'Absinthe is the aphrodisiac of the soul.
The green fairy who lives in it wants your soul.
But you are safe with me.'
Vlad Dracul, Bram Stoker's Dracula
'Grimes, Marcy Grimes, of the Oklahoma Grimes,' was cheating. Badly. Threadbare jacket sleeves concealed a pair of Kings which, Ezra knew, should have been on the bottom of the deck. He had, after all, palmed them there himself. The temptation to simply shoot the uncouth bastard was so tangible he could taste it.
His opponent fell short of his usual standard of mark. But here, in Watsonville's only saloon, he had little choice.
The man's dirty ginger hair fell in long tangled waves around a roughly-shaven, pudgy face that was slick with perspiration. Weak, muddy-blue eyes avoided holding his gaze. Crooked teeth, in various shades of yellow and black, worried at thick lips and spittle collected in the deep corners, which annoyed Ezra no end. The man across from him looked incapable of providing any real sport. Indeed, he looked as though he had not a penny to his name. But he had sat just the same, and proceeded to win most of the hands dealt. A snide voice in Ezra's head charitably declared that now the gentleman could purchase himself a bath -- something of which he was in dire need.
Ezra drained his shot glass in one swallow, the burn of the Snakebite -- the cheapest whiskey on offer -- going unnoticed through familiarity. Hefting up the weight of the emptied bottle, he signalled to the nearest barmaid for a fresh one.
She came as he bid, all frills and lace and tousled, dirty-black hair.
A pair of pendulous bosoms swung perilously close to his ear and Ezra froze, save for a delicate twitch of his nose; whatever fragrance she had managed to purchase was clearly cheap enough to buy by the bucketful, as she must have bathed in the stuff. He held his breath, loathe to take in any more of the eye-watering scent that failed to cover the stench of her recent indiscretions with some member of the saloon's less-than-stalwart clientele.
"I'll just bring you another, Sugar," she purred, in what she obviously thought was a seductive manner. It rather missed the mark, her voice being as dry and rough as gravel. It made his flesh crawl.
He was sorely tempted to swat away the thin, rouge-slicked lips that hovered altogether too close to his ear, moist breath huffing into his auditory canal, irritating him further. So close was she that he could see each individual dirt-filled pore on her loose-skinned jowls.
Ezra cringed inwardly and dismissed the harlot toward the bar with an imperious wave, which also served to waft the air in front of him free of some of the cloying odor.
He glanced at the cards he held, mostly for show. He already knew his hand and that he ought to fold. He cursed his lack of concentration, which was less to do with the volume of whiskey he had consumed than with his dark musings. His mother's voice rang clear and patronizing in his head.
Really Ezra, haven't I brought you up better than this? How many times have I told you that friendship is a sham? It only serves others as long as you are providing them with something they want. It is a distraction -- and one that good business people such as us cannot afford.
Well, mother -- it appears you were correct, again.
Ezra was long past breaking even and this latest pot was about to clean him out. It was a bitter pill to swallow and made all the more unpalatable that this hustler was cheating him at his own game, but he just couldn't bring himself to call the other man on it. He didn't relish the thought of spending the night incarcerated in Watsonville's jail. So, he held his tongue with a tenacity that would have no doubt surprised Mr. Larabee, and resolutely tossed back the contents of his newly refilled shot glass.
He recalled how the day had started out so well, considering the disturbance of that morning. A group of would-be outlaws had ridden into Four Corners and attempted to appropriate the town's funds from the First National Bank by blowing the safe. Even though they had heard of the seven peacekeepers who resided in town, they were so high on whisky and bravado they attempted daylight robbery and, ultimately, suicide in the form of a dark-clad gunslinger and his lanky moustachioed friend.
By the time Ezra made it down the saloon stairs, the gunfire was over. Four dead cowboys and a sinisterly pleased Chris Larabee greeted him in the street. He retreated back to the comfort of his featherbed forthwith. His stint in the jailhouse was not until later that afternoon and the night before had ended in the wee hours of the morning, with a satisfying bulge in his vest pocket.
When he arose for the second time that day it was in good spirits, for he was in for a quiet spell of sitting and reading, a recently procured leather-and-gilt volume of Tennyson firmly in his grip. There was a bounce in his step as he strode across Main Street to relieve JD from his station.
The town seemingly shared his good mood. Children were playing quietly outside Potter's store and the other residents were ambling about their daily chores, cheerfully sharing a nod or howdy-do as he passed. The weather was fine, the streets clean and all in all it was a fine day to be living in the west. He even thought of sharing his latest book with Vin, should he come across him on his way. The laconic tracker would most certainly enjoy the book of prose and Ezra was feeling particularly benevolent.
"Standish!"
Hand resting on the jailhouse door handle, he looked up as he heard his name called from down the walk.
"Mr. Larabee. I am not late, am I?"
"No, you're not late. I need you to take these down to JD at Silas'. Help him find names for those four sorry-ass fools."
"Ah, I see," said Ezra, taking the clutch of wanted posters and tucking them into the front of Tennyson.
"Buck's covering for you here. Now get going."
Ezra stood mutely as Chris nudged past to enter the jail, closing the door on him with a sense of finality.
"Yes, sir," he said to the door, saluting with two fingers and, with a parting smirk, he continued down the boardwalk to the undertaker's.
He found JD hovering over the open caskets, bowler hat in hand being twisted nervously by the brim. He looked up as Ezra approached.
"Mr. Dunne."
"Hey Ezra. Darn, I hate this part of the job."
Ezra sighed, casting a detached gaze over the corpses. They were barely more than boys. He pulled out the posters and handed half to JD, who started flipping through them, every now and then pausing to compare a faded sienna image to the body before him.
Ezra examined the paper in his hand. This one looked like a possible suspect. Randy Dobson... cattle rustling and small-time robberies... charming. Reward $100. The other corpse did not match any of his documents, so he moved on to the pair that JD had just finished with.
"Anything?"
"Yup -- this here is Bo Doyle, and that's his brother Ethan. Wanted for stagecoach robberies and three counts of murder. Bounties come to $700. You?"
"This appalling miscreant was Mr. Clement Dobson... the usual felonies and a $100 reward. The other gentleman remains anon."
JD approached the unidentified body. "He doesn't look like any of the ones I got. Oh well. If he was riding with guys like these, he can't have been good."
"Indeed." Ezra picked absently at a crooked nail head poking out of the coffin as he mentally calculated how and when to separate Buck from his share of the eight-hundred-dollar bounty. He would have to act quickly, or the money would burn a hole in Wilmington's pocket, leaving little to add to what Ezra liked to think of as his 'Retirement Fund'.
"I wonder what led them to such stupidity in the first place," he mused aloud.
"Heh, yeah. Mr. Sebley was really mad. He wanted to know how they knew about the gold shipment. Wasn't something I'd heard about, so how these idiots came to find out is a mystery to me."
"Gold shipment?"
JD clamped his mouth shut, but the damage was already done.
Ezra waited for JD to elaborate. When no explanation was forthcoming, he tipped his head to meet JD's lowered gaze and prompted, "Go on..."
"Yeah, well, it's uh, supposed to be a secret. Something to do with an agreement between Judge Travis and the gold mine company; they're trying out some new method of transfer, least that's what Buck said. Sebley's angry 'cause the bank's not secure enough to hold it now, what with the safe being blown. He's had to leave it and the town's savings at the jail with Chris and Buck, and they were pretty pissed too. Something about having better things to do than baby sit a pile of gold."
"Well, it was my shift -- they wouldn't have had to baby sit anything.... If Mr. Larabee hadn't sent me here." Ezra processed the information quickly and came to the conclusion that Chris hadn't wanted him sitting in the jail alone for one obvious reason: he didn't trust Ezra with the town's money. That perhaps the pile of loot sitting in one of the cells would be too great a temptation for him to ignore. That he would abscond with the funds, never to be seen again.
As if he would stoop to stealing someone else's money!
The betrayal of mistrust cut deeper than the sharpest knife. As it would be most unbecoming of a gentleman to express rage, he held his temper, brooding on dark thoughts, all the while his stomach twisting into knots of bitterness.
He had thought that after the whole fiasco with the Stutzs, he and Chris had reached some kind of understanding, a certain level of trust. Hypocrites, the whole damned bunch of them. Bastards.
Leaving a stammering JD in his wake, he marched to the livery to fetch his horse.
The short, rotund form of Samuel Sebley, manager of the First National Bank, stopped him outside the livery as he was about to mount. Sebley was the latest in a long line of managers. The last had, in the style of his predecessors, taken to ailing of the spirits and departed for the healthier climes and ocean air of San Francisco.
"Going somewhere important, Mr. Standish?" he enquired, voice dripping with smarmy politeness, his black little piggy eyes alight with the anticipation of gossip.
Hopping with one foot in the stirrup, Ezra answered the obnoxious old fart as he swung effortlessly into the saddle. "I am riding out, Mr. Sebley. Now, if you would be so kind as to remove yourself from my path." Without waiting for a response to his request, he nudged his chestnut gelding onwards to shoulder past the blustering bank manager. He raised two fingers to his hat brim in a mock salute, gracing Sebley with no further consideration.
When his mount had finally slowed, unable to continue the punishing pace, barrel chest heaving beneath his thighs and chestnut coat dark and lathered with sweat, Ezra had taken stock of his surroundings and turned toward the nearest town and its establishment of opportunity.
Several hours and two bottles of Snakebite later, he found himself in the company of the lowest inhabitants of this country, down to his last penny with what would soon turn out to be a losing hand.
Fucking typical.
****7777777***
The evening hours were drawing in, the sun waning and low in the west as Ezra rode back into Four Corners. In the far distance behind him, thunderclouds gathered in the east: a dark, low band the colour of bruises against the mountain skyline. Ahead of him was clear, and the weight of the storm in pursuit drove him onwards. He was dishevelled; his black jacket almost gray-fawn with the thick coating of trail dust and his hat tipped forward to shield him from the blinding orange light of late afternoon that glared off the horizon, stinging his gritty eyes. Tired, penniless and resigned, he still maintained a military-style position in the saddle, sitting proud and straight despite his mental slump. The effects of the liquor were wearing off and he was looking forward to resuming his earlier designs of getting utterly inebriated.
Riding down Main Street, his attention was drawn to a group of townsfolk gathered outside the jail. Heated discussions were being passed between several factions. Chris and Buck stood in front of the door, and appeared to be trying to reason with them, though Chris' voice was lost in the perturbed mumbling. Vin, JD and Nathan looked on from the rear of the group.
Josiah was nowhere to be seen. Probably still working on the church pews that he had been sanding for days. Ezra couldn't understand why he didn't just purchase new ones, although after having asked Josiah once and receiving some ramblings about penance and crows for his effort, he decided to leave Mr. Sanchez to his own peculiar devices.
Dismounting, he strolled over to satisfy his curiosity. The gathered crowd was not friendly.
"Where the hell have you been?" Chris asked, face drawn in a scowl.
All turned toward him and he felt the sting of suspicion from townsfolk and peacekeepers alike. He turned his head sharply to his left when he felt his arm grabbed tightly around the elbow.
"Where've you been, Ezra?" Vin whispered, leaning in, an unreadable expression on his face.
Ezra snatched his arm out of Vin's grasp and made a point of dusting down his jacket, as if to wipe away the tracker's touch. "Why is it of anyone's concern where I have been?" he asked haughtily. "I was relieved of my duty today. Surely I can spend my free time as I see fit."
"Yeah, but if that time is spent stealing my money I want to damn well know about it!" shouted Sebley from his spot next to Chris.
A chorus of agreement rumbled through the crowd.
Chris stepped down from the boardwalk, the gathered masses parting neatly for his passage. With a speed Ezra was unaware he possessed, Chris grabbed the saddlebag that was slung over the gambler's shoulder, hoisting it off to the bank manager who had followed him down to hover at his side.
Ezra watched with increasing disgust and anger as his personal belongings were tipped out of his saddlebag into the dust and Sebley got down to rummage around in them, like a fat sow rooting for an elusive truffle. He wouldn't have been surprised to hear the man snort and snuffle. His blood boiled as thick, greasy fingers grabbed then discarded his cologne, pomade, correspondence and other personal effects.
"He's hidden it somewhere else, Mr. Larabee. It ain't in here. Just a load of fancy-shmancy crap."
"Mr. Larabee. The next time you assault my person, I will ensure that you are in need of Mr. Jackson's attentions. Do I make myself clear?" Ezra said in clipped tones, glaring daggers at the portly bank manager before stooping to gather his scattered possessions. He winced at the condition of his spare silk shirt and tie, which were ruined beyond reprieve.
"Oh, perfectly Ezra. Now let me make myself clear." The gunslinger paused and leaned into the gambler's personal space, blocking the crowd and everyone else from his vision, filling it with dirty dark-blond hair framing hazel eyes. Ezra straightened to his full height and suppressed the urge to step back from the intense scrutiny. The husky voice whispered loud enough for him to hear above the background commotion. "I couldn't care less what you do in your own time. But some gold has gone missing and this crowd wants to know where you were." A bony finger pressed into his dusty vest.
Ezra cocked an eyebrow and looked down at the invading digit with disdain. He sensed Vin's presence close to his shoulder and again bit down on the urge to move away from the overcrowding. The closeness of the man, the familiar bouquet of leather and horses and unique Vin-ness, made his skin tingle and he cursed his body for betraying him when he was trying to concentrate on being angry.
"Just tell us where ya were Ez, fer cryin' out loud," Tanner urged.
His resolve snapped and he turned abruptly from his so-called friends, heading with long determined strides toward the saloon.
Chris' voice called after him, "Where do you think you're going?"
"Saloon," he proclaimed in contempt.
Just as he reached the batwing doors, he turned, pivoting without his usual easy grace; his body all hard lines and angles, tense with barely suppressed rage. "I was in Watsonville, Mr. Larabee, attempting to improve my lot in a game of chance. And I intend to continue with my nefarious money-grabbing ways here. Now, if you will excuse me," he drawled snidely, "I believe my table awaits."
****7777777***
Buck stepped off of the boardwalk and muscled through the crowd to where Chris, Vin and Nathan stood watching the swinging doors slowly lose their momentum and come to rest. "Well, pard. That sure went well," he quipped, slinging an arm around JD's shoulders as the young man moved to stand by him.
"Buck, fellas...Uh..."
"Spit it out kid."
"Well, it's just that after Ez left me, I saw Tiny. He said Ez had just lit out in a hurry. That would have been around noon."
"Said he went to Watsonville," Vin concurred. "Only a few hours riding, less iffen ya push it."
JD looked thoughtful. "That would place him well out of town at the time the gold was taken."
"They've only got that one doggery though. Damn rough place, can't imagine Ez stooping to plying his trade in there," Buck added, reaching up to knock JD's hat loose out of habit.
JD ducked instinctively and swatted Buck's hand away, then straightened the bowler securely on his head.
"Well, someone ought to remember him iffen he was there," Vin said, passing silent comment with Chris. "I'm going to ride out, find someone who can confirm it."
Buck watched Chris nod his agreement, not that the tracker required his assent; Vin headed to the livery, his face a mask of grim determination.
"What are you gonna do about them, Chris?" Buck asked, rolling his eyes toward the gathered townsfolk. They were still mumbling and talking amongst themselves, by this time already having come to the conclusion the gambler was guilty as sin.
"You and Nathan keep an eye on Ezra. At least, until Vin gets back with proof he wasn't around when the theft occurred."
Buck nodded and stroked his moustache in thought, eyes narrowing as he considered the saloon's aspect. "Don't think Ol' Ez is gonna be mighty pleased with that."
"I don't care. I don't want any of these idiots," he gestured to a small group of surly-looking men who represented the ranchers, "starting up something I have to finish."
"Yeah," Buck drawled, some of the usual brevity returned to his twang. "'Cause we all know how you'd hate that."
He risked throwing a sneaky grin at his old friend, and was rewarded for his efforts with upraised eyebrows and a warning glance that had no real sting. Buck laughed outright. He watched as Chris returned to the group of townsfolk, black-clad shoulders straight as he readied himself for the task of dissipating them.
A sharp nudge in his side had him looking down into a pair of wide worried brown eyes and a pale face stark against an irregular spattering of black stubble. Damn, but I really gotta teach that boy to shave properly, he thought.
"I'm sorry Buck. I didn't mean to tell him about the gold... it just sort of came out."
"Don't worry about it JD. Ezra didn't take those bars. And they'll stop baying for his blood when Vin gets back. Until then, we just gotta watch his back... and try to find the missing stash and whoever took it." He studiously ignored Nathan's pursed lips and down-turned gaze, instead slapping JD on the back reassuringly. "Yeah, it'll all work out. You'll see. Ain't I told ya I'm always right?"
JD nodded at Buck's reassurance, but as he walked away his shoulders were still slumped with guilt. He skirted around the remaining men, who were persisting in trying Chris' temper, to take his place in the Sheriff's office to watch over the town's savings and the remaining gold.
"Nate?" Buck called, catching the healer's attention. "C'mon. I'll let ya buy me a beer."
****7777777***
Darkness held the town of Four Corners in a firm grip. The rain had started falling in earnest before the stranger had broached the rise of the hills that lay to the south of the humble burg. Barely more than a moving shadow, hardly discernible against the night and the shroud of rainfall that seeped all color out of the landscape, he was an ensemble of darkness -- black hat, gray slicker, riding a gun-metal blue roan.
He rode past the dilapidated church. Eaves creaked in the blustery weather. The tower bell tolled lowly as it was buffeted by the wind, its voice sad and lonely. A soft nickering and the warm scent of horse musk and hay was borne on the air as he passed the livery, steam seeping out of the closed doors along with a muted crack of light from within.
By the time he reached Main Street it was awash, running with small rivers, a thin soup of mud and clumps of floating horse dung. Street fires sat extinguished, little mounds of black charcoal, at the open mouths of pitch-dark alleyways. Kerosene lanterns hung at intervals from the boardwalk overhang, swinging slightly in occasional stronger gusts of wind. Flickering light played off the watery road, making it appear in places like a river of hellish flame.
He rode on, shoulders hunched, head bowed to the onslaught, cold blusters of wind forcing spray into his face. He could taste mildew, but the rivulets of rainwater that tickled the corners of his lips were clean and fresh when he dabbed at them with his tongue. The deluge continued its assault, dripping from the rim of his battered Campaign hat and trickling around the edge of his up-turned slicker collar, trying to gain entrance at the back of his neck.
Moving surely beneath the creaking saddle, the big steel roan plodded through the mire, hooves squelching down and sticking in the mud before pulling free with a sucking noise, the repetitive rhythm and rocking gait continuing as it had for the past day. His gloved hands held the wet leather reins loosely as he steered the muscular beast to take the most solid path.
The streets were deserted of all life, a few windows lit brightly from within, draperies and shutters failing to conceal the warm orange glow, which only served to make the night feel colder.
He passed the First National Bank, noting the bullet holes that riddled the wall and door, windows smashed and boarded up. The wind gathered strength, rattling the pots and pans that hung outside the mercantile store.
The saloon on the corner beckoned to him. Its warm interior, the bustle of humanity that would be enshrouded within its walls, patrons unwilling to face the weather... yes, perfect.
At the hitching post, he dismounted into the puddles with a splash of mud, feeling the heels of his boots sink into the slick. He looped the split reins over the wooden rail, not that it was necessary -- his mount would not move one inch without him. Wet leather gloves slipping and squeaking on saddle straps, he hoisted down his saddlebag and slung it over his shoulder, grunting under the weight. Climbing the slippery wooden steps, his footsteps resounded with ominous hollow thuds.
With one last glance up and down the street -- still devoid of human life -- he pushed the batwing doors open and slipped inside. It was like stepping into a whole new world: from the cold, dark, damp night, rain beating down on his slicker, weighting his hat, to the bright smoky interior of the saloon, warm and musty and close.
He ran his gaze around the room, cataloging the people within. What looked to be a group of ranch hands were seated near the bar, smoking and laughing and drinking beer, their clothes worn and dusty, skin rough and tanned, weather worn. A few better-dressed gentlemen stood at the bar, beers on the glossy countertop. At another table, closer to the edge of the room and partially hidden in the shadows cast by the stairs, an unlikely couple of men sat.
One a Negro, with an open and honest face, who was toying with a half-full mug of beer in strong capable hands. The other a handsome cowboy, with a broad moustache and narrowed watchful blue eyes, his seat tilted back in what to the casual observer would look to be complete relaxation.
But there was something amiss about both men. They appeared to be sitting in comfortable silence, enjoying a drink and a friendly game of cards; no money graced the table's surface. Yet there was an air of unease that shrouded them like a cloak. Both were tense and watchful. They kept throwing glances around the room, to the rowdy cowboys, the patrons propping up the bar, and most of all to the table that sat alone up on a dais, where two men were engaged in a clearly high-stake game of poker.
And there, in a halo of golden gaslight and cigar smoke, sat the very man he sought.
The outward appearances were of a brash gambling man, a peacock advertising his trade -- bright red jacket over a gold brocade vest; soft cream shirt, possibly silk, with frills at the collar and cuffs; solid gold cuff-links and a large turquoise ring completed the colourful ensemble. Short chestnut hair gleamed with gold and red in the hazy light, neatly coifed back; yet on closer inspection it had a slightly tousled look, as though fingers had been pushed through it repeatedly over the course of the evening. The posture, while appearing calm and deliberate, had an air of tension to it, shoulders rigidly straight.
Despite the studious poker face that smoothed handsome features into a blandly neutral expression, there were tiny lines around the eyes and forehead that belied a deeply buried anxiety. Sharp green eyes, which gave nothing away to his opponent, had the slightest hint of tell-tale redness around the edges and their focus occasionally shifted, almost insignificantly, but enough to tell that the man's thoughts turned introspective every now and then.
The table was graced with an impressive ante and a bottle of imported whisky, to which the gambler returned repeatedly to refill his glass, downing the amber liquid as though he had a great thirst to slake. The young man reeked of desperation, a delightful musk that heightened the stranger's senses with anticipation.
There was no mistaking it. This was a soul on the brink of self-destruction, teetering on the edge of the abyss, and all it would take was one little push...
****7777777***
Ezra could feel the unwanted attention on his person as surely as if fingers were fumbling across him. He sent a drunken glare towards his friends... huh, make that associates... and was satisfied to note a flash of guilt cross Buck Wilmington's face, before the gunslinger averted his eyes to sweep across the rest of the saloon.
Returning his own wandering attention to the game at hand, he raked his opponent's visage for tells. The man was bluffing, of that Ezra was certain. Of course, even if he wasn't, Ezra had manipulated the deck to avail himself of a practically unbeatable hand. After the events of the afternoon in Watsonville and the less than warm reception upon his return to Four Corners, his sense of fair play -- which was transient at best -- was now, as Chris might say, 'firmly in the shitter'.
He was angry. Angry with his friends, angry with himself and, with no other source for outlet, he turned that anger into a mercenary drive to acquire all the liquor and money in the saloon before the night, or his consciousness, was depleted. He hadn't been lying to Vin when he had said that he "wrote the book" on cheating. Well, figuratively speaking, anyway. And tonight he employed his expertise to ensure that his recently lost funds were replenished and then some.
When he had first entered the saloon, he had not expected to find anyone willing to sit with him, so he had taken to playing solitaire at his usual table, drinking himself slowly but surely into an alcoholic obscurity, to distract him from waiting for Vin to show up. Buck and Nathan had followed not long after him, and wandered over to sit with him, but a few cutting remarks sent them both scurrying away. They retreated to sit at the barely concealed table and had remained since that time, watching the room and, when they thought he wasn't looking, watching him.
It was really beginning to piss him off. Perhaps they expected him to lose sufficiently to be forced to retrieve some of the alleged stolen booty to continue the game. Huh. If he had stolen the gold, he would not have remained in Four Corners. He certainly wouldn't have returned, bold as you please, riding up Main Street. Honestly, he was not so stupid. If they couldn't trust him, they could at least credit him with some common sense. And besides, what did they expect him to do, whip out a gold bar and drop it on the table as a wager?
It wasn't that long into the evening and his whiskey that a group of city men arrived, one of their number tentatively approaching and asking for a game. Slicked-back over-combed brown hair, short and neat with a moustache to match, and a dark brown wool suit, which appeared to be an inch too small all over, gave Ezra the impression of a travelling salesman from the East for whom business had not been lucrative recently. Despite that, the gentleman clearly had money to spare and was no doubt hoping to improve his finances before returning to his wife and family in whatever city he called home. Ezra felt little shame that the man was going to leave disappointed and broke.
"Well, my, my. It seems that Lady Luck has deserted you today," he drawled obnoxiously, southern accent more pronounced from the effects of imbibing, carefully setting down his royal flush. "Now isn't that just a peach? Yes, indeed. Most unfortunate." The sparkle in his eyes and the leer that graced his clean features belied his commiseration, and fuelled his opponent's antipathy.
The salesman stood abruptly, knocking the table askew, leaning forward aggressively. Ezra's reactions, still sharp, saved the whiskey bottle from a shattered ending on the floorboards. He set it back on the tabletop, then gathered the loot into a small pile, starting to separate the folding money from the coins.
"I should have listened to the others," the man spat, contempt tainting his words. "Never should have sat down with the likes of you."
"But you did, and you lost," Ezra calmly replied. "Now, good evening, Sir."
The man shot a glance to the bar, where his compatriots rested with their beers. They saw him and turned away; if he chose to take action, he was on his own. The warning glances Nathan and Buck threw his way did not go unnoticed either.
Ezra smiled sweetly when the man's attention returned to him, and was gratified to see his ire rise a notch, cheeks flushed with anger. He stroked his left hand absently down his right forearm, pausing to tug at the cuff of his jacket sleeve. His opponent's eyes widened a fraction, clearly recalling the rumour that he had a peashooter hidden up there. Wisely choosing discretion over valour, the disgruntled loser stepped down from the table and returned to his friends for a consolatory drink.
Left to himself, Ezra gathered the counted stash and tucked it away into his various pockets. Wondering again where Vin had got to, he was just about to gather the cards to deal another hand of solitaire when a shadow fell across the table.
He looked up, a smart retort dying on his smiling lips when he saw that it was not Vin who had sneaked up on him. Before he could stop himself, he recoiled from the pale green stare that was burrowing into him. His skin crawled as though alive with spiders as the stranger's gaze caressed him with unwanted intimacy, his flesh dimpling into goosebumps in its wake. The man's approach had gone unnoticed and Ezra reprimanded himself for becoming negligent.
They remained a frozen tableau until the stranger waved a bony hand toward the vacant chair, breaking the spell. "May I?" he rasped, in a voice that sounded like dry grass blown on a desert plain.
Ezra cleared his throat to speak. "Of course, how remiss of me not to offer -- please, do sit down, Mr....?"
"I have no name."
"Well, how very unfortunate for you."
"You may call me Isheen."
"Ezra P. Standish, at your service."
On closer inspection, Ezra noted that the man was tall, almost as tall as Buck. But, unlike Buck's aura of barely restrained energy, he seemed to sap color and life out of his surroundings. His face was gaunt; thin, pale skin stretched over sharp cheekbones, hollowing into shadows beneath. Large, almond-shaped eyes, disturbing in their strange luminescence, were set deep under a straight forehead and faint eyebrows. Thinning black hair, streaked with gray, swept back on his head from a blunt widow's peak.
"Isheen? What an interesting moniker."
The stranger leaned forward conspiratorially, eyes blazing, and Ezra retracted to sit as far back as his chair would allow without appearing rude. The stranger gave a sly wink; his thin lips parted into a rictus smile as he stated, "It's an old family name."
Ezra poured the newcomer a shot of whiskey and motioned to him with the deck of cards and a tilt of his head, resigned to the fact that the company of a stranger was better than no company at all. He grudgingly conceded that the tracker wasn't going to visit with him this evening, admitting to himself that it was hardly surprising given the way he had treated the man earlier.
Isheen nodded and accepted the shot, raising it in a silent toast as Ezra dealt the cards.
****7777777***
Buck lifted his mug again, aborted the move, and clonked it back onto the table. Nathan gave him a pointed look, and he knew he was starting to grate on the healer's nerves. Well, that was just tough shit, because sitting still did not suit Buck Wilmington and he was getting progressively more agitated as the evening wore on.
Miss Molly had caught him earlier in the evening, when the thunderclouds were still gathering on the horizon, and whispered in his ear that she would be available to help warm his bed tonight. And, damn it all, he had been looking forward to it!
He supposed this was Chris' way of punishing him: forcing him to sit here with no entertainment, sharing the saloon with the dregs of society, as all respectable folk were inside their warm lodgings, hidden from the miserable weather that accosted the town.
He didn't doubt that his old friend lay some of the blame for their current predicament at his feet. After all, if he hadn't left his post the gold would still be in the cell where it was supposed to be. He almost felt sorry for Ezra. The gambler's absence had unfortunately coincided with the theft. The lock to the cell door had been picked, which didn't swing matters in his favor either. Once the townsfolk had caught wind of the situation, they had swiftly singled Ezra out as the most likely culprit and were working themselves up for a lynching when he had ridden into town.
Hell, Chris had handled the situation less than ideally -- confronting Ezra out there in the street, letting Sebley go through his saddlebag and dump the contents into the dirt in front of everyone. No wonder the gambler had been so angry. The humiliation alone was cause enough for him to be mad at them. But then again, Ol' Chris never had been that smooth at dealing with folks. Mostly he just shot them, which had been working pretty well for him for some years now. Even Sarah hadn't been able to take the gunslinger out of him, not entirely. It looked to Buck that Mrs Travis was having an unhealthy influence on the old War Dog.
And as for the missing gold... well, he hadn't been exactly comfortable with one of the ranch-hand's description of them having "a nigger in the woodpile", especially as Nathan had been standing right beside him at the time, but in essence it summed up the situation. They were completely at a loss for suspects, with the exception of Four Corner's favorite bad boy.
The whole thing with the assassin's money had made town-wide gossip for a good few weeks, and that added to the fact the lock had been picked on the cell door... the residents had taken one plus one and got themselves Ezra. Suspicious though it looked, Buck really didn't think the man capable of outright theft. It wasn't sophisticated enough for the southern gentleman's style. Although, whoever had taken the gold had been bold as brass, pilfering it in broad daylight from right under their noses, and that took some gumption.
Buck grunted as a boot connected with his shin under the table. "What the hell was that for?" he whispered, rubbing his leg.
Nathan raised a finger to his lips to shush any further complaint. His eyes motioned to the table on the dais, where the man that Ezra had been soundly beating stood in confrontation with the smiling gambler.
Great, Buck thought. Another sore loser. He's probably already into the accusations by now.
The man in question turned as though he had heard Buck's thoughts and appeared affronted when he registered their appraisal; Buck narrowed his eyes in warning, letting his hand fall to his side so the grip of his revolver peeked out of his jacket.
The gambler had barely moved, but any minute Buck expected that peashooter to pop out, and with the mood Ezra was in, he wouldn't have been surprised if there had been bloodshed. But Buck need not have worried. The man backed down and turned tail to go sit with the other city-types who had come in with him earlier.
Buck shuffled in his seat and grumpily decided he would have rather enjoyed a little ruckus to break the monotony.
He didn't like doing this. He felt like he was trespassing, spying on Ezra, keeping tabs on him as though he were some errant child. At least they had the reprieve that Vin wouldn't be back that evening. Now the rain had come, the tracker would have to spend the night holed up in Watsonville. There was no way he'd risk a night ride back with the weather so abysmal, so they wouldn't have to deal with his reaction to their sitting watch over the gambler. The boy had got mighty protective of Ezra recently, and Vin's short temper was not something Buck wanted to face right now.
He let his mind drift as balance returned to the saloon, and hoped Ezra would take to his bed shortly. The hard wooden chair was not doing his back any good and his own bed sounded mighty tempting. He just wanted to end this day sooner rather than later.
When he glanced again at the gambler's table, he was surprised to see that Ezra was no longer alone. Sitting with him was a skeleton of a man, all dressed in shades of gray, who had obviously just entered from the night. Rain still clung to him, little beads of light shining against his dark garb. The man was unfamiliar to Buck and as he watched Ezra interact with him, he judged that the gambler didn't know the stranger either. The gambler started to shuffle his cards, and flashed a gold-toothed smile at his new companion. Buck's unease grew and his stomach sank in despondence. The two of them seemed to be getting rather comfortable, and the likelihood of his getting to bed soon was diminishing rapidly.
Buck sighed and lifted the mug of warm beer to his lips to smother his frustration, sitting back to keep a close eye on the newcomer, who for some reason made the hairs on the back of his neck tingle.
He truly didn't like this much. No sir, not at all.
****7777777***
Nathan approached the gambler's table, Buck's presence hovering at his shoulder as he climbed the steps. Carefully he cleared his throat. "You know what Ezra, maybe now would be a good time to call it a night."
"Nonsense, Mr. Jackson," the southerner slurred, waving the shot glass through the air, before pulling it to his lips and draining it. "I have not yet begun to defile myself."
Nathan grimaced and reached out to grab the bottle before Ezra could pour another shot. His hand was stilled when an ice-cold grip encircled his wrist, tightening. He looked up and found himself caught in a pair of cool green eyes, the colour of grass under early morning frost, which felt as though they were knifing into his own, peeling away the layers of his soul.
"You may leave your friend to my care, Mr. Jackson."
Nathan flinched at the sound of his name being uttered across parchment-thin lips. He opened his mouth to voice his disagreement; to leave Ezra in this condition was one thing, but to leave him in the care of such an odd stranger was pure folly. He huffed out a couple of breaths, expecting to hear his own voice arguing the case, but there was nothing -- only stifling silence. He clamped his mouth shut and tore his wrist from the unsettling grasp, unconsciously rubbing at the chilled skin.
"You may go now," the stranger rasped. He sounded like the crypt, smelt of drying earth and darkness, a hint of something familiar yet elusive.
Nathan turned and found Buck eyeballing him -- deep blue eyes silently urging him to continue with his dissent. Instead, he felt himself grab the broad shoulders and spin the lanky gunman in place, pushing him ahead toward the door. Buck moved stiffly under his hands, trying to halt their progress, but Nathan continued to force him forward.
Once they were outside, the cold air and rain snapped him back to his senses, and he shuddered from a chill that crept up his spine to run frigid tendrils across his scalp. He looked up to find himself under the scrutiny of dark frowning eyes and a drawn brow.
"You wanna tell me what just happened in there pard?" Buck was confused.
"I... well, I..." he stuttered, not entirely sure why he had left Ezra to the stranger, just that a little voice in his head had told him that everything would be okay and that now was the time to leave. "Hell! Ezra will be fine. Let the damn fool drink himself sick," Nathan snapped, incensed to be unable to find valid reason to support his actions.
"That's mighty charitable of ya, Nate." Buck chastised.
"You want to take his shit, then be my guest," Nathan challenged, one arm moving in a broad sweep to encompass the saloon. He watched as Buck's eyes flitted from his face to the batwing doors and back.
"Nah," he sighed, "Ezra's a big boy. He can take care of himself." Buck looked up the street to Virginia's hotel where his own bed lay waiting for him. "'Sides, he's only gotta crawl up the stairs when he's done defilin' his stupid-ass self."
They both stood in uncomfortable silence, regarding the rainfall and the hypnotic circles it made in a nearby water trough.
"Don't look like this is gonna let up tonight," Buck said conversationally. "Guess we'd better get."
Nathan nodded, and turned up his collar. They stepped out into the downpour and hurried across the street, dodging the deeper puddles and running streams. They headed off down the boardwalk in stride with each other, darting quickly across the unsheltered gap where a side alley cut into the walkway. As they passed by the boarded-up bank, Nathan wondered how long it was going to take to have it secured again. He hadn't realised he had spoken aloud until Buck answered him.
"Josiah reckons it'll take a week or so, but the stage arrives tomorrow afternoon. I'll be glad when that damn gold is back where it belongs."
Arriving at the door of Virginia's, a hand on his arm halted him.
"That man gave me the willies," Buck confided, his voice a hushed whisper barely audible above the pitter-patter on the overhang.
Nathan silently agreed. But Ezra was a big boy, and able to handle himself. Even if he's drunk? A voice argued in his head. He shook away his doubts. "Ezra'll be fine, Buck. Go on now, get some rest."
Buck nodded, appearing unconvinced, but obviously at a loss as to what else they could do. He disappeared ghost-like into the dark shroud of the hotel doorway, leaving Nathan alone on the boardwalk.
The door shut with a click that sounded uncomfortably loud in the night air, the wind fallen silent for that moment, and Nathan's sense of unease returned to him full force. He pushed it down, along with all of his other worries. Ezra would be fine. Of course, he was going to have a dandy of a hangover, but he'd asked for it. Yeah. Ezra would be suffering tomorrow.
A little ashamed of how that thought brought satisfying warmth to his stomach, Nathan shook his head and continued on to his room above the livery. All concerns, other than a warm bed and dry clothes, were forgotten.
****7777777***
When he returned from the outhouse, Ezra found himself alone in the deserted saloon. Motionless air hung thick with the culmination of the evening's smoking. Wet rings of beer and smaller, sticky patches of cheap whiskey marred the polished oak surface of the bar; discarded cheroot and cigar butts littered the floor. Empty glasses adorned the tables, forsaken, and chairs remained askew where they had been abandoned for the night.
He grabbed a cloth from behind the bar and blotted off the rain that clung to his jacket, then rubbed the worst of the weather from his hair. His head felt fuzzy, his legs weak, and he had lost count of how much whiskey he had consumed that day. The shuffling sound of his unsteady gait accompanied him as he made a staggering waltz of walking across the room; tables and chairs suddenly not where they were supposed to be, he bodily collided and ricocheted.
With difficulty, he climbed the steps to his favored gambling table where all evidence of his strange companion had vanished, except one thing that remained. A dust-covered, gnarled, and gothic-looking bottle sat on display, the Ace of Spades pinned face-up beneath it. Curious, he thought. Lifting the bottle to eye level, he scraped the muck off the glass to regard the liquid inside. It was pale green and cloudy like agate, aglow from within with ghostly effulgence.
The bottle bore no label, but when Ezra popped the stopper and inhaled, the intoxicating scent of aniseed and earth played across his senses; a mystical aroma that he recognized from his days spent in the gambling halls of New Orleans. Absinthe... the green fairy, the ambrosia of madness.
Bottle in hand, he gathered his cards, and tucked the pack into his vest pocket. He gave the empty saloon a final parting glance. As they fell on the entrance, his eyes lingered for a moment that slipped into an eternity. Ezra shook himself and, with wobbly legs and disoriented movements, mounted the steps that took him to his room. His free hand trailed along the smooth banister, his ring dragged with the slightest scrape of metal on wood, the weight of the bottle a reassuring presence against his thigh.
Entering the room, he leaned back against the door, which closed softly with a dull clunk that nonetheless carried in the empty room. The large feather bed, with its soft, quilted blanket and white cotton sheets, looked empty and unappealing. He would sleep alone tonight; for wherever Vin was, it wasn't here with him. His insides felt as cold and empty, hollow as the room before him. The tracker wasn't at his beck and call, and they didn't spend every night together, but Ezra had hoped, against all evidence to the contrary, that Vin would be here waiting for him, wanting to share his company tonight.
A mirthless and bitter sound escaped his throat. Hard days came and went, but just for once he had hoped he would be able to find some comforting presence to distract him, instead of curling up on his big lonely bed with nothing but the silence of the night between him and his painful thoughts and memories.
With slow-dawning realization he remembered the bottle in his hand. Perhaps he did have a source of distraction, something to help protect him from the disparaging voices that clamoured in his head. He wondered, with something that didn't quite reach alarm, whether he had given away his own misery to Isheen as he sat with him that evening, for the stranger had deliberately left this 'gift' for him and it was certainly something he found use for now.
Limbs uncoordinated and numb, he shuffled to his bed and sat heavily, sinking into the soft mattress. He determinedly ignored the fact that the absence of strong arms encircling him in a warm embrace sent a hollow ache across his chest.
The room felt stuffy and close, and Ezra worked his collar loose. He grabbed a pillow from his bed and hugged it to his chest to ward off the aching loneliness that threatened to consume him and turn him inside out. Tightening his arms around the down-filled softness, his muscles banded to hold it with desperate strength and his head flopped down to bury and hide in its silken folds. A shaky sigh escaped from his mouth.
Abruptly, Ezra's head snapped up and with an outraged snarl he hurled the pillow to the other side of the room. The damn thing reeked of Vin's scent.
Blinking rapidly, he cursed himself for getting so emotional. Why had he drunk so much? Or, rather more importantly, why hadn't he drunk more?
Well, at least that situation can be remedied, he thought, as he watched the grotesque bottle that sat upon his bedside table. He laughed again, completely without humor. He had the distinct impression the bottle was watching him back.
If I am going to go mad, he decided, I might as well do it properly.
With that sentiment he took the bottle, twisted the stopper free, and lifted it hesitantly to his pursed mouth. A cold puff of air escaped from within and tingled across his lips. The ache within him rose again. He simply couldn't do this anymore.
Ezra shut his eyes against the world and whispered, "No more..." He paused on the brink and steeled his resolve, repeating the words louder, with determination: "No more."
Then, before he could change his mind, he pushed out the air in his lungs and tilted the bottle, drawing a large mouthful of the bitter liquid into his mouth.
It burned fiercely as he swallowed, like liquid ice, the sting of whiskey nothing in comparison. His veins filled with a freezing sensation that traveled from the center of his chest to the tips of his fingers and toes, pulsating outwards in time to his heartbeat. A bright fire invaded and conquered his mind; everything around him took on a new clarity and vibrancy, almost painful in its intensity. Numbness slowly consumed his body and wrapped icicle fingers around his soul.
He took long draw after draw of the bitter liquid, punishing himself and his stupid weakness with the foul caustic taste. Much like one of Nathan's teas, he supposed... if it tasted this bad, it had to be good for something. With each swallow, it became easier to take and soon the bottle was light, almost emptied of its contents.
Clambering to his feet, Ezra spun and the room spun with him, tilting and churning, walls bulging and fading and being replaced with colors and clouds, sea and sky, mountains and forests. A delighted trill of laughter quietly played across paralyzed lips.
Arms spread wide, he fell back onto the bed and sank into a world of green swirling fog and darkness, spinning golden stars and gray-clad strangers whose dry raspy voices whispered promises of a life free of pain, free of doubt. The empty bottle slipped unnoticed from slack fingers.
The fog grew thicker, throbbing with the dull hum of the slowing heartbeat in his ears, and the darkness opened up to claim him in its velvet embrace.
The End
La Fée Verte II
