down his knife, closed his eyes, and counted to ten, before pushing his chair back and answering, "Come in."

The door flew open to admit a young man with long hair, strikingly black, and a three-day's growth of beard, which he wore to show the maturity he'd attained despite his want of years. Chris's gently amused look attested to his understanding of the effort and to his recognition that it didn't quite achieve the desired effect.

"Hi, Chris!"

"JD."

"Vin said you're still workin' on it. How's it comin'?"

"Can't say I know for sure. Never done it before." Looking behind him at the table, he went on, "Matter of fact, I've never even set eyes on one."

"I have!" said JD, eyes brightening with enthusiasm. "Maybe I can help." He examined the results of Chris's efforts and frowned. "I think maybe you should let me work on it, Chris. From where you are so far, and with your hand hurt and all, I'm not sure you'll finish any time soon."

Chris wasn't sure, either. "Thanks, JD, but I gotta do this on my own."

The animation died from the young man's face. "Sure, Chris," he said after a moment. "I understand."

Chris's eyes narrowed at the flat tone of the words. "You all right,JD?"

"Sure, I'm OK. It's just that...."

" 'It's just that...' what?"

JD straightened his shoulders and directed hurt hazel eyes at the man he admired. "It's just that my help never seems to be needed, or wanted. Just because I'm young, it don't mean I don't know anything, Chris!"

Chris came to his feet and faced the younger man with sympathy. "No one thinks that," he said kindly. "It's just that this is personal between him and me, but that don't mean you haven't helped."

"How?"

"You're here, checkin' up on me. Does a man good to know his friends are standin' by him."

The worry lines on JD's face smoothed a little. "Guess I never thought of that."

"It's the way it is. And there is somethin' else you can do for me, too."

JD perked up. "Name it."

"I could use some breakfast. Haven't had anything to eat since yesterday."

"Sure!" JD said, the enthusiasm back in his voice. "Anything special you want?"

Chris shook his head. "Some coffee and whatever they're serving at the saloon this morning will do."

"OK. I'll be back quick as I can." At the door, JD put his hand on the knob and paused. "And Chris," he said, "thanks," and with a barely audible click, the door closed behind him, and he was gone.

+ + + + + + +

The day had turned gray, the sun's light now shrouded by a thick covering of clouds. The air felt heavy, and Chris had opened the window to let in the hot breeze that carried with it the smell of oncoming rain but little comfort from the oppressive heat.

At the moment, however, Chris was unaware of the weather, bearing as he was a different burden.

"Frankly, Mr. Larabee, I cannot comprehend why you have resolved to engage in an endeavor of such a nature." The speaker stood by the table, hat in hand, his dark hair stirring slightly with the wind. "Don't misunderstand me, Chris. I do indeed admire your diligence. However, there are those who are much more adept at such tedious though skilled manual pursuits." He paused to bend low for a closer look at the subject of his discourse.

Sitting on the bed behind him, coffee cup in hand and his empty breakfast plate beside him on the counterpane, Chris endured in silence and observed the man before him. Impeccably clad in a bottle green jacket and brown paisley vest set off by the immaculate white of his shirt collar and cuffs, he was an example of sartorial splendor.

Chris hoped the monologue had run its course and hesitated to encourage its extension by offering even a word of comment. But, risk was his life....

"Er...thanks, Ezra, but...."

His voice brought instant reaction. Ezra turned on him with a broad smile and teeth as white as his shirt. "Fortunately, I believe I know just such a craftsman!" he enthused. "For a small consideration, I would gladly undertake to engage him for the task and thus free you for pursuits more in keeping with your own unique gifts."

Fleetingly, Chris wondered if as a child Ezra had been struck by a dictionary. It didn't matter. Chris couldn't take any more; he had to do something. And after all, he was a gunman. He'd faced down killers in the street. Certainly he could handle this. He put the cup down on the plate, got off the bed, and asserted himself.

"I don't think so, Ezra. Can't wait that long."

"You're sure? Perchance a delay...."

"I'm sure." Setting a stern look on his face, Chris opened the door and hoped.

Mercifully, Ezra took the hint. "Well then, I shall leave you to your labors," he said with an air of resignation. "And I do hope things work out," he added sincerely. "However, should you change your mind and wish me to render my valuable assistance, I shall be at the saloon." Then, with a regal bow of farewell, he fixed his hat upon his head and exited.

Chris shut the door soundly and turned the key.

+ + + + + + +

Pelted by hail, he took the steps two at a time and threw open the doors to the nearest sanctuary. Hurrying through, he banged them closed behind him, shutting out the wetness if not the storm's noisome bombardment of the roof of his refuge. Removing his hat, he shook the droplets from it and paused a minute to catch his breath and to let his eyes adjust to the dimness of the chapel's interior. No one else was there, and Chris took comfort in that. In the solitude of this place he could think and search for answers. As he started down the center aisle, he surveyed his surroundings. What had been a ruin was once again a house of God, made so by Josiah's labor of love.

Chris halted his steps and slid into the nearest pew. As he set his hat down beside him and ran his hand over the cool rough wood, he was reminded of how good the preacher was with his hands. And Chris remembered a time when he himself had used his hands to build--a corral, a windmill, a baby's crib.... That time was gone now, but maybe not forever. As his eyes were drawn to the flickering flames of the vigil candles at the front of the church, he let himself hope once again.

The click of a latch and a scraping sound overrode the waning storm without and intruded on his thoughts. Chris turned to see Josiah examining the frame of the side door through which he'd just come. He closed and opened the door once more, causing a repetition of the same grating noise.

"Sounds like you have some sanding ahead of you," observed Chris.

Josiah swung quickly around, searching for the speaker. "Chris!" He gave the door behind him another quick look. "Yep. Guess the wood doesn't much like this damp weather. I didn't know anyone was here," he added.

"I was walkin' by, when the clouds opened up."

With casual strides, Josiah covered the space between them and seated himself in the pew across the aisle from Chris. From his facial features to his physical build, Josiah's every inch exuded strength. He was a gentle giant whose ire it was not wise to arouse. At the moment, he wore a smile as broad as his shoulders.

"Maybe the Good Lord was invitin' you in."

Chris grinned at the idea. "Could be. Sounds like He's not insistin' so hard right now, though."

Josiah lifted his eyes toward the ceiling. "Things do seem to have settled down to a steady rain. Guess He thought He could let up once He got you through the door."

Chris gave a soft laugh. "Guess so."

The preacher's smile faded to an expression of concern. "Have you made a decision yet, or are you still 'wreslin' with the angel'?"

Chris, too, became serious. He leaned forward. Hands folded, arms on his knees, he stared back toward the vigil lights. "I'm still not sure. Could be I'm goin' where I've got no place, intrudin' where I don't belong."

Josiah studied Chris closely. "Well, as He said, 'Seek and ye shall find; knock and it shall be opened unto you.' But you do have to knock first."

"I'm just scared the door will close leavin' me outside." Chris's intense green eyes sought Josiah's clear blue ones.

"'There is no fear in love,' my friend. 'Perfect love casteth out fear.'"

Chris's eyes dropped. "I don't know, Josiah. Seems to me that with love, there's always the fear of losin' it."

"I wish I could tell you what to do, Chris, but each man must 'bear his own burden.' There is guidance to be found, though." He looked toward the front of the chapel and the silhouette of the crucifix hanging before the window there. "All you have to do is open your heart and let Him in."

The two men sat quietly together for a few minutes more, before Josiah arose and reached over to lay a strong, supportive hand on Chris's shoulder. Then he made his way up the aisle, his boots clicking in counterpoint to the rain still falling on the roof above. He stopped at the pulpit to retrieve the tome sitting upon it before retreating through the still protesting side door, leaving Chris alone.

+ + + + + + +

Followed closely by Nathan, black bag in hand, Chris entered his room. He removed his rain-dampened duster, hung it on the wall peg, and crossed to the window. Pushing the curtain aside, he looked out.

"Sky seems lighter now. Maybe the rain's over for a while."

Nathan dropped the bag on the bed. He was a tall black man with an open, friendly face. "I always like it right after a rain storm," he said with a smile. "Dust is down, and the air smells fresh and clean. Nothin' else quite like it."

Chris nodded, a faraway expression in his eyes. "Reminds me of when I was a kid. Used to splash through the puddles and muddy up my clothes. Got in trouble for it every time. Adam used to do the same--"

Abruptly, he stopped, his heart lurching at the memory of his dead son. Stillness overwhelmed the room, marred only by the clock as it marked the passing moments.

"Sometimes it's good to remember the happy times, Chris," Nathan said kindly, breaking the spell of silence.

Chris started at the voice and began to unbuckle his gun belt. "It was a long time ago," he said, removing his rig and hanging it over the bedpost.

Nathan's deep brown eyes were warm with compassion for this man who had so tragically lost his wife and son. But the healer took a deep breath, and when next he spoke, his voice bristled with reprimand. "I thought you were goin' ta come over and let me look at that hand again!"

Chris was grateful for the change of subject. "Didn't think it needed it."

"How about lettin' me decide that? Let me see."

Without further argument, Chris held out his wrapped hand, and Nathan removed the bandage. His gentle touch of the injured area caused Chris to wince.

"That sore?"

"It's all right."

"Uh huh. I can tell. I don't like that redness. I want you to come with me to the clinic."

Chris shook his head. "Can't you just fix it up here? I'm kinda pressed for time."

"A knife wound's serious business, Chris, and I don't like the color of it. It could be infected and needs proper treatment."

"All right. I'll come by later then. But right now, I gotta finish this."

Nathan glanced at the table. "How far are you on it?"

Chris shrugged. "Farther than I was, but there's still a ways to go."

"Well, I guess the hand can wait a bit longer," the healer relented, "but I expect to see you this evenin', you hear? I can put on a fresh bandage now, but I'll want to clean it up real good later. And I've got an ointment for it that should help."

Chris agreed, and Nathan fetched his bag from the bed, retrieved what he needed, and began applying an interim dressing to Chris's wound.

+ + + + + + +

The rain had stopped, and the sky had brightened to a silvered gray, while Chris worked feverishly to finish. He'd made his decision. He'd go through with this after all. At least he was pretty sure he would. As he moved the smaller pieces for the best fit, he heard one firm tap on wood followed instantly by the sound of turning knob and opening door. Chris raised his head almost imperceptibly in reaction but felt no need to turn to identify the newcomer.

"Afternoon, Buck."

"Howdy, Pard," boomed the new arrival. "Haven't seen hide nor hair of you all day, so I thought I'd best check on how you're doin'."

"Just fine."

"That so? Let's have a look."

Tall and dark-haired, Buck wore on his handsome face both a mustache and a devilish grin. With quick strides, he approached Chris from behind, grabbed hold of the back of his chair, and bent low over the gunman's shoulder. After careful consideration of what he saw, he commented.

"Hmmm."

Chris raised his eyes to the heavens for patience. "That's helpful, Buck."

"Sorry, Chris, but it's all I can think of to say. It don't look like much."

"Yeah, I know. But I'm just puttin' it together, and I'm hopin' when that's done, it'll look the way it's supposed to."

Concentrating earnestly on the pieces before him, Buck picked one up and moved it. "There!" he said triumphantly, a huge smile breaking out on his face. "That's better."

Chris scrutinized the results of the alteration. "Could be you're right, Buck. I think that is better." With the last word, he almost doubled over, as Buck pounded him on the back.

"Any time, Pard! Always glad to help, ya know."

Chris grimaced and gingerly straightened his back. "Thanks, Buck," he said between clenched teeth. Then, inspired: "Isn't Blossom waitin' for you or somethin'?"

"Nope."

Chris wilted.

"Not Blossom; Jezebel."

Hope returned. "Jezebel?"

"Yep. She's new. Jezebel's her stage name. She picked it cause she 'values honesty above all things,' she says."

"Hmmm," replied Chris, echoing Buck's earlier sentiment, a hint of skepticism in his tone. "Gotta wonder how honest someone who calls herself 'Jezebel' really is."

"Now, don't you worry about me, Chris. Ol' Buck can take care of himself. You know what a way I got with women!"

"Yeah, I know. That's why I'm worried," grinned Chris mischievously, provoking a look of disbelief in his friend's face.

But Buck didn't pursue the matter. Instead, he glanced pointedly at the clock. "Well, I suppose I should be on my way. Don't want to keep her waitin'. Gotta work my wiles on her, you know."

He started an about-face to the door but stopped halfway. "Say, Chris, why don't you come along? You've been at this a long time, and a break would do you good."

"I'd like to, but I'd better not right now. Five o'clock's not that far off."

"That's the time the two of you meet up?"

"Yup. After that, I promised to stop by Nathan's. Might see you later, though. Presumin' you and Jezebel are...er...finished by then, that is."

Buck's eyes widened in acknowledgement of the likelihood of delay, and he flashed a smile of confidence. "I'm thinkin' that'll be quite a bit later."

"I thought so," Chris agreed, amused.

"In that case, I'll just see you whenever."

Again Buck headed to the door, but on reaching it, he rested his hand on the knob and hesitated uncharacteristically. His face grew solemn, and when he spoke, all jocularity was gone from his voice.

"I know you're worried about this," he said, "--whether you should be doin' it and all.... I just wanted to tell you I think it's the right thing. It's time, Chris, and you won't be hurtin' anything in the future...or the past."

On the last word, his voice broke, and for a while, the lady's man stared unseeingly at his boots. Then he felt a strong hand squeeze his shoulder and heard Chris's soft voice.

"Thanks, Buck. That means a lot."

Buck raised his blue eyes, blinked away the wetness, and drew his hand unsteadily across his sniffling nose. He didn't say anything, though, but only opened the door and walked away.

Chris stood alone in the room, as the faithful clock tolled four.

+ + + + + + +

The sun had returned. Dipping toward the horizon, it reddened the western sky and extended its shadows over the town and the man who stood quietly in its marbled light. It was almost six o'clock, and still Chris waited, wondering now if the one he waited for would come at all.

Cooled by the passing storm, the air felt fresh, and a faint breeze stirred in the trees around him, creating a soft shoosh of leaves. He moved a few steps to sit on a rough-hewn bench at the base of a small tree. Leaning back, he reached into the pocket of his duster and closed his fingers around the object that resided there, as he listened to the sounds of the evening--buckboards and horses moving along Main, shop doors shutting at day's end, the heightening din from the saloon. The smell of vittles cooking wafted toward him, but he couldn't quite identify what was being prepared. He wasn't hungry anyway.

Restless, he left the bench and stood facing the west. The sunset, flaming red now, reflected his agitation. Chris pulled his hand from his pocket, its bandage catching in the fabric and reminding him of his wound and of his promise to see Nathan. Dejection in his bearing and disappointment in his expressive eyes, he reluctantly made his decision. He had waited in vain; it was time to go.

As he turned to leave, he heard the sound of running steps coming quickly from behind him. He spun around, hand on his colt, and stopped.

The newcomer slid to a halt in front of him and panted out an excited, "Hi, Chris!" He was a young boy of seven or eight, with straight, sand-colored hair, flushed and dirty cheeks, and clothes full of mud. His face, however, beamed and his bright eyes brimmed with admiration, as he looked up at the tall gunslinger.

With the boy's arrival, Chris's expression relaxed into a quiet smile of welcome, as he dropped his gun hand to his side. "Evenin', Billy. You're late," he pointed out gently.

"Yeah. Sorry. We got caught in the rain at the picnic, an' all hell--" Billy checked himself suddenly and shot Chris a glance of guilt.

"Might be your ma wouldn't want you to use that word."

"I know," Billy replied contritely, before adding defensively, "but sometimes it fits best."

A brief moment was sufficient to tell him he'd failed to sway the adult before him, and so he complied. "Anyhow, all heck broke loose, with everyone runnin' around pickin' up the food and blankets and stuff. Then we threw it all into the wagon and headed over to Charlie's barn. You shoulda been there, Chris! It was rainin' real hard, and Ma whipped up the horses till they were goin' like the blazes!"

As Billy talked, Chris's smile broadened, and his eyes softened in response to this child who reminded him so much of the son he'd lost. "Is that how you got so muddied up?"

"Nah. That happened on the way home. The trail was full of squishy-soft mud, and in this one place, one of our wheels sank into a rut and we got stuck. So, everybody got off the wagon--'cept Ma, acourse, 'cause she was drivin'--and we pushed. We got it out, too," he said proudly, "but we did get kinda messed up."

"Kinda," Chris agreed.

"Wish you woulda been there, Chris," Billy repeated, wistfully.

Chris nodded affectionately. "Me, too. Sounds like you had fun."

"Yeah. Best picnics are the ones when it rains," Billy pronounced sagely. Then recalling himself to the present, he went on, "What you want to see me about, Chris?"

The moment had come, surprising Chris by its suddenness, and for an instant, he hesitated, watching Billy's look of anticipation. Then, moistening his lips, he set aside his lingering doubt. "Just wanted to give you something," he said.

Billy's eager eyes followed the movement of Chris's hand and widened at the sight of the object it drew from the deep pocket of the black duster.

It was a carved figure of a man, about ten inches in length. Its head and trunk were of a single block of wood, but the arms and legs were jointed. Connected by narrow strips of leather, their separately whittled parts swung freely. The handle attached to the back of the solid portion allowed the toy to be held without inhibiting the movement of its limbs. The entire piece had been fashioned with care and sanded to a smooth finish.

Billy's eyes fastened unwaveringly on the offering Chris held out to him, and all animation fled from his face. Witnessing the boy's shocked reaction, Chris felt his heart skip a beat, and his first impulse was to remove the distressing item from view.

"I'm sorry, Billy, I shouldn't have brought it," he said.

But, as he began to withdraw his hand, Billy quickly reached out to claim the toy. "It's just like the one Pa gave me," he whispered in awe.

"Well, not 'just like,'" Chris replied, crouching down to the boy's level, his eyes carefully studying the young face. "But I did try to recollect as best I could how you described it."

At the boy's questioning look, Chris went on, "When we were fishing, remember? You told me about it then and how you missed the one your father made for you."

"Oh, yeah. I remember now."

Billy slowly turned the toy in his hands, examining each segment of it, but he said nothing. To Chris, the silence seemed endless, and at last he broke it to say reassuringly. "It's all right if you don't want to keep it."

Again Billy raised perplexed eyes to him. "Why wouldn't I, Chris?"

Chris swallowed. "Well, I hoped you would, but I thought that maybe, since the other one was from your pa...," he began awkwardly, not sure how to explain.

But he didn't have to go on. Suddenly, Billy smiled. "Pa wouldn't mind," he said.

The child's quick understanding of what troubled him, took Chris aback. "You sure?" he asked, wanting reassurance that Billy truly felt that way.

In answer, the boy surprised him again. "Do you think your son would mind you makin' this for me?" he asked.

The thought had never occurred to Chris, and he knew the answer at once. "No," he said with certainty. "I'm sure he wouldn't."

"Then it's all right. When I play with this, I'll think of my pa and of Adam and of you, too. And maybe sometimes, we can play with it together. It's a great present!"

"I'm glad," Chris said, his heart lightened of the apprehension he'd felt. "I know there was a kinda paddle, too," he went on, "but I ran out of time. Maybe you could help me with that."

"OK. I could draw a picture for you, so you know how it's supposed to look." Then suddenly he fell silent again, staring fixedly at the toy he held.

"Billy?" Chris prompted him, concerned.

Billy looked up. "I think you would have liked my pa, Chris," he said thoughtfully.

Chris gently placed his hand on the boy's shoulder. "I know I would," he agreed. "From what I hear, he was a good man. Besides, anyone with a son like you, I'd have to like!"

Billy beamed at the very satisfactory reply, just before a feminine voice broke into their conversation.

"Billy, it's time you come home."

The boy turned toward his mother. Mary stood a short distance away, splashed by the deepening shadows of evening, the softening light of sunset tinting her white-blond hair to red-gold. The sternness of her voice was belied by the gentleness of her eyes and the slight upward turn of her mouth.

Struck by the apparition, Chris stood up and touched the brim of his hat in greeting. "Evenin', ma'am."

"Good evening, Mr. Larabee."

"Ah, Ma. Do I have ta?" Billy challenged in protest.

"I'm afraid so. We have to get you cleaned up before dinner."

Billy brightened. "Can Chris come eat with us, Ma?"

"Well, perhaps tonight's not the best night...."

"It's all right, ma'am. I...a...told Nathan I'd be over shortly."

"As I was about to say, Mr. Larabee, perhaps tonight's not the best, but you're most welcome tomorrow evening."

Uncertain, Chris delayed answering.

"Please, Chris," Billy pleaded.

Chris smiled down at the boy and hesitated no further. "Thank you, ma'am," he replied in acceptance.

"We'll expect you around six-thirty then," she said. "Come on now, Billy."

"OK." Then, looking up at the man beside him, he added, "Thanks, Chris!"

"You're welcome."

Billy hurried to join his mother and to show her his gift. But as Chris watched, the boy came to an abrupt halt and reversed his course.

"Billy," called his mother.

"I'll be right back, Ma. I gotta tell Chris somethin'," Billy explained as he ran.

When he reached the waiting man, there was eagerness in his face. "Chris, you know what?" he asked earnestly.

Chris grinned and tousled the boy's hair. "Can't say as I do," he replied. "What?"

Billy's face lit up with pride, as he answered. "My pa would have liked you, too!"

Then, his message given, he flashed a happy smile, said goodbye, and sped off to catch his mother. He did not witness the tears in the gunman's green eyes.

The End