Author's notes: This is set after Kelly's wonderful story Fire Bug. She was kind enough to let me write a sequel. Also, this is my first Mag 7 story, but I hope you guys like it. I would love it if you let me know if you did (or if you didn't) Un-betaed, so all mistakes are mine. Enjoy!

[ = dream sequence / = internal thought * = italicized words

He couldn't breathe. Driven to his knees by the young firestarter, he desperately tried to suck in some clean air. The sharp blow to his stomach had forced the breath from his lungs, and now it was all he could do to draw even heavy smoke into them.

Time stood still and everything was perfectly clear this time around in a way it hadn't been in actuality. He could feel the sharp edges of straw digging throught the knees of his trousers. It bit into his right palm where he leaned on the ground for balance. The heat of the growing blaze washed over him in waves, soot streaked his face, tears stung his eyes. He could hear the crackle of the flames, the whinny of horses outside the stables. Ezra prayed his horse--the only companion he'd ever trusted explicitly--had gotten out safely; with the combination of tears and smoke to hamper his vision, he couldn't see well enough to be sure he had.

But he could see the culprit look, startled, over Ezra's shoulder and exit through a nearby window. He was about to turn to see what had frightened him--hoping it was one of his compatriots--when he heard an audible crack. Fear sliced through him like a knife, wedging itself firmly in his heart. He looked up and, despite the immense heat, he went cold, frozen to immobility by the sight of a large wooden beam, alive with writhing flames that danced and flickered, falling toward him. He could only watch as the beam seemed to take an eternity to make its journey. The last thing he was aware of was an agonized scream, not conscious enough to realize it was his own.>

Ezra awoke with a start, sitting bolt up right in his bed. His heart pounded against his ribs and his breath came in great gasps, as if he actually had been back in the smokefilled stable again. Hastily tossing the tangled bedcovers aside, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He put his face in his trembling hands and took several unsteady gulps of air. /Damn it. Not again,/ he thought angrily. This was the fifth time he'd had the exact same dream in the last week. No, not dream: nightmare.

Disgusted with himself, he got up and strode over to the dresser where a porcelain basin was kept along with a pitcher of water. Pouring a little in the bowl, he roughly scrubbed the weariness from his face and raked his damp fingers through his brown hair. He caught his reflection in the mirror but quickly turned away. Instead, he looked around his room. It was almost dawn. Through his window he could see the dark sky turning gray in the east. His room was dark but for the faint lights the lanterns on the street gave off.

Reluctantly he turned back to the mirror atop his dresser. Dark circles had recently taken residence beneath his green eyes which, usually bright with plans for conning some ignorant individual out of his hard-earned cash, were now bloodshot and gritty. His hair, usually immaculately groomed, was in disarray from sleeping, and the rough feel of whiskers on his cheeks was in contrast with his normal cleanshaven appearance.

Ezra straightened up. He wasn't going to be able to go back to sleep again--this he knew from experience--so he'd get dressed and go down to the saloon. This had become his routine when the nightmares struck. He'd go downstairs where it was deserted at such an early hour and play solitaire for a while. The simple act of holding a deck of cards in his hands was usually enough to calm his nerves enough to be able to start the day and fool the other six lawmen he worked with. It had been a month since the...accident. They believed that Ezra was--while not completely recovered--at least coping with what had happened. And he had no intention of telling his well-meaning friends about the vivid dreams he was having. There was nothing they could do, and Ezra Standish really did not want to talk about them.

Picking up a crisply ironed white shirt, Ezra inadvertantly caught a glimpse of the scars on his back. They were sufficiently healed that he didn't need Nathan's poultice any more, but they were tender to touch, and there were times they still stung fiercely. He'd taken to leaving his coat behind when he went places. The weight of the fine material was too uncomfortable, no matter how much he dreaded going about in just his shirtsleeves and vest. Fixing his trusty Derringer to his arm in its little spring-release holster, he then pulled the shirt on and buttoned it. He'd already had his trousers on when he went to bed the night before, so he merely shoved his feet into his boots and strapped his gun around his waist. *Always be prepared* was something he'd learned during his life.

In a few more minutes, Ezra came out of his room, hair combed, cleanshaven, and his vest smartly adjusted. He made his way down the staircase that led to the saloon below. Outside, the town was coming to life as the sun broke over the horizon. In less than an hour the establishment would be packed full of hungry men. Until then, however, he had the place to himself. Grabbing a bottle of whiskey and a glass, he headed for a table in the back where he could see the main entrance. Sinking into a hard wooden chair, he placed his hat and the bottle on the table. He downed the first drink in one gulp, then sipped the second as he stretched his legs out and set his feet on the table.

Chris Larabee tipped his black hat to Mrs. Clark, the grocer's wife, as they passed on the street. It was early in the morning and he was headed for the saloon for some breakfast and a little something to drink. Glancing at the sky as he climbed the steps to the boardwalk, he noted the clouds moving in. For the last few weeks there's been a real dry spell. The rain would be welcomed by many, especially the ranchers who needed green gass to feed their livestock.

He pushed through the swinging doors and paused a moment, letting his eyes adjust. It was dark inside, darker than usual. Only one lantern was lit. It cast a weak glow, and most of the room was in shadows. Heading towards the bar, he didn't know anyone was in the room with him until he heard a chair scraping against the wooden floor. He turned, one hand straying to his gun. "Who's there?" he barked, trying to see through the gloom.

He relaxed when he saw Ezra walking towards him, a half empty bottle in one hand. "Ezra," Chris said, "what're you doin' here so early?" He watched as the gambler set the bottle on the bar, then proceeded to light another lantern. The room became noticeably brighter.

"Merely enjoying the solitude of the early hour, Mr. Larabee," Ezra replied. He reached behind the bar and brought forth a tin full of biscuits. He settled back at his table, then looked up at Larabee. "Breakfast?"

Chris nodded slightly and pulled out a chair opposite Standish. He took an offered biscuit and tasted it. Stale, but better than nothing. As he ate, he snuck a glance at his breakfast companion. The gambler had circles under his eyes, but Chris knew he'd been up late in a poker game. He seemed to Chris to be recovering quickly from his ordeal.

After a few more biscuits, he got up to scrounge for some coffee. He couldn't find any, so he settled for a swig of rye. He left Ezra shuffling a deck of cards and stepped back out on the street. He wanted to go scout the area. There'd been rumors of cattle rustling up north, so he thought he'd ride for a bit and see if he found anything suspicious.

"Mr. Larabee! Larabee!" Chris spun around as he heard his name called. A horse was riding hard down the town's main street. The rider, a young man with curly black hair, reined in his mount and hopped down. Chris recognized him as Rudy Payton, a cowpuncher at the Triple A ranch.

He approached the young man, curious. "What's wrong?"

Rudy took several deep breaths. "There's trouble at the Triple A. The boss caught three men stealing his cattle. They sure shot up a storm. Bailey's dead and Jake Stone's been shot up bad. The rustlers took off, headed east."

When the man had finished, Chris already knew his decision. He'd have to go after them. With Buck and JD off at Eagle Bend, Josiah and Nathan at the Indian village, and Vin who-knows-where, the only ones left to go after the killers were him and Ezra. He turned his attention back to Payton. "All right. You send someone to the Indian village to get Nathan, then tell the others what's goin' on whenever they get back, OK?"

Payton nodded and Chris ran back to the saloon. Ezra stood in the doorway, apparently having heard the approaching rider. He wore a questioning look on his face. "May I inquire as to what is goin' on?" he drawled.

"Get your horse," Chris ordered. He strode to the stable, leaving Ezra to follow. "Rustlers shot up the Triple A. Killed one man, hurt another. We're going after 'em."

Ezra frowned as he said, "I see. And just how many of these atrocious criminals are there?"

"Three."

Within minutes their horses were saddled and ready to ride. Chris and Ezra filled their saddlebags with extra food and ammunition, and their canteens with cool water. Larabee's black duster swirled around him as he swiftly climbed atop his mount. Ezra tied his coat and bedroll behind his saddle, then did the same. They left Four Corners at a gallop, their horses leaving behind plumes of dust to cloud the air and, eventually, settle.

Half an hour later, the two lawmen reached the Triple A. Fifteen minutes after that, they were headed east, following the trail the killers left behind.

The sky had grown increasingly ominous. The clouds were heavy with rain and the air was hot and humid. They had followed the tracks northeast for the last hour, but had lost them at a narrow stream. Ezra sat upon his horse, watching as Larabee crouched near the stream, peering left and right in the gray light.

"It is a shame Mr. Tanner was unavailable. I'm sure with his knack for discerning tracks he'd know which way the culprits have gone," said Ezra. His shirt was damp with sweat, and he grimaced in discomfort as he peeled the cloth from his back. Larabee's back was still to Ezra, though, and he didn't notice.

Chris straightened up and swung back onto his horse. "Probably," he said. He clucked to his horse and turned right, west. "This way."

Ezra tugged on his horse's reins and the animal turned obediently, starting off after the other man.

Larabee continued searching the ground and the stream with his eyes. He was only guessing the three men had taken this direction. It was as good a guess as any, though, considering the only thing east of the stream was flat land with no cover. To the west and north was Devil's Ridge, a wide spread of lava, created milennia ago by some active volcano. They were treacherous to walk on, but tracks left there were difficult to see on the lava. Plus, there were all sorts of caves hidden in the jutting cliffsides. Probably even some nobody had ever explored.

They traveled another three or four miles before they reached the edge of the lava rock. The going was slow because they had to strain their eyes in the gray light for any clue of recent passage. Aside from a broken twig here, and a scuff mark there, there really wasn't much to go on. Chris hoped they'd catch up with the rustlers soon. If the storm broke before they did, any of the meager clues left behind would be obliterated. Then they'd never find them. And that just wasn't an option. Chris Larabee intended to see justice doled out to the murderers.

The first fat rain drop splattered on the back of his hand. Chris glanced at the sky, then turned around in his saddle to address Ezra. "We'd better find some shelter. The storm's just about here, an' it's gonna be a big one. There should be a cave somewhere up ahead." Inwardly, he fumed at the idea the killers would get even farther away while he and Ezra waited out the storm. But it was too dangerous to try and make their way across the lava in the pouring rain.

The rain was coming down hard by the time they found an opening in the cliffside big enough for both them and their horses. Water ran down their hats like miniature waterfalls. The interior of the cave was an inky black; they couldn't even see how far back the shelter stretched.

Ezra led his horse in as far as he dared without knowing where he was stepping. Chaucer whinnied softly, not liking the darkness. He quieted down, though, when the southerner rubbed the animal's nose. Standish turned and was about to say something to Larabee, when the sudden flare of a match being lit blinded him.

Surprised, he took a step back, bumping into Chaucer, and raised his arm to protect his eyes from the brightness. Suddenly, the cave was filled with popping and crackling flames. They climbed higher and higher along the stone walls, flickering shadows dancing around the walls, the floor, the ceiling. Ezra stumbled backwards in shock. He looked frantically around him for a way out but the cave entrance had disappeared. So had Larabee. He was surrounded by a wall of fire. /This can't be happening; this isn't real./ But the smoke that choked him and seared his throat sure felt real, the heat that rushed over him sure felt real. And the flames that licked at his clothes felt damn real.

"Ezra? Ezra!" He heard a voice calling his name. The sound was distorted, as if it came from a great distance, but it was familiar at the same time. Gasping for air where he believed there to be none, Ezra suddenly realized that his eyes were squeezed shut. And just as suddenly, the heat from the raging inferno around him disappeared. All he could hear was the pounding of the rain--and his heart--and the the voice insistantly calling out to him. "Ezra? Snap out of it!" And there was a hand on his shoulder, shaking him.

Ezra snapped his eyes open and looked directly into Chris Larabee's concerned face. A faint glow came from a lantern Larabee had lit. Aside from that soft glow, the cave was dark. There was no fire.

Larabee dropped his hand as Standish stepped back. "You okay, Ezra? What happened?" he asked.

Ezra shook his head. How could he answer that? How could he explain the flashback? How vivid, how real it was? Instead, he settled for half an answer. "I assure you, Mr. Larabee, I am quite all right." He snatched his poncho from the back of his saddle and headed for the entrance. "If you will excuse me for a moment, it's a little stuffy in here." He ducked out through the entrance into the driving rain.

He didn't know where he was headed, but he knew he had to get away for a little while. To sort things out. To get his head on straight. To get his racing heart under control. He'd slipped his rain slicker over his clothes, but he became instantly drenched. The driving rain pounded mercilessly upon his shoulders, the ground. Each individual droplet splashed upward again when it hit the rough lava, then streamed down every crack and crevasse.

Stopping about a hundred yards from the cave, he came upon a scraggly bush wedged in a crack in the rockface. Pausing with his back to the rock, Ezra let himself slide down until he sat on the ground with his knees drawn up. A slight overhang offered him some protection from the wind and the rain, but not much. He sat there, arms crossed over knees, staring up into the steel-gray sky.

Chris reined in his mount and stepped down from his saddle. He led the horse through the dark entrance of the cave he'd found. He was wet, hungry, and angry at not being able to pursue the three killers any longer. He saw Ezra lead his horse inside as well. It was a little crowded, but once he'd started a fire they'd be able to spread out a little more.

He stripped his horse of saddlebags and bedroll and set them on the ground. He'd packed a small lantern before they left Four Corners, and now he dug it out. Once he had the lantern, he fished aound in his pockets for a dry match. /Ah ha! Found one,/ he thought. He was crouched on the back of his heels, facing Standish, and saw him turn towards him just as the match flared to life.

Larabee was stunned, to say the least, when Standish stumbled backwards and threw his arm up. At first he thought Ezra might've tripped, or saw a snake, or something. But the gambler just leaned into his horse, eyes shut, breathing hard.

Chris stood up in alarm. "Ezra? What's wrong?" he asked. The other man didn't answer, in fact, didn't seem to even hear him. Larabee was concerned now. In three quick strides, he was beside Ezra. But he didn't know what to do. "Ezra? Ezra!" No reaction. He placed a hand on Standish's right shoulder and shook him gently. When that produced no results, he continued to shake harder. "Ezra? Snap out of it!"

Relief washed through him when at last Ezra opened his eyes. He'd been worried. He let go as Ezra moved away, confusion evident on his face. "You okay, Ezra? What happened?" he asked, hoping for a reaction this time.

Standish paused a moment, looking around the cave as if searching for something. When he finally answered, his voice was even. "I assure you, Mr. Larabee, I am quite all right." That he was lying through his teeth was pretty obvious. But before Chris could call him on it, the other man was headed outside. "If you will excuse me for a moment, it's a little stuffy in here." And without a backward glance, he dashed out into the driving rain.

Chris stood there for a moment. What the hell was the matter with Ezra? He'd been fine the whole ride. Then the instant he'd lit the match, he'd freaked... Damn! He mentally cursed himself as he finally put two and two together. The match. The fire. Damn.

"How could I be so stupid?" he muttered to himself. Taking a moment to make sure the horses would stay put, he grabbed the lantern and went out into the rain after Ezra. It didn't take him long to find Ezra. The gambler was sitting with his back to the cliff. His silver flask glinted in his hand as he took a sip. Chris approached quietly, not saying a word as he sat down beside him. Ezra didn't look at him, didn't acknowledge his presence. He just continued to stare into space.

A moment passed, and Chris wondered if he should say anything. He decided to start with something simple. "Want to talk 'bout it?" He didn't look at Ezra; instead, he fixed his gaze on a scraggly tree ten yards away.

Silently, Standish raised his flask to his lips and took a long draught. After several minutes--Chris wasn't sure how many--he spoke. His voice was low and rough; Chris had to strain to hear him over the sounds of the storm. "There's nothin' to talk about, Mr. Larabee," he stated.

Larabee snorted impatiently. "Sure. Nothin' wrong. That's why you freaked out back there." He paused. "Was it the fire?" Silence. Irritated, Chris started to rise. He stopped when Ezra finally spoke again.

"It inspired a rather...vivid...hallucination." Chris sank back to the ground. "It was... The cave was on fire... The entrance had disappeared. I couldn't breathe...," Ezra's voice trailed off, evidently lost in his reverie.

Chris waited patiently. This was something Ezra needed to talk about, no matter how much he didn't want to. For a brief moment, Chris thought of Sarah and Adam. About how they'd been burned in that fire years ago. He himself had never been burned badly. He couldn't imagine what Ezra was going through.

"Has it happened before?" Larabee asked.

"Never during the day."

"Nightmares?"

Ezra nodded. He took another swig from his flask, then offered it to Larabee. Chris accepted it, took a drink of the smooth brandy, then handed it back. "It's basically the same one, with some minor variations. I'm on my knees, trying to breathe. But the smoke is so thick, it burns my throat...my lungs. I see Hendricks. He goes out the window. Then I hear a crack, look up, and then I wake up." Ezra stopped, his speech jerky, then continued with his confession. "Sometimes, though, the dream goes further. I can feel the flames consuming me, and the air is so thick I can't even scream." He shuddered and fell silent, staring at his hands in his lap.

Chris didn't say anything. He studied the other man. Water streamed from his hair, down his face, down his poncho, mixed with the water already soaking his clothes. Chris recalled how just that morning he'd assumed the circles under Ezra's eyes were from playing cards all night. Now he knew better. They were the results of tormenting dreams, something he was quite familiar with.

Rain poured down the brim of Chris's hat, too. He turned his gaze to the horizon, trying to find the words to help Standish. The two men hadn't started off on the right foot. Chris had been furious at Ezra that time when he'd run off on him and the others. He'd been ready to shoot him. Probably would have if Ezra hadn't come back to help in the end. After that, they'd been civil to each other but not close. As time passed, though, and Ezra had proven that he could be reliable and at times even decent, Chris had grudgingly admitted his respect for the southerner's abilities with his guns and his words. He even more grudgingly acknowledged to himself that he considered Ezra a friend, part of the team. Now Ezra needed his help, and Chris hoped to find the right words to say to give him some comfort.

"You know," he began, "there are people that care 'bout ya. Josiah, Nathan, Buck, Vin, JD. Hell, even me." He saw Ezra's surprised look from the corner of his eye. "An' if ya can't talk to one of us, who can you talk to? What I'm tryin' to say is, you can trust us enough to tell what's goin' on with you if ya feel the need to. We're your friends."

"Thank you, Chris. That was...quite nice of you to say so," Ezra said softly.

"Okay then," Chris said. He slapped a hand on his knee and stood up. Reaching a hand down to the gambler, he said, "You ready to get out of this rain? Don't know about you, but I'm pretty damn cold standing out here."

Ezra smiled a smile Chris knew was sincere and took the offered hand. Chris pulled him to his feet, and the two men made their way back to the cave and their horses.

An hour later, the storm was winding down. The rain came down in a steady fall, but nowhere near as bad as before. The clouds weren't as ominous, either, changing from gunmetal gray to a lighter shade of gray.

Chris had built a fire in the cave--a small one out of deference to Ezra--out of some dry twigs and grasses in found in the far corner. Larabee sat on his heels by the warmth, trying to dry his clothes. He was marginally successful. His boots were dry, but his black duster was damp as was his shirt.

Once he'd gotten the fire started, he'd pulled out the sack of coffee he kept in his saddlebag. Now the dark brew was just about done. He filled up two tin mugs, then walked over to where Ezra was sitting--well away from the small blaze--and handed him one of the cups. The gambler nodded his thanks and set down the deck of cards he'd been shuffling. He took a sip of his coffee, then another. "I believe it needs something," he said. Smiling, he again took out his silver flask and poured a little of its contents into his cup. "Would you care for some, Mr. Larabee?" he asked, holding it up.

Chris shook his head. After a moment or two of silence, he looked at Ezra again. "The rain's almost stopped. We'd better head out soon."

"And how, pray tell, are we going to find any traces of the three men?" Ezra asked, curious.

"I got a hunch I know where they're goin'."

Chris dumped the dregs of his coffee into the fire; it snapped and crackled briefly in response. When no further information was forthcoming, Ezra got to his feet. "Well," he drawled, "are you planning on enlightening me anytime soon? Or will you make me guess?"

"There's a canyon about fifteen miles north. There's a ghost town there. Been abandoned 'bout a year now. Outlaws been known to hide out there. It's hid real well. They'll probably hole up thereabouts, then when things've settled make a break for the border," As Chris explained, he put away the cups and coffee pot. He swung the saddlebag on his horse and secured it, then tightened the cinch on his saddle. He'd loosened it a while ago to give the animal a break.

Ezra followed suit and readied Chaucer for travel. "You mean Aburrido," he said casually.

Chris stopped, surprised. He turned to face Standish. "How do you know Aburrido?"

"Let's just say I've occasionally had the need for a remote location where I would not be found easily."

Larabee held up a hand to stall anymore words. "Nevermind," he stated, a small smile turning the corners of his mouth, "I don't wanna know."

"Whoa, there," Ezra said as he drew Chaucer to a halt. He and Chris sat on their horses, looking down at the abandoned ghost town. Aburrido. It meant dry. /Not entirely suitable at the moment,/ Ezra thought wryly. From where they sat, they could see the whole bottom of the canyon was covered in mud. The rains had finally stopped and the skies had cleared, but the results would take a little longer to disappear.

No horses were present, although the mud was churned up in places. "They've been here," Chris observed.

"Maybe they still are."

"We'll just have to be careful goin' down." Chris turned his horse away from the edge. "There should be a trail someplace close."

Ezra pushed his hat back on his head. Earlier, he'd donned his green jacket, and the late afternoon sun was uncomfortably warm on his shoulders despite the recent storms. He held the reins in one hand and crossed both arms over the saddlehorn. "Perhaps I should lead the way, seeing as how I am more familiar with the terrain. I know the right path to reach our destination. Inaccessable to those who don't know about it." Larabee made a be-my-guest gesture, and Ezra took the lead.

Larabee followed as Standish walked his mount along the edge of the cliff for a couple hundred yards. They were above the ghost town at a slightly different angle now. The main street was plainly visible, as was the front of the hotel and livery.

Upon reaching the trail, they discovered it was clogged with mud. /Of course. Should have expected that,/ Ezra thought. /No matter, we'll walk./ He turned to Chris and said, "We'll have to dismount and lead the horses down. Otherwise they'd slip. And I, for one, do not wish to have my neck broken."

Chris nodded in agreement.

They headed down, Ezra in the lead. He held Chaucer's reins with a firm grip, making sure the animal kept its footing. The mud was a foot deep at places and dragged at Ezra's boots, threatening to pull them off with each step. The trail was narrow and steep, but had plenty of cover. On one side was a wall of trees and rocks. On the other was a drop of about twenty feet. Probably not enough to kill him if he were to fall, but definitely enough to do some damage.

He kept up a litany of complaints, knowing full well Larabee could hear him, even though he spoke quietly. "Ruined. This blasted mud will never come out. Do you know how much this suit cost? You don't want to know, trust me. Now I'll have to throw them all away. And my boots! For heaven's sake! These were a gift from Mother."

All of a sudden the ground under his left foot slid out from under him, tossing him off balance. He teetered near the edge of the drop off for an adrenaline pumping second before he tugged on the reins still in his grasp and righted himself. Releasing a sharp breath, he regained his footing and cast a glance back at Larabee. The gunslinger was watching him, amused. Disgruntled, Ezra decided to shut up and concentrate on reaching the bottom of the canyon in one piece.

It was a short time later before the two reached the bottom of the incline. There, they tied the horses to the low branches of a mesquite tree. Next, they surveyed the area, searching for any sign of the outlaws. After determining there was no one lying in wait, they cautiously made their way to the back of the general store, the nearest building.

They edged their way along the side of the building towards the main street.

"I don't see anybody," Chris said. His hat hung down his back and his duster was open. He held his gun in his right hand, ready for trouble.

Ezra silently agreed with him. Scanning the empty street, all he could see was the dilapidated fronts of the hotel, livery, and telegraph office. The setting sun came down at a slant, the golden light bouncing off the glass of the filthy windows. Something caught his eye--a quick flash. It looked like Larabee didn't notice it. Ezra narrowed his gaze, again scanning the buildings. There! The upper floor of the livery. Through the window...something there. His eyes widened as he realized what it was. Light glinting off a rifle barrel. And they were right in the line of fire. Ezra reacted instantaneously. He shouted a warning and pushed Larabee aside, just as a bullet rushed through where they'd been standing.

They slammed into the side of the general store and pressed their backs to the wall, striving to remain out of sight of the gunman. "Well," Ezra stated sardonically, "there goes that theory." He drew his gun from its holster on his hip. He snuck a peek around the corner and fired off a shot in the direction of the livery window, which drew more gunfire.

Larabee did some quick thinking while Ezra was busy shooting at the outlaw. When the gambler stopped, Chris turned to face him. "You keep him busy. I'll circle around the livery and get the drop on him."

Ezra looked dubiously at him. "No disrespect intended, but are you sure that's wise? Who knows where his friends are?'

Chris checked his gun, knowing it was full but doing it anyway. He quirked a grin at Standish. "Don't worry about me. You just keep him distracted," he said.

Leaving Standish, Chris circled around the back of the general store. He made his way to the opposite side of the stable, Ezra keeping the shooter distracted. When Chris was in place, and knew the outlaw in the livery couldn't see him, he sent a signal to Ezra saying he was going in. He slowly eased through the rear door.

Inside, he surveyed the room. The ten stalls were empty, no horses having been there in a long while. A lantern set upon a barrel cast an orange glow, not visible from the outside. Chris stood directly beneath the hayloft; he heard the roar of the man's rifle as he let loose another bullet. With his gun in his hand, he cautiously climbed the loft ladder. His feet made the slightest whisper against the floor, but the outlaw was too busy to hear the sound. The man's back was to Larabee, his attention on the street below. Walking to a point a few yards behind him, Chris aimed his gun squarely at his back.

"You better put it down right now, mister," he said.

He saw the outlaw's form stiffen at his words. The man slowly turned around and Chris got a good look at his features. He was slender, wiry, a face full of angles and shadows. Dark brown eyes peered out from beneath thick dark hair, which could've been brown or black. It was hard to tell in the gloom. "Who are you?" the man sneered.

Chris moved forward a few steps, weapon still trained on the man. "I'm part of the law in Four Corners. And you're under arrest."

Without warning, the man surged forward and swung the barrel of his rifle around with enough force to knock Larabee's gun out of his hand. It went skittering across the floor and disappeared over the edge of the loft. Chris was ready, though, when the man lunged for him, and he quickly stepped out of his oncoming path. Throwing a quick punch to the man's midsection, he followed that with an uppercut to the jaw. The man stumbled, but he quickly regained his balance. The ease with which he righted himself told Chris the man was no stranger to fighting.

The two men circled each other, searching for any apparent weaknesses. Larabee feinted to the right and tried to get in a good gut punch, but the man blocked him. The two exchanged blows, but none doing any real damage. Chris got knocked down and managed to pull his opponent down with him. The two grappled on the hay-covered floor, rolling dangerously close to the edge of the loft. One more roll and one more blow, and Chris felt himself falling to the ground below. He landed with a thud, his breath driven from his lungs, and his head connecting sharply with the ground. The sound of glass breaking somewhere brought him back to his senses. Stars danced before his eyes, but he roughly shook them away. He sucked oxygen back into his lungs as he struggled to his feet. /Damn. Gonna be hurtin' tomorrow,/ he predicted. That made him mad. Really mad.

Apparently, the other man had also only had the wind knocked out of him. As Chris turned to look for him, eager to arrest the man and be done with it, he launched himself at the gunslinger, knocking him to the ground yet again. Chris' bruised body complained at hitting the floor again. /I'm gettin' right tired of this./ As he struggled with his opponent, his mind suddenly froze, registering the acrid smell of smoke. Craning his neck, Chris saw to his dismay that the crashing noise he'd heard was the single lantern being knocked over. The bundles of hay were being quickly consumed, and the flames were rapidly making their way up the wooden walls.

Chris had no desire to go through what Ezra had gone through. Desperate now, he used both his legs to push the other man away. The man went tumbling backwards. As he did so, Chris spotted his gun lying about ten feet away. So did the outlaw. Chris dove for the weapon, arm outstretched. Unfortunately, the dark haired man reached it first. Swinging it up and around, he fired just as Larabee was about to barrel into him.

Chris felt hot fire streak through his shoulder a split second after he heard the shot. He stumbled back, dazed and quite furious. Furious at this s.o.b for getting the best of him, and furious at himself for getting shot. His vision blackened momentarily. When it cleared, he was on the ground, his whole left arm and shoulder throbbing mercilessly. The livery was in flames around him. And the outlaw was standing over him with an cold smile. Chris' blue eyes narrowed dangerously, and he gazed defiantly into the business end of his own revolver.

"Anytime, Mr. Larabee," Ezra said under his breath as he dodged another bullet that came a little too close for comfort. He retaliated with a barrage from his own weapon. So far, he didn't think any of his shots had hit their target; there hadn't been any significant pauses in the gunfire from the livery.

He saw Larabee signal him and quietly enter through the rear door of the stables. He let loose a few more shots to distract the man so he wouldn't hear Larabee. One more shot sailed his way, but he easily dodged it. He waited for another. After a minute, there was still no answering shot. "He must have distracted the cretin," he said to himself.

Ezra stayed by the general store, a relatively protected position, waiting in case the other two outlaws showed up. He pondered their whereabouts, curious as to why they weren't there with their comrade. His mind drew a blank, however. If he were a cattle rustler and killer, he'd definitely hole up for a while. At least til things had died down a bit.

He waited another moment, but still there was no signal from Larabee. He was growing...concerned. Surely the peacekeeper would have gained control of the outlaw by now. Wouldn't he? He started for the livery, then hesitated. Was his help really needed? Yes, he decided. He didn't know the situation in there; Larabee might need his help.

Ezra was almost to the building when he noticed the orange light coming from the lower level window. He froze, his limbs refusing to cooperate. The smell of smoke drifted to him on a faint breeze, bringing with it haunting memories. His mouth became dry as the Arizona desert, and icy cold sweat rolled down between his shoulder blades.

He was torn. On one hand, he knew he had to go in there and help Larabee. But on the other hand, how could he possibly? How could he go in there amidst the flames with the memory of what had happened before so fresh in his mind? He closed his eyes, but orange and blue flames danced in the darkness behind his eyelids. He opened them again.

"This isn't fair!" he said to the dark sky above. "I shouldn't have to make this decision! What do you want from me? I'm no hero! You can count the good deeds I've done on one hand and still have some left over!"

But then Ezra thought of the other men. They were his friends. How could he face them if he didn't help Chris? What if he died because Ezra wasn't there? Because he was too scared to go into the building. Scared out of his mind. How could he live with himself if he let that happen? Ezra straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath to slow his racing heart. He couldn't--wouldn't--let that happen. He may not be a hero, but damned if he'd stand by while one of his compadres needed his help.

He'd only taken a step when he heard a gunshot pierce the stillness of the night. Dread filled his heart, and he prayed he wasn't too late after all as he ran for the livery door. He burst through the door, gun at the ready.

The scene before him filled him with anger, not fear. The inside walls of the livery were alive with flames, the abundant hay burning brightly. In the middle of the room adjacent to the individual stalls, were Chris Larabee and a man he'd never seen before. Larabee lay on the ground, half propped up on his right arm. The other man stood over him, a gun aimed directly between Larabee's eyes. Standish took in everything in half a second.

"Hey!" he called above the crackling of the flames. "Over here, you miscreant!"

The man whirled around and Ezra fired. The bullet hit him square in the chest, and he fell to the ground. Ezra approached him and kicked the gun away from his limp fingers. Then he turned his attention to Larabee. Kneeling down, he quickly assessed the man's state. It was obvious he'd been shot, but Ezra couldn't tell how badly. Blood darkened the left shoulder of Chris' black duster and ran down to his fingertips.

Chris' eyes were open, glazed with pain. "'Bout...time," he managed to ground out.

"You're welcome," Ezra retorted. Helping Chris to his feet, Ezra slung the wounded man's good arm over his shoulder. He mumbled an apology when he heard him groan in pain. "Well, Chris, what do you say we get out of this hell hole?" He maneuvered Chris towards the door, he grunted at the man's weight. "Perhaps you should go on a diet when we get back to town."

They were almost to the door when something made him turn around. Instinct perhaps, or some faint noise registered by his subconscious mind. Whatever it was, it was a good thing he did. He saw the outlaw on the floor, his hand just closing on the gun Ezra had kicked away from him. With one arm busy holding Larabee upright, he engaged the spring mechanism attached to his right arm beneath his coat. The little derringer shot into his hand instantaneously.

Standish fired twice, each bullet hitting its mark. Out of reflex, though, the man's finger squeezed the trigger before it fell limp. As the echo of the shots faded, Ezra stared in shock at the growing crimson stain on his chest. /That's funny,/ he thought with unusual crystal clarity. /No pain./ He knew it wouldn't last, though, so he gripped Larabee's arm tighter and staggered out the door, out of the heat from the fire and into the cool night air. He stopped at the nearest building--the telegraph office.

The pain was really starting now. He had to rest. Every breath he took was torture; he struggled to fill his lungs with air that felt like liquid. Blood filled his mouth with every intake of air, and he suspected some serious damage had been done. Agony streaked through him with every movement. Darkness crowded his vision, but he knew he couldn't give in to the sweet respite it offered. He had to make sure Chris was okay. But he was scared for himself, too. He knew he was bad off.

And it looked like things were about to get worse. /Oh, shit,/ was Ezra's first thought as he saw the two approaching horses. These had to be the rest of the rustlers. He set Chris down by the side of the building. His derringer and revolver were empty, but he still had his Remington. Just as the first man yelled something to the second, Ezra fired at them. His vision was so blurry, though, and his hand trembling so much, that he was pretty sure he didn't so much as scratch one of them.

After a moment or two--who knew, really?--one of Standish's bullets hit its mark. One of the men went down and stayed down.

Ezra couldn't fight it any more. His gun slipped from his grasp and his arm dropped to his side as he sank to his knees in the dirt. The pain was too much. He'd tried, hadn't he? He'd done the right thing. He'd gone into that inferno, saved Chris' life, taken down two bad guys. He did a good job, right? Even though it looked like it was all for nothing... No. Not for nothing, he amended. If Larabee survived, it wouldn't have been for nothing. He slipped to the ground and laid there, unable to fight the encroaching blackness any longer.

But before he gave in completely, he could have sworn he heard the thunder of horses' hooves. Could've sworn he heard yelling. Familiar voices. Could've sworn he heard his name called. Could've sworn he saw a familiar face kneel next to him. Familiar, yet he couldn't remember the man's name. A young man...with a ridiculous hat... As he drifted away, he wasn't afraid anymore.

The light of the setting sun spilled into the room through the open curtains, casting warm golden hues over everything. It was suppertime, so the streets were mostly quiet, and the closed window muted what sounds there were.

Larabee sat by the window, staring out at the sunset. He was mesmerized by the way the sky changed color from yellow to orange to pink to purple to dark blue. When the sun was all the way down, he lit a lantern to illuminate the now-dark room, then sat down in a chair beside the room's bed.

It had been four days. Four days since the storm, the pursuit of the killers, the shoot out with the dark haired outlaw in the livery. Chris didn't remember much of what happened. He knew Ezra had dragged him out of the burning stable, but after that things were pretty hazy. It had been two days before he'd been aware enough to ask the rest of the seven what had happened. It had been another day before he'd been able to get out of bed. He wore his arm in a sling, necessary to help his shoulder heal.

According to the others, they'd ridden after them when Rudy Payton had sent someone to tell them about the trouble at the Triple A. The storm had delayed them, however, and wiped Chris and Ezra’s tracks clean. It had taken them a long time to figure out that Chris and Ezra had gone to Aburrido. When they’d gotten close enough, they'd seen that the livery was on fire. And when they'd gotten closer, they saw Ezra collapse in the street. In no time, they'd disarmed the last remaining gunman.

When they'd finally gotten back to Four Corners, Nathan had tended to both their wounds. Chris' shoulder wound had been serious, but easily patched up. Ezra, on the other hand, had been far worse. It had taken both Nathan and Josiah a long time to remove the bullet from Ezra's lung. The gambler almost didn't make it, and had sported a high fever til just that afternoon. He hadn't woken up once, but according to the others, who had taken turns watching over the southerner in his delirium, he raved and ranted about fire and demons.

Chris was grateful to Standish. No, more than that. He admired the man. Ezra had faced his fear and charged into that burning building to save Chris. In Chris' book, that was worth something. It took courage, strength of the kind Chris had never known Ezra had possessed. Maybe Ezra didn't know he'd had it either. But whenever he woke up, Chris was going to tell him that.

He studied the sleeping gambler. The man's face was deathly pale, his eyes sunken into his skull, dark smudges beneath them. His hair lay lank against his head, damp from sweat. Covering his chest were heavy white bandages. Nathan changed them every day to keep the chances of infection down.

Some time later, Chris was still sitting in the same chair, his feet propped up on the bed, reading a book. Glancing up as he turned a page, he was surprised to see Ezra waking up. He dropped his feet to the floor and shut his book. "Ezra?"

The other man groaned and rolled his head to the side. After a moment, he opened his eyes, squinting against a wave of pain. He licked his dry lips and swallowed several times.

"You awake there, Ez?" Chris asked, leaning forward. Ezra turned his head to look at him. Chris could see his eyes were glassy and bloodshot, but there was recognition in them.

"Larabee." The word was barely a whisper, raspy and dry sounding. Chris got him some water and helped him sip from the cup. After a few sips, Ezra indicated that he'd had enough. "Thank you." This time his voice was a little stronger. He noticed the sling around Chris' arm. Motioning weakly with one hand, he said, "How...?"

Chris paused, confused. His brow smoothed as he figured it out, though. "How'm I doing?" Ezra nodded. "Much better than the alternative. If it wasn't for you, I'd be dead." He stood up from his chair. "I just wanted to say, uh, thanks for bein' there."

Ezra smiled faintly. "I'm sure that must have been difficult for you to say. However...you're welcome."

Chris nodded sharply. There, that was taken care of. He started for the door. "I'd better go get Nathan. He'd want to know you're awake." Larabee paused, his hand on the doorknob, then looked one more time at Standish. "Thank you," he reiterated.

He saw Ezra raise one hand to his forehead and tip an imaginary hat in acknowledgement. /Yeah,/ Chris thought to himself, /things'll be all right. It's just a matter of time./ Chris copied the salute and gave a nod, then he was out the door. "Just a matter of time."

The End