La Fée Verte II

'No man should be praised for his goodness if he lacks the strength to be bad;
in such cases goodness is usually only the effect of indolence or impotence of will.'

'It is more shameful to distrust one's friends
than to be deceived by them.'

François duc de la Rochefoucauld, 17th-century French philosopher

Another fine day in your creation, Lord, Josiah thought to himself as he sat at the Seven's regular breakfast table in Inez's saloon, waiting for the others to arrive. The sun had dawned on a rain-slicked Four Corners, but the deluge of the night had ceased long before. The morning sky was a bright, cold blue that held the promise of a beautiful, crisp, spring day. Now, if they could just clean up this damnable mess.

Chris was first through the batwing doors, returned from his cabin. Early morning dew clung around the hem of his black duster and shimmered in relief like spider-web gossamer.

"Chris," he greeted.

"Josiah." With a scrape of wood on wood, Chris drew out a chair and folded his lean, angular frame into it. Once settled, duster and guns adjusted for comfort and accessibility, he leaned forward to reach for the coffeepot Josiah nudged toward him.

"Sure is a fine morning, Chris."

The man in black didn't respond, just carefully filled his cup and raised the brew in both hands, elbows braced on the table. He looked pale and haggard, hair a scraggly mess, but he appeared to improve in color as the darkly-rich aroma filtered to him. Tired hazel eyes turned on Josiah -- bleary and lined with red, just visible over the rim of the battered enamel-and-tin mug. "Yeah," he agreed, but his voice carried little conviction.

Josiah settled back into his chair, arms crossed over broad chest. His head lolled to rest at a tilt, stubble scratching at his starchy collar, eyes fixated on a patch of distant wall. He allowed his thoughts to wander. Conversation was not only unnecessary, it was also undesirable and frankly unhealthy at present. Chris was not the sort of man to function socially before his prerequisite dose of morning coffee.

Speculation twisted in his mind on how soon Vin would be back with news from Watsonville. Josiah had seen the tracker burn the breeze out of town early last evening. Shortly after, he had got the story out of JD and was amused by the thought that Vin had chosen himself another crusade. He idly wondered whether the gambler would be as entertained by the thought of Vin casting himself in the role of knight in shining armor. Although, as Ezra would no doubt point out, knight in odoriferous buckskins would be more appropriate.

Come to think of it, Vin hadn't been as noticeably pungent over recent months. Perhaps the reticent Texan was sparking some young lady. If he was, he was keeping it close to his chest, for Josiah had seen no evidence of it. Not that that meant there wasn't something going on. Vin was awful private about most things, and when it came to affairs of the heart he was even more tight-lipped.

The silence continued, oppressive and heavy, disturbed only when Inez brought the usual breakfast platter to their table. The senôrita moved quickly in a hush of swirling cotton skirts, gingerly setting the plates down and departing just as promptly, clearly having sensed the portentous thundercloud that was Chris Larabee.

A rumble of horse hooves passed the saloon and Josiah flicked his attention to the street outside, expecting and hoping to see the familiar black flanks of Vin's mount. Again, he was disappointed; the number of times now lost to his counting.

The tension in the air became unbearable and Josiah fidgeted. Muscles itched to contract and lengthen, so he clenched and relaxed them, over and over, in a futile attempt to settle his restlessness. The feeling wasn't a familiar one to him, as under normal circumstances he was equipped to sit in meditation for hours on end. He was inexperienced at having to keep agitation at bay.

After sending a few heartfelt prayers heavenwards for a swift resolution to this farcical episode, he surrendered to his urge to speak, carefully opting for a safe choice of topic. "Vin expected back soon?"

The tin mug scraped the tabletop as the hand holding it jerked at the sudden noise. The gunslinger's head came up from his study of the pattern in the wood grain, angular jaw working his teeth in a slow grind. Daylight glinted on tawny stubble and reflected a ring of gold in hazel irises that peered up from under shadowed brow to pin the preacher with barely checked annoyance.

At that moment the saloon doors were batted open, and Buck Wilmington made an unusually subdued entrance. Of course, 'subdued' for Buck wasn't exactly silent. The lanky gunslinger flopped into a chair with a loud thud and clatter of settling guns. Josiah winced, witnessing the look in Chris' eyes as he turned them irritably on his old friend. Larabee had obviously woken up with a humdinger of a headache. It didn't help matters that Wilmington appeared to be refreshed and full of vim and vigor.

Deciding it was far too early for Nathan to be dealing with bloodshed, Josiah hastily intercepted what would have been Buck's boisterous greeting. "Coffee, brother?"

"Why, thank you, Josiah. Don't mind if I do." Buck accepted the proffered mug and took a noisy slurp, moustache quirking up at the corners as he smacked his lips in appreciation. Sharp blue eyes narrowed slightly when they abruptly discerned Chris' volatile mood. Raising one eyebrow, he cast his gaze downward and continued to drink, this time less conspicuously.

Once Buck had finished his coffee he started to load his plate with a bit of everything from the breakfast tray. The food heaped high, fork wielded with a small flourish, he dove in with an appetite and enthusiasm worthy of JD. Chris continued to push his small helping around the plate, evidently having chosen a liquid start to the day.

Josiah worried at the beads of his necklace; the quiet clattering of one stone against the next and the occasional scrape of fork against plate the only sounds breaking the hush over their table. The murmur of background chatter from the few other patrons remained low and non-intrusive.

The creak of swinging wood had three sets of eyes turning to the door, tense bodies shifting then relaxing slightly when Nathan entered. Josiah realized he wasn't the only one anxiously awaiting the tracker's return. He nodded to the empty chair next to him. The healer took the seat, grabbing a couple of biscuits and some ham from the platter.

Warm, chocolate-brown eyes took in the other seated men, then Nathan leaned over close to his ear and asked in a hushed voice, "What's with Chris?"

Josiah turned his head slightly to answer, equally softly, "Headache."

Nathan raised his eyebrows and cast a speculative look towards Chris' mug as it was refilled again.

"That's his fourth," Josiah supplied.

Nathan tsked and muttered, "Well, that sure ain't gonna help. He ought to lay off that stuff."

"I'll let you tell him that, brother."

Nathan didn't grace him with a reply; instead he loaded a biscuit with meat and took a hearty bite.

Josiah grimaced. Breakfast being the most important meal of the day was the one belief his old man had instilled in him that he hadn't managed to lose somewhere along the way, but watching Nathan as he ate made his stomach turn. He was feeling too uneasy to be able to work up an appetite.

In fact, the acid churning in his stomach distracted him so thoroughly he didn't hear the horse come to a halt outside the saloon or the batwing doors swing open. He didn't even register the slight breeze created as they swung to-and-fro on their hinges, disturbing the air. The sudden lifting of the tension blanketing the table, however, did reach his consciousness and brought him out of his introspection.

Vin stood between Chris and Buck's seats, hip-shot in his customary lean. One hand rested on the butt of his mare's leg, the other moved to drag across handsome features, smearing the trail dirt that had accumulated on his cheeks and stubble, his face drawn. Broad shoulders were hunched with apparent fatigue. His hand came to rest on the back of Chris' chair and the gunslinger turned in his seat to peer up at his friend, some of the tension fading from his form. Josiah wasn't sure he had ever been this glad to see Vin.

With a sigh, the tracker tipped the tan cavalry hat off his head, allowing it to fall back to hang at the nape of his neck, suspended on its thin leather cord; matted hair packed down where it had been flattened under the rim. His arm drew across his forehead to blot the perspiration that had gathered at his hairline.

Finally he nodded to the waiting men. "Got this," he said, fishing into a coat pocket and passing a crumpled sheet of paper to Chris.

The others waited in silence as he scanned the letter. "So all three said they saw Ezra in the saloon in Watsonville?"

"Yup. Swore to it too, in front of the sheriff."

Chris folded the paper and tucked it into an inside pocket in his duster. "Good. Now maybe we can get on with finding the real culprit."

"Well, least Ezra's off the hook," Vin added.

"Ah, yes -- good news indeed." The cool southern drawl floated down to them and they all looked up to see the man in question gracefully descend the steps, resplendent in his bottle-green jacket, jade and silver vest and black dress pants, auburn hair coifed perfectly. "You know, your faith in me is inspiring, Mr. Tanner."

"Now, Ezra, you know I never--"

"No, no," Ezra interrupted, waving elegantly to silence Vin mid-sentence. "There is no need to apologize, Mr. Tanner. After all, one is 'guilty until proven innocent'. Isn't that so, Mr. Larabee?" He settled into the chair next to Chris, smiling sweetly up at Inez when she brought him a napkin, which he snapped out and proceeded to tuck into his shirt collar.

Chris squinted at the gambler. "Shut up, Ezra. I'm too tired to play your games."

Ezra made a show of appraising Chris. Tilting his head to one side, he brushed a thumb over his bottom lip before nodding. "Yes, I must say you do look truly exhausted."

Josiah watched as Ezra's eyes raked over Chris' weary frame, taking in the tired angles and disheveled appearance. The assessing gaze moved to Vin who didn't look much better, as he must have woken at the break of dawn to get back to Four Corners so early.

"It must have been a dandy of a ride," the gambler quipped. Intense green eyes moved back from Vin to challenge Chris, a lewd expression twisting his features as he added: "Hard and heavy."

Before he could check himself, Josiah's eyes widened in surprise, as Ezra's insinuation filtered through his reasoning. He wasn't quite certain what the gambler was implying, but he had a very nasty suspicion that he was suggesting that Chris and Vin were sodomites, sexual deviants. From the black look that stole across Larabee's visage, he wasn't the only one who had drawn the same conclusion.

The tension visibly ratcheted up a notch as muscles tensed under the black duster, Chris giving off the impression of a coiled rattlesnake readying to strike.

Josiah stirred to sit up straighter and, to his right, Nathan did the same, wooden chairs creaking in tandem under the shifting weight. Buck was watching the exchange with a sober expression, eyes switching sharply from Ezra to Chris to Vin and back again; his chewing slowed to a halt and he swallowed audibly around his last mouthful of food.

Vin's hand snapped away from where it had been resting on the gunslinger's chair and he stepped back from his spot between Chris and Buck, circling the short distance to stand next to Ezra. The gambler followed his progress like a hawk, staring up at him from his seat when the tracker stopped in front of him. Vin dropped into a crouch, one hand resting on the arm of Ezra's chair, the other on the table edge, effectively blocking the gap between Ezra and Chris.

Josiah silently applauded the calming influence Vin exuded, which carried to them all when he spoke in his quiet Texan drawl. "Ez, I never thought you were guilty. It was the folks in town. I--"

"Well, I cannot claim to have been deafened by the chorus of support I received from my friends." Ezra pinned him with a baleful glare and Vin shifted uncomfortably, letting his eyes drop.

"Oh come on now, Ezra," Buck said reasonably. "You know our word ain't worth shit to half the residents."

"So you stood by and allowed the other half to believe I was suspected of larceny," Ezra snapped.

"I don't know what's gotten into you," Chris growled.

"No, but I expect I know what has got into you," Ezra countered, his tone addressing Chris while his eyes remained fixed on Vin's lowered head.

The tracker looked up acutely to meet Ezra's face. Vin's cornflower blue eyes turned icy pale; his jaw muscles bunched and twitched. He slapped his hand loudly on the tabletop with a resounding thwack, then stood abruptly, turning and marching out of the saloon, slamming through the doors so forcefully that they swung violently back and forth on protesting hinges.

Chris bolted to his feet, chair screeching as it was shucked back. He loomed over the gambler, leaning into his personal space, face a picture of fury. "You really are an ungrateful, conceited little bastard," he spat in disgust, before whirling and following in Vin's footsteps through the still-swinging doors.

"Adieu Iago," Ezra muttered.

Silence reclaimed the table. Josiah, Nathan and Buck watched in apprehension as Ezra arranged his breakfast with his usual delicate care.

Josiah studied the gambler. It was surprising to see him looking so dapper and collected this early in the day. Less surprising was how he appeared to be entirely unruffled by the recent discord. "The good Lord must be favoring you today, Ezra," he stated. "Chris looked about ready to send you to meet your maker."

Ezra raised his head slowly; his fork paused, hovering halfway between plate and mouth. Dazzlingly bright jade eyes focused on Josiah, who was taken aback by the intensity and anger he saw there. Long eyelashes batted as the gambler blinked slowly, pink tongue darting out to run over bottom lip. When he opened his eyes again, they were emotionless, questioning, as if he was seeing Josiah for the first time since sitting.

His voice a lilting cadence, he replied in a smooth polite drawl, "Ah, Mr. Sanchez. Pray tell, what oracle of wisdom do you have to enlighten us with today?"

Josiah scratched absently at his chin and considered what story would be appropriate to the situation. In the end he settled for the first thing that came into his head, the parable of the farmer and his mule.

Clearing his throat, he intoned: "One day a farmer awoke to find a mule had fallen into his well. He heard the mule braying. After carefully assessing the situation, the farmer sympathized with the mule, but decided neither the mule nor the well was worth the trouble of saving.

"Instead, he called his neighbors together and told them what had happened, enlisting them to help haul dirt to bury the old mule in the well and put him out of his misery. Initially, the old mule was hysterical.

"But as the farmer and his neighbors continued shoveling and as the dirt hit his back, a thought struck the mule. It suddenly dawned on him that every time a shovel-load of dirt landed on his back, he should shake it off and step up.

"This he did, blow after blow. 'Shake it off and step up, shake it off and step up, shake it off and step up,' he repeated to encourage himself. No matter how painful the blows, or how distressing the situation seemed, the old mule fought panic and just kept right on. Shaking it off and stepping up.

"It wasn't long before the old mule, battered and exhausted, stepped triumphantly over the wall of that well. What seemed like it would bury him, actually blessed him -- all because of the manner in which he handled his adversity."

When he finished, he saw that Nathan and Buck had their eyes down-turned, contemplating his words. He looked at Ezra, who was watching him with what appeared to be amusement.

"Are you attempting to call me an ass, Mr. Sanchez?"

Josiah rolled his eyes heavenwards and prayed for strength. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Despite his urge to slap the incredulity off that smug southern face he kept his voice carefully even. "No, that is not what I am saying. You bring this upon yourself Ezra. If you could just learn to overcome these little predicaments in a positive way..."

"Well, as I have stated before, I cannot abide not having the trust of my fellow peacekeepers. Your lack of faith does me great disservice."

"You took Stutz's money before, Ezra. What are we supposed to expect this time?" Nathan scowled.

"Ah, yes. The much lamented ten thousand dollars. As I recall, that money was without owner and as the law decrees, it should have reverted to those who found it. I pocketed my share, true. If you did not wish for your seventh of it, then that was your prerogative. I, however, had every intention of keeping mine."

"It was stealing, Ezra."

"No, it wasn't Mr. Jackson. Now, the issue of that shiny rifle Vin availed himself of... that is another matter, altogether. But, of course, the Prodigal Son can do no wrong."

"What the hell are you on about now?" Nathan demanded.

"Allow me to refer you to Luke chapter fifteen, verse twenty-nine."

Nathan and Buck exchanged puzzled glances then turned questioning eyes to Josiah, who allowed his own to drift shut, easily picturing his father -- larger than life and lit from behind by the late afternoon sun; huge figure throwing the congregation into shadow as he intoned the sermon from his pulpit; booming voice reverberating through young Josiah's bones.

"But he answered his father, "Lo, these many years I have served you, and I never disobeyed your command; yet you never gave me a young goat, that I might make feast with my friends."

Oh Lord, Josiah thought. Whoever thought Ezra would be pulling verse from the Book? This day was going to be worse than expected.

***7777777***

JD fidgeted in his seat behind the desk, and tried to work some feeling into his numb backside. It had been a long, dreary night and the jailhouse wasn't the warmest building in town. Clenched fists rubbed across his eyelids which he screwed tightly shut when crusts of sleep scratched painfully, resorting to picking them clean with the tip of his pinky.

He had been unaware of dozing off sometime in the early hours of morning until he had awoken, forehead somewhat stuck to the top of the desk, drool pooling around his open mouth. He slapped his cheeks a couple of times, trying to get the last tendrils of sleep to leave his fuzzy brain, and rubbed vigorously to free the dried flakes of spit from his lips and chin. It would be irredeemably bad for Chris to discover him in this drowsy state. He was supposed to be on guard here and had assured their leader he was perfectly capable of conducting the night watch alone.

Yawning widely, he stretched his legs out and his arms up over his head, back arching out of the chair as he strained his body, enjoying the satisfying pop of bone, and the pull of cramped muscle, before falling back into the chair in a loose slump.

His beloved bowler hat was perched on the desk and he reached for it with one hand, the other raking through thick greasy hair in an attempt to tame it back from his face. He popped his hat into position, tucking the last stray locks behind his ears. Casting a glance out the window, he took in the cold blue color of the tiny strip of visible sky, the sounds of the town moving about outside, and guessed the time to be somewhere around breakfast.

With a sense of relief that his boredom was to end shortly and looking forward to a hearty breakfast before the comfort of his bed at the boarding house, JD stood, stamping and shaking his feet to work the feeling back into them.

His gaze was drawn to the cell that lay in shadows. The angular, unmoving outline of the cot broken by the piles of loot that sat on and around it. The sun did not penetrate here and the bars of gold that JD knew rested therein were denied their burnished lustre. The cell also held the town's money, in boxes and burlap sacks, which had been transferred there for safekeeping because the bank was no longer secure.

Sebley's words came back to him: "...stealing my money..." JD had thought it strange at the time, but now he wondered if it weren't just the man's overblown sense of self-importance that made him refer to the town's savings as his... and, of course, the rest of Four Corners were not supposed to know about the gold, so even though none of the bank's funds had been touched, the missing loot had been described as monetary. Chris would have clouted Sebley had he mentioned missing gold.

With a cursory check that the cell was still locked fast, he moved to the office door, slid back the well-oiled bolts, and swung it open. Fresh morning air blew in and chased the last cobwebs of sleep away. He blinked in the crisp sunny light as it gently warmed his upturned face, then stepped out through the doorway, squinting through long lashes as he looked up and down the street.

Sudden movement stirred in his peripheral vision and he turned his head just in time to see the saloon doors swinging violently. Vin stormed across the street toward him, eyes wide and blazing with unreadable concerns. Moments later, Chris burst out of the saloon in a frenzied swirl of black duster, spotting Vin and striding after him.

JD ducked back through the doorway as Vin surged into the jailhouse and came to a halt in the middle of the room, his back to JD, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, tense shoulders rising and falling with each heaving breath. JD wondered what the hell was going on. It had been a long time since he had seen the tracker so agitated.

Chris barely acknowledged him as he, too, entered the sheriff's office. You could have cut the air with a knife. The small office felt as though it were overcrowded with one man too many and JD sensed that now would be a very good time to leave.

"I was, uh, about to go for breakfast," he muttered, giving a clearly pissed-off Larabee a wide berth as he slipped out of the jailhouse.

He heard the door slam behind him and he scurried across the street to Inez's saloon, eager to find Buck and ask him to explain just what he had missed.

Entering the saloon, he was just in time to catch the end of what appeared to be a tirade from the gambler. He was sitting in a chair at the table, looking up at Josiah who stood across from him. Buck and Nathan were standing not far behind, ready to pounce on the large man; their chairs had been upturned and lay on their backs on the floor. Buck's face was flushed and he looked to be next in line for doing bloody murder to the cocky gambler.

The other patrons had cleared a wide space around the Seven's table, some pressed up against the wall in shadows, breakfast plates clutched in hand. Several pushed past JD to exit the saloon in a silent exodus.

"...A trumped up, fat old sow of a whore, and... and... my mother!" Ezra crowed, eyes streaming, his laughter cold, bitter and cruel.

JD had no time to wonder what had led to such an outburst. He watched in slack-jawed fascination as red mist descended over the preacher. Nathan's voice echoed in his memory, warm and rich and amused, reciting his favorite description of his friend: Josiah can get very 'Old Testament' on occasion.

Amazement, disbelief, and blood-chilling horror competed for dominance, coursing through JD and rooting him to the spot as he took in Ezra's casual posture, the annoying and strange half-smile that pulled up the corners of the gambler's mouth, dimples flashing briefly before his face set, frozen yet strained. Only a fool would sit and taunt Josiah into a murderous rage, especially foolish for Ezra given the striking difference between their builds. Admittedly, the gambler wasn't tiny or fragile and, as Buck had once said, could whip his weight in wild cats, but Josiah was... Josiah. No one with a lick of sense would be unafraid of the preacher in one of his holy fits of wrath.

Josiah's features had twisted into a grotesque mask of anger, teeth bared, flint-gray eyes zealous. "You want to fight me?" he hollered, reaching out to grab the table that stood between him and Ezra. He heaved with his considerable strength and the table overturned and smashed to the ground beside him, plates shattering and tin mugs clattering across the floorboards, the path now clear of impediment. "Do you?" he demanded.

"Now, now Josiah," warned Buck, slowly edging closer to the livid man.

"F-fight you?" Ezra taunted, still amused. "Fight you? Really, Mr. Sanchez, you would hardly provide much sport."

With a guttural roar, Josiah lunged at the smaller man, who remained sitting calmly with no sign of being intimidated.

Buck and Nathan intercepted Josiah's bull-like charge, using their combined strength to haul the enraged man away and out the saloon doors. The preacher's roaring voice and the sound of scuffling echoed within the tomb-like quiet of the bar.

"Jesus, Ezra," JD whispered, carefully approaching the still-smiling gambler. He stopped to right the chairs and grabbed one side of the table, nodding to Ezra to get the other, but the gambler didn't move a muscle. "C'mon, Ezra. I can't lift this on my own."

"Of course, Mr. Dunne. Where on earth are my manners," Ezra said brightly, finally standing to help JD overturn the table and push it back into position.

Ezra returned to his chair to sit, fussing over his clothing even though it wasn't out of place. He leaned slightly, moving his weight to one side as he reached into a pocket for his silver hip flask. He uncapped it smoothly and took a long sip.

There was something not quite right about the man, but JD couldn't put his finger on it. Something in the surrounding air hummed unnaturally and made his skin itch. Straight, neat eyebrows raised in question as the gambler caught his stare. Ezra's eyes were peculiar. They fixed on him and JD could have sworn he heard them crackle like hot coals. The green was more intense than he remembered, more vibrant... it was unsettling.

Shaking himself, JD frowned. "What the hell were you thinking, goading Josiah like that?"

"Pardon me?"

"What were you thinking? Are you trying to get yourself killed?" JD was genuinely at a loss as to his friend's motives.

"Of course not, my dear boy. Why, today I find myself brimming with the joys of existence." Ezra's face was passive, but the corner of his mouth twitched up into a sneer and his eyes focussed with a strange intensity.

Inez arrived, breaking the spell that held JD transfixed. A large wicker basket rested against her hip and she squatted by the scattered mess of mugs, food and crockery and started to gather it.

JD crouched down beside her to help with the task of cleaning up, picking up shards of china and crumbs of food, glad to have a diversion from being under the gambler's scrutiny. A rag hung from one handle of the basket and he took it to swab down the floorboards.

"Mr. Dunne, my compliments to your mother. You make an admirable servant. Clearly she taught you well." Ezra smiled widely, gold tooth catching in the light. He leant forward in his chair, elbows resting on knees, fingers laced, as he continued in a lower tone. "She must be so proud."

Inez took a sharp intake of breath and JD saw her throw the gambler a dark scowl. The last of the broken plates were hastily thrown into the basket, which clattered and clinked as she lifted it and hurried away.

The sting of tears burned in his eyes. His breath caught in his throat around the painful lump that had formed there. He couldn't draw deep enough to speak, not that he could think of a suitable retort; the pain that stirred up his stomach to the point of sickness had also frozen his mind. He missed his momma so. He could still hear her voice, weak from her final illness, as she bade him to go to college, to get an education and make her proud. Feeling his hold on his emotions slip, JD jammed his bowler onto his head, glad that his thick, black bangs hid his eyes as he practically fled the saloon.

The last thing he heard as he pushed his way through the door was Ezra's drawl raised in polite confusion.

"Was it something I said?"

***7777777***

After JD had left the jailhouse, Chris shut the door behind his retreating form. Vin remained silent and motionless in the center of the room, unapproachable; Chris held his tongue until something gave.

Ezra and Vin. Shit. Those two were thick as thieves. Chris snorted to himself. After the exchange of words and loaded looks this morning, he wondered exactly how close his two men had become. Not that it was something one man asked of another, no matter how good a friend he was, but whatever went on between them, Ezra had landed him smack in the middle of it that morning. He was sure most of it had gone over his head, and if there was anything Chris hated, it was being in the dark.

After a moment of strained silence, the tracker's stance shifted slightly and Chris knew that Vin was now focused on his presence, expecting him to demand some answers, and he obliged.

"You gonna tell me what the hell that was all about?"

He waited with uncharacteristic forbearance as Vin threw himself into the sheriff's chair. It appeared that no reply would be forthcoming.

"Well?" he pressed, starting to lose his patience.

"Ain't none of your concern, Cowboy."

"The hell it isn't!" He paced back and forth in front of the desk, duster snapping and occasionally catching on his calves, spurs jangling over the thud of his footsteps. "I've got missing gold to find." Chris paused to lean against the desk, knuckles white where he gripped the edge. "I don't need to be worrying about you two dragging me into a goddamn lovers' tiff!"

Vin jumped to his feet and stared at him, eyes narrow with suspicion, his hands raised slightly in fists and his weight forward in a defensive stance. "It ain't like that--,"

Chris waved him down. He really didn't want to get involved in Vin's private life. His concern was retrieving the missing gold and time was not on their side in this instance, so dancing around Vin's ego was an indulgence he had to forego.

He took a deep breath before continuing in a more sober tone -- one that left no room for argument. "I want his room searched."

"You're saying he did it?" Vin demanded, square jaw set stubbornly and body tense, wound taut like a spring.

Chris' limited patience came to its natural end. He snapped at Vin, hoping to get through his thick skull, more than a little pissed off at the man's obstinate attitude. "Ezra's got a nasty habit of picking up other people's money. Who's to say he didn't take it? You really so sure--,"

"Don't give me any of that 'how well do I know anyone' crap, 'cause I ain't listening!"

Chris stared in confusion, screwing up his face as he sifted through Vin's words; then the penny dropped and his temper flared. Vin was throwing that incident with Josiah and the Pinkerton detective in his face. The tracker hadn't understood his motives then and he sure as hell wasn't understanding them now. Chris had a responsibility to the town. He had to appear impartial and the evidence was stacked against the gambler.

"The damn lock was picked!"

"Right, and now you're saying the only person in the goddamned territory able to pick a lock is Ezra? That's horse shit and you know it." Vin punctuated the statement with a jab of his index finger into the tabletop. "He wouldn't do something like this, Chris. He does have limits, you know!"

"The stage will be here before sundown, and the cavalry men coming to escort it are going to want answers if that gold isn't back where it belongs."

"Fine. I'll get you your answers. But I ain't searching Ezra's room. You want to get shot, you do it your damned self." Blue eyes flashed. "Hell, get Buck to do it. This is all his fault anyway."

"Now just a minute--"

"What?" Vin interrupted. "You telling me that if Buck could think with his head instead of his cock we'd still be in this mess?"

There was a beat of silence where Chris hesitated too long to retort and, with a parting snarl, Vin made to leave, only to collide and tangle with the chair's legs. He freed himself with a struggle of flailing arms and kicking legs, savagely slamming the chair down with a loud bang well away from his body.

Chris watched in silence as the mule-headed tracker stormed out of the jailhouse. The window rattled loudly in its frame as the door slammed forcefully shut.

Chris threw his Stetson onto the table in frustration and collapsed into the abused chair, the spindles in the backrest making a splintering noise of complaint. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, as if the pressure would help abate the throbbing pain growing there. In a moment of indulgence, he briefly entertained the idea of going to the undertaker's to put a few more bits of lead into the four bastards who had destroyed the safe and created this whole damn predicament in the first place. Then the room took a sickening tilt as he moved his head too quickly and going to the undertaker's was suddenly no longer an option. Chris closed his eyes and decided that staying very still for a spell might not be a bad idea.

Shit, he thought ruefully. I wish I'd had some whiskey at breakfast.

***7777777***

Vin hadn't meant to snap at Chris. But having returned from a long ride, tired and saddle sore, only to have Ezra spit vinegar at him, his tolerance had waned, his anger overruling common sense. Then the door had slammed, the window rattled, and he'd felt a moment's regret. It was short-lived though. Chris' censure had stung and he had no damn right to go sticking his nose in where it didn't belong. No right at all.

Working his jaw to relax its aching clench, Vin stood in the street and stared at the jailhouse looking for a sign. Any tracks that had survived the stampede that followed Sebley's cry of theft yesterday had been washed away by that evening's rain. Knowing he would find nothing of use in front of the building, he took to the alleyway that led to the rear of the jail, on the off-chance the thieves had used the back streets as a means of escape.

The alleyways were deserted at this early hour and in the silence his thoughts wandered, Ezra's cold words echoing in his head as he traversed the narrow path between Potter's store and the bank. This different side of Ezra, one he hadn't seen before, unsettled him. He hadn't liked the strange light shining in Ezra's eyes that morning, and for the first time since he could remember, he had been unable to hold that gaze. Eyes that normally sparkled with intelligence and secrets, this morning aflame with something scarily close to madness.

Chris' accusations haunted him too. The last time Vin had seen Ezra in such a strange mood the gambler had been about to leave with the assassin's money, and now his mind was gnawing at the unsettling thought that perhaps Chris was right, perhaps Ezra had taken the gold. He clamped down on that suspicion, forcing it away. His head might have been confused, but his heart and gut were telling him Ezra was innocent. All his life, Vin had listened to instinct over logic -- it had kept him alive on more occasions than he cared to recall. And ever since this whole issue had come up, those instincts had been screaming that there was something amiss; the Ezra he knew wouldn't do something like this -- not steal someone's gold and hightail it away, leaving him behind.

But then again, Ezra didn't owe him anything, not even the courtesy of saying goodbye should he choose to leave Four Corners.

The way his stomach twisted following that realization surprised Vin.

He had no name for what it was they shared. They weren't some married couple and they certainly weren't a giggling courting pair. There were no demands or romantic notions. No dancing around each other while they tried to figure out exactly what they both wanted or needed.

No obligations to tie them to each other, either.

He suspected it had started off as two friends finding comfort and release while they both waited for the right woman to come along, perhaps someone not unlike Charlotte or Li Pong, who would capture each of their hearts and draw them into a life of respectability and family. In all truth though, several women had passed through Four Corners who should have turned his head, but Vin had never felt a moment of desire or want of them or their flirtatious attentions. And when they had left, some bitter in their defeat, Ezra had been there, waiting for him with silent support, just as he always was.

Vin also appreciated that Ezra never tried to change him. He just accepted Vin as he was and took as much or as little as he was willing to give; never complaining when he took off for days at a time to the Indian village or just rode out into the great wilderness that surrounded Four Corners.

Well, there was one habit that Ezra's influence had changed. He had finally been forced to see the benefit of regular bathing and he even used soap most weeks. The benefit being that he got to spend the entire night in Ezra's feather bed, instead of being ousted once their bodies had been satiated. He'd finally got a new capote after one too many nights of suffering Ezra's taunts that he really ought to tie the old one down to prevent it from crawling away on its own. Not that any of it was an imposition. Hell, he'd even offered to shave his face clean, but Ezra had just raised an eyebrow and said that he liked the feel of Vin's stubble against his skin, so the whiskers remained.

Of course, he wasn't the only one who had made sacrifices. Ezra had agreed to sleep with the window open when Vin shared his bed, so he could hear the sounds of the night and feel the cool breeze that wafted through the room. He even turned down all but one of the bedspreads, even on the most frigid of evenings, because Vin liked a cool room to sleep in and couldn't abide being hot and sweaty under the covers... unless of course it was Ezra getting him hot and sweaty.

Intimate moments flashed in his memory, warming him, and he refocused on the task at hand. He had to find something -- there had to be a trace of the thieves -- so he could track down the real culprits to free his lover from the blame.

Ezra had been real angry that morning and Vin knew he would have to work for his forgiveness over the imagined betrayal. He hoped that by tenaciously hunting for the truth and bringing the guilty to justice, Ezra would forget his ire and maybe even reward him in that special way of his. With any luck he would get to share the gambler's bed tonight, sturdy warm body wrapped around his own. Longing for that prize bolstered his determination and he scanned the ground at the back of the jail carefully, not wanting to miss a thing.

Vin sometimes wondered if Ezra realised that the real reason he asked for the room cold was because it was the only way to get Ezra to spoon up close to him. The southerner hated the cold, and would wrap himself around Vin to leech some of his warmth. If it weren't for that, Vin knew from experience Ezra would lie apart from him, keeping a respectable distance as though he thought it wasn't his place to hold him, possess him at any other time than when they were moving together, one inside the other. So Vin pretended to be fickle about the room temperature, and Ezra pretended to believe him.

On rare occasion he drank too much and would sink into a morose state, questioning where exactly he fit into Ezra's heart. Trying to recall evidence that the gambler ever felt the same rush of jealousy when another sought Vin's company; if he saw them as anything more than a diversion from the long and lonely desert nights. But there were moments -- those few and far between moments. Like when the gambler would let Vin in on a dirty little town secret he had recently uncovered. Or his latest plans for an outlandish money making scheme told in the hush-hush tones of conspiracy, with a twitch of upturned lips, humor flashing in jade eyes and a suggestive wink, and Vin would think he could die from laughing so hard. Every now and then one would do something out of the ordinary to cheer the other up after a hard day's peacekeeping. Like when Ezra would offer to read to him from the Clarion or his latest book, or that time he gifted Ezra with the medicine pouch from Kojay's village.

Something out of place drew his attention. Under the window of the cell there was a slight imprint in the dirt, still filled with rainwater that hadn't drained away. It was a strange indentation, almost square and a few inches across. There were more angular marks in the ground, but they had been mostly washed away. Vin dipped his forefinger into the hole. Water came up to the first knuckle. He traced the outline carefully, contemplating what had caused such a mark; then looked back up to the window, brain whirring.

Glancing back up the alley he saw marks that had been invisible from the other angle of his approach, now just clear enough to make out. Footprints. Moving down the alley towards Main Street, he followed them until they were lost in the churned mud.

Now what?

He tilted his head as his sharp vision caught on a familiar object half buried in the dirt under the boardwalk outside Potter's store. Ezra's medicine pouch. He grasped the leather thong and pulled it free, scraping the worst of the mud off of it as he continued across the street and through the alleyway between the undertaker's and the Gem Hotel.

Vin sighed. Ezra was mighty pissed at him right now. Even so, the callous comments had come as a surprise. He knew Ezra trusted him. Knew he had no suspicions of the sort with regards to him and Chris. The sting of Ezra's words had hit home and pained him, driving him with anger and outrage to storm out of the saloon, the gambler knowing him well enough to be able to cut to the bone with a few well-chosen words.

He paused as the thought struck him that this had been the reaction Ezra expected. Maybe the whole thing had been for the sake of drama -- the gambler was good at over reacting, all waving arms and gabbing himself silly over matters that to most meant nothing. But he had good reason this time around to be mad as spit and throwing it around. After all, the accusations of the town had deeply offended the gambler, and the rest of the Seven hadn't been there for him.

Vin hadn't been there for him.

He twirled the small pouch in his fingers as he started scanning the narrow passageway that tracked behind Watson's hardware store. It must have been left in the dirt on Main Street, forgotten, when Ezra had gathered his discarded belongings. He had been in something of a hurry, so Vin supposed it had been overlooked. He thought of returning it now, but the fact the others were there, and the memory of the malicious temper the gambler had unleashed on him, kept him from doing so. He'd just pass it on when he saw him later, by which time Ezra and his foul temper would have hopefully calmed down and Vin would get the chance to apologize properly.

***7777777***

Vin had barely been gone long when a ruckus had drawn Chris to the window of the sheriff's office, parting the dusty net curtains to look out into the street. He had watched with concern and redoubled irritation as Buck and Nathan dragged a hollering Josiah out of the saloon. For a sinking moment he thought he was going to have to go and help restrain the preacher, but finally the scuffling stopped and the three headed in the direction of the church, Nathan and Buck subtly escorting Josiah. A sigh of relief later, JD followed, looking pale and distressed, and Chris hadn't needed to guess the cause of the young man's upset. Pressing his head against the dirty glass, hand in a vice-like grip on the window frame, he hoped Vin could get this all sorted out before the day was over, because if Chris didn't shoot Ezra there was a strong possibility that one of the others would.

Not that the tracker had been exactly happy with Ezra, but he had seemed resolute in his intention of hunting down the missing gold and identifying the true culprit. Chris supposed he ought to be grateful that at least one of them could deal with the southerner's fickle mood swings.

Chris watched the town in silence from his seat in a chair outside the jailhouse, a thin, black, hand-rolled smoke lodged between his lips. The streets were quiet now and had been for a while. Strands from his bangs fell into his eyes and he removed the cheroot to blow a jet of smoke-stained air upwards, which caught the wayward locks and swept them aside. He was several weeks past due for a trip to the barber's.

Rolling his shoulders in an attempt to work some of the tightness out of them, he ruefully told himself he was getting too old for this shit. To make matters worse, his headache was gathering force.

Across the street, through the opening of a side alley, he watched the figure of Vin Tanner as he walked, head bowed, along the back street that ran behind the saloon and hardware store. He was clearly tracking -- eye's downcast, a loop of something with a pouch on the end twirling around his finger.

The smell of bitter coffee and the shuffle of boots on wood heralded the arrival of Buck Wilmington carrying a tin cup full of the potent infusion. Chris kept his focus on the alleyway as his old friend's lanky frame dropped into the seat next to him.

"He okay, pard?"

"You know Vin. Gets short-sighted and set in his mind when it comes to his personal business."

His understatement was responded to with a huff of incredulity. Chris tilted his head to the side and peered at Buck through his fringe of dirty blond hair. Merry blue eyes twinkled back at him, and he could practically hear the man's thoughts before he voiced them.

"Hell... sounds like someone I used to know."

Chris looked away and, after a pregnant pause, asked, "How's JD?"

"He's been better, he's been worse. Kid's tougher than he looks."

They both watched as Vin retraced his path before disappearing once more out of sight.

"Huh, that boy's worse than a hungry dog with a bone once he's got it in his mind to help someone. You remember how he went all over Hell's Half Acre to get Josiah cleared?"

"Yup"

"You don't think Ezra took that loot, do ya Chris," Buck stated.

"Hell, no," Chris said, grabbing the tin mug from Buck's hand while their conversation distracted him. Blowing on the steaming black brew, he shifted his attention out to the street, finally adding quietly, "You still know me."

With a sigh, Buck threw his legs out to rest crossed at the ankles on the railing, and tilted his chair back to balance precariously on two legs. In a voice so soft that Chris almost missed it he said, "I thought I knew Ezra..."

Swallowing a mouthful of Arbuckle's so strong Josiah could have used it to strip paint, Chris paused to suck a breath across his scalded tongue. "He's just in one of his pissy moods Buck. Man gets this way sometimes."

"Yeah, but Maude ain't in town this time."

"But that gold is..."

"... and gold and Ezra don't mix." Buck finished, nodding slowly. "We sure screwed this up, Cowboy."

Chris didn't answer, but he caught the nod of Buck's dark curls out of the corner of his eye. As usual, his lack of denial was confirmation enough for Buck and, as usual, Buck was right on the money.

If only he hadn't sent JD to identify the bodies. But that had needed doing. Once the stiffness and bloating of decomposition set in, it became damn near impossible to identify someone from the likeness on a wanted poster. Those things were hit and miss in terms of looking like the person even in life.

Hell, if he was going to play the if only game... if only he had been quicker to shoot those stupid outlaws, before they blew the bank safe to smithereens; if only he had told Travis to stick his stupid idea of a secret gold transfer up his copious backside like he'd wanted to the first time this half-ass plan was wired to him. He sighed inwardly. If only he hadn't stayed on after the first thirty days.

He turned to Buck, pinching the bridge of his nose again as that red-hot poker doubled its efforts to burn through his skull. They'd been through the events of yesterday once before, but in the cold light of morning, perhaps he would see something he missed first time around. He was grasping at straws and he knew it, but he asked anyway.

"Tell me again what happened."

***7777777***

Buck shuffled in his chair, making himself comfortable to relate the incident for the second time. Perhaps this time he would get through his account without Chris swearing up a blue storm.

His eyes drifted from the bustle of Main Street, from Mary handing out newspapers with Billy helping her, from the clatter of a small trap as it meandered through the town, from the clinky piano music that wafted on the slight breeze from Digger Dan's as he relived in his mind's eye the occurrences of the previous afternoon.

Bored. That's what Buck had been. Damned bored...

He couldn't believe Chris had left him all alone to safeguard a pile of goddamn money. His old buddy could have at least stayed.

He glared at the offending loot, the cause of his present misery, eyebrows drawn together tightly, moustache turned down at the corners as his lips thinned into a frown. The grimace, an unadulterated image of pure irritation, was lost on the object of his ire, as it was just a 'pile of goddamn money'.

Buck huffed out his chest and sighed loudly. He was feeling most put-upon. Miss Emma's daddy was out of town on business for the day, and Buck had hoped -- no, expected -- to be entertaining the lonesome young prairie flower while the going was good. Instead, he was trapped alone in the cold, stale sheriff's office, suffering bodily abuse from the butt-numbing hardback chair, with nothing to keep his mind occupied other than to brood on all that he was missing.

One of Buck's admirable qualities -- of which, he proudly reminded himself, there were many -- was his fertile imagination. His creative ability to draw pleasure from the tiniest thing, attention to detail and love of all things tactile, all aided his hedonistic outlook and made him the great lover that he was. Of course, now all these talents were driving him slowly up the wall.

He started to pace, trying to work off his abundant energy.

Eventually, he hooked his watch out of his top pocket, flipping it open with an exaggerated flick of his wrist, and his heart sank to note that a mere hour had passed, with another agonizing three to go before Chris would relieve him. He surely wasn't going to make it with his sanity intact. His mind helpfully presented him with an image of Chris' upraised brow at returning to find a gibbering wreck of a man, clucking around the room like a demented chicken. Useless questions bombarded his under-stimulated mind. Could a chicken-man shoot? Could he ride? Would Chris still want him around even if he could? Lord, what would the ladies think? Did chickens even have animal magnetism? Would he have to lay eggs? God, he hoped not. He'd seen the size of an egg, and comparing that to the size of a chicken's ass...

A feminine scream came from the street outside.

Buck jolted violently out of his musings on domestic fowl and, grabbing the set of keys from the hook on the central support beam, fairly bounded for the door in two long strides. Swinging it open, he barrelled outside, almost stampeding Mr. Sebley whose fist was raised in an aborted attempt to knock at the door. Buck snagged a handful of black suit, keeping the man upright, whilst looking down the street for the source of the noise.

A crowd had gathered outside Bucklin's store to gawp from the street and the doorways of nearby stores as Bella, a working girl from Digger Dan's, struggled in the drunken grip of Lazy-eye Lenny Lomack. The crazy old cretin was leering and drooling all over the poor girl. Now, Ol' Lenny was pretty much harmless, but he was also pretty damned repulsive. Buck would have laid good money on the tramp having faithfully avoided visiting a bathhouse for all of his 60-odd years. On this occasion Lenny looked to have tied one on good as he was trying to separate Bella from her clothing, oblivious to the spectacle he was causing.

Bella screamed for help again, but as usual the residents remained at a safe distance, enjoying the display like a flock of goddamn vultures. Never one to leave a fair maiden in distress, Buck jumped down the boardwalk steps and hit the dirt of Main Street at a dead run; arms and legs pumping, the wide brim of his hat forced up by the passing air.

He pushed aside men and women alike as the growing crowd hindered his progress, barely muttering an apology when a well-heeled lady fell over from his shove, her opera glasses breaking her fall.

With a stumble and final drive, he broke through the crowd and drew even with the wrestling pair. Skidding to a stop, he grabbed at the tramp's filthy bearskin coat and hoisted him off of Bella who was huddled on the ground, skirts up around her knees and tears streaking clean lines down her muddied face. Lenny fell ass-first into the dirt, his hands sinking into the still-damp mud, as he looked up in bewilderment at Buck. Well, one eye looked up at Buck; the other was focussed somewhere over his left shoulder.

Heavy panting grew louder as Sebley staggered to a halt behind him. Shaking hands dropped to rest on bent knees, the fat little man doubled over as much as his gut would allow as he fought for breath. The short run had probably been more exercise than he got all season. His moon face was red and blotchy, and Buck cast a glance up to Nathan's clinic, wondering if he should fetch the healer before the guy had himself a visitation.

Lenny let out a demented laugh, which stopped abruptly with a drunken hiccup. His muddy hand lifted to grab at his crotch as he spat a rambling stream of obscenities. Bella, who knew enough vulgar words to make a sailor blush, gasped in horror. Buck moved to comfort the shaken woman, but he was ignored as she started cursing at Lenny, kicking dirt at him with the pointed toes of her old laced boots. He reached out a hand to calm her, and she turned on him, tiny fists balled and face raging. Buck stepped back, palms held up in appeasement...

The rough gravely cough of Chris clearing his throat pulled Buck back to the present to find the gunslinger staring at him with what appeared to be rapidly diminishing patience. Chris' chin was tilted up so that squinting hazel eyes could appraise Buck from under the brim of his hat, his brows drawn and his mouth, thin-lipped and pursed.

Buck knew that look, had known it well enough over twelve years of friendship not to ignore it and the warning it carried.

"So everyone was busy watching Lenny's display and no-one noticed anyone by the jailhouse." Chris surmised.

"Yeah."

Buck, Chris and Vin had quizzed all the people who were present, and none had reported seeing anything or anyone near the jail. Of course, no one had been looking in that direction at the time.

"A whole damn gang could have waltzed in there and helped themselves."

"Yeah...no, wait a minute." Buck corrected himself. "The cell was locked and I had the keys."

"So they picked the lock."

"Had to have been damn quick to do that, get the gold out and skedaddle before me and Sebley got back to the jail. Hell, Chris. I wasn't gone more than five minutes."

"Five minutes was all they needed."

"You think there was more than one of them?"

"I think Lazy-Eye Lenny groping that girl in the middle of Main Street provided one hell of a distraction."

"Now, that old coot may be crazy as a loon, and gets a bit too friendly with the whiskey, but working with a bunch of robbers?" Buck couldn't buy into what Chris was implying. Lenny Lomack was slow and rude, and a downright filthy Irish bastard, but he was a simpleton. The man had no use for gold nor brains enough to figure a way to steal it.

"Who's to say? I'm running round in circles here, Buck. Something's going to have to give. That stage is arriving in a few hours."

"You want me to go find Lenny?"

"No, you sit with the gold." Hard eyes met with his and carried the warning Chris had the grace not to reiterate aloud: don't fuck up again. "I'll get Josiah onto it, and then I'll speak to Vin, see if he's found anything." With a pained sigh, Chris got to his feet and pulled his hat down low over his eyes as he turned away toward the church.

Buck watched Chris 'Bad Element' Larabee stalk up Main Street, gratified to see that the few people out gave him a wide berth. There was one thing you could say about Four Corners: its residents had a strong sense of self-preservation. Chris looked to be in a real bad fix, and just about ready to start popping hot lead at anyone or anything that got in his way. Had Ezra been around to take the bet, Buck would have put money on his old friend killing someone before the day was out.

***7777777***

As Vin approached his wagon, the boarding house door opened and he nodded a greeting as JD exited, skipping down the steps, his tweed jacket slung over one shoulder and bowler hat in hand. The kid looked pretty good considering his all night stint at the jailhouse. Vin was impressed that a mere four hours' sleep was all JD needed to rejuvenate.

He shucked out of his capote and threw it in the back of the wagon. Then, propping his mare's leg within easy reach, Vin moved down along the boarding house wall and bent over to run his hand along and under the rear wheel. There was a definite crack in the leather brace and several spokes of the wheel itself were broken where a fractious mount had put a hoof through it months ago. If he was going to get the old thing moving again it would require some work, and expense too. There was nothing he could do about it now, since a new wheel was more than he could afford.

His attention pricked when he heard footfalls approaching. From the cadence and weight, he knew without raising his head that it was Ezra.

The footsteps came to a halt directly behind him and he straightened from his stoop. Still not turning, he offered the medicine bag over his shoulder and released it as he felt the slack of the leather thong being taken up by Ezra's grasp. There was a moment of silence, then a soft thud. Looking down he saw the beaded leather pouch discarded in the dust by his feet.

Before he had chance to comment, Vin's breath caught in his throat as the seam of his pants pulled up into his crack, dragging abruptly against sensitive skin. The pressure released, accompanied by the snap of his suspenders being unfastened. The cotton of his shirt was tugged hurriedly from his waistband and then, to his delight, possessive hands were running up underneath the worn fabric, caressing his back.

Knowing fingers danced across his skin, mapping every ridge of bone and muscle, tracing his spine up to his neck then fanning down over his shoulder blades. His skin twitched as tingling heat sparked at every delicate touch.

Vin felt his head go light as his blood started to pool in his groin, his breath coming out in short fast pants, body humming in anticipation of a long-held fantasy finally being fulfilled.

Ezra stepped up close behind him, the outline of his gun belt and shoulder holster teasing against the small of his back. Vin could feel waves of heat emanating from the gambler's body, carrying the familiar warm and alluring scent of imported cologne and pomade, and a hint of the mint candy he usually spoiled his horse with. Hands slid under his armpits and around to the front, fingers splayed over his chest and gripped the muscle there. The solid feel of Ezra's chest pressed into his back, and he growled hungrily when Ezra's arousal jabbed insistently into his buttock.

Vin's hips rocked slowly of their own accord, rubbing back against that deliciously hard heat, and his own cock lengthened further. The grasp on his chest tightened and he felt Ezra's hot wet breath huffing against his neck. Tipping his head back to rest on Ezra's right shoulder, Vin exposed his neck to the mouth that hung open, panting close to his ear. A searing wet tongue took a broad drawn-out swipe at the column of his throat, licking and tasting him like some sweet treat.

The vibration of his name was whispered harshly on a long breath, "Vvvviiiiiinnnnn."

The possessive needy tone made him shiver, running chills into his wet ear, gooseflesh rising on the nape of his neck, scalp tingling. He felt movement as Ezra's mouth lowered, hovering a gnat's whisker above his skin. Instead of marking him, a teasing breath whispered across the hollow at the junction of his shoulder and neck, giving rise to a full body shudder that zipped and zinged right through to his bones, and Vin closed his eyes to the sensation, fists clenching at his sides.

It was almost a relief when Ezra stepped back, the torture momentarily abated.

Fingertips left his chest to track down his sides, blunt square nails dragging lightly and tickling along his erogenous flanks; hands coming to meet at his waistband and slipping around to the front to flick open his fly. Suddenly, cold air played over his exposed flesh as his buckskins and undergarments were pushed roughly to his knees.

He twisted his torso slightly to cast a glance down over his shoulder and saw Ezra there, crouched behind him, hands bunched in the material at his knees, studying his ass in rapt contemplation.

Perhaps the gambler was having second thoughts.

Turning back to face the side of the wagon, he braced his arms out in front of him, wrapping his grip over the rim of the sideboard for support. He bent slightly at the waist, thrusting his ass backwards, offering it resolutely.

He heard the snap of Ezra's pants being unfastened, then two strong hands were back, fiery hot brands against his skin, roughly parting his buttocks. Vin groaned in approval, his erection now hard and bobbing, leaking pre-cum that cooled as it trickled down his cock.

Vin licked his dry lips. Oh God, this was going to be good. Making-up sex -- and outdoors to boot. He couldn't have asked for more.

***7777777***

Chris' head pounded. The noise on Main Street echoed and warped in his ears. The sun was at its apex and the bright rays were dazzling to his sensitive eyes, reflecting harshly off windows and the shiny brass tack that hung from large iron hooks on the livery wall.

Yosemite stopped mid-swing with his lump hammer when Chris stalked past, his long shadow falling across the anvil and the cooling metal wrapped around it. The smithy smiled nervously behind his bushy moustache and carefully set the hammer down, and didn't lift it again until Chris was well past the livery and dragging his heels up the church steps.

The thick wooden door creaked open under Chris' weight, but it refused to open all the way; something was jammed up behind it and no matter how hard he pushed, it remained immovable. Taking off his hat, Chris turned side-on and squeezed himself through the narrow gap.

The air within the chapel was heavy with dust; hardly surprising, as Josiah wasn't much of a housekeeper and had been sanding the pews for what seemed to Chris to be forever. One of these days he expected to walk into the church and find nowhere to sit -- just row upon row of piles of sawdust.

But what greeted Chris now was far less expected. The pews were still there in their entirety, but not in orderly rows. They were overturned and piled haphazardly, some overlying others, one resting precariously on its end in an acute lean against the far wall. It looked as though a tornado had torn through the centre of the room, hurling everything in its path to the four winds. Candleholders were knocked asunder, the candles themselves scattered all over, some lodged under the broken table where they had rolled to a halt. The pulpit was toppled, the simple flower arrangements the local women had provided crushed beneath its heavy oak frame.

Josiah's bible -- a dog-eared, dirt-smeared volume of significant bulk -- lay amidst the mess of candle wax, dust, and flower petals; its spine bent back and the pages crumpled and torn. Chris stooped to pick it up, smoothing the damaged pages as best he could before setting it down.

From the back room came the sound of snoring. Slobbery, slack-jawed, drunken snoring. Chris entered the small room and stopped just inside the doorway, less out of respect than out of lack of space. There was barely enough room for Josiah's cot bed and his washstand.

Josiah was sprawled face-up on the bed, the sheets rumpled underneath his broad frame. He had managed to remove one boot before passing out, the laces on the second were untied but not loosened. The preacher's shirt had been unbuttoned halfway, then half struggled out of, so the collar was askew, sleeves hitched up and twisted tight, and the shirttails had pulled out of his pants. He looked a damned mess, just like his abode.

"Josiah!"

Aside from shifting slightly in his sleep, Josiah gave no indication of waking. At the foot of his bed lay an empty, toppled bottle of scotch whiskey. The fancy liquor had been an unexpected gift from Ezra. They had all received a bottle of the stuff, which apparently had been ordered by mistake. It hadn't been aged long enough, or some such nonsense, and so Ezra had no use for it. Still, Chris had to agree with Nathan that sometimes it wasn't the thought that counted. The healer always had use for alcohol, and Chris still had half his bottle left, treating himself to the occasional glass when he wanted to actually enjoy the taste instead of feeling the harsh burn. He doubted that Josiah had tasted any of it. Chris frowned at the senseless waste.

"Josiah!" Chris shouted.

The preacher slumbered on.

Chris' fingers twitched over the grip of his pearl-handled colt, thumb teasing the leather holster. He could easily put a few bullets in the ceiling. Hell, he could smell the gun smoke, taste the bitter powder of plaster flakes on his tongue as it snowed down. But then there'd be running and questions and fuss. Chris hated fuss. Instead he stooped, reached past the whiskey bottle and grabbed the tin chamber pot. Then, with a cursory glance to make sure it was empty, he banged it against the bedpost.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

The preacher snuffled, snorted, smacked his lips and, after a moment's pause, continued to snore like sawing wood.

Goddamn it! Josiah had tied one on all right. Even if he could be awakened, he would be fit for nothing except grouching and drinking lots of black coffee. Useless.

So he would have to find Vin and send him after Lenny instead. Couldn't be helped.

Chris left the church and stepped out into the street and straight into the path of the man he least wanted to see. Sebley.

"Mr. Larabee," he greeted, "I was looking for you. Have you found my gold?"

Chris grunted and pushed past the bank manager. The sun continued its relentless path through the wide desert sky and he needed to find Vin. In a few hours the stage would arrive and with it more questions and accusations. He was about ready to shoot someone, or vomit, or both.

Sebley ignored Chris' warning snarl and followed him, his short legs working double-time to keep pace with the gunslinger's stride. "And what are you doing about Standish? Have his quarters been searched?"

Chris stopped short. Sebley ran into him and took a few stumbling steps backwards.

"I don't tell you how to do your job, Sebley. Don't tell me how to do mine," Chris growled. "Ezra didn't take your gold." He sneered at the smaller man. "That's an interesting choice of words you've been using all day..."

"That gold is my responsibility, Mr. Larabee. I take my responsibilities seriously. Your man Standish is nothing but a two-bit weasel; a philanderer, a con-man, and a thief. And I will not hesitate in pointing him out to the escort when they arrive."

"You got a problem with Standish, you take it up with him." Chris felt a nasty smirk twitch at the corners of his mouth. Given Ezra's current mood, they'd be burying what was left of the bank manager in a very small box.

Nevertheless, the man's comments cut to the quick, each word working Chris deeper into his foul temper. Admittedly, most of it was close to the truth. But then Chris was no saint. Not one of the Seven could claim to be pure as the driven snow. Sure, Ezra was a con-man, a gambler and a weasel... definitely a weasel. But he was also one of the boys. One of his boys. And no matter how irritating, how money-grabbing, how weasely the southerner could be, he was still a useful member of their odd little troupe. On occasion, Chris even found himself liking the man.

Sebley went on. "I heard tell he tried to run off with ten thousand dollars. And you did nothing. What did happen to that money, Mr. Larabee?"

Chris rounded on the man. "You better not be saying what I think you're saying."

"Well, I--,"

"You think if we had that money we'd still be here looking out for pissant little shits like you?"

The bank manager blanched at the sudden deadly vehemence in the gunslinger's tone, the unexpected crude language. Hands raised in appeasement, he backed away then turned to scurry off down the street.

It was time to end this. He had given Vin the time he had requested, or rather demanded, and now it was time to clear the matter up altogether. Sebley wouldn't be happy until the gambler's room was searched, and would undoubtedly follow through on his threat to turn tattletale when the cavalry arrived. Chris was sick of his own wavering suspicions too, and the fact that Vin hadn't returned to him already with the whole puzzle solved just added to his worry. He trusted Ezra's ability and his fox cunning when it came to matters of life or death. He just didn't trust him with gold. Or money. Or precious gems. Hell, Ezra himself had told him not to. He was only respecting the man's wishes.

He didn't think the Southerner had stolen the gold. But at the same time, he wouldn't put it past Ezra to pull a stunt like that, just to prove that he could.

He really needed to find Vin.

At that moment, JD came sauntering down the boardwalk twirling his guns, holstering them, then drawing and twirling again. Despite the distance between them, Chris swore he could hear the clack-click-clack as the twin Colt Lightnings spun, the sound of the barrels sliding into the leather holster then out again so uncomfortably loud it made his skin try to crawl clear off his body.

JD looked up when Chris called out to get his attention, and moved to lean over the railing. "Yeah, Chris?"

"You seen Vin?"

"Sure. He was at his wagon when I left the boarding house."

Chris nodded a dismissal and JD continued on his way. At least the young man seemed to have recovered from his encounter with the gambler.

Dammit. To Chris' mind, all the paths of blame were leading right back to his feet. The tension between him and Vin; Ezra's hurt and the way he was sharing out his misery; all of it. His fault. Anger, frustration and impatience warred with his headache for the right to cause him the most grief as he marched toward the north end of town, and Tanner's wagon; his hands bunched at his sides in tight, white-knuckled fists.

***7777777***

The expected play of fingers over his entrance never came. Instead he felt the slick, bulbous head of Ezra's cock nudging against him, then pushing more insistently. Vin forced himself to relax, but nothing could prepare him for the breaching as Ezra forced past the first tight ring of muscle. Vin grimaced, sucking in a sharp breath that whistled through clenched teeth.

He shifted forward, trying to move away from the penetration as his ass was violently split by Ezra's girth. He hadn't much room to move forward, up against the wagon as he was. Then, before he was crushed against the wooden side, strong invading hands reached under his shirt and grabbed his hips, pulling back and holding him immobile, fingernails digging tiny half-moons of pain in his side while heated flesh was driven fully into him.

His howl of agony was muffled, his mouth filled with the fuzzy taste of brushed cotton as he bit down on his forearm to prevent the sound carrying.

From somewhere outside the pain, Vin knew he was bleeding. He could feel the warm trickle running down the inside of his thigh, maddeningly tickling the back of his knee, continuing its path to drip down his calf until it was absorbed into the material of his pants.

All he could hear were the sounds of the town in the distance, the drift of raised voices as two men argued out on Main Street. Closer, the creak of the bed and running gear of his wagon as it shifted with the tempo of the assault; the slap of skin against skin. They were so exposed that should he cry out he knew they would be discovered. The anguished thought of Ezra's body, limp and lifeless, twisting in the breeze as it dangled from the end of a rope, gave him the strength to tamp down the cries that were building pressure inside his chest.

His palms burned and blistered, his fingers raw from their death grip on the sideboard. The roughened wood pulled, tore, and splinters worked deep into his flesh. His deflating cock went unnoticed as he was slammed against repeatedly.

Before, when Ezra took him, he had always been so... gentle. He was considerate and careful, never fierce or brutal or impassioned. Sometimes Vin had found himself wanting to be ravished, to be taken completely, to feel proof that Ezra desired him as much as he did the gambler. But as wave after wave of burning pain tore through him he realised Ezra had been protecting him with his restraint. His tender loving had been just that -- not the result of cool indifference, not because he didn't truly desire him.

Now Vin had what he thought he wanted, but it was a black twisted perversion of his fantasy, and he cursed himself for having wished for this. He wanted nothing more than the slow and tender ministrations of his Ezra... not the eerily silent stranger who was pounding mercilessly into him.

With every driving thrust, he cursed himself.

Stupid... ignorant... useless... weak...

Why the hell was he letting this happen? He was a Tanner, for Christ's sake, letting another treat him like a goddamn whore? He sure as hell couldn't cry out for help... But why wasn't he fighting back?

Not that he could do much of anything, hobbled with his pants around his knees and Ezra's strong, sturdy body pinning him. He couldn't free his hands from their purchase on the sideboard, unless he wanted to be eating a mouthful of splintered wood. Damn it! And it hurt. It hurt worse than he could have imagined. Every movement was a searing bolt of agony and his once erect cock now rested flaccid against a shaking thigh.

"Stop," he hissed between gritted teeth. "Stop... God, Ez... please stop."

He hadn't wanted this. Never this.

Ezra's silence was unsettling. Always during their coupling he would murmur a stream of endearments or encouragement, eventually being reduced to incoherent gasps and groans as he reached his peak. But now, the occasional huffing breath from behind Vin was the only proof that the man fucking him was there at all. That and the undeniable pain that speared up through his trembling body with every impaling jolt.

He realized with horror that tears were tracking their way down his cheeks, gathering at the corner of his mouth, hot and salty when he swiped them away with his tongue. The pain had grown so excruciating that his muffled whimpers and cries were not enough to express it. He was not crying, he told himself bitterly, as another sob was wrenched from behind gritted teeth.

He felt Ezra's cock knife deeper still into him, so deep his stomach twitched and rebelled. Then Ezra froze in place, fingernails digging into the skin of Vin's hips, hands clutching and gripping his flesh with a desperate strength. The body snapped and spasmed behind him, pushing even further within as he felt liquid heat pump and spurt up inside him, filling him, and he swallowed against the acrid bile that leapt into his throat, fighting back the urge to gag. His throat burned as he forced it back down.

There was a final shuddering thrust and then Ezra's heat left him, not with a gentle sliding apart but abruptly, with a rough tug from his raw channel that had him crying out again. He felt hollow, used and nauseated. Hot saliva pooled into his mouth and he spat it out into the dirt. Sticky seed oozed out of his ravaged anus, cooling and drying against his skin. It was over. Done. Finished.

The humiliation complete, he turned on his violator. He angrily scrubbed at his eyes, rubbing his callused hands over his face to remove the evidence of his distress, ignoring the way the ruptured blisters caught on his stubble.

Glaring at Ezra with a hatred he hadn't experienced since Eli Joe had tried to hang him, Vin felt desolation engulf the fire of agony inside him, freezing his insides, turning his heart to stone.

"Bastard. You fucking goddamn bastard," he gritted out. His eyes were brimming again, and Ezra blurred in his vision. He wiped the wetness away before it could fall.

Ezra was tucking himself back into his dress pants, oblivious to the sticky mess of bright blood and cum that coated his limp cock, smearing the shaft and tip. Casually, he straightened his vest and jacket. Either he had not heard Vin's curse or he had been unmoved by it. His eyes were devoid of life when he finally turned them up to meet Vin's angry stare.

Vin took a sharp intake of breath at the way those eyes were shuttered, flat, almost icy pale... reminding him of the surface of a frozen lake, impenetrable, with no sign of the turbulent depth of water that surely lay beneath. In stark comparison, Ezra's face was flushed, his cheeks a mottled unhealthy red; his features remained impassive and marble-like.

He almost didn't appear to see Vin standing there, shaking with indignant rage.

The tip of Ezra's tongue darted out to his wet bottom lip, the only thing familiar about the man and, for the first time since cataloging the handsome gambler as he conned a room of cowhands, Vin didn't find himself fighting the urge to latch onto that teasing mouth, to swallow that familiar gesture. Instead he watched in mute disbelief as Ezra turned on his heel and walked away from him without speaking a single word.

Drawing his pants up hastily, holding them closed at the fly with one hand, he hobbled after the retreating gambler as fast as his pain would allow. Once within reach, he grabbed a shoulder tightly and spun the man around.

He leaned in close to Ezra's face, snarling, "Don't you dare walk away from me!"

Met with silence, Vin suddenly noticed the thin sheen of sweat that covered Ezra's face. The strange light was more intense in his eyes and they were slightly bloodshot on close inspection. An inferno of heat radiated from the gambler, blasting over Vin and he took a step back. His grip slipped loose and he watched in confusion and worry, brow furrowed, as Ezra turned away from him once again. This time, Vin let him depart unchallenged, wondering how things had gone to shit so quickly.

***7777777***

Chris saw Ezra turn away from Vin. The tracker looked pale and suddenly older than his twenty-something years and there was something empty in his eyes that gave Chris cause to falter in his approach. Then the gambler stalked past, looking equally unsettled but somehow distant, and Vin's desolate gaze came to rest on Chris, who managed not to flinch at the desperate confusion and questions he saw there.

"You find anything useful?" he asked, unable to voice the query he sorely wanted answering. He followed the tracker's line of sight to see the back of the gambler stalking away in the direction of the saloon. "What the hell's with him?".

Vin returned pain-filled eyes to Chris and waved a hand to silence any further questions. "Not now, Chris."

Chris sighed heavily. "Fine. I want you to find Lazy-eye Lenny. I need to have a few words with him."

The tracker opened his mouth, presumably to ask for elaboration, but shut it again at Chris' expression. Chris didn't want to explain himself anymore than Vin did. Long hair flickered across unusually gaunt features as Vin nodded curtly and walked off to find the tramp, to Chris' mind moving with a stilted gait that sparked further curiosity, but he held his tongue and left the tracker to follow through on his orders.

He looked back up the street to Ezra, who had passed the saloon and was still walking away. Something had just occurred between those two. Something bad; Chris knew it in his gut. Something that was none of his damned business, given Vin's reluctance to discuss it. But that didn't change the fact that he wanted to go and shake the details out of the gambler.

Curiosity wrestling with his intention to keep his nose out of his friends' private lives, Chris stalked up the boardwalk. Ezra was now talking closely with JD and the young man looked agitated. He sped his steps intending to intervene, when the rumble of wheels and the thudding of horse-hooves drew his attention behind him. His heart sank and his shards of pain lanced through his head -- the stage was here, early, and with it a dozen outriders on black cavalry mounts, dressed in military garb.

The front rider pulled up in front of him, a squarely-built man of advancing years, who sat proudly in the saddle, jaw jutted and firm, dark eyes commanding under bushy sandy brows.

When he spoke, it was with the authority of years of service and the expectancy of immediate deference. "Chris Larabee?"

Chris nodded and, with considered nonchalance, drew out his tobacco tin and rolled himself a smoke. He kept the man waiting while he lit the cheroot and took a nice slow drag, a thick cloud of blue-gray smoke pluming into the air on his exhalation.

"You're early," he finally said.

"Is that a problem?" The tone added: 'it had better not be'.

A challenging stare met his and Chris pursed his lips to take another deliberately slow inhalation. He tilted his head and smiled. "No problem."

"Good. My name is Captain Augustus Smythe. And this," he waved to the man mounted beside him, "is First Lieutenant James Maddock. We are here to escort the gold shipment, since you have been having problems. If you would be so kind as to lead us to it, we'll load it up and move it out. I couldn't help but notice your bank is... in ruins."

Chris grunted. "This way." He headed to the jailhouse, not bothering to look over his shoulder to see if the Captain was following. The sound of men dismounting, and regular footsteps falling immediately into a marching pace behind him, told him they were.

He rapped on the door and called to Buck inside. There was a whisper of bolts sliding back, then the door swung open and he was face to face with Buck's tired and concerned features.

He tapped Buck's arm as he moved to push past him. Wilmington glanced askew at him then ducked his head in close as Chris whispered, "Go check Ezra's room." When Buck moved back to pin him with a questioning look, Chris added, "Just get it done. I'll keep them talking."

Buck peered over Chris' shoulder to the men behind him. Dawning understanding smoothed his features, but small lines of worry remained. With a quiet nod, he left.

***7777777***

JD rested his chin in his arms as he leaned against the hitching post outside Watson's store. Across the street Casey was chatting with Mary Travis while the newspaper-woman nailed an announcement to the front wall of Gloria Potter's store.

He watched with a warm curling feeling in his stomach as the gentle breeze played with her chestnut hair, catching a strand and lifting it away from her pretty face.

He almost jumped out of his skin when a husky drawl whispered in his ear: "Forget it boy, she wants a man."

Confused and embarrassed to be caught mooning over Casey, JD stared at the gambler who was now standing at his side and looking at him with a nasty sneer on his face. Ezra had a funny clammy look to him; he looked sick.

"What... what do you mean?" JD frowned.

"Well, she did tell me I was the most handsome of the Seven."

JD could have laughed. Ezra certainly wasn't looking so handsome now. Then the comment sunk in, and he felt a pang of betrayal and hurt in the pit of his stomach. Yeah, it was definitely his stomach, he told himself. Not his heart.

"Although, had I been in a clearer frame of mind, such as now, I might have taken her up on it. Shown her what a real man is like."

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

Ezra grinned devilishly. "It must be the desert air." He slung an arm around JD's shoulders and waved his free hand in a dismissive gesture toward Casey. "But, she is just a girl after all. And not much of one at that. Even were I able to lower myself, I doubt I would find any satisfaction in her performance."

"I don't understand you, Ezra." JD shucked the arm loose of his shoulder, the heat of the unwelcome touch still burning. "I thought we were friends."

"Yes, well... of course, friends trust each other, correct, Mr. Dunne? Indeed, if I thought you weren't my friend, I just don't think I could bear it."

"What is wrong with you?" JD repeated, angry and upset. "Why are you being so mean to me? What did I ever do to you?"

"What did you do?" Ezra asked, incredulity coloring his tone. "Perhaps the question should be: what didn't you do."

The gambler's face changed abruptly, from strange over-friendliness to a contorted snarl of rage. JD blinked in surprise at the sudden shift and backed away from the now-menacing form slowly advancing on him. "I... I'm sorry, Ezra," he stammered. "I just don't know what to say."

"You never do," Ezra snapped, voice low and flat. "But that has never stopped you before."

Just when JD thought the gambler was going to strike out at him, Billy Travis walked past and Ezra's façade returned to one of open warmth. The transformation was so quick, JD half wondered if he had imagined the whole thing.

"Master Travis!" said Ezra, cheerily. "Just the young man I have been looking for. I have a job for you." He put a steering hand on the boy's back and motioned him toward the saloon, leaving JD gaping.

Concern for Billy settling uneasily in his gut, JD hurried across the street toward the general store, where Casey had disappeared inside. He didn't know what he was going to say, but Ezra's words had shaken him, shaken his belief that they had something special, worthwhile. He had to see Casey, had to hear her tell him that Ezra's words were lies; nasty bitter lies and nothing more. The bell over the door jingled to announce his arrival and he saw her honey-brown eyes light up with delight when she turned to him. He had no idea what he was going to do now; he wished Buck were with him.

***7777777***

Nathan had watched the interaction with growing contempt from the window of the telegraph office. Whatever Ezra was saying to JD had the young man swinging between despair and anger. He could read it in the flushed cheeks of the pale face clear as day, even from a distance.

He finished bandaging the telegraph operator's wrist and absently told the man to make sure he rested it for a week or so. He paid no heed to the man's complaints about how he was supposed to work if he couldn't use his wrist. When the man asked him again, his voice raised in an irritating whine, Nathan snapped. "It's your work that gave you this injury. Use your other hand."

His bedside manner had deserted him, but Nathan couldn't bring himself to care a damn. It was well past time someone put a stop to Ezra's shenanigans, and he was the man to do it. With determination powering his long-legged gait, he marched across the street towards the reclining gambler.

Ezra appeared to be oblivious to the destruction he was causing around him, looking utterly content, lording it up like a king on his throne, sitting in the high chair as young Billy Travis knelt at his feet. The lad took a hefty spit and started rubbing the gambler's boots free of dirt and grime.

As he approached, Nathan made out the instructions Ezra was delivering to the young man.

"Make sure you get a high shine, sir, or your penny shall be forfeit."

"What the hell are you doing? Child labor? I don't believe I'm seeing this."

"Whatever transactions occur between Master Travis and myself are none of your business, you itinerant sawbones."

"You paying that child to clean your boots? I'm making it my business."

"I do believe you, Mr Jackson, are in no position to pass judgement on monetary remuneration. I'm still waiting on that seven dollars and apology."

"Lord, I should have known. Money. That's all you ever think about, isn't it?

Ezra's face was sculpted into a smile that didn't come close to reaching fevered eyes. The mocking tone continued. "Yes, it appears I am doomed." Ezra didn't sound too upset about it, his flippancy further peaking Nathan's annoyance.

"Why am I surprised?" Nathan chided himself. "I mean, look at your mother -- and Josiah always says the apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

Ezra laughed derisively. "Oh my, such wisdom! This coming from the son of a self-proclaimed murderer and a mentally unstable mother!"

A strained silence fell and Billy Travis glanced nervously from one regulator to the other, boot brush clenched in small white fists as he slowly stepped back into the shadows of the boardwalk.

Nathan gaped at the grinning gambler then slammed his open mouth shut, grinding his teeth painfully, the muscles bunching in the side of his jaw. Rage bubbled up within him, pressure rising in his chest to bursting point, and he lunged at the seated man, throwing his body into a full tackle.

Fast as you please, Ezra was out of the chair and swinging his arm in a left hook.

The next thing Nathan knew, he was bent over double in the dust on his knees, desperately trying to inhale, as the punch had connected solidly with his gut and driven all air out of him. His lungs were paralyzed and, for a pain-filled moment that drew out to a fine white line of forever, he felt as though he would never draw breath again. Then, just when he thought he would pass out, his diaphragm spasmed and his ribcage heaved open again. He hacked and took a hungry gulp of dusty air, which set him off coughing.

An angry whisper came at his ear as he clutched his sore midriff.

"Really, Mr Jackson. I am so weary of your relentless self-righteous bullshit. As I recall, you were quite taken with mother when she sought to offer you a position in her hotel... one she came by through gambling, I might add. What is more, I know you would gladly fuck her, given half the chance. So you can just SHUT THE HELL UP!"

Nathan watched as Ezra stood and pulled sharply at the hem of his vest, before turning smartly and sitting gracefully back in his chair. The gambler stretched out his arms, readjusting the cuffs with a flourish of his hands, then carefully folded them across his chest as he leaned back and placed his boots back on the small box.

He addressed the boy in a cordial tone, as if nothing had occurred. "Master Travis, you may proceed, sir." Glazed jade eyes drifted closed, dismissing the world and Nathan with it.

Nathan stood awkwardly, dusted off his knees and rose to his full height, wincing when his abused stomach muscles cried out in protest. He sniffed deeply, then again, trying to catch a remnant of the strange scent he had just caught a whiff of. Something deep in his memory stirred: crickets chirruping on the heavy air of a hot, smothering Georgian summer; the sound of men labouring in the midday sun; fear that grew in the pit of his stomach at some unknown threat...

A broad hand waved close in front of his face and snapped him out of his daydream.

"Nathan?"

"He punched me, Buck. Ezra punched me. He punched me," he said, disbelief coloring his tone.

"Yeah, pard, you okay?"

"Yes. No. What the hell is going on with that man?"

"I dunno, but we got other problems. The stage and cavalry escort have arrived. Chris wants us to search Ezra's room, before Sebley starts running on at the mouth and the whole damned regiment goes through it."

Buck waited a beat, then turned away, calling over his shoulder, "You coming?"

"Yeah," Nathan followed Buck's reluctant pace to the saloon, pausing at the entrance to glance back at the gambler. "Yeah, I'm coming."

***7777777***

The tramp had been easy to locate. All Vin had to do was follow the trail of destruction and loud, tuneless crooning. Lenny Lomack staggered a zig-zag path along the back-alley that housed the Chinese laundry and market, his slurred Irish brogue raised in what passed as singing.

"I eat when I'm hungry, and I drink when I'm dry..."

Vin rounded the corner just as a tall wicker basket of vegetables went flying with a thud and a flapping of leaves, the smell of cabbages bursting into the air. Awkwardly, he side-stepped the rolling greens and shuffled on towards the oblivious drunkard.

Lenny bounced off a wooden post and wobbled unsteadily, but didn't fall, continuing his refrain undiminished. "And if whiskey don't kill me, I'll live 'till I die."

Vin had no idea why Chris had sent him after the tramp, only that Larabee wanted to talk to Lenny. He couldn't see how the man would have anything coherent to say. All Vin could think of was Chris -- the way he had cocked a brow at Ezra, the unanswered questions that had been alive in the air between them. What if Chris had decided to confront the gambler? What would he say, what would he do? Vin cursed his friend's rotten timing. He had sorely wanted to pursue the gambler, drag him somewhere private and beat an apology out of him. He wanted to get to the bathhouse too. He could still smell Ezra's sex on him, feel the stickiness up his crack. He wanted to wash it all away.

Echoing off the alley walls, the lyric changed slightly; the r's rolled off the tramp's tongue and the words were drawn out with aplomb.

"I drrriiink when I'm hungry..." A stiff swig was taken from a bottle of Rot-Gut. "And I drriiink when I'm dry."

Lenny shook the mostly-empty bottle next to his ear, the remainder of the alcohol tinkling about as it swirled off the sides. He huffed in disappointment, then downed the last of the liquid, discarding the empty bottle with a loose throw. It smashed against the wall of the barber's.

"And if the drrrriiiinking don't kill me, I'll drrrriiink 'till I diiie."

Vin considered clubbing the man with the butt of his shotgun to silence him, but he resisted. Chris would want him conscious, sadly. Again, Vin wished he had been able to follow Ezra. He felt all mixed up inside, didn't know whether what they had was over now for good. He'd felt no recognition of the man who had turned and walked away from him, but he knew, in his gut, that the real Ezra -- his Ezra -- had been in there, somewhere, waiting for someone to help him, waiting for someone to halt his destructive path, and that someone was Vin. If the others couldn't reach the gambler, Vin could. He knew he could. They shared something, a deeper connection, and Ezra would come back to him. He clung to that belief as all around him was tumbling down around his ears. He could get Ezra back, if he could just get him alone.

Divergent, red-rimmed, puffy eyes finally noticed Vin, and the tramp's face screwed up as his pickled brain informed him that he was being followed by the tracker. With a mischievous wave, he gadded off at a surprising speed down the alleyway that ran between Inez's saloon and the hotel, working a little jig into his steps and looking for all the world like an oversized, muddy leprechaun.

Vin tried to break into a jog to keep up, but ended up doubled over in pain; one hand clutched at his middle, the other scrabbled for purchase on the saloon wall. Regaining his composure and breath, bottom lip pinched hard between his teeth, he hustled on and turned the next corner in time to see Lenny enter Digger Dan's.

As he stepped up to the bar beside the teetering tramp Vin saw, to his astonishment, grubby hands produce a small leather purse. It was upturned to shake loose several gold coins that fell and spun briefly on the bar top before clinking to rest. Where the hell had Lenny got hold of that kind of money?

The tramp grunted to the barkeep and pointed a mud-encrusted, shaking finger at the row of Rot Gut on the shelf, giving a gummy grin when a bottle was plonked in front of him. Greedily pulling out the cork, he took a large gulp.

Somewhere under the unruly beard lips smacked in appreciation and the bottle was heavily dropped onto the bar. A mocking slur raised in challenge. "Wha'd'ya want, injun-lover?"

Fuck it, thought Vin, and punched the man high in the cheek. Dazed, Lenny slumped forward into Vin's waiting grasp, his legs dragging heavily as he was led from the bar.

***7777777***

Ezra's room was dark. The heavy drapes, drawn tightly together, blocked out the late afternoon sun. Buck picked his way through the room, skirting patchy shadows of something on the floor and furniture that could just be made out as darker outlines against the dimness. He swiftly opened the drapes, letting in a broad lance of bright yellow sunshine. The air smelled stale and unpleasant, and carried a strange solvent-like odor that made Buck feel a bit dizzy. Breathing shallowly through his mouth, he pulled up the sash window to let in a fresh draught.

Nathan's footsteps followed him into the room and stopped short. "What the hell happened here?"

Buck turned and saw what had led to Nathan's exclamation. The gambler's room, usually neatly kept, was in disarray. Clothing had been pulled from the wardrobe and lay in haphazard crumpled piles; the dresser drawers had been yanked out, ties and socks and undergarments all jumbled and hanging half-out of them like lolling tongues.

The bed itself was a tangled mess of sheets and pillows; the under-sheet twisted and rumpled, and a corner of the mattress was exposed where it had come loose. The bedside gas lamp rested on its side, in a tiny puddle of liquid paraffin.

"Shit, and there was Chris getting antsy about the army going through here and creating a heap of mess," said Buck.

Nathan huffed and made no move to search the room. He looked decidedly uncomfortable.

Buck removed his hat and scratched his head, wondering where they were going to start now faced with this. Needles and haystacks sprung to mind. Dropping his hat onto the nearby rocking chair, he started to pull out the underwear, heaping it loosely on the dresser top, silently marvelling at some of the fancy material the gambler wore under his equally affected clothing.

"What are you doing?" Nathan asked, incredulous.

Buck continued to rummage. "Looking for clues, right?" He ran his hands through the now-empty drawers, reaching deep to scour the unseen depths, and found nothing. He bundled the pile of underwear into a tight wad and thrust it back in, then slid the drawers home.

"Looks to me like you're nosing around in Ezra's stuff."

Moving along side the bed, Buck kicked the mounds of clothing to one side and approached the bedside table. He righted the lamp and flicked through the book of poetry that rested next to it. Uninterested, he put the volume down and opened the small drawer that hung under the tabletop.

Buck flipped the lid off a small tin he found therein, took a whiff of the contents and frowned. Then his eyes bugged and he dropped it as though it were a hot potato. He coughed to clear his throat and not-very-subtly wiped his hands down the front of his jacket. "Well, that's 'cause you don't know the first thing about investigating robberies."

"Uh-huhn."

"Used to have to do this sorta thing all the time in the Rangers."

"Uh-huhn."

Buck toyed with a silk hanky, running his fingers across the embroidered initials that decorated one corner. "E.P.S. Hmmm..."

"Ezra 'Persuasive' Standish, or so he said," Nathan supplied.

Buck dropped his brow and squinted, frowning in mock-seriousness. "You sure that P don't stand for 'pain-in-the-fuckin-ass'?"

Nathan scoffed, then turned sombre. "Come on Buck, let's get out of here. This ain't right."

"Chris wants his room searched, and that's what we're gonna do."

Nathan grumbled something Buck couldn't quite make out, but stooped to start sifting through the bundled clothing, shaking out jackets and shirts, pants and vests.

Buck got onto his hands and knees by the bed and lowered onto his back, then propelled himself forward, scuffling the floorboards with the heels of his boots.

"Now what are you doing?" came Nathan's voice as Buck slid into the space between bed and floor.

"A man keeps a lot of secrets under his bed, Nate. Why, I keep all sorts of things under mine."

Nathan's voice floated down to him. "I can well imagine, and it ain't pretty."

"I've got this one picture -- whew-eee, it's a doozy -- of these darlin' little blonde things I met once... so maybe Ezra keeps his secrets under here too."

Buck spotted something at the far side of the bed -- within the shadows, a darker shadow rested. He reached out to grasp it with the tips of outstretched fingers, and pulled it back towards him. Holding his prize, he moved to sit up, and smacked his head on the frame of the bed with a loud crack.

"Ow! Goddamn, that hurt!"

Nathan was by his side, resting a hand on his shoulder and peering at him with concern. "You all right there, Buck?"

"Oh yeah, just wonderful thank you."

Nathan tsked. "You got yourself a nasty bruise. Good job you got such a hard head." He gestured at the retrieved object. "What you got there?"

The cloth in his hand was filthy, so Buck snapped it in the air, a cloud of dust coming free to reveal the blue patterned square of material for what it was. "Looks like one of Vin's bandannas."

His answer was a noncommittal hum and dark eyes looked away. A moment's embarrassment passed between them as both tried not to question how the item of clothing had come to rest under the gambler's bed.

"You quite done?" Nathan asked, exasperated.

"Wait, there was something else under there." Buck scooted back under the bed, carefully avoiding the low frame. He stretched out to his full length and managed to catch the cylindrical object with his fingernails and, rolling it back a bit so that he could get a better grip on it, Buck realized it was a glass bottle. He passed it up to Nathan, who lifted the ugly-looking vessel to the light, frowning.

"Well, that explains it," said Nathan, rubbing absently at his middle.

Buck rolled his eyes. It looked like Nate had been taking lessons in being cryptic from Josiah. "Explains what? What is that?"

"The source of our problems," the healer answered and sniffed at the stopper. "Smells like Absinthe." He waggled the bottle. "It's empty. He must have drank the whole thing."

"Absinthe?"

"Uh-huhn. Devil's brew -- makes a man do terrible things. It's got wormwood in it, messes with the mind. The old Massah had a taste for it." The dirty bottle spun absently in Nathan's large, dextrous hands as he stood tall, lifting his shoulders and squaring them as if in preparation for the lash of the whip. "When he drank the stuff, he'd come out to the slave quarters and have himself some fun with one or two of the girls. Sometimes they'd come back in one piece." Nathan's gaze wavered, and Buck wondered what kind of hell the healer was seeing in his mind's eye. "He used to talk a lot of poetry and bible stuff too. Scared us young'uns something awful."

"But where the hell would Ezra get a bottle of that stuff around here... unless..."

"That spooky fellow last night," Nathan finished Buck's thought. "He gave us both the creeps, and we left Ezra alone with him."

"Well, shee-it! I can't believe I forgot about him."

Nathan nodded. "Buck, we're done here. We better go find Ezra before he goes and causes any more trouble, or gets himself shot."

Buck had to agree. They had looked and found nothing in Ezra's room to suggest that the gambler was guilty of the theft, not that they had expected to -- but it had to be done, for appearance's sake. Instead, they had found something else, a mystery unto itself, and perhaps the cause of the gambler's strange behaviour.

***7777777***

When he found out who was responsible for this mess, Vin was going to take his time turning the man's innards into outtards. He and Lenny stumbled along in an awkward dance, the tramp's staggering gait hindering their progress as they wove past six cavalry horses that were tethered outside the bathhouse. The man struggled in his grasp and Vin's muscles twinged in protest, a bolt of pain shooting up his insides taking him by surprise. The pain low in his gut had faded to a dull ache, but now it flared, reminding him of things he was trying damn hard to forget.

Vin wrapped a hand around Lenny's throat and squeezed until the man submitted to his will, then steered him to take a straighter path to where he could see Chris' dark form . The gunslinger stood in the middle of the street, out in front of the restaurant opposite Inez's saloon. Beyond Larabee, Vin could make out a stagecoach halted by the jailhouse; several mounted guards sat watch, while crates were passed out of the jail by a chain of soldiers. As he drew closer to the saloon, he was surprised to see Ezra sitting in a chair on the boardwalk, Billy Travis hovering at his elbow.

He heard Chris' voice raised, sternly addressing the boy. "Go on home, Billy."

"You ain't my pa!" Billy screamed, throwing the boot brush into the dirt at Chris' feet then running off with tears streaming down his small face.

Vin glanced at the child as he sped past, no doubt heading to the Clarion, and dragged Lenny to a halt outside the telegraph office, a distance at which he could see and hear Ezra and Chris clearly.

"My, my, Mr. Larabee," the gambler drawled. "You certainly have a way with children. Of course, it isn't as though you've had the opportunity to hone those paternal skills."

Vin didn't miss the flinch of the gunslinger's tense form.

The gambler climbed out of the chair and came to stand at the top of the steps, straightening his vest and jacket with a sharp downward tug. His head tilted at a curious angle and he smiled, a sickly sweet smile that widened into a gold-flashing grin. "It never ceases to astound me -- how you seem to inspire such loyalty, and yet continue to act in a manner most undeserving of it. Mr. Wilmington is surely a saint to have tolerated you for so many years, one wonders how he does it, or indeed why he does it. And poor misguided JD Dunne: a puppy dog chasing you for your attention, feeding your ego with undying adulation, taking on the job as sheriff so that he could prove himself to you. Yet when he made a terrible mistake you turned your back on him, left him to the wolves, allowed him to be herded out of town in shame and guilt. What kind of leader would do that?"

Chris' jaw tightened, the rapid pulse flickering in the side of his temple, his mouth pursed into a thin, grim line.

"You saw the worst in Josiah -- believed him to be capable of bloody murder, despite having had him fight at your side for close to two years. Why is that? Hmmm? Because, perhaps you know just what a man is capable of when under the influence of the bottled spirits. What horrors have you committed whilst drunk out of your tiny skull, Mr. Larabee? One can only imagine that they are bloody and myriad."

Shut up, Ezra, Vin prayed fervently. Shut up, shut up, shut up.

Footsteps scurried and doors slammed shut, the gathered crowd having sped for safety when Chris moved to face Ezra in a shootist's stance. Vin knew without looking that within a matter of seconds lace curtains would be twitching up and down the street; faces at windows pressing close to get the best view, willing to risk a stray bullet as though the glass would protect them, just for a glimpse of what promised to be the event of the decade.

Ezra continued his sermon, unperturbed by the fact that his audience had dwindled, ticking off the points against his fingers. "You jealously condemned Mr. Tanner for his actions during our ride with the wagon train, as though he were your possession. You also contrived for Mrs. Travis to miss her chance at having a happy family with a man who clearly doted on her, despite having shown no intention of doing right by her yourself. You make sanctimonious comments about Mr. Wilmington's private life -- yet you frequently visit with whores. You associated with a demented woman who killed your own family and nearly killed us, and allowed her to get away. You then had the nerve to return to Four Corners, intending to continue your advances on Mrs. Travis."

Vin groaned inwardly. Chris' weight had shifted forward slightly, the man digging himself in, ready for battle.

Further south down the street, there came the jingle of a store bell and Vin saw JD exit Potter's store, a panicked-looking Casey on his heels. Her voice was raised in a petulant whine, but JD was ignoring her. Abruptly the young man stopped as he took in the scene before him, and he spun to shush the girl back inside the store, making sure the door had shut firmly before continuing up the boardwalk. His pace picked up as he passed behind Chris, who was standing a few feet away in the street, and didn't take his eyes from the gunslinger's back until he got as far as the telegraph office, where he stepped down from the boardwalk to stand beside Vin and his captive. JD's gaze wavered between Chris and Ezra who, despite standing a good distance apart, appeared to be joined by a thrumming tight line of tension, facing off against each other in a world of their own.

Ezra paced up and down in short bursts, spinning on his heel, then pacing again; all the time his feverish eyes were fixed on Chris, who watched him, arms crossed and deathly motionless. The gambler gesticulated wildly as he continued his tirade. "You live a life of violence, hiding behind the excuse that you lost your family, in what we have all heard, ad nauseum, to have been a tragic and painful incident -- their fragile lives snuffed out while you were gadding about, no doubt fucking the brains out of some nameless whore."

JD's hands rested nervously on the butts of his guns. Wide, brown eyes turned to Vin, desperation and indecision in their depths.

"Get Buck," Vin hissed.

"I don't know where he is," JD hissed back.

"Find him," Vin ground out, bettering his grip on the tramp who was struggling against him.

This was going to end badly, no matter how Vin looked at it.

He already knew there was something seriously wrong with Ezra, the crazy light shone in his beautiful eyes with a terrifying brilliance, and Chris looked madder and more deadly than Vin had ever seen him. Someone was going to end up injured or worse -- a worse he could barely acknowledge -- either his best friend or his lover, and there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn't draw his gun, because his arms were still full restraining Lenny, and even if he could, what would he do? How was he supposed to choose between the two men -- one he considered the older brother he never had; and the other, well, he wasn't even sure what to call Ezra. He just knew they couldn't part like this, not after what had happened. Not without getting things back to how they were supposed to be.

There was that play Ezra wanted him to see due in Eagle Bend in a few weeks. Vin had never seen a play before and had been looking forward to them sharing the experience, being able to spend time alone with the gambler without raising suspicion amongst their friends. It had been easy, and entertaining in its own right, to arrange for him to publicly lose a bet to Ezra, attending the play set as his 'payment'. How could he contemplate sitting and listening to those worlds being brought to life by the voices of strangers, if that sweet southern drawl was lost to him forever?

"Well, you know what, Mr. Larabee?" Ezra continued, his southern drawl far from sweet. "There isn't one of us here who hasn't lost someone. Not one of us unfamiliar with the pain of loss, the emptiness of grief. We all have known that torment, yet we did not become soulless killers, with all the morals and social charms of a rattlesnake."

Vin watched in alarm as Ezra's eyes swam and lost focus as he tottered down the steps. Edging closer to Chris, roughly pushing Lenny's head down out of his line of sight so he could keep his eyes on Ezra, he could practically feel the rage pouring off of the gunslinger.

Ezra stepped down off the bottom step, now a matter of yards from Chris. "I think it's just about time you accepted the fact that you, Mr. Larabee, are quite simply a cold-hearted, murderous bastard."

Chris glared at Ezra and the air between them sung with expectation, the way it did just before a thunderstorm. But there was no storm coming. The day was bright -- falsely bright to Vin's eyes. A mockery that bad things only happened when it was dark or stormy. The scene in front of him was seared onto his brain with the force of the glaring sun: Chris' dark form, so black it seemed to be a man-shaped hole that looked into a realm of absolute night; Ezra for his part burning as bright as the sun itself, auburn hair reflecting the golden rays, strands of silver in his vest gleaming a dazzling web across his front, green eyes radiating emerald fire out of his shining face.

The gambler snorted derisively at Chris' attempt to intimidate him. "I am afraid your cockatrice powers have no effect on me."

The black duster slowly tucked behind his holster, hand hovering over the pearl-handle grip, Chris took a threatening step toward Ezra, eyes narrowing to angry slits as his head tilted in the familiar 'did you just call me a cowboy' gesture. Vin tensed and cursed under his breath.

"What did you call me?"

"Cockatrice. Basilisk. Medusa. Take your pick, you ignorant blockhead." Ezra drew his Remington and released his Derringer; both guns trembled minutely in shaky, pale hands.

"You going to shoot me, Standish?" Chris scoffed, then blinked as sweat trickled down his brow. "You can't even see straight."

"Do not concern yourself, Mr. Larabee. I have two guns. One for each of you." And with that, the muzzles rose to take aim.

From the corner of his eye, Vin saw Chris' gun start to clear leather and time wound down to a snail's pace -- the work-worn hand closing around the pearl-handled grip; the thumb that caressed the hammer, drawing it to click back; the barrel slowly becoming unsheathed; and in that moment, everything became clear to Vin. The truth hit him with the force of a runaway stage. So simple, so sudden and crystal in its clarity that it forced the air right out of him, the implications that followed creating a chasm that opened up beneath his feet and for a second he felt as though he were suspended over that infinite drop. Vin made his decision. Freeing his grip on Lenny, he threw himself at the gunslinger.

***7777777***

"Damn!"

Buck turned to see the gnarled bottle fall from Nathan's hand, smashing on the hard wood floor in a shower of glass shards. Blood dripped from a nasty looking cut on his finger.

He was stopped short in his move toward the healer when a volley of shots echoed from outside, deafeningly loud and too close for comfort.

Buck was out the door and taking the saloon steps two at a time, racing down them, the heavy thudding of Nathan's boots accompanied his own. He hit the batwing doors at a full tilt, smashing through them in time to see Vin tackle Chris to the floor across the street. Buck skidded to a halt when he saw the motionless gambler lying face-first in the dirt at the foot of the boardwalk.

Nathan pushed bodily past him and dropped to his knees by the awkwardly-fallen form, grabbing a green-wool-covered shoulder and carefully turning the man over onto his back. A pale and clammy face turned up to the sky, slack and unmoving.

"What the hell did you do!"

The tracker's raised angry voice snapped Buck out of his daze. Vin was shaking Chris by the lapels of his duster, holding him partially upright as the gunslinger blinked widely, loose-limbed, his colt held in a lax grip by his side as he sat, long legs sprawled on the ground.

"What the hell did you do?" Vin dropped Chris with a snarl.

"He ain't shot," Nathan called to them. "But he's got a high fever. I think he just passed out."

Buck squatted by his old friend's side, resting a hand on one black-clad shoulder. "You all right in there, Chris?"

Chris nodded, and clicked down the hammer on his gun, shock wearing off and anger setting in. "I didn't shoot him, Buck," he snapped.

He helped the gunslinger to his feet, keeping one eye on Vin, warning the tracker with a look to stay back. "I know, pard. I know."

The wooden post behind Chris' head now bore two bullet holes. Strange, but from the angle it looked as though they would have missed the gunslinger, and Buck had never known Ezra to miss. Chris wouldn't have. Not at that distance.

Buck watched with concern as Vin wiped a shaky hand down his face and turned away, slowly regaining his composure. When he returned his gaze to them, it was with an expression of contrition.

Lenny took their momentary distraction as a chance to escape, but he only managed a few unsteady strides before he was grabbed by Vin and dragged roughly back to stand in front of Chris. The tracker reached into one of the deep pockets of the man's buffalo-hide coat and held up the tramp's purse, which jingled as he shook it.

"Any idea where Lenny'd get hold of this sort of money?"

Chris took the purse and tipped the contents out into his upturned palm. He fixed the tramp with a fierce look. "Who gave you this?"

Lenny wriggled in Vin's grip, but he was held fast, no power or co-ordination in his drunken limbs. He shook his head from side to side, mouth pressed into a thin line, eyes wide as he kept one on Chris' slow and deliberate approach.

"I asked you a question."

"Chris," Buck said. "Let up a minute there pard." He moved to stand in front of Lenny, ignoring the annoyed huff from Chris as the gunslinger stalked away.

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Larabee crouch by the fallen gambler, talking to Nathan as the healer ran experienced hands over the crumpled form. Turning back to Lenny, he let his voice drop into a friendly conspiratorial tone. "Don't you mind ol' Chris. He's just got a bee up his ass 'cause he nearly shot a friend. Do you know who gave you that money?"

The tramp struggled weakly against his captor again.

"Vin, let him go," Buck said, but the tracker wasn't listening, his gaze fixed over Buck's shoulder. "Vin."

Sky-blue eyes turned to him, focussing slowly. "What?"

"Let him go."

Vin released the tramp and took a step back; his stance remained alert while his attention went back to Nathan's ministrations.

"You can have it back," Buck reassured the man. "You ain't in any trouble -- we just want to know who gave it to ya."

Lenny looked puzzled, alcohol-induced dementia clouding his memory. Then his eyes went narrow and he pointed over Buck's shoulder. "Him," he stated firmly.

Buck spun to see Sebley watching them from where he stood outside the bank. As he registered Buck's gaze, and saw Lenny's accusing finger held straight at him, his eyes widened and he started to back up, looking like a cornered animal.

"Sebley," spat Vin, his tone so cold it made even Buck shiver.

"But he was right there behind me, Vin," Buck insisted. "There's no way in Hell that stupid little piggy stole it. God, you think I might have noticed his pockets full of gold ingots, for Christ's sake? He would have clanked when he ran!"

"He threw it out the window, then went back and got it later," Vin stated.

Buck recalled the previous afternoon and how Sebley had been a few steps behind him. How he hadn't noticed how furtive the shifty little shit had been behaving, sweaty and agitated, believing it to be the man's poor health and the effect on it of his recent sprint. How Sebley had refused to even look at Lenny -- which Buck had thought was because he was repulsed by the senile old fart, when in fact he hadn't wanted to spark recognition in the tramp's addlepated mind, fearing he might say something incriminating.

With swiftly growing anger, he remembered how Sebley had berated him for leaving the gold unattended and shooed him back to the jailhouse -- of course, in hindsight, to remove him from Lenny and his loose tongue -- and just how guilty he had been made to feel when they found the cell door open and the pile of gold several ingots short.

"I do believe," Buck said slowly, "that I am going to kill him." Then he took off at a sprint after the bank manager's dwindling form, waving and shouting a string of curses.

The End