Disclaimer: Magnificent 7 characters are copyright MGM, Mirisch, and Trilogy. No money is being made from copy written characters.

Ezra entered the livery, wondering if his friend had missed him, and who had been exercising him while he recovered. Probably JD, but the lad hadn't mentioned anything. Hell, no one had said anything at all about Chaucer since he'd stayed awake long enough to talk to anybody. Not that he'd been very good company in all that time, but you'd think they would have told him something, just to see if he was interested. He walked down to Chaucer's stall, feeling around in his pocket for the sugar lumps he'd filched from the hotel's sugarbowl this morning at breakfast. He opened the stall door . . . .

Empty. But his tack and saddle were there. Thinking that the horse was out in the corral, he turned to go look.

Vin Tanner stood there, with a sad look on his face. "I'm sorry, Ezra. Chaucer's gone -- one of the robbers shot him while we were trying to get you back here."

"And you didn't think to tell me." Ezra's tone was the vocal equivalent of his poker face, betraying nothing. "Damn you to Hell." He couldn't hold it in. "GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!!! DAMN YOU ALL, HE WAS A BETTER FRIEND TO ME THAN ANY OF YOU!!!" he howled. Turning away to hide his grief, he whispered, "He trusted me. A hell of a lot more than you did."

"Meant to tell you -- just never found the right time." Vin knew Ezra wasn't listening, and didn't care about excuses.

Ezra located the owner of the livery, and asked him if he had any horses for sale. Purchasing the first one offered, without giving him more than a cursory examination, or even haggling over the price, he saddled the hack and led him from the stable. Once outside, he mounted and rode toward the edge of town.

"HEY!" yelled JD, "Hey, Ezra!! Where ya goin'?"

"To find myself a decent remount. When I do, I might even consider coming back!!" came the reply.

Ezra spent the next week riding from town to town, never quite finding a horse to suit his taste, and still debating in his mind whether or not to return to Four Corners. He'd check liveries and ranches by day, and sit down to poker games at night. He was making enough money off poker to put a goodly bit into the stash in his boot, so if he found the right horse, he wouldn't have too much of a problem buying it.

So here he was, in a saloon in El Paso, holding a strait flush, not royal but still a good hand. The cowboys he was playing with were discussing the daughter of one of the local ranchers, saying what a little spitfire she was, but winning her hand and eventually getting her father's ranch was well worth the bother. It was the richest horse ranch in the area, and Ezra was going there tomorrow to check out their stock and see if they had anything he wanted.

"Yes, sir, the man who wins Callie's heart, or at least manages to marry her, is gonna be set up for life! Her daddy's got some of the best horses in Texas, possibly the best west of the Mississippi!" one man said, indicating he needed 2 cards with his fingers.

"I fold," said another, "and what makes you think Old Man Hawkins is just gonna leave his spread to whoever marries his daughter, if anybody can ever talk the girl into it? She comes by that stubborn streak honestly. She got it from him. What about you, Mister? Heard you asking directions from the barkeep earlier. You planning on courtin' our little filly?"

"Not at all," Ezra replied, "the only fillies I'm interested in at the moment are the ones with four hooves. I'll see your 4 bits, and raise you 4 more."

It went on like that for some hours, and Ezra eventually won most of the hands, and most of the money the cowboys could afford to lose. Nobody got sore and accused him of cheating (he wasn't), they sat and played in friendly companionship, occasionally one or another teasing someone about his latest mistake. Ezra listened to the banter, thinking of Four Corners, and wondering how the guys were getting along without him. 'They probably don't even miss me,' he thought, 'it's just as well I left when I did.'

Back in Four Corners, JD Dunne was hurrying through the streets, talking to himself and not looking where he was going. As this was something he often did, people just got out of his way and let him be. He entered the saloon, looking for the others, not sure what to do with the telegram in his hands.

"What ya got there, JD?" Buck teased, "A love letter from Casey?"

"No, Buck, it's a telegram."

"Ya got a telegram from Casey?"

"It's not from Casey, and it's not for me," JD replied, exasperatedly. "It's for Ezra, and I don't know what to do with it."

"Why would the telegraph operator give you a telegram for Ezra?" asked Chris. "He knows we don't know where he is."

"Guess he thought we might be worried enough to try finding him to tell him there's somebody after him." JD said.

"Not our problem, unless they come here and start making trouble."

"Exactly what does the telegram say?" Josiah asked, reaching for it. He read it aloud:

THORLEY GANG ESCAPED FORT LARAMIE STOP THINK YOU BETRAYED THEM STOP KNOW YOU'RE IN 4C STOP WATCH YOUR BACK STOP ORRIN TRAVIS "Ezra was involved with the Thorley Gang? From what I heard about 'em, they don't seem the type to have someone like Ezra around. Subtlety wasn't their trademark -- they'd usually just charge in with guns blazing. Railroad had a pretty big bounty on 'em, after they hit a few of their trains carrying money for payrolls and purchases." Vin remarked. "Wonder how Ezra ended up with 'em?"

"Somebody's gotta warn Ezra -- don'tcha guys think so?" JD scanned the faces of the others, not liking what he saw there. "I'm going, if nobody else is!"

"And just how ya gonna find him? You've never tracked anybody before, now have ya, kid?" Buck started in.

"How hard can it be to find someone who dresses and talks like Ezra?"

"JD's got a point," said Josiah, "it won't be hard to locate Ezra at all. Not for us, and not for them. I'll be praying we find him first, 'cause I doubt he bothered to do anything to cover his tracks or keep a low profile. How soon you want to head out, JD?”

The next morning, Ezra rode out to the Hawkins ranch. As he reached the corral near the bunkhouse, he saw something that was almost perfection. The most beautiful piece of horseflesh he'd ever laid eyes on was being put through it's paces, and moving with a precision and intelligence that took the gambler's breath away. 'That's the one,' thought Ezra, 'I have to have that horse, even if I have to cheat the owner out of it. Hell, I'd even marry his daughter, sight unseen, to get a horse like that!' Catching the eye of a ranch hand, he asked if Hawkins was anywhere about, only to be told he was away, looking at some horses in Santa Fe, with an eye toward adding some new blood to his stock.

"Then I suppose it would be impossible to make a purchase until his return?" asked Ezra.

"Could ask his daughter. Hey, Callie!" the hand yelled at the corral, "This fella wants to talk t' ya!"

Only then did Ezra notice the rider of that superlative animal was female. He'd been so engrossed with the horse he'd paid no mind to the person on it's back, a beauty he'd have immediately spotted under any other circumstances. Long coppery hair hung down her back, with occasional curly wisps escaping from the waist-length single braid. The practical shirt and pants she wore did nothing to hide a figure a man could spend all day looking at, and as she approached to find out what Ezra wanted, he could make out delicate features, large gray eyes and freckles.

"Is there something I can do for you?" the young woman asked.

Ezra thought there were any number of things she could do for him, but decided to stick to possibly buying the horse under her ever-so-tempting thighs. "The gorgeous creature you're riding -- would it possibly be for sale? I've been searching for a replacement for a friend I've had for some years."

"Samson? You'll have to wait 'til my father gets back. Several others have offered to buy him, and, well, Papa doesn't want him going to just anybody! He thinks a special horse should go to a special person, and he personally wants to check out each potential buyer. I think he wants Samson to approve, too!" she chuckled. "We have a few dozen other horses for sale, if you want to look them over. There are some excellent mounts to choose from."

Ezra dutifully looked at the others, and she was right, there were several he might have bought, had he not seen Samson first. By the time they'd finished, it was almost lunchtime. Ezra tried to leave at that point, but Callie told him he might as well stay for lunch, since he was such good company and she couldn't leave the ranch until her father came back. "He wants somebody here in case a buyer comes by, like you did." she explained. He agreed to stay.

They had a delicious lunch, and were just finishing a last cup of coffee, when the foreman came in, carrying a hat in his hands, along with a note. Callie took one look at the hat and went white as a sheet. "Oh, God, it's Papa's! What's happened to him?"

"Don't exactly know, Miss Callie. His horse came back, with his hat and this note tied to the saddle." Paul, the foreman, said. Taking the note from him, Callie read it aloud:

"IF YOU WANT TO SEE YOUR FATHER ALIVE AGAIN, RIDE SAMSON TO THE LIGHTNING BLASTED TREE NEAR THE DRY CREEK BED 1/2 MILE NORTH OF TOWN. COME ALONE AND NO STUPID TRICKS OR WE KILL HIM. BE THERE AT 3:00 OR WE START SENDING PIECES."

"3:00 -- that gives us 2 hours to come up with a plan." said Ezra.

"We don't need a plan. I'm going to ride Samson out there just like they said." Callie jumped up from the table and started for the door.

Ezra made a long arm and grabbed her before she made it. "Most unwise, as they seem to want both you and the horse. Why else specify that particular combination? Sit down and think a moment. Who would want both, and why?"

After debating the issue among themselves, it was decided that Josiah and JD would attempt to find and warn Ezra. "Be back in a week, or send word," Chris had said.

That had been three days ago. As Josiah had feared, picking up Ezra's trail had been laughably easy. They didn't need to look further than the nearest livery or saloon in any given town to find he'd been there, and his direction of travel could be had by simply asking. The only good news was they appeared to be the only ones asking, and they'd requested anyone giving them information not to tell anyone else asking, or at least wire the next town that others were inquiring.

"We're not gonna catch up to him, are we?" JD asked, hoping Josiah wouldn't say what he knew was coming.

"Doesn't appear so, little brother." Josiah replied, earning himself a glare from his younger companion. JD hated being called "little brother".

"We gonna turn back like Chris told us to?"

"That's a decision I'm putting off to the last possible moment. Ezra could be in the next town, drinking whiskey and conning the locals. Or he could have boarded a stage and be halfway to anywhere by now, in which case he's probably safe from the Thorleys. It's even possible they've already caught him, and our mission of warning will become one justice."

"Or vengeance."

"Not vengeance, JD." Josiah pulled up, giving JD a stern look. " ‘ Vengeance is mine, is the utterance of the Lord.' Have you forgotten Ma Nichols and her sons? I seem to recall they gave you cause never to forget."

JD winced, remembering the beating he'd gotten as part of the "message" the Nichols boys had sent the seven after they'd refused to give up Chris' father-in-law. To lighten the mood, he said, "You're probably right about Ezra being in the next town, Josiah. We've been moving faster than he has. We must be halfway to Texas by now."

"Little brother, we've been IN Texas for the past hour, if my memory serves me correctly. The next town we come to should be El Paso."

Raymond Thorley was a big man, and he used his size to intimidate others. Right now he was using it on his underlings. Having reached Four Corners and learning their quarry had departed, the others had wanted to pull a quick bank job to finance their search. The fact the town was short of protectors only made the job look easier.

"I said NO, and that's final! We don't do ANYTHING that might get in the way of hunting down that two-faced little weasel Standish, or whatever he calls himself these days! I don't care if the town's being guarded by nothing more than an old lady and a toothless dog! We get Standish FIRST!"

"Dammit, Ray," Curtis Thorley, second-in-command and younger brother, tried to sway his older sib, "We need the money. Nobody there knows where he went, and we could be searching for him for some time to come. We're gonna haveta hit something, either here or one of the nearby towns. Picking off travelers isn't getting us much, and they're gonna be missed by somebody soon." The other three, Wallace Hayes, Scott Banning, and George Farnham, nodded their agreement.

"And I say we wait. Those two that went after him are supposed to either return or telegraph their whereabouts, and if they find him, we'll know where to look. I've got that operator so scared, he almost wets himself when he sees me. Won't even think about telling Larabee anything unless I say so.”

Ezra, Paul, and Callie were discussing how to thwart Ezekiel Hawkins' kidnappers. Actually, Ezra and Paul were making suggestions, and Callie was shooting them down as fast they came up. No, Ezra couldn't ride out disguised as Callie, on a horse dyed to look like Samson -- he didn't look that much like her, and a dye job wouldn't fool anyone close up because Samson had an usual coat and he was the only horse on the ranch with that color coat. No, they couldn't re-shoe him with special shoes that would be easier to track -- they'd have to do a quick job and might lame him permanently. And no, there was no way anyone could get to within shooting distance of the meeting place without being seen.

"You can't take that much of a risk! Whoever it is will have you, your father, and Samson, without any reason to release any of you!" Ezra said for what felt like the hundredth time. "I'll ride Samson, wearing your coat -- we already know it will fit, and will cover me. Your father will hardly thank us for allowing his only child to imperil herself. I'll have three guns and the element of surprise." He was still trying to figure out how to hide his rifle.

"There's one element you forgot to consider -- Samson!" Callie scowled at the two men. "Papa and I are the only ones who have ever stayed on his back, much less gotten him off the ranch or to obey commands. That's why Papa wouldn't sell him to just anybody. Samson won't respond to anyone he doesn't like -- he'll either throw them off or stand still as a statue regardless what you do."

"No one besides you and your father have ridden him?" asked Ezra.

"There were some potential buyers who tried. Most gave up and bought other stock, but there was this one guy who wouldn't give up --"

"Do you remember his name, and is he still in the area?"

"Well, yeah, his name's Sanderson, and he has a place . . . " Callie paused as realization dawned, " . . . north of town."

Josiah and JD rode into El Paso, and decided to clear the dust from their throats with a few beers and ask around for Ezra in the local saloon. Sure enough, the barkeep remembered the smooth-talking, well-dressed southerner who'd been gambling with the locals only the night before. "You won't find him in his room. He went out to the Hawkins place this morning to look at some horses." they were told. After asking if anyone else had been making inquiries about Ezra, and being told no, the two men decided another beer, a bath, and rooms for the night would be in order while they waited for the gambler to finish his business, as it was already well past noon and the barkeep said it wasn't uncommon for potential buyers to overnight at the Hawkins ranch. Josiah decided he'd wire Four Corners and let them know Ezra had been located, if not yet warned.

Raymond Thorley was, by some remarkable quirk of chance, in the telegraph office when Josiah's message arrived at Four Corners. Warning the operator not to tell Larabee anything, he quickly gathered his men. "The little skunk's in El Paso, Texas. We ride as soon as we can see, come morning."

"What about the other two?" asked Curtis.

"They get in the way, they're dead." Ray replied.

Ezra told himself not to be nervous, the horse would sense that, and he HAD to get the beast to accept him. He held out his hand and let the horse get his scent, then slowly moved his hand up to stroke Samson's forehead. "Easy there, fella, it's all right, I'm not going to hurt you, you can trust me," Ezra crooned to him, "I need your help, big fella, we have to get your oldest friend out of trouble, but to do that I have ride you to where he is." As he spoke in a soft voice, he continued to stroke the animal, going from forehead to neck, neck to shoulder, shoulder to flank, all the while stroking and talking to him. When he thought he'd gotten Samson to accept him, Ezra put a foot into the stirrup and pulled himself onto the horse's back. Samson snorted and danced a few steps, then seemed to settle down. Now came the moment of truth. Could Ezra get him to move and obey? There was only one way to find out. Clucking softly to the horse, he tried to get him to go forward. Samson stepped forward, and Ezra finally relaxed, and let out the breath he'd been holding.

Ezra rode Samson to the meeting place, marveling once more at the wonderfully smooth gait. Callie had told him the horse moved like that naturally, even as a foal, and had never needed training. He had to admit attempting to duplicate the sooty dun color of his coat would have been almost impossible, especially in the short amount of time they had to work. He hoped he could pull off this rescue, or at least buy Hawkins and Samson enough time to get clear. He realized the latter was by far the more likely possibility, and would most likely prove fatal. He would do his damnedest to ensure he didn't die in vain, to give Hawkins as much time as he could.

As he approached the tree, he could see Hawkins, who was easy to spot due to his sandy red hair, lighter in color than his daughter's, along with four other men, two mounted, one on the ground, and one as far up the tree as he could climb. 'Damn,' thought Ezra, 'that's going to be a problem.' He pulled up and dismounted on Samson's far side as far from the group as he dared, pulling his Colt Richards Conversion, left-handed, from his shoulder holster, using the horse's neck to shield his action from the man in the tree. He couldn't make out the features of any of the gang, due to the bandanas wrapped around their faces, and the shadows cast by their hats. He kept his head bowed as he approached them, leading Samson and keeping his left hand out of sight as much as he dared. He stopped when he heard one (the leader, he assumed) say, "That's far enough, girlie! Just drop them reins and come on over here, nice and easy, real slow," the last two words being drawn out. Ezra dropped the reins and continued forward, slowly as requested, to within a few feet of the group on the ground. Then he made his move.

Raising his head and left arm, and simultaneously activating his derringer release, he quickly fired, one shot at the group's leader with his derringer, and another at the man in the tree (whom he hoped hadn't moved) with the Colt. Shouting "Go!" to Hawkins, he fired at the mounted men, hoping to distract them or spook their horses. Having heard a grunt and a thud from the direction of the tree, he realized there would be no shots from that direction. Dropping his now-empty derringer, he saw out of the corner of his eye Hawkins reaching and mounting Samson. As he pulled his Remington, he turned toward horse and man. That was a mistake, as a sudden burning pain in his back, just above his waistline, informed him he really shouldn't have taken his eyes off his opponents. He turned back, trying to cover Hawkins' escape, but lost his balance, and dropped to a knee. Still, he managed to wound one more of them before being run over by a horse and losing consciousness.

Chris Larabee entered the telegraph office, to see if there was any word from Josiah or JD, the same as he had every day since the two of them had left five days earlier. He noticed the nervousness of the operator, Perkins, who'd been acting strange for the past few days, but put it down to the general uneasiness of the town over the loss (however temporarily) of half their peacekeepers. "Any word?" he asked, same as every other day.

"N-n-n-no, M-m-mr. L-larabee, n-no word y-yet." was the reply.

Then again, maybe there was something.... Chris decided to play a hunch. Grabbing the man's shirt, he hauled his face to within inches of his own. "You wouldn't be hiding anything from me, now would you? That wouldn't be wise."

"P-p-p-please! H-h-h-he s-said h-he'd k-k-k-kill m-me! A-and my f-f-family! A-a-and b-burn d-down th-th-the wh-whole t-t-t-town!"

"Who?"

"Th-th-th-th-thorley!"

"When did you see him last?" Chris snarled, his temper flaring for real. 'Damn, we don't need this, not now, we're too short-handed!' his mind screamed.

"A c-couple of days ag-g-go, wh-when the w-w-wire c-came in!" Perkins stammered.

"WHAT WIRE!!"

"Th-th-the one ab-b-bout M-m-m-m-mr. S-s-s-st-st-standish, f-f-from M-m-mr. S-sanchez. H-here! P-p-please d-don't k-k-kill m-me!" He looked ready to faint.

Chris snatched the telegram, shoving Perkins away, so intent on reading the message he didn't notice the man's swift exit. He read:

FOUND EZRA EL PASO STOP NO SIGN THORLEYS STOP J SANCHEZ

"No sign of them there because they've been here, waiting for word. Which they got two days ago." Cursing Perkins, himself, Thorley, and anyone or thing else he could think of, he dashed out the door, in pursuit of the errant operator, only to find him long gone, which made him curse even more. Charging into the saloon, he shouted, "There anybody here who can operate a telegraph? I need to get a message out RIGHT NOW!!"

Hawkins rode into town, desperately hoping he could gather some assistance for his rescuer before the man was killed. Stopping outside the saloon, he dashed in and yelled, "I need some help, they're gonna kill him if we don't ride out there right now!"

A babble of voices responded. "Kill who?" "Ride where?" "What?" "Huh?"

Josiah asked the barkeep, "Who's that?" just as Hawkins replied, "The fella who rescued me -- don't know his name, but he's a southerner, kinda small, with green eyes and a derringer up his sleeve."

JD gasped, "Ezra," just as the barkeep replied, "That's Ezekiel Hawkins, the rancher your friend was going to see this morning."

Hawkins, Josiah, JD, and several others rode out to the tree and creek bed. All they found were tracks, spent casings, Ezra's derringer, and several puddles of blood. No Ezra, and no other bodies, though by the size of the puddle under the tree, there should have been a body there.

"Do you think he's still alive, Josiah?" JD's eyes pleaded for an optimistic answer.

"Hard to tell, JD." Josiah turned to Hawkins. "Did they say anything to you about why you were being held? Did you overhear any names, or anything that might have told you where they might have gone to ground?"

"If you don't mind, Mr. Sanchez, I'll ask the questions." said a tall, slender, well-dressed man. "Sheriff Martin Whitherspoon -- I'm the law in these parts. Heard you just got into town. Mind if I ask what you're doing here?"

"Not at all, sheriff, and I apologize for stepping on your toes. As for what I and my young friend are doing here, we're looking for an associate of ours, the gentleman who appears to have rescued Mr. Hawkins, here." Josiah proceeded to introduce JD, and would have asked what the sheriff intended to do next, but just then, two riders came up, one of whom yelled "Papa!" and threw herself into Hawkins' arms.

"Where is he? I want to thank him, and ask him to dinner." Callie looked around, not finding the man she sought.

"My apologies, gentlemen, for my daughters behavior. Callie, pay attention a moment, at least long enough to be properly introduced," and did the honors, noticing his daughter was distracted the whole time.

"There's someone I want you to meet, too, Papa, only I don't see him anywhere about." she frowned, wondering where he was. "His name's Ezra Standish, and he was supposed to be here rescuing you."

Ezra slowly regained consciousness, regretting every painful instant of awareness. The wound in his back throbbed, along with his face (he remembered the horse's knee hitting him in the jaw), ribs (the horse, or something else? What else was there?), right wrist (unknown), left knee (ditto), and various scrapes, cuts, scratches, bruises, and other indignities to his person. He appeared to be in a root cellar or other dark, cold place, although the feeling of cold could have been shock, in which case he might be in real trouble. 'Oh, certainly,' he thought to himself, 'as if I'm not already!' Just as he was beginning to think Hell was waiting in a cold, dark place for all eternity, a door opened, flooding the place with light, and blinding Ezra until his eyes could adjust. Two figures entered, one carrying something bulky on a tray, as well as a lantern, and the other bearing a rifle, along with wearing a pistol. Both had their faces covered, but he could tell Bulky-Tray was female. Setting the lantern down near Ezra, but not close enough for him to reach it, she started to undress him, but he grabbed her hand.

"We haven't been properly introduced," he softly said, giving her the best smile he could muster, which he had to admit wasn't much, "my name's Ezra, what's yours?"

"She don't talk," growled the man with the rifle, "and if you don't let go and let her fix you up, you'll be left down here to rot like a sack of potatoes."

Releasing her, he murmured, "What a lovely image. Absolutely poetic." and thereafter remained silent, except for moans and cries of pain, while she undressed, washed, and bandaged him, removing the bullet and stitching him up with a skill the equal of Nathan's. He almost regretted it when she finished, for she had the softest touch he'd ever felt. And the prettiest eyes.

Giving him a last pat on the cheek that wasn't hurt, she gathered her things, along with the lantern, and the two left, leaving Ezra alone in the dark to wonder why he'd been spared.

Marta had finally convinced her guardian to give their "guest" some food, water, and bedding, even though he still refused to send in a cot. She didn't understand why they were trying to keep him alive. It was lucky for Pete her guardian had hidden himself and a few extra men nearby, in case of trouble. They'd wanted revenge for their fallen comrades. Jake and Phil had been killed outright, and Bob had died despite all she could do. But her foster father had said take care of the man -- Ezra, he had called himself -- and Marta obeyed, or paid the price. Now she led a small procession toward the shed where he was kept, one carrying blankets, another bearing soup and a canteen of water, while she bore bath water, bandages, and a lantern. She stopped before the door, waiting for one guard to open it while the other stepped inside to cover their "guest".

The door opened, and the procession entered, while Ezra blinked and tried to see who was there. More people than last time -- how long ago had that been? He had no idea. They were still covering their heads with hoods, so not only their faces were obscured, but also their entire heads and necks. Bulky-Tray -- the only name he had for her (if it was the same one) -- seemed to be in charge, directing with hand signals the men who followed her. They worked quickly, fashioning some sort of bed in one corner, and helping her while she removed his bandages, checked his wounds, bathed him (his request for a shave was ignored), rebandaged his wounds, dressed him in clean clothes (some cowboy's castoffs, he supposed), moved him to the "bed", and fed him soup, all without saying a word, though he'd tried to spark up a conversation with one or another of the men at various times. "Could you at least tell me the lady's name? It's rather awkward to have a stranger performing such intimate services as bathing and dressing a body, especially one of her gender."

"Ya don't need t' know." growled one, as there came a knock on the door. After an exchange of whispers, the door opened, and another man came in. It was obvious to Ezra this was the man in charge, as he swept the room with his gaze and ordered most of the men out. Only the woman and the guard remained.

He asked her how Ezra was, and she replied with a lengthy bout of hand signals, occasionally pointing in his direction. At one point, he shook his head, saying he'd already refused, causing her to dart to Ezra's side and put her hand on his forehead and making upward motions with her free hand.

"What's she saying," Ezra asked, hoping for some answers at last, "and please, what's her name?"

"She's telling me you're badly hurt, running a fever, and might become delirious if I don't give you a cot to sleep on. As for her name, if I told you that, I'd have to kill you." He stepped closer, and continued, "Tell me how you rode that horse, and I promise you I'll turn you loose, with money, my fastest horse, and a 24 hour head start. You haven't seen anyone's face or heard any names, so there's nothing you can tell the law. I'll make it well worth your trouble, and you've already got the best doctor that never had any formal training."

So that was why they hadn't killed him! His captors wanted to know how he had ridden Samson! As for "the best doctor that never had any formal training", she was good, but he longed for Nathan's "incessant chatter" and warm smile. He licked his lips, and replied, "You don't really expect me to believe that, do you? I'm fairly certain I killed at least one of your men, possibly two, and you're telling me I can just ride off after telling you what you want know? Without those men's friends coming after me?" He would have said more, but he was suddenly wracked with a coughing fit, causing his "doctor" to pull him a little more upright, leaning him against her chest, and putting the canteen to his lips. After a few swallows, she pulled it back, not wanting him to have too much, and laid him back down, tucking the blankets around him and stroking his forehead.

He couldn't see the look she shot her guardian, but he heard the man say, "I'll just let you rest for now, since you're going to be with us for a while. Think about what I said -- and think about this. No one knows you're here except my people. I don't have to be nice if I don't want to." He gestured to the woman, and they left, leaving the threat hanging behind them.

Everyone in the saloon stared at Chris as if he'd taken leave of his senses. Wasn't there a telegraph operator in the office? "Well?" the black-clad gunslinger prompted.

"What about Perkins? Isn't he in his office?" asked Buck.

"No, and he's not likely to be back. I just found out he's been scared into silence by Thorley, and he's been sitting on a telegram from Josiah for two days." Chris paced to the bar, grabbed the nearest shot, and downed it in one gulp. "I need someone to send a reply telling them Thorley knows where they're at, and has for the past two days."

"You're in luck, mister," a man at one table said, "I'm headed to the telegraph office in Parson's Gap -- to take over from a fella who's going to retire next month." He got no further, as Chris lunged across the saloon, grabbed him by the arm, and dragged him out of his chair and the saloon.

"Hey!" said the guy whose shot Chris had drunk, "What about my drink?"

"Don't worry about it," Vin said, pulling out some money and laying it on the bar, "Just buy yourself another."

Chris didn't stop till he had him seated in front the telegraph. "Send this to El Paso," he was told:

JUST DISCOVERED THORLEYS HEADED YOUR WAY TWO DAYS AGO STOP WATCH YOUR BACKS C LARABEE

"Think they'll get that in time to do any good?" Vin said, walking into the office just as the last words were sent.

"All we can do is send it and hope." Chris replied.

They'd made pretty good time, Ray Thorley thought, as he looked out across the plain to El Paso. They'd pushed their horses as much as they'd dared, knowing Perkins would eventually tell Larabee about the telegram, and arrived in two days.

Curtis turned to his older brother. "Think we beat the news?"

"Only one way to find out." Ray replied. "Stay here with the others and make camp. I'll go into town and see what I can find out. If I'm not back by an hour after dawn, ride for Mexico, 'cause I'll have been captured, or more likely, shot and killed."

The El Paso telegraph operator looked at the message he'd just received, and scratched his balding head. Turning to his errand boy, who was also his eldest son, he said, "Run down to the saloon and see if that fella who was in here a couple days ago is there. The real big one, with the graying, curly hair. Name of Sanchez. Tell 'im he's got a telegram."

"Yes, Pa." the boy replied, and turned to do his father's bidding, but was stopped at the door by a large, dark-haired man.

"I'll take that telegram," Thorley said, "Sanchez and I are friends from way back."

"Can't do that. I have to see every message gets to the person it was intended to go to, or I'll lose my job." the operator replied.

Thorley responded by drawing his gun and grabbing the boy around the neck. "Give me that message or you'll lose your son." He pointed his weapon at the boy's temple.

"H-here, take it, just don't shoot my boy."

Warning the boy not to move, Thorley snatched the message from the operator, and warned them both if they said anything to anyone about receiving that message, he'd kill the whole family and burn down their house with the bodies inside to make sure they were dead. Then he asked if they'd seen or heard of a man named Ezra Standish, a Southerner, a fancy-talking and -dressing gambler, with dark hair and green eyes.

The operator gave him a smile with no humor in it. "If you're lookin' to kill him, I reacon you're a couple days late. Got himself captured by a bunch o' kidnappers, rescuing one of the local ranchers. Probably buzzard food by now."

Thorley snarled a curse, threw the boy from him, and left the office. How dare someone interfere with his revenge? He wasn't about to let them get away with it! He'd have to track down the snake and teach him a lesson!

JD, Josiah and Hawkins were sitting in the sheriff's office, trying to think of some way to locate Ezra and the kidnappers. They weren't having a whole lot of luck. Hawkins hadn't had the chance to see any of his captors, and they hadn't used any names while he'd been their prisoner. The only possible lead had come, ironically enough, from Ezra, when he'd asked Callie about the people interested in buying Samson. Callie'd mentioned one prospective buyer who'd been nearly fanatical about obtaining the horse, even though he'd been violently rejected -- and ejected -- by the animal. But Olaf Sanderson wasn't the type to take "no" for an answer, especially from a horse.

The problem was, Sanderson was the richest man in the area. In addition to having a large ranch, he owned several buildings in town, and had investments in other towns in the county. Sheriff Whitherspoon was understandably reluctant to disturb such a powerful man without just cause, and he wasn't convinced the man would take a chance of losing everything he'd built up just for a horse, no matter how special. He wanted to check everyone who'd expressed an interest in Samson, even if they hadn't wanted to buy him. It was his theory that a bunch of ranch hands had gotten the idea to kidnap Hawkins and get Samson to sell him down in Mexico, with marriage to Callie thrown into the bargain. It might even have been some of Sanderson's crew -- wasn't Jake Owens always pestering Callie to go riding with him, and trying to steal a kiss every chance he got? Searching that spread would be the last thing he'd do, after eliminating all other possibilities.

Seeing that they were getting nowhere, and noting JD's increasing frustration, Josiah bid the sheriff a good day and shooed JD out the door ahead of him. He succeeded in getting the youth out of Whitherspoon's earshot before JD erupted.

"Josiah, we can't just sit back and do nothing while that -- that -- " he gaped like a fish, unable to find a word to express what he was feeling, "Ezra could be dying right now, and we're chasing every lead but the best one 'cause the sheriff doesn't want to offend someone!"

"It's his county, JD. He has to live here after we leave, and we don't have any authority here." Josiah could tell he wasn't making much of an impression, probably because he felt the same way JD did. He wanted to charge onto Sanderson's ranch, but he knew if he and JD did that without Whitherspoon and a posse to back them up, and Ezra was there, they wouldn't find anything but a corpse.

They were passing the alley next to the telegraph office, when Josiah heard a faint "Pssst!" Looking over, he saw a boy waving him into the alley. Putting one hand on his gun in case of ambush, he quickly ducked in, with a now-silent JD right behind.

"I can't be seen talkin' to ya," the boy whispered, "but ya haveta know. My Pa runs the telegraph, and today he got a message for ya, from a C. Larabee. It said the Thorleys knew you'd been here for two days, and to watch your back."

"Why can't we just go in the office and get the message for ourselves?" JD asked.

" 'Cause it ain't there no more -- some big, dark-haired guy come in and took it, and told Pa and me he'd kill our whole family if we told anybody. That's why I can't be seen talking t' ya! Ya s'pose he was one o' them Thorleys?"

"Yep, I s'pose he was." Josiah replied. It was turning out to be one of those days. The kind where you just wanted to crawl back into bed -- or into the nearest bottle -- but you knew if you did, it would only make things worse.

Marta knelt on the floor by Ezra, wringing the excess water from the cloth she was using to cool him before replacing it on his forehead. What she had earlier feared had come to pass -- weakened by blood loss and cold, and not being tended promptly or properly, fever and delirium had set in. He moaned in his fever dreams about Jean and Rochelle, and being left to die impaled on a branch of a fallen tree while his friends laughed and his mother walked away. He shook in body-wracking sobs over a best friend named Chaucer, and she wondered who he meant, and how someone could come to care so much for another. No one -- except possibly her mother, who had died the fateful day she had been robbed of her voice and any chance for happiness -- had ever expressed any sort of fondness for her. She couldn't blame them -- the bullet that had ripped through her larynx had left a horrible scar. She'd only been 5 at the time, being held in her mother's arms as the robbers started firing, trying to shoot their way out of the bank they were holding up. She felt a horrible pain in her throat, and then she was falling, and Mama was falling on top of her.....

Ezra moaned, stirring her out of memory, pulling her to the here and now, and her patient. She hoped he was waking somewhat, so she could give him what little medicine she had for fever. Her father hadn't eschewed folk remedies despite being trained at an Ivy League medical school, and would gather medicines and techniques even from Indian medicine men. When arthritis started crippling his hands, he'd taught her to stitch up wounds in his stead, and she'd eventually learned enough he'd occasionally send her on a call, usually if it was someone giving birth, or someone needing stitched up. After he passed away, she'd been taken in by her father's oldest friend, who was executor of the estate, and he'd promised to look after her as long as he lived. He'd even let her keep her father's medical books and journals, and the written notes he'd made studying folk and Indian medicine.

Ezra's eyes opened, though the beautiful green orbs focused on nothing, and he murmured about someone named Inez and half a sandwich. She managed, between words, to get a full cup of medicine down his throat, and it seemed it would stay there this time. As he slipped back into slumber, she took a moment to really look at her charge. She noticed for the first time how very handsome he was, the boyish features relaxed now in sleep, and blushingly remembered his well-toned, muscular body. The velvety soft feel of his skin as she bathed him, and how, even through the bruises, cuts, and scratches, it was still one of the handsomest bodies she'd ever seen. Which was saying a great deal, since she'd treated nearly every man in the county before the new doctor had shown up. She shook herself free of hopeless notions, and checked him once again for any sign his fever was going down. Finding none, she once again wrung out the excess water from the cloth she was using to cool him before replacing it on his forehead.

Pete and two others stood by the study door, having just knocked, and were waiting for permission to enter. All the hands had gotten together and discussed this amongst themselves, and decided to make their concerns known to their boss. They'd appointed Pete and the others as their representatives, and sent them to the main house with their ideas. A voice from within bid them enter, and Pete opened the door, and with the others went in.

"I already know what you want," the boss said, "and the answer is "no", you can't string him up and let him die. Not until he tells me what I want to know."

"But, Boss," Pete replied, "he killed three of us, and the boys just want to see justice done."

"Justice?" the boss snorted, "If you truly wanted justice, you wouldn't have helped kidnap Hawkins, or be helping me now. You don't want justice -- you want revenge. You'll get your revenge, but only after I get my answers."

"But what about all that stuff you told him about lettin' him have your fastest horse and a 24 hour head start?"

"Didja really think," Sanderson sneered, " he was gonna tell me anything out of the goodness of his heart? I had to promise him as much as I could to get him to open up! Look -- he came into town alone. Hawkins and anybody else looking for him probably think he's already dead. I can keep the sheriff away from this place a long time -- hell, he may never come here at all!! We've got plenty of time to find out what he knows, and then you can take your sweet time exacting your revenge. And if he decides not to cooperate, you can start having fun early, as long as you don't kill him or leave him unable to talk."

Marta felt Ezra's forehead and let out a contented sigh. His fever had broken, and now he was in a deep, restful sleep. He stayed awake long enough earlier to be bathed and have his bandages changed, as well as to eat some soup. It appeared he would live, given enough rest and time to heal. His wounds were healing nicely, with no sign of infection. He'd probably be strong enough to ride out of her life in a fortnight's time, though he wouldn't be fully healed for a couple of months. A knock sounded at the door, the guard asked for the password, and it opened to reveal her foster father, who had come to see how his "guest" was getting on. "How is he?" Sanderson asked.

# His fever has broken, and he rests. He will live, given rest and time. # she signed.

"You've done a good job, Marta. Your father would be very proud of you." he gave her a hug. "Why don't you go and get some food and rest? I know you've been here with him since his fever started getting bad. I don't want you wearing yourself out over the likes of him. Can't have that, can we?" He led her to the door, and for the first time in over a day, Ezra was left in his prison alone.

But Ezra hadn't been as deeply asleep as Marta had thought. The knock had roused him somewhat, and the voice of his chief captor had brought him fully awake. He'd heard everything said, tone as well as words, and suspected his return to health, what there was of it, would be short-lived. At least he'd gotten the answer to one of his questions, and he smiled to himself. "Marta," he breathed, slipping back into healing slumber, "her name's Marta. I wonder if she's pretty as her name?"

JD sauntered casually out of an alley that wasn't the same one they'd been talking to the boy in. Josiah hadn't wanted to draw any attention to an alley so close to the telegraph office just in case Thorley was watching the area. Fortunately, the alley next to the telegraph office had debouched into a street near the livery, so the two had taken the time to check their horses, as well as asking the attendant about new arrivals. Yes, the attendant said, a big, dark-haired man had come in today, on a sorrel, and no, he hadn't left yet. He'd mentioned wanting a drink, so Josiah and JD had returned by a circuitous route, intending to slip into the saloon with a minimum of fuss, one going in the front, the other coming in the back as if he'd just returned from the outhouse.

Thorley immediately noticed the young man in the bowler hat when he came in the saloon. Hell, you'd think people had nothing better to talk about than the two "peacekeepers" from the territories who'd come seeking their friend, only to discover they were too late, and their friend had met his fate rescuing a local rancher. It was said he'd done it 'cause he'd been smitten with the rancher's daughter, having fallen hopelessly in love the moment he'd laid eyes on her. Someone was even composing a poem to commemorate the event, hoping to turn it into a song. It was enough to make a man choke on his beer, Thorley thought disgustedly. He was so preoccupied with JD and his thoughts he never saw the man who slipped quietly into the rear of the saloon, calling the bartender over and asking questions while getting a beer. Which was just as Josiah had planned it. He swiftly learned the dark-haired stranger he sought was sitting in the corner, where he could see the front door and anyone approaching from the rear, but not the rear door, so he wouldn't have seen Josiah enter, but now had the ex-preacher in his field of view, if he turned the right way. But he was too busy watching JD and the front door to do that. However, before either man could get the sheriff, Thorley finished his beer and got up to leave. Josiah gave the smallest shake of the head to JD, telling him not to interfere with Thorley's departure, so he pretended not to notice the outlaw leaving. As soon as he was out the front, they were out the back, JD running fast as he could for the sheriff, and Josiah trying to beat him to the livery. No such luck -- Thorley must have spent time in El Paso in the past, and knew all the shortcuts. By the time he got to the livery, Thorley was mounted and on his way. He didn't even have a good shot at the outlaw's fleeing back. He turned as JD and Whitherspoon came running up. "How soon can we put together a posse, and do you have anybody who can track?"

"Not soon enough, the border is less than half a day's ride, and I don't have any authority in Mexico." Whitherspoon replied. "There's a breed we use for tracking, he was born to a white woman captured by the Apache, and raised by the tribe. I'll introduce you to him, but I can't go out of the state of Texas."

"HELL!!" Josiah shouted in fury. He was at a loss. Should he round up the Thorleys, who were after all a threat to anyone who crossed their path, or stay and try to rescue Ezra, who was almost certainly beyond any need of such aid. He had to choose. Not Chris. Not Vin. Him. And he had to choose fast, for each second's delay saw the Thorley Gang slipping farther away.

"Get your tracker, and anyone else who wants to follow us into Mexico."

Ezra was sitting up, propped by a folded blanket, and eating a bowl of stew, well, actually being fed by Marta (who still didn't know he knew her name), when his chief captor came in, and Ezra could tell by the man's posture he was feeling smug about something.

"It would seem your luck's run out, gambler," he purred, "your friends have run off to Mexico, chasing some gang of outlaws by the name of Thorley, I believe." His voice hardened. "No one's coming to save you, gambler. You'd better take my offer, and soon. I promised my boys they could have fun with you, if you didn't cooperate."

But Ezra wasn't listening. He hadn't heard a word past "Thorley". At that point he went ashen with dread, and couldn't stop himself from saying, "Good Lord." If he had any thoughts for his own safety, it was that the Thorley Gang would, unless stopped by his friends, come after him eventually, leaving a wide swath of destruction in their wake. He couldn't blame them for putting the safety of many before his own -- he wouldn't have it any other way, at least not in this case, and they had no way of knowing for certain he was still alive. Though not likely to remain so, and they wouldn't make his death a quick or clean one. No, for the lives he'd taken, the friends of the men he'd killed would demand their pound of flesh, literally, and probably not more than an ounce at a time. And his only hope of rescue was riding hell-bent for leather away, and he hoped they succeeded.

Ray Thorley cantered his mount into camp, unaware the law knew he was in the area. He was busy planning his next move -- one that would require a substantial amount of money. He was fairly certain the original target of their revenge was beyond reach, and now his thoughts were centered on the people responsible. Rumor in the saloon was a man named Sanderson had wanted one of Hawkins horses so badly he'd kidnapped the rancher to force a trade, and Standish, for some God-only-knows reason, had substituted himself for the rancher's daughter and foiled the plot. Unfortunately, he'd stayed behind while Hawkins had made his escape, and was more than likely dead now. That certainly didn't sound like the Ezra Standish he'd known, but then again, he obviously hadn't known Standish well enough, or he'd have shot the con-man instead of letting him ride with the gang on their last job.

"Pack up, boys," he told them without dismounting, "we’re riding for Mexico as fast as possible."

"Hell, Ray," Curtis said, "were you spotted?"

"Standish is dead," he replied, "and I intend to come back here with a small army and wipe out the person who's responsible for makin' him that way. And for that we need money, and lots of it. I just happen to know a good place to get it. I'll tell ya the details as we ride."

They packed, mounted, and left in short order, unaware there were pursuers already tracking them.

Whitherspoon led Josiah and JD into the livery, where he introduced Thomas Running Deer, a medium-sized man with a mixture of white and Indian features, thin to the point of emaciation. He shook hands with the peacekeepers, and agreed to track for them, his enthusiasm increasing markedly when he heard who their quarry was. Thorley hadn't kept his depredations solely to whites, and Tom (he preferred that name) had lost his mother in a raid. "I'll track 'em to Hell, if you need it!" he'd said.

"I'm hoping to catch up to them well short of there." Josiah had replied, and they'd mounted up, with a half-dozen men from the town, and started out less than an hour after Thorley's departure.

Tom was an excellent tracker, and they came across the camp while the ashes from the fire were still smoldering. "They packed up fast," he said, "rider never dismounted. They might know we’re behind them. Looks like they're headed for Mexico, and going fast as they can."

"Then that's how fast we follow." Josiah said.

Ezra was planning to escape. To make the plan work, he needed three things -- time, luck, and an ally. He knew he wouldn't get much in the way of time. His captors wanted knowledge they might not be able to use. He could tell them how he got Samson's respect, but if what they wanted was some sort of mystical "secret", he had none. How long could he stall, giving them hints, speaking in riddles, and generally being obtuse? Long enough to get enough strength back to mount a horse?

Just getting to a horse required a large amount of the second element of his plan -- luck. He'd need the Lady Fortuna to smile on him to even get out of his prison. Learning the password would take some doing. He only hoped his choice of an ally would prove to be a good one.

Ally -- the third element of his plan. There was only one possible choice, and he prayed she hadn't been married, engaged, or otherwise attached to any of the men he'd killed. He felt a twinge of guilt for what he was about to do. Before joining the seven, he'd have seduced the girl without a qualm, not even considering the tears she'd cry after he left her behind. But he needed her for his escape, and her talents would shield her from the consequences. Or so he hoped.

The door opened, disturbing his solitary musings, and the object of his feigned affections entered, along with the ubiquitous guard. Time to put his plan into action -- and hope he hadn't badly miscalculated.

Marta knew what Ezra was up to with his flirting -- she'd been burned by men who spoke soft words only to get what they wanted, then spurned her for others. 'He smiles now,' she thought, 'but when he has what he wants, and he sees my scar, he won't think me so pretty.' No, she wouldn't be taken by his soft words, or his engaging gold-toothed smile, or the way his tongue darted out to lick his lower lip when he was thinking. She had absolutely no intention of falling for any of his tricks, or being seduced into helping him escape.

Just now she was checking the bullet wound in his back, which was healing faster than she had anticipated. She'd have to note which formula she'd used, and keep it in quantity, if that was possible. Some of the potions her father had written about in his notes couldn't be made in advance, and would quickly lose their effectiveness after being made. She hadn't really noticed if the one she was using on the gambler was one of those or not. She wasn't even sure it was one of her father's, or one she had compounded herself, as she did on occasion. She’d have to check her case notes. "Always keep a record of any treatment you use." her father had said, and she'd heeded his words. She rebandaged his back and ribs, and had just pulled up his pant leg to look at his knee, when he reached out and gently touched the hood she was wearing. She jerked quickly out of his reach, and Pete rushed over and smacked him in the face with a rifle butt. He tumbled over backward, hitting his head against the wall, and it looked for a moment as if he'd pass out, but he pushed himself upright, putting his hand behind his head and pulling it out with blood on his fingers.

"More work for you, my dear," he said with a grimace.

"Keep your hands to yourself," growled Pete, " or I'll cut 'em off."

Marta signed frantically to the guard, who shrugged and backed off, then turned to Ezra. First she mimed touching her hood, and then put her wrists together and, after a moment, made a few circles in the air and mimed tying a rope. Ezra nodded to indicate he understood his hands would be tied if he touched her again, grimacing as the movement hurt his head. She leaned him forward, checking the latest bit of damage he'd incurred, and saw to her relief the wound wasn't deep and wouldn't require stitches. She had him put pressure on it, and when the bleeding stopped, put her potion on it and bandaged it, winding the bandage around his head. Then she went back to checking on his sprained left knee, which was almost well, and moved on to his broken right wrist. She carefully removed the splints and, seeing the swelling had gone down, rewrapped them tightly, hoping Ezra would behave himself so his hands wouldn't have to be bound behind his back -- painful with a broken wrist, and potentially damaging. She put the rewrapped wrist back into its sling, and pulled the covers back over the gambler, receiving a smile as a reward. She stopped to double-check his eyes, making sure he wasn't concussed, and got up to leave.

"Goodnight, my angel," Ezra softly called, as he had the last few times she'd left, "and may your dreams be sweet."

After Marta left the shed, she went straight to Sanderson's study. She knocked, permission was granted, and she entered the room.

"Is he strong enough to endure a little 'persuasion?' " asked the rancher.

# A little, yes, # she signed, # but he isn't completely healed, by any means. He isn't strong enough to endure most of the things the boys want to do to him. I'm not sure he'd survive some of them even if he was completely healthy. # She shuddered inside at the memory of hearing the guys boasting of what they'd do to Ezra if he didn't "cooperate", and what they had planned after he did.

"Anything else I should know?"

# His knee is almost healed. He could put weight on it if he had to. #

"Then I'd better tell the boys to shackle his legs. No sense taking any chances with him. Might as well do that now, and have a little talk with him while I'm at it."

He followed her out the door, locking it behind him, and headed for the shed, while she went to the kitchen, hoping for a snack to tide her over till dinner.

Sanderson entered the shed with two hands in tow. They shackled Ezra's feet, despite his protests and what little fight he put up. 'Marta was right,' thought the rancher, 'he's still weak as a kitten. Too bad she doesn't see that as an advantage.' "I'm told you're improving -- that's good. Now we can have that little talk I've been wanting to have with you. Have you decided to take my offer?"

Time to start stalling, Ezra. "While your offer is more than generous, I'm presently in no condition to take advantage of it. Between my knee and my wrist, I'd find it impossible to mount, and my other injuries rob me of any stamina. I wouldn't get very far, even with the head start you promise."

Sanderson stalked across the room, until he was hovering over the gambler. "My patience is nearly exhausted. Tell me now, or I'll let the boys 'persuade' you a little."

"What do want to know?" Ezra tried to sound tired and defeated. It wasn't hard. Trying to fight the shackles had worn him out.

"How did you get Samson to accept you? As far as I know, only two other people can ride him. What was the trick?"

It was just what Ezra had feared. There wasn't any "trick" -- he'd only gone slowly, getting the animal's respect. He'd have to con his way out of this. "It's and old Indian trick," he lied, "I learned in the territories. Very complicated. Difficult to learn, and it takes a great deal of practice to achieve the desired result. I would, of course, require a horse to demonstrate the technique."

"Not so fast, gambler," was the reply, "you're not as weak as you let on. Give me an explanation of what you do, how it affects the horse, and how long it takes to do it."

Ezra launched into an extended discourse on Indian magic, equine thought processes, mesmerism, and any topic he could think of that related to charming a horse. Sanderson appeared to listen to all of it, and when the gambler finished, told him he'd have to think about it, and he'd come back in the morning. Ezra hoped he was buying the con, and wondered how he was going to demonstrate his "technique" if he ever got a chance.

Marta had finished her snack, and walked down to the bunkhouse, to see if anyone needed attention. Sometimes the boys were a little reluctant to see her about injuries, especially ones they considered minor, or were in embarrassing places, or someone had picked something up from one of the "working girls" in town.

She knocked on the door to announce her presence, since sometimes the boys would walk around inside the bunkhouse naked if it was a really hot day like today. She could hear scuffling around inside, muffled curses, and clothing being hurriedly donned.

"Miss Marta," Leroy said, opening the door and letting her in, "to what do we owe the pleasure of your company this fine afternoon?"

"Godalmighty, Leroy, you been listenin' to that fancy gambler talkin' too long!" Angus teased.

Marta signed why she was here, and asked if anyone was having any problems. A few of the boys let her treat them for cuts and sprains, most minor but Virgil had a nasty cut that required thorough cleaning and several stitches.

"You better save your medicine for that gambler," Amos said, "he's gonna need all the healin' you can give him once the boss lets us at 'im."

"Yeah," agreed Angus, "the boss promised us we could do whatever we liked if he didn't 'cooperate', as long as we didn't kill 'im, or make 'im unable to talk. I'm looking forward to his keeping quiet. I'm hopin' to pop his eyeballs out."

That was mild compared to some of the proposed torments, and when they started on what they were going to do after Ezra talked, she thought she'd lose the snack she'd eaten earlier. She asked about Sanderson's promises to Ezra, and they simply laughed at her, and told her he'd never intended keeping any of them.

She couldn't be seduced into helping Ezra escape, but she could be frightened into it, by the possibility of having to repair a body repeatedly until it gave out, or what they might do to her if they thought she shortened their "fun".

The Thorley Gang was waiting to ambush the Mexican Army payroll wagon. Ray Thorley smiled to himself, remembering how the little Mexican he'd beaten the information out of just before breaking out of prison had cowered and swore the wagon had to come this way, because of the terrain. They'd pushed their horses to get here, as Thorley had told them if they missed this one there wasn't another for a month, and he didn't want to wait a month for his revenge.

Wallace signaled the wagon was approaching, and they set themselves. The wagon was moving slowly, the two forward outriders having already passed the ambush point. George picked off the forward outriders, Wallace got the rear ones, and Ray and Curtis took care of the driver and guards on the wagon. They searched the bodies till they found the keys, and proceeded to ransack the strongboxes, filling their saddlebags, and loading as much gold on their mounts and the other horses as they could.

"We've got the gold, now we hire the cutthroats!" shouted Ray, "and I know just the place, less than half a day from here."

They mounted up, and slowly moved out.

A day later, the posse found the horrific scene. Vultures, coyotes, and smaller scavengers had started the natural cycle of decomposition, and the smell was almost as bad as the sight. JD and several others had to move away, or lose what little in the way of trail rations they'd eaten that day. Tom Running Dear wasn't so fortunate, but neither smell nor sight seemed to upset him. Some of the others with stronger stomachs, Josiah among them, gathered castoff blankets to hold what remains there were, intending to give the unfortunates a decent burial.

"Mexican Army uniforms," Tom said, holding up a sleeve whose contents were missing. "This was a payroll wagon. That's why they were pushing their horses -- to get here in time to rob it."

"If they have money, they'll be looking for a place to spend it." Josiah reasoned. "Is there a town any where around here they could do that?"

"There's a little hellhole called Paradisio about half a day's ride thataway. It's the way they went." Tom replied.

They rode down the trail a short ways, until they came to a place they could bury the bodies. They stopped long enough to dig graves deep enough the remains wouldn't be dug up by hungry animals, and Josiah said a few words hoping to lay the souls of the men to rest, even though it took time they might not have. Then they moved on, hoping they could give those souls justice.

Ezra was getting so engrossed in the con he almost forgot it was a matter of life and death. Almost -- but then the shackles around his feet would bring the precariousness of his situation flooding back. He had to remind himself, 'Don't lay it on too thick, this isn't some illiterate sodbuster you're trying to fool. This man knows more about horses than you do.' That was always a dangerous situation when running a con -- someone who knew more about your subject than you did, and could catch you in a lie.

But for now he seemed to be pulling it off. His captor nodded his head at everything Ezra told him, asking questions when he didn't understand some bit of "knowledge" the con man was trying to impart. He suddenly held up his hand.

"I think it's time you gave me that 'demonstration' you were talking about. But not today -- I think tomorrow is soon enough. Get a good night's rest -- you'll need it for tomorrow." With that, he rose and left.

A "demonstration" -- just what Ezra had been fearing for the past few days. He wasn't strong enough yet. When he tried to move the fingers on his right hand, they barely wiggled, and agony shot up his arm. His ribs protested every deep breath, and his back joined in when tried to move too quickly. There was absolutely no way he could ride, let alone ride and shoot -- which he would have to do to escape.

The door opened, admitting Marta with dinner and the usual guard. He smiled and tried to flirt as always, but today his banter fell flat. What was that look in Marta's eyes? She seemed frightened, and he wondered if his captor had threatened her -- but with what, and why? She put the tray down next to Ezra and slipped a piece of paper up his sleeve, shaking her head when he gave her an inquiring look. He ate dinner left-handed -- long practice had made him virtually ambidextrous -- and she took the tray and left, "accidentally" leaving the lantern.

Ezra knew he might not have much time. Snatching the paper from where Marta had put it, he read:

EAT THIS AFTER READING IT. NEITHER THE INK NOR THE PAPER IS HARMFUL. I'VE DECIDED TO HELP YOU. WILL TRY TO HAVE A HORSE READY TOMORROW NIGHT. WHAT ELSE DO YOU NEED?

Ezra promptly devoured the note as requested, and wondered how he was going to get through tomorrow, and how he'd stay mounted tomorrow night.

Callie Hawkins was brushing Samson and, as she usually did, carrying on what most people would consider a one-sided conversation. But Callie knew Samson listened, and had his own way of contributing to a conversation.

"Isn't Ezra one of the most wonderful guys you've ever met?" she asked.

Samson nodded his head.

"He was so brave to ride you out to rescue Papa! Papa told me he shot that fella out of that tree without even looking at him. He must be the best shot in the whole territories!"

Samson flicked an ear back, and shook his mane.

"Which part of that are you disagreeing with? Surely you think he's brave."

Samson was saved from answering the question by the appearance of Callie's father.

"I suspect he's not sure about Ezra being 'the best shot in the whole territories', my dear." Ezekiel Hawkins gave his prize stallion a pat and fished a carrot out of his pocket, and gave that to him, too.

"Well, I suppose there's SOMEBODY in the territories that MIGHT be a better shot, but he'd have to be damn good." stated Callie.

"Watch your language, Callie!" scolded her father. "What would your mother think if she heard such an unladylike word coming out of your mouth?"

"Sorry, Papa." She was instantly contrite. "I doubt Mama would care very much for my tomboyishness."

"But she'd be very proud of her daughter, nonetheless."

"You really think so, Papa?"

He kissed his daughter's forehead. "I'm certain of it."

He hurt all over.

The "demonstration" had gone VERY badly. His captor must have picked the craziest, most ill-tempered animal he owned. Ezra hadn't been able to get anywhere near the beast, and his captor had finally called a halt to things after Ezra (whose feet had still been shackled the whole time) had been too slow to dodge and received a bone-shattering kick in the left shoulder. The broken collarbone hadn't prevented the hands from giving him one of the worst beatings he'd ever recalled getting, or stripping him and hanging him spread-eagle between two support posts in what he'd been told was the smokehouse. He'd screamed when they'd pulled his left arm up into position, the agony of unset broken bones rubbing together and stabbing into nearby flesh pulling him from unconsciousness. It was the first of many. There was a reason for bringing him here, instead of returning him to the shed he'd been in before, and it wasn't solely so they'd have more room to work in. They'd needed ventilation for the brazier they'd brought in. The one they used to heat the pokers they'd drawn across his skin. He didn't remember exactly what he'd told them, especially toward the end, or why they'd stopped short of killing him. Had he said something they'd accepted as his "secret"? If so, then why was he still alive? Were they just pausing to give him a rest, hoping to prolong the agony? Would they send Marta in to treat his burns? Had they discovered she was planning to help him, and done something to her? He heard the door opening. Oh, God, were they coming back to do more?

He tried to open his eyes, but they wouldn't work. They must be swollen shut. He gasped as something touched his leg, but then realized the touch was wet and cold. "Marta?" he breathed, hoping against hope it was, but getting no response. Then he recalled she couldn't talk. "Please," he tried again, "if it's you, tap twice." He nearly fainted with relief when he felt two taps on his leg. She was safe, and here! As she continued to work, cleaning his wounds, he tried to think of some way to communicate any guard (and he was sure one was there) wouldn't notice. Or did he have the right to endanger her? If she helped him now, and they failed, she'd surely be killed. Did he dare ask her to risk her life? Wait a minute -- what was she doing? Tracing letters against his skin? Oh, clever Marta! E-Z-R-A! His name. He nodded, wincing at the pain it caused, and felt more letters. W-O-R-K-I-N-G, then fingers laid flat, O-N, flat fingers, I-T. She was working out a plan? He needed to talk back. Taking a chance, he whispered, "Do you understand?" in Latin, and felt Y-E-S a few seconds later.

They managed to work out a plan of sorts after that, though Marta had to stop early on to tell the guard she didn't know what Ezra was mumbling about, either. She signed he was probably just delirious from the pain, and the guard seemed to accept that. Marta left after doing all she could for her patient, and thought about details of their escape she could work on all the way back to the main house, where she reported to Sanderson.

"THREE DAYS!?!" he roared, then modulated his tone. "You can't be serious, girl! I'm not waiting any three damned days! We start in on him again in the morning!"

# Then he will die. # she signed, # There is only so much I can do. Isn't it enough he suffers agonizing pain from what you've already done to him? #

"No, it isn't! He tried to fool me with some half-assed "Indian trick"! He's going to pay for that, as well as for holding out on me! He's going to tell me the truth, and soon, or I'm going to do things to him that will make him regret he was ever born!"

Ray and Curtis Thorley entered the cantina, looking the crowd over and spotting several potential recruits. After hiding most of the loot outside of town, they brought the least remarkable of the horses (switching a few Army horses for their own mounts) into town, and managed to sell them for a pretty good price to a local who didn't ask where they came from.

The rest of the gang had entered town separately, bringing in small bags of dust. They'd quickly taken over the local brothel, buying whiskey and women in equal quantity. Ray figured they'd earned it, and he could kick them out of bed at dawn, it being just after sunset when they'd gotten into town.

It was a couple of hours later, and Ray had just bought the house a round.

"Anybody interested in making some good money for a few days work?" he asked.

As expected, he got several volunteers, and others asking in turn what the job involved.

"Come over to the table, and I'll answer your questions quietly. There's no need for everyone to hear. Anyone who wants to join us, be outside the livery at dawn."

He sat at a table in the corner and answered questions for over an hour, then took his leave with his brother, and they went to their rooms to get some much-needed sleep. Dawn would come soon enough, and he wanted to be at his best for it.

Sanderson was livid with rage when Marta entered the smokehouse in response to his summons. Seeing her enter, he tromped across the room to hover belligerently over her, glowering.

"Did you have Standish cut down last night?" he growled.

# He would have died had I not, # she signed, # and it was my understanding you wanted him alive. #

"Don't get smart with me, girl. I want the man to suffer as much as possible."

# He suffers already. # She'd noticed he'd been hauled back into a spread-eagle position between the support posts. # What do you intend to do to him now? #

"I think a little taste of the whip will loosen his tongue." He turned to Amos. "Give him ten lashes. Then I'll ask him my question, and if he doesn't answer, you can give him ten more. We'll keep going like that until he tells me what I want to hear."

It didn't take long. By the third set of lashes, he was swearing to God there wasn't anything he'd done except move slowly, getting the horse's respect, there wasn't any "secret" and could they please just kill him and get it over with. After the forth set, he was sobbing like a child, and begging his Uncle Jack not to hit him anymore. Marta stepped between Ezra and Amos when her foster father signaled him to continue.

# Enough, # she signed, # can't you see you've broken him? He no longer knows where he is, or who's hurting him. He can't tell you anything now. You'll only kill him without getting what you want. #

"Going soft on me, girl?" he asked, "Or maybe you're getting sweet on someone who hasn't seen you? Don't forget what I promised the boys. If I can't get anything out of him, he's theirs, to do with as they please."

# Let him down, and give me until morning. His mind might come back if he rests. #

He snorted, and agreed to let her try. Ezra was cut loose and let drop to the floor. He hit hard, making no move to catch himself, and lay there in a boneless, pathetic heap, still sobbing, but no longer saying anything, coherent or otherwise. Marta told the hands to help her move him to the pallet she'd set up when they'd cut him down yesterday. Two of them picked him up and laid him belly-down on the pallet. She hissed at the damage, pulling medicine, her suturing kit, and bandages out of the pouch she normally carried when she expected to have practice. Amos brought her a basin of water, shaking his head at the bone-deep cuts he'd inflicted. She washed and stitched, doing one small area at a time, starting at his shoulders and working her way down his back to his buttocks and legs. At least the wounds weren't bad there, since he'd only been hit a few times that low. He whimpered softly while she worked, as if that was the most sound he could make. He cried out, however, when she reset his collarbone (again), but returned to whimpering while she reset his wrist and checked, balmed and bandaged the rest of him, folding his left arm and bandaging it to his chest.

She looked at her handiwork, trying to remember where she'd seen something like it -- oh, yes, it was something her father had shown her a few months before he died. It was an article in one of his journals, from a group of explorers in Egypt. It showed how they buried their dead by wrapping them up -- what was it they called the things? Mummies? She only hoped she could get him out of here before he ended up just as dead.

Dawn broke over Paradisio cloudlessly, promising a scorching hot day. Ray Thorley had sent his brother half an hour earlier to roust the other members of the gang out of the brothel, and now saw them returning, grumbling a little but ready to move out. He also saw a couple dozen of the meanest cutthroats he could recruit waiting impatiently for the order to go.

"All right, men, here's the deal. We hit the ranch, burn down the buildings, and kill anyone who tries to stop us. You get two ounces of gold in advance, and anybody who makes it back here gets 14 more, and, of course, anything you happen to see there you decide you'd like to keep is yours for the taking."

"Who's gonna pay us if none of your gang survives?" somebody asked.

"Then I guess you'd better make sure at least one of us does." Ray replied, "Now, let's head out." He spurred his horse, and the others followed him, headed for the border and Sanderson's ranch.

Josiah, JD, Tom, and most of the posse rode into Paradisio about noon the same day Thorley and his army had left. They'd sent two people to the nearest Mexican Army garrison to inform them of the attack on their pay wagon, as well as their suspicions of who had done it. It didn't take them long to learn how close they were to catching up with the Thorley Gang, or where the gang was headed.

"Is there any way we can beat them to El Paso?" Josiah asked Tom.

"Maybe -- they don't think they're being followed, so they won't be moving fast." Tom replied. "I know some shortcuts they wouldn't want to take with that many men. If we leave now, push the horses, and ride all night, we should be in El Paso by mid-morning."

"I'll get the guys, you round up some supplies, and we'll meet at the livery in 5 minutes."

It took 10. Tom found some extra canteens, and they took the time to fill them. Then they were off, in the proverbial cloud of dust.

Ezekiel Hawkins was listening to his foreman, Paul, as he gave him the weekly reports, but his mind wasn't on how many bales of hay or sacks of grain they'd used in the past week. He was still concerned about the young man who'd risked (and mostly likely lost) his life rescuing him. It just seemed there was something more he should do, even though he'd been sending men out to search as much of the area Standish had last been seen in for the past week. He once more cursed Olaf Sanderson for not helping in the search, or even letting the searchers look on his property. The sound of a throat clearing drew him from his reverie, and he gave Paul an apologetic look.

"You're not the only one worried about him." the foreman said.

"Callie?" Hawkins replied. She had talking about almost nothing else all week.

"Samson. He's been restless all week, circling his corral, and staring down the road like he's waiting for someone to come riding up."

"Hell, I'd almost GIVE him that horse if he did! But we both know how likely that is now, don't we?"

"There's been no sign of a body. It's still possible he's alive, maybe lying somewhere hurt or captive."

"I'm half-tempted to ride over to Sanderson's with a few of the boys and force him to let us search his property!" He shook his head. "No, I'll just go talk to the sheriff in the morning. Maybe I can get him to help with Sanderson."

Having decided that, they went back to the weekly reports.

Marta touched the lever, and smiled as once again the derringer popped into her waiting hand. She hadn't been sure the gun her father had given her for emergencies would work in Ezra's sleeve rig. She hoped he wouldn't be too upset about the holes she'd had to punch in the straps to make it fit on her smaller arm. She'd managed to "appropriate" his shoulder rig and gunbelt as well, and had reloaded both guns. The only thing she didn't know was how to get Ezra away from this horrible place. She'd had to sedate him heavily to ease his pain, and Sanderson had called her away to treat the cook, who'd burned himself while making dinner. Now she stood in her bedroom surrounded by a captive's weapon's, trying to figure out how to rescue him, and what, and how much of it, she could take with her when she fled. She knew anything she left behind would be destroyed by her foster father in a rage over what she'd done.

She sat on the bed, and sighed. Why had her life been turned upside down? When had Sanderson's desire turned to obsession? And when had obsession turned to insanity? This wasn't getting anything done. She needed to find a way to distract or take out the guards, move a weak and unconscious man, and take him -- where was she going to take him? She'd have to use the carriage to take him anywhere. That limited her options. She knew her foster father was rich and powerful -- where could she hide his victim that he couldn't reach?

She packed two carpetbags with her father's books, journals, and notes, as well as the few notes she'd written herself, a few changes of clothing and any medicines she'd compounded which wouldn't spoil, plus raw ingredients. She crept silently down the back stairs, through the kitchen, and out to the barn, where she stowed her bags in the carriage. Just as she was turning back, she heard a voice asking, "Planning a trip, girl?"

Her foster father's voice. Before she could even try to explain, he told the hands with him to throw her in the shed, along with "her gambler lover", which got a lot of laughs from the boys. Into the shed she went, to be followed a few minutes later by Ezra, who hadn't awakened from the sedative she'd given him, despite the rough treatment he'd received.

"I promised you I'd give you till morning, and I will. That's how long you have to live. On second thought, I'll be generous, and give you till noon." His laughter could be heard across the yard as he departed. *

Hawkins glared at the sheriff. "He's been missing nearly a week, now! Don't you think it's high time you were takin' a posse over to Sanderson's place and having a look around?"

Whitherspoon wasn't about to upset the richest man in the area over some drifter. "The man's undoubtedly dead by now. He was probably killed at the first opportunity. There's no reason to drag Mr. Sanderson into this."

"Oh, yeah? Then why hasn't he offered any help to find the guy?" Hawkins snarled. "Standish went missing up near his border. It'd seem the Christian thing to do. Why, the folks holdin' 'im might even be squatting on his spread. Or if you're right, they might have buried the body there. Don't you think we ought to at least look around and see if we can find it, to give him a decent burial?"

"No I do not!" snapped the sheriff. "If you must know, Mr. Sanderson's having his own problems. He lost three ranch hands in an accident last week, and probably doesn't see the need to help find a drifter." With that, he stalked off, fuming.

Hawkins turned to his daughter, Callie, and his foreman, Paul. "Lost three hands last week, huh? Now, don't that sound suspicious! Why don't we round up some of the boys and pay a visit to the Sanderson place?"

But before they could leave, Josiah, JD, Tom, and the posse came in from the south, and another group of riders came in from the east. The two groups met in the street outside the sheriff's office. The six riders from the east and the seven from the south jockeyed for positions along the hitching rail.

"What's your problem?" one of the Eastern riders said.

"We've got maybe a couple dozen Mexican cutthroats riding for one of the local ranches. They've been hired by a man named Thorley, and we're gonna need every man we can get to stop them." Josiah replied.

"Did you say Thorley?" the rider asked. "We're Texas Rangers, sent here at the request of a territorial judge named Orrin Travis, who'd had word the Thorleys were headed this way from a man named Larabee. I'm supposed to locate a man named Josiah Sanchez, and get any information he has."

"Just hold on a minute," Sheriff Whitherspoon interrupted, "what's all this about cutthroats, ranches, and needing men? I'm the sheriff, I'll decide who needs what around here."

Hawkins whispered to his foreman, "Get the boys." and to his daughter, "You're staying here in town."

"But Papa, what about the ranch?" Callie whispered back.

"I can rebuild and restock, but I only have one daughter." he answered.

It took a little time to get things sorted out between Whitherspoon, the Rangers, and Josiah and Tom, but half an hour saw a posse consisting of 1 sheriff, 2 "peacekeepers", 6 Rangers, all the men from town they could muster, and Hawkins (on Samson) and all the hands he could spare crossing the border of Sanderson's spread. They didn't get very far before they were met by a pair of hands scouting the area, and were told to turn back. The hands were promptly overwhelmed, and the group continued toward the main house, where they were met by Sanderson, who repeated his hands' demand.

"Begging your pardon, sir, but that wouldn't appear to be the most prudent course." Gus Freemont, the leader of the Rangers, said. "The information I have is Thorley seems to think you've robbed him of his chance at revenge, and he's hired two dozen cutthroats to exact revenge on YOU."

"Revenge? Revenge for what?" Sanderson asked.

"He was in town last week and heard the rumors you were responsible for Ezra Standish's disappearance. Now he's convinced you killed him, before he could." Josiah explained. "He's so upset about that, he robbed a Mexican Army payroll wagon, and used the gold to hire a couple dozen banditos to wipe out your ranch."

"Huh! I know about you," Sanderson jerked his head toward JD, "and him. You're friends of Standish's. I think you cooked up this story just to get a chance to search my place. Well, I'm not buying it! You can just get off my property right now!" He signaled to his men, and they raised their weapons, prepared to enforce their employer's demands.

But before shots could be fired, a rider came in from the west, at a full gallop, shouting, "Riders! We got riders comin' in, looks like a couple dozen, at least!"

Marta was surprised at how much her foster father and the hands had taken her for granted. Not only had they not searched her person, they'd dumped her carpetbags into the shed with her without more than a cursory look at the contents! They'd even left her a lantern, but that could have been kindness on someone's part, she supposed. After settling Ezra in the most comfortable position she could manage, given his injuries, and checking and rebandaging several places (they'd also left her medical bag, which she was carrying when caught, intending to check on Ezra and sedate the guards, if possible), she darted over to the bags and looked under her clothes. She smiled, and sighed with relief. The coat Ezra had worn, and the guns and ammo it contained, were still there. They might die tomorrow, but not without a fight. She turned down the lantern, curled up next to Ezra to give him as much warmth as possible, and eventually slept.

The next morning, the cook personally brought her breakfast, all her favorites that were available. Taking the tray and thanking him, she tried to get Ezra to eat, or at least drink some water. She succeeded in getting some water and a little food into him, but he still wasn't saying anything coherent.

"Why are you bothering?" the cook asked. "He'll soon be beyond needing such things."

# So will I, # she signed, # or have you forgotten? #

"Don't worry," he smiled, "I'm sure he's not really gonna kill you. Not if you apologize."

She shook her head, not sure if she was saying no, he wouldn't spare her, or no, she wouldn't apologize. They spoke for a few minutes more, and he took the tray and left, giving her a few more words of encouragement before going.

The next visitor wasn't nearly so welcome. Angus had come in waving a huge Bowie knife, and demanding to "pop out your gambler's eyes, like I said I would". She had nearly activated the sleeve rig she was wearing, knowing a shot would start a chain of events that would end in her and Ezra's deaths. Fortunately, he was called away by someone yelling in the door there were riders coming, looked like the sheriff and a lot of men from town. She could hear them bolting the door and leaving, taking the guards with them. Had someone come looking for Ezra? She hoped so, but also knew her foster father wouldn't give him up without a fight. She cursed her muteness as she hadn't done in a long time, beating her hands against her knees. If only she could shout for help, or rouse Ezra enough to shout, but he was too weak. She could hear horses pulling into the courtyard, and voices, though she couldn't make out any words until someone shouted, "Riders! We got riders comin' in, looks like a couple dozen, at least!" She wondered who they were, unaware of the peril they posed.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?" screamed Sanderson. Were his own men turning against him?

"Just what I said," Leroy replied, "we got about 2 dozen riders coming in from the west."

"Meet them here, or ride out?" asked Josiah.

"Might be best if half of us ride out, and the rest stay here in case they get through." Hawkins replied. "Doc, you'd better stay here and set up for wounded. Check with Marta and see what she has in the way of supplies."

"Marta ain't here." Sanderson said quickly.

"Not here!?! Godalmighty, she not riding around by herself with those banditos in the area, is she?" Whitherspoon was horrified to think the young woman who'd tended them between her father's death and the arrival of the new doctor was riding out there somewhere by herself.

"We don't have time to worry about things we can't do anything about," Freemont cut in, "all we can do is hope she safely arrived wherever she was going, and is too busy there to return until we get this cleaned up."

They divided themselves up, and Josiah chuckled to himself when JD joined the group riding out -- he was determined to ride with the Rangers, at least this once. He hoped it wasn't his last ride anywhere. Josiah had decided to stay -- there was something about Sanderson he didn't like, and he was determined to keep an eye on things here. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, two men run to a small shed, each coming from a different direction. They stopped and eyed each other for a moment, then the one from the house whispered something to the black cowboy who'd come from the area of the corral. Then they both ducked into the shed, leaving the door open.

It was simply too much for Josiah's curiosity, and he headed for the open door.

Marta heard the bolt being drawn, and raised Ezra's Remington, prepared to fire. She didn't expect two targets, however, and couldn't choose between them before they noticed she was armed.

"Hold on, girl, we ain't gonna hurt ya. We came to get you out of here before all Hell breaks loose." Simon, the cook, said.

"Yeah," Amos agreed, "we got to get you away before them riders get here. This shed isn't very defensible, they can burn us out just by firing the roof."

# Not without Ezra. # she signed.

"Leave him!" Amos said, "Save yourself. He's gonna die anyway."

Before she could answer, Ezra stirred and moaned. Three pairs of eyes turned to the blanket-shrouded form as he said, softly but clearly, "Where am I?" then, in a more panicked tone, "Where's my arm? I can't FEEL MY ARM!"

"Ezra?" a deep voice asked before anyone could answer.

"Josiah?" Ezra answered, "Josiah, help me! Where's Nathan? I can't feel my arm, and everything hurts."

Josiah took one step into the shed -- and stopped, as he heard pistols and rifle being cocked, along with a sound he'd thought never to hear again.

"Just hold it right there!" said Amos, "Throw down your guns, you're outnumbered 2 to 1."

"3 to 1," added Simon, "You're forgetting Marta."

Josiah's eyes had adjusted to the dimness of the shed, and he could see what neither man had bothered to check. "Even odds. One of you should look behind you." Sure enough, when Simon dared a glance back, he saw Marta was pointing the Remington at Amos, while he was looking at the business end of the derringer she'd produced from her sleeve -- the sound Josiah'd heard earlier.

"Marta, why?" he asked, lowering his weapon, "We were coming to save you."

"What?" Amos turned, coming almost nose-to-barrel with the Remington. "Oh, hell." and lowered his weapon as well.

"Let's everybody save our bullets for the banditos," Josiah advised, "and get to some better cover. I'll take Ezra." He lifted the smaller man in his arms -- and nearly dropped him as the movement caused Ezra to scream and pass out. "It would seem someone has a great deal to answer for. Make for the main house." At least he could reassure the gambler his arm was still there, he'd felt it under the bandages.

Marta was slinging on her pouch, gathering up blankets (which she pushed into Simon's arms), and snatching up her carpetbags (one of which she let Amos have). She was just picking up the lantern when Josiah said speed was necessary, only to be told (by both men) her carpetbags contained medicine which might be needed later. Seeing the way was clear, they made a dash for the house, albeit somewhat slowly, due to the burdens they were carrying. They'd made it into the kitchen, and Josiah was just turning toward the back stairs, when they heard a voice that stopped them in their tracks.

"That's far enough," Sanderson snarled, "it's time I dealt with the lot of you, starting with Mr. Smarty-Pants Gambler." He swung his weapon toward Ezra's head, but never came close to firing. Marta had stepped from behind Josiah, popping out the derringer and firing before anyone noticed her, the bullet hitting Sanderson right between the eyes. He was dead before his knees hit the floor, his gun, unfired, slipping harmlessly from his grasp. The shot had, however, roused the house, and it was a few minutes before it was understood they weren't under attack. Yet. Josiah carried Ezra upstairs to a spare bedroom, wondering how the others who had ridden off were doing.

JD was trying to contain his excitement, and not succeeding altogether. Wait 'til he got back and told Buck he'd ridden with the Texas Rangers! Wouldn't Casey be impressed, no matter how hard she tried not to show it! He tried to calm himself, knowing he'd have to GET back to tell or impress anybody. He could almost feel Buck's hat hitting him in the back of the head. "Pay attention, kid! No woolgathering during a gunfight. And DON'T fan YOUR GUNS!!"

Then they spotted the cutthroats, and there was no time for thinking anything at all -- just shoot, duck, and return fire, and hope you hit them and they missed you.

Diego cursed the gringos whose money he had taken, and stopped to reload his guns. No one had said there would be any resistance -- wasn't this supposed to be an unexpected raid? With only the ranchhands to deal with? How had the Rangers found out? He'd seen at least one man wearing their cursed badges. There was only one thing to do now -- save himself, and run for the border. Dead men can't spend gold. Others seemed to have the same idea. From one group of two dozen, they were breaking up into several groups of two to six, and scattering in all directions. He joined a pair of riders and made his run.

Ray Thorley saw the breakup, and called to his men to ride for the buildings in the distance. When he and Curtis broke away, only George rode with them -- Wallace and Scott had decided enough was enough, and they probably wouldn't have to share that gold with too many others. The others rode on, swearing vengeance against the two traitors as soon as they completed their current quest, unaware it was now impossible, not to mention unnecessary.

JD and Gus Freemont had ended up next to each other when the breakup occurred, and rode together chasing down a small group which was making for the border. They topped a small rise just short of it, and saw further pursuit was unnecessary -- nearly a hundred soldiers in Mexican Army uniforms waited just past the border, and the banditos, faced with a choice of surrendering on one side or the other or shooting it out, were stopping, for the most part, shy of the border, though a few did try shooting their way out. Others tried running back the way they'd just come, only to be caught by groups on this side.

Very soon, everybody between the two forces was either rounded up on one side of the border or the other, or had been killed in shoot-outs. Gus motioned to JD, and the two rode toward a small group at the border. JD recognized the men Josiah had sent to report to the Army, and figured the other man must be the officer in charge. His assumption was proved correct when the man introduced himself as the second-in-command for the garrison.

"I have a request to make." he said. "My men are very unhappy about not getting paid. Could you ask your prisoners -- very nicely, of course -- if any of them knows where our gold is?" He smiled, and it wasn't a nice one.

JD looked, and Gus was wearing the same smile. "I think we could ask, and if they don't tell us, we'll let you take them and ask them yourselves."

It didn't take long for the cutthroats to turn on Wallace and Scott, and point them out to the Rangers. Nor did it take long to get them to agree to draw a map indicating where the gold was -- all they wanted was a guarantee they'd be put in an American prison, one different from their former comrades.

"Waitaminnit," JD said, "where ARE the others, anyway?"

"Probably dead by now. They were riding for the ranch house last we saw." Scott replied.

"OmigoshIgottago!" JD was riding away almost before the word was out of his mouth.

"Impulsive, isn't he?" said the Mexican.

"Yeah, but he's a good kid." the Ranger replied. "I've got a feelin' I'll be ridin' with him again someday."

Josiah sat with Ezra and waited for him to wake. He also watched out the window, for riders coming in. He placed one large hand on the gambler's forehead, noticing the elevated temperature, and gently smoothed back an errant lock of hair. "Hang on, Ezra," he whispered, "you can fight this, and win. We're here for you, just be strong." He'd seen men hurt bad before, and just give up fighting. He didn't want to see Ezra give up.

There was a knock on the door, and Marta came in. She still looked pale and shaken from having shot Sanderson, but she came over to the bed, checking Ezra's temperature, and turning back the covers to check the various bandaging covering him. Josiah was glad she was doing something, and not thinking overmuch about what she'd had to do earlier. He reminded himself to ask later if she wanted to talk about it. Then it hit him like a two-by-four -- he'd never heard her say a single word since he'd found her in the shed!

Marta felt the fever returning to Ezra's body, and knew he was too weak to fight it for long. She started removing bandages, for they needed to be changed, and the big stranger helped her, giving her strange looks now and again. She bathed him, cleaning his wounds slowly and thoroughly, restitching the cuts that had opened, putting balm on the burns, making sure none of the broken bones had shifted from where they'd been set, replacing all the bandages and splints, and ignoring the curses from her "assistant" when he saw how badly damaged his friend was. Ezra woke up about halfway through, asking Josiah who she was and where Nathan was, and complaining she was "being far too familiar with" his "person". She ignored his tirade as stoically as she had his friend's cussing, finishing her work and getting him to drink some herbal tea her father's notes said was good for fevers. She and Josiah laid him down in the most comfortable position possible, and once he was settled, he dropped off to sleep almost immediately.

She looked up from her patient to see Josiah eyeing her intently. "Don't talk much, do you?" he asked.

# I don't talk at all. # she signed.

Ray, Curtis, and George had stopped in an orchard near the main house.

"What now, Ray?" asked Curtis.

"Give me a minute, I'm thinking." he replied. The house was almost certainly expecting their arrival. He needed a diversion -- but what?

'What' came unexpectedly. A group of riders -- he recognized them as some of the men who'd met them west of the ranch -- rode up to the rear of the house, saying the battle was over, and the banditos had been rounded up or killed. Most of the men had returned to town with the prisoners who'd surrendered this side of the border, but they'd brought the wounded, from both sides, back here because the Doc was here, and had anyone heard from Marta? They were happy to hear Marta was here and safe, and had been the whole time, that Ezra Standish had been found, and Olaf Sanderson had been killed. The men who had stayed behind started helping the wounded into the house, while others tended to the horses, except one dun whose rider saw to him himself.

"So Standish is still alive," murmured Ray, "it would seem we still have a chance for revenge after all. Now's our chance -- walk up to the house like we ought to be there. They probably don't know all the people running around the place right now -- we can slip in unnoticed." Which is just what they did.

Kiowa sign language.

He would have recognized it from his time with the Cherokee, even if he and Vin hadn't been practicing it for months -- much to the disgust of the others. He and Vin would hold entire conversations without saying a word, though he suspected Ezra had been picking it up without letting anyone know. He figured he'd know by the time they were ready to leave.

# Can you hear? # he signed back.

# I can hear. # She took the scarf from around her neck and showed him her scar. # I was 5. They killed my mother. Now no man will look at me. # She started to rewrap her neck, but Josiah took her hands.

"Whoever told you that didn't know you very well. You have an inner beauty that far outshines the physical."

She shook her head and pulled her hands away. "Inner beauty" wasn't visible to most cowboys, and she doubted she'd ever get the chance to impress any really sophisticated gentlemen. Why, she didn't even have a home anymore! Someone would have to go through her late foster father's papers to find out who his next of kin was. The ranch's foreman, Cecil, would probably do that as soon as the fight was over. A small part of her mind wondered if there was anything left of her father's estate, and who would take over as executor now. She got up and moved to the window, rewrapping her neck as she went.

Before Josiah could sat anything more there was a knock on the door, and a cowboy stuck his head in. "They're bringing in a bunch of wounded. Doc wants to know if you'll come help, Marta. They also said the fight was over, all the banditos were captured at the border, and even the Mexican Army was there! Can ya believe that? How they'd know about the banditos, anyway?"

Josiah just smiled, and said, "It must have been Divine Intervention, son."

Marta grabbed up her pouch, and any extra bandages and medicines she could, and out the door she flew, nearly colliding with Ezekiel Hawkins as she went.

Hawkins dodged the flying healer and looked at the still, pale form on the bed. "Cook told me where he was. How bad is it?"

Josiah squeezed his eyes shut against the memory of what was under Ezra's bandages. "Bad enough. He's been burned, beaten, whipped, shot, and I don't know how his collarbone got broken."

"He was kicked by a horse." Hawkins replied. "Some of the hands told me about your friend telling their boss about the 'Indian trick' he used on Samson. Had him so convinced he asked for a 'demonstration', using the craziest horse in his stable. I'm told the broken wrist was done by another horse, running over him at the meeting spot."

"I look at him," Josiah sighed, "and I want to break a few bones, myself. Other people's bones. What happened to the crazy horse?"

"He was shot right after the 'demonstration'." Hawkins moved over next to the bed. "Do you mind if I sit with him awhile?"

"Go ahead," Josiah answered, "though he might not know you if he wakes up. I should go downstairs and see if anyone needs a preacher, if there's not one present already."

"There is," Hawkins said, "but he won't mind the help."

Josiah left the bedroom, walked down the hallway, descended the stairs, and passed into the front parlor, so deep in thought over Ezra he never noticed the man who ducked into a doorway to avoid being seen. But Ray Thorley knew who he was, and saw where he'd come from.

As Josiah entered the front parlor, he noticed the wounded were laid out in neat rows, with plenty of space between pallets. At one end of the room, Dr. Hyatt was removing a bullet from a man's leg, while at the other, Marta was doing the same to an arm. Grazes, flesh wounds and other minor injuries were being treated by one of the cowboys, who seemed to know what he was doing. Simon the cook was passing out food and coffee, and urging people who'd already been treated for minor injuries out of the room. Amos and another hand were checking on patients who were too badly injured to move from pallets, getting them water or broth. Supervising the whole was a cowhand who'd been introduced to him as Cecil, the ranch's foreman.

It was in a dim corner of the room that he saw his spiritual services might be needed, as he saw a young man wearing vestments draw the sign of the cross on a man's face, gently close his eyes, and draw the blanket over his features. He was olive-skinned, and Josiah was unsurprised to hear a Spanish accent when he spoke. Josiah counted two other blanket-shrouded forms, and noticed three more that were unnaturally still (like the man upstairs, his mind whispered), though their faces were uncovered. He introduced himself to the priest, who told him his name was Father Roberto Martinez-Gabriel, and asked if there was anything he could do.

"For these?" Fr. Roberto said, "According to the doctor, you can only pray. According to Marta, two of them may still live." He smiled sadly. "I'm praying Marta's right."

"Amen to that, Father." Josiah agreed. "We've paid too much for this victory as it is. Has anyone come to you just wanting to talk? I can listen and advise, if somebody's feeling uncomfortable about the battle." He guiltily remembered how little he'd helped JD after the first battle in the Seminole Village, though Nathan had told him later it hadn't been his fault, he'd been wounded and in a lot of pain himself.

"A few have asked, but I think there are others who would be more comfortable talking to an older man." He discreetly pointed out the men he meant, and Josiah made his way around the room, casually speaking to each of them, offering what comfort and advice he could. As he wandered, he noticed Doc and Marta had finished with the seriously wounded, and were patching up minor wounds and checking a few men for broken bones or bad sprains. He looked around at the room and noticed it was quiet, with only an occasional moan or groan. The Doc finished with a last patient, and Marta signed something to him that made Josiah frown. There was no need for that! He saw the Doc nod his head, pick up his bag, and start for the stairs. Suddenly a shot rang out -- from upstairs! After a short pause, another shot was heard.

Josiah all but knocked the doctor down getting out the door and up the stairs, taking the latter three at a time.

JD rode up to the rear of the main house, jumped from his horse, and dashed into the kitchen, looking for Josiah. He (almost literally) ran into Simon as he crossed to the kitchen door.

"Whoa, there, young'un," the cook said, "where you headed off to in such a hurry?"

"I have to find Josiah," JD replied, "I have to tell him something."

"Josiah Sanchez? In the front parlor. Are you a friend of that other fella, too?"

JD, who'd been headed out the door, spun around. "WHAT other fella?"

"Standish." The cook jerked his head toward the back stairs. "He's upstairs, third door on the right." He got no further, as JD changed direction, and sprinted up the stairs.

"Am I supposed to know you?"

Hawkins lifted his head from a prayer when he heard the soft inquiry, and looked into a pair of confused, pain-filled jade green eyes. He grinned slightly at their owner and replied, "Not really. We haven't actually met. You were planning to buy one of my horses, or so I've been told."

"I don't recall needing a horse," Ezra told him, "as I already have one, named Chaucer. A beautiful, intelligent animal, and my best friend in the world." He moaned, and continued, "Why do I hurt so much? Where's Josiah? Did he go to fetch Nathan?"

"You won't be needing your healer friend, or any of the others, in a few minutes." a voice came from the door. "Don't try it, old man." it continued as Hawkins reached for his gun.

Ezra's eyes widened with dread. "Thorley." he croaked.

Some bit of caution must have been pounded into JD's brain, for he stopped just short of the top of the stairs and drew his gun before taking the last few steps as quietly as he could. He could hear a voice in the hallway, but couldn't make out the words. He peeked quickly around the corner, staying low to avoid being seen.

Two men were standing in the hall, and a third was standing in the doorway the cook had identified as Ezra's room. JD could see the man in the doorway had a weapon trained on whoever was in the room. If he went to get help, it might be too late arriving. He could actually see the hammer of the gun, and it gave him an idea.

"Well, well! It would seem you remember your old comrade-in-arms. Too bad you couldn't remember how I dealt with traitors. The Nichols boys told me how far you'd come up in the world. Now, I know Judge Travis wouldn't hire someone he considered dishonest without a reason, so what did you give him to hire you?" Thorley asked.

Ezra knew the only weapon he had was words, and all it would buy him was time. He needed the time, however -- or rather, his companion did. At this point he wasn't sure he wanted to go on, it hurt just to lie here, but the man beside him, whoever he was, probably had some reason for living. He tried to muster his wits, licked his lower lip, and spoke:

"We were never comrades. I only agreed to ride with you that one time because I was caught overhearing your plans, and you would have shot me then and there had I not convinced you I was as greedy as you were, and as willing to kill. I'm surprised you never noticed I missed everyone I aimed at." He had to stop a moment to get his breath back. Why was the room moving, and why was it so hot? He blinked, trying to settle things, and almost missed hearing Thorley's next words.

"You haven't answered my question, and I really don't have a whole lot time. Pretty soon someone's going to count heads, and notice a few missing. Tell me what I want to know."

Ezra started to shake uncontrollably, and the room faded from his awareness. Some part of his mind remembered hearing those words, spoken in just that tone of voice, followed by searing pain. He started to sob, recalling hanging spread-eagled in another place, and pain ripping across his back in bone-deep slashes. Some other part of his mind was trying to tell him something, and he momentarily remembered his peril, but other memories were pulling him away, into a black vortex of madness. He screamed at the memories of pain, of terror, of despair, and couldn't stop.

JD heard someone cry out weakly from inside the room. Thinking it was probably the best diversion he'd get, he jumped up and popped around the corner, saying, "Drop your weapons!" and aiming at the nearest man, who aimed right back. They fired simultaneously. Curtis Thorley missed, but JD didn't, though the bullet took a curious flight path. It hit Curtis on one of his ribs, sliding over it and moving on to hit Ray in the arm. Ray staggered, trying to fire at Ezra, but the wound in his arm threw his aim off just enough to cause the bullet fired a few moments later to graze the pillow on the bed before burying itself in the mattress, sending a flurry of feathers across the room. Hawkins jumped up before Thorley could re-aim, and felled the man with a solid right hook. Seeing he was outnumbered, George surrendered, and that was what Josiah found when reached the top of the stairs.

"When did you get here?" he asked JD.

"In the nick of time, I hope." JD replied. "I was coming to tell you to watch for the Thorleys, but then the cook said Ezra was up here, so I thought I'd see if he was all right, and --" Josiah put a hand to stop the narrative.

"You did good, John. Now, let's check on Ezra." He turned toward the room as the doctor entered, one of several people to have followed him up the stairs when the shots rang out. The newest prisoners were taken down to the parlor, where the wounded were treated by Marta before being put on horses with all the other prisoners who were deemed fit to ride, and taken into El Paso to await trial.

Ezra was still fighting and crying out, and the two men added their efforts to hold him down long enough for the doctor to inject him with a tincture of morphine. He settled down shortly after that, and the Doc gave him a short exam to make certain his struggles hadn't aggravated his injuries.

"Was he like that when he woke?" Doc asked.

"Nope," replied Hawkins, "he was perfectly normal, if a little confused. Asked me if he was supposed to know me, and when I told him he was trying to buy Samson, he said he already had a horse, named Chaucer, who was his best friend in the world. Then that Thorley fella came in, and they got to talkin', and the last thing Thorley said was, "Tell me what I wart to know", and he just started shakin' 'n' sobbin' 'n' carryin' on."

" 'Tell me what I want to know' " repeated Amos, "did he say just like that?" Hawkins nodded, and the black man swore. "Boss musta said the exact same words, just that way, a dozen times over the last few days."

"The words obviously triggered a memory." Dr. Hyatt observed.

"Probably more than one." Josiah added. JD gave him a worried look, and he told the younger man he'd explain later.

0 Having learned from Dr. Hyatt Ezra would sleep the rest of the day, and probably all night as well, Josiah left JD to watch him and rode into El Paso. He stopped at the telegraph office to send wires to Judge Travis and Chris Larabee, telling them of recent events. Then he stopped by the jail to check on the prisoners, and learned 4 of the Rangers had left with Wallace Hayes and Scott Banning for a prison near Dallas. He asked Gus Freemont about transporting the others, but Freemont said they would be taken by U. S. Marshals after they'd stood trial in Texas.

Since his business in town was finished, he decided to head back to the ranch. As he was leaving, he heard someone call out to hold up, and Callie Hawkins pulled up beside him. She wanted to ride out with him, as she'd heard Ezra had been found, and she wanted to see him. Josiah told her he was in no condition to have visitors. She replied if he was hurt or ill he'd need a nurse, and she nursed all the men at her father's place. This went on for several minutes, until Josiah gave in and let her come with him.

Callie asked about everything that had happened, and Josiah answered her questions as best he could, except for telling her about Ezra, no matter how much she persisted. He thought he was never happier in his life than when they arrived at the Sanderson ranch, and she could pester someone else. Marta met them at the door, and for a moment Josiah's heart leapt to his throat. But Callie didn't seem to think anything of it, and greeted Marta cheerily, asking about Ezra and telling her all the news from town. Marta told her the gambler was sleeping soundly, and was doing as well as could be expected, without going into details.

Josiah asked if the doctor was still here. Marta gave him an odd look and nodded. He found him in the parlor, and they spoke about Ezra's condition. Josiah wanted to know if it was possible Ezra might recover his sanity. Dr. Hyatt refused to say one way or the other, saying they'd have to wait until Ezra awakened, if he ever did. His temperature had risen while Josiah had been gone, and he was in real danger of dying from the fever wracking his body. Even if he survived, his condition could have permanent effects -- he could end up blind, deaf, or feeble-minded. The next day or so would tell.

While Josiah spoke to the doctor, Cecil tapped Marta on the shoulder and whispered, "Can you come into the study? There's something I need to discuss with you."

She knew it was coming, but surely they wouldn't ask her to leave so soon. She turned and followed him into the study -- might as well get this over with! He indicated a chair after they entered, and waited for her to sit down.

"I've been going over the Boss' papers, and I found something concerning your father's will. Actually, I found your father's will, and it's not exactly the way ol' Olaf said it was. For one thing, Boss wasn't supposed to be managing the estate after your 21st birthday -- it was supposed to go to you, or your husband, if you had one. Secondly, just about everything except the ranch -- the properties in town, and the ones in the nearby towns as well -- were your father's, and are now yours."

She was completely flabbergasted. She couldn't think of a single thing to say. She just sat there, shaking her head. She had no idea how to manage property! What was she going to do now?

Ezra was trying to hide.

He'd forgotten what he was trying to hide from, or where, exactly, he was. It was so dark here -- no sun, moon, stars, or any kind of light. It was hot here, too, and there wasn't the slightest breeze. He hurt all over, and he couldn't see. But he could hear them, whispering, trying to catch him, trying to hurt him. He ran from the whispers, or tried to, but it hurt so much to move. Then he couldn't move, he was hanging again in the smokehouse, they were hurting him, and it was so hot . . .

Ezra thrashed his head, the only part of his body able to move since Dr. Hyatt ordered him tied to the bed to prevent his injuries from being aggravated by too much movement. He now lay on his back, with ropes running across his shoulders, waist, thighs, and ankles. JD replaced the damp cloth on his forehead after rinsing it in cold water, and wondered if he'd ever get the chance to tell the gambler about riding with the Rangers. 'Please, God,' he silently prayed, 'don't take him yet. Send him back to us, whole and sane.'

Ezra stopped moving, let out a deep sigh, and seemed to settle a little deeper in the bed. JD couldn't tell for sure, with all the ropes and blankets, but it didn't look like Ezra was breathing anymore. He sprinted into the hallway, screaming for the Doc, and wondering what he was going to do if Ezra really had stopped breathing.

Dr. Hyatt lifted the stethoscope from Ezra's chest.

"Well?" chorused the four people in the room.

"He's still with us, at least for now, but he's in a coma. You might want to have Father Roberto staying in the room, just in case." He didn't sound hopeful.

"No," JD whispered, "no, please." He turned and ran from the room, as if he could run from a truth he couldn't face.

Hawkins, father and daughter, looked to the room's other standing occupant. Josiah told them, "He just needs time." Turning to the doctor, he said, "Is there any hope at all?" He got a headshake and a sad look in reply. "Don't bother the priest. I'll handle it." He sat down on the bed to begin his vigil.

The others left the room and went downstairs. Marta met them at the bottom and invited them to help themselves to the buffet dinner Simon had set up in the dining room, as there were too many people to serve any other way. She also took a tray up to Josiah, but he shook his head and told her he wasn't hungry. She offered it to JD, who'd returned, red-eyed and tear-streaked, but he also refused. So she took it back downstairs and ate it herself in the kitchen. As she was finishing it, JD came down the back stairs.

"Uh, ma'am, Josiah wants you to come upstairs and, uh, have a look at Ezra."

She nodded, and motioned JD over to the table. Dipping a bowl of soup out of the pot on the back of the stove, she set it down in front of him and gave him a "You eat that, or else!!" glare. He gave her an unhappy look, but was digging in as she went up the stairs.

Josiah looked up as she entered the room. "The doctor seems to think there's no hope. I was hoping you might think differently."

She examined him as thoroughly as she could. # He no longer fights. You must find a way to call him back, and make him want to live. There's nothing more I can do, either. #

"Sit here on the bed with me. Maybe he'll know you're here somehow, and that will bring him back. You treated him after he was brought here, right? He might remember the comfort you gave then, and be drawn to the source now." Josiah knew he was grasping at straws, but it was the only hope he had left.

She sat down on the bed, across from Josiah, and stroked Ezra's cheek, praying for a miracle.

The pain had faded, and so had the whispers. Ezra was alone in the darkness. Alone, as he had been most of his life. He thought he heard someone calling his name, and the name Josiah floated into his mind. Yes, he knew someone by that name, but it was too much effort to answer right now. He was safe here in the darkness. Safe from what? It was something bad, but he couldn't -- quite -- remember. He just wanted to float here in the darkness. Yes, float away. Away from the pain, and the terror, and the knowledge nobody was coming to help. They were far away. Who were they? It didn't matter. They didn't care, anyway. They let Chaucer die. They didn't come looking for him when he was hurt. Not before, and not this time either. But Josiah HAD come, a part of his mind whispered. And JD. He vaguely remembered hearing JD's voice, and feeling him stroking his hair away from his brow. He was a good kid. They were all good. Better than him. They deserved better than him. What was he? Dying. Oh, yes. He was dying. He seemed to be taking a long time, dying. Maybe he should die a little faster? No, wait, that didn't sound right. There was something -- something -- why couldn't he remember? Maybe it didn't matter, either. Matter? Wait! It was something like matter. Martyr? No -- it was -- it was -- MARTA!! What was marta? No, wait. Marta was a who, as well as a what. Soft hands, easing pain and bringing comfort. Marta had made the ones who hurt him take him down from the hurting place. She'd brought him cool water and warm soup. Where was she? Had they hurt her, too? He had go to her! He had to find her, and make sure she was safe! But the darkness was like a strong river current, taking him away. He had to fight it! The current seemed to get stronger, as if sensing his change of mind. He was losing the battle! No! Marta! Help! Then he felt a huge hand grab his shoulder. Josiah! Josiah was here, and JD, and Nathan and Buck and Vin and Chris! They were all here, all his brothers! Even Marta was here, helping pull him out of the current, and out of the darkness. Wait! No! It was safe in the darkness. There wasn't any pain there. He started hearing the whispers again, and knew the pain was close. He didn't want anymore pain. Marta was safe with his brothers. He started to drift away again. But he could see Marta's eyes. They looked sad. He didn't want Marta's eyes to be sad. But he didn't want the pain. Marta's eyes. The pain. Marta's eyes. Marta could ease the pain. He wanted to float in the darkness. He wanted Marta. But Marta was somewhere beyond the pain. Marta could ease the pain. Josiah would help. He would go through the pain -- to Marta.

It had been a week since Ezra had slipped into his coma.

Three days ago, he had seemed to be waking up. He'd called out to Marta, then Josiah and JD, and then to the rest of the Seven, only to slide back under. The only good thing about it was his bones were healing without being disturbed any further, and he was too far under to hurt.

Now, it looked like he was trying once more to awaken. His head tossed from side to side, he moaned, at first incoherently, then in words. He took a deep breath, as if to steel himself for an ordeal, and his eyelids twitched, then fluttered, and finally opened, to reveal pain-filled green orbs. He blinked, trying to focus in the brightness of the room.

"Ezra?" Josiah asked softly, not knowing what to expect, and fearing his friend might be permanently affected by his fever and coma, or still not know where he was, or remember what happened.

"Marta," Ezra whispered, then cried out, "OH, GOD, IT HURTS!!" while turning onto his side (his right, fortunately) and curling up as tightly as he could, then crying out again and straitening somewhat as his ribs and back reminded him they taken quite a pounding recently. He drew in several ragged breaths, and tried to speak a coherent sentence through the pain.

"Where . . .am . . . I?"

"In a safe place." Josiah told him, still worried Ezra wasn't all right.

"I hurt all over. What happened to me?" Ezra started to shake, and then to sob. He didn't understand why he was crying, or what was scaring him, but he couldn't stop himself. He didn't want anyone to see him like this. Someone -- Josiah, he thought -- was trying to sit him up, while someone else put a cup to his lips. It was warm, and tasted of herbs. He emptied the cup, taking small sips, and the pain receded. He was laid back down on his side. A soft touch brushed his face, wiping away tears, and he tried to turn toward the touch, but the person was behind him, and pain flared anew at his movement. He shuddered at the new pain, on the verge of more tears, and heard Josiah telling him not to move. He felt the bed move as someone got up, and felt it move again as Josiah let the whoever take his place.

Ezra opened his eyes to see who was helping Josiah care for him. A young woman, mid-twenties, perhaps a few years older, wearing a scarf around her neck. Somewhat pretty, but not what you'd call a great beauty, though her looks would be improved with a different hair style and some makeup. And a prettier dress than the colorless, practical one she wearing. Her soft hazel eyes and golden brown hair were her best features, and those soft eyes were looking a question at him, even as her somewhat thin lips smiled. One hand reached out to touch him, fingers lightly brushing against his cheek, and he turned his head to brush his lips against them. He looked back at her, and asked, "Do I know you?" then changed it to, "Should I know you?"

She didn't answer, but Josiah did. "Her name's Marta. She can't speak."

"Oh." He couldn't think of anything else to say. The name WAS familiar, but he just couldn't remember why. He yawned suddenly, and apologized for his rudeness, but he couldn't seem to keep his eyes open. He let them drift shut, and slipped into healing slumber.

Marta watched him drop off, then turned to Josiah. # He doesn't appear to have suffered any ill effects from his fever and coma. #

"No, but he still doesn't remember what happened." Josiah had hoped he might, when he said Marta's name earlier.

# The memories might still return as he recovers from his injuries. We'll have to watch while he sleeps. They will probably come as nightmares first. #

Josiah grimaced, not wanting to consider the possibility of having to tie him to the bed again. A knock on the door heralded the arrival of JD.

"Any change?" he asked.

"He woke up a short while ago, but he was in so much pain we gave him something to make him sleep." Josiah replied. "He seemed to be himself, except for not remembering what happened."

JD let out a whoop, and promptly slapped both hands over his mouth, looking over at the bed to see if he'd disturbed the occupant.

Before Josiah could say anything, the door opened again, and Cecil stuck his head in. "We may have a problem," he said, sliding the rest of his body into the room. "I sent a telegram to Sanderson's next of kin last week, telling them what happened. One of the boys just got back from town with the reply, which had been sitting there for a while. The family's due in on tomorrow's stage."

Ezra dreamed.

He heard the voice say, "Tell me what I want to know.", followed by the pain.

He tried. He really did. He told the voice everything he could think of, but the pain kept coming. He begged them to stop, but they continued to hurt him. He didn't have any more secrets, he'd told them every last one, but they wouldn't stop. He'd never been in this much pain, never, oh, God, he couldn't stand it, please, he begged them, just kill me, please, God, just end the pain. He sobbed like a child, please, no more, please, please, it hurts so much . . .

Josiah listened to Ezra's sobs and wished he could do something to comfort him. But how do you take away a memory? Nothing but time could heal a broken mind. Every time Ezra started to remember what happened, he would fall apart, shaking and sobbing like a child, moaning and babbling incoherently. It was almost as if his waking mind was deliberately keeping him from remembering. Could a mind do that? Why would it? To protect him from something he couldn't face without going insane? Then why would he remember it in dreams? How would dreaming about what happened help his mind heal? Josiah wished he knew, so he could help his friend heal.

Ezra woke with a gasp, feeling the wetness on his face, knowing, to his shame, he'd been crying in his sleep again. It would help, he thought to himself, if he could at least remember why he cried in his dreams. All he could recall was, vaguely, there was pain involved. Why couldn't he remember either his dreams or what happened during the two weeks after he recovered from the injuries inflicted by those bank robbers? Josiah had told him they'd lost Chaucer trying to get him back to Four Corners, and when he'd learned, he'd stormed out of town, threatening never to return. He'd spent the next week going from town to town, looking for a replacement for Chaucer, finally ending up in El Paso, and getting involved in a kidnapping, which had led to his present difficulties.

"Did I ever find my horse?" he'd asked.

Josiah'd laughed, and replied he thought so, since he'd tried to rescue the owner of one of the local ranches, riding the prize stallion he'd been offering for sale. Which, incidentally, only two other people could ride. He saw the blank look that usually signaled a fit come over Ezra's face, but then the gambler came back to himself, so Josiah quickly changed the subject. But he filed that bit of information away in his mind, for future reference. It might help at some point in the future.

Later, Josiah asked Marta and Dr. Hyatt about Ezra's behavior. Dr. Hyatt said there was very little information about mental diseases known, as it was difficult to study the victims. Most treatments consisted of keeping the patients from injuring themselves or others. Marta reiterated what she'd said earlier, but added Josiah might keep track of things that Ezra reacted to, and warn others those topics might set him off. She also noted he was getting restless to be out of bed and walking around -- had, in fact, tried to walk out of his room, wrapped in a sheet, and fallen, fortunately remembering not to catch himself on either hand, and nearly injuring his right shoulder by landing on his right elbow.

There were two other matters concerning the ex-preacher's mind. Sanderson's relatives had insisted they vacate the premises AT ONCE, and they'd had to hastily pack (with the lady of the family challenging every item they took), and move into empty rooms above one of the businesses in town, explaining to the business owner about Sanderson's perfidy, and introducing the building’s new owner.

The other matter was Four Corners. There really wasn't any reason for Josiah and JD to remain in El Paso, now that the Thorleys had been captured and Ezra was out of danger, and Chris had been urging their return. He pointed out Ezra would be a long time recovering, and word was getting around the law in Four Corners was short-handed. Josiah didn't want JD to ride that far by himself, even though he knew better than tell the young man that. He also knew Ezra wasn't strong enough yet to travel that far, even in a carriage or stage. He settled for sending JD back on the weekly stagecoach, under protest until Josiah pointed out he was needed back there, with his horse following behind on a tether.

So now he sat with Ezra, feeding the gambler dinner, and trying to hold a conversation between bites.

"Are you planning to go out and see Hawkins about his horse when you're stronger?" Josiah asked.

"I suppose I should," Ezra replied, "if only to see this paragon of horses -- Samson, did you say his name was?"

"I did indeed. Have you heard the latest version of 'The Ballad of the Red-Coated Gambler'?" he chuckled.

Ezra rolled his eyes. "Please! Whoever told that soi-distant 'poet' he was being influenced by the Muses should be forced to listen to the man's other works -- if he has any -- for a month straight. As for the man himself -- " he paused, trying to think of something sufficiently vile for the man who'd made such a mishmash of a simple story. He was quite certain he'd never said or done any of the things credited to him, especially the silly part about breaking up a fight between Callie and Marta after each had declared they'd die if he didn't profess his undying love for one or the other.

He supposed that part had come from Marta moving out and letting Dr. Hyatt take over his care two days ago, and Callie visiting every day since, though all she talked about was how soon Ezra was coming out to buy Samson. It seemed everyone thought he was going to purchase the animal, since he'd come to town looking for a horse and he was one of the few people (why did that thought send a surge of fear through him?) who could ride him. Well, he wasn't going to be pushed into anything, especially if it involved spending money, or buying a horse he hadn't even seen yet (even if he HAD been told he'd already ridden the animal).

Ezra smiled as he triggered the sleeve gun's mechanism and felt the derringer slip smoothly into his hand for the first time since he'd rode up to a lightning blasted tree trunk near a dry creek bed. Now, with the splints removed from his wrist, he could perform such tasks as feeding and shaving himself, as well as more personal hygienic things. It was annoying and distasteful to have ask Josiah to help him, and now he intended to send the ex-preacher on his way. For the past few days, he'd been making his way around the rooms they'd shared for the past fortnight, and today the doctor had pronounced his wrist well enough to do without splints. He'd celebrated by washing up and dressing himself, including his sleeve gun and gunbelt (which he'd had to don lying down on the bed and slipping the ends over his hips to buckle with one hand). Now he intended to find his landlady and offer his thanks, as well as remuneration for the time spent occupying her rooms.

He negotiated the stairway and stepped outside on his own two feet for the first time in a month. He stood blinking in the sunlight, took a deep breath, and started his search. Almost immediately he ran into Callie, who wanted to get him back into his room. He insisted on going to see Marta, whom he wanted to thank, if nothing else.

"She's busy," Callie said, "with learning how to manage all the property her father left her. I've got an idea! Why don't we go out to the ranch and visit Samson? He's been restless for weeks, waiting for you to come for him."

Something in the way she spoke triggered Ezra's intuition. "What are you hiding from me?"

"Hiding?" she stammered, "Why should I be hiding anything from you?" As he pushed past her, she grabbed his arm. "She doesn't want to see you," she blurted, "or rather, she doesn't want you to see her."

"Why not?" he asked.

Callie studied the ground. "It's not my place to say."

Ezra started down the street, looking for Marta and the answer to this riddle. He hit another obstacle passing the sheriff's office, but this one was too big to push aside. Josiah asked him what he thought he was doing running around outside. Ezra told him he was looking for Marta, and what Callie had said. Josiah sighed, and told him if he absolutely HAD to see her, to follow him.

They went to the local attorney's office, where Marta was just concluding a deal to have Ezekiel Hawkins manage her properties in exchange for a percentage of the rental fees. She was just stepping out onto the boardwalk when the two men greeted her. She nodded and signed a greeting to Josiah, never allowing her eyes to stray to the other man. Josiah translated for Ezra, who smiled and tried to speak to her, only to have his words ignored. When he tried to kiss her hand, she snatched it away as if his touch had defiled her somehow. She signed something to Josiah, and turned and fled.

"What was all that about?" Ezra asked.

"She understands you're grateful, but doesn't want you to feel obligated to her." Josiah answered, knowing the real problem but uncertain how to deal with it.

"I suppose tracking her down and trying again would be futile." Ezra sighed. He decided he'd had enough for today. He let Josiah lead him back to their rooms and, after a light repast, went to bed, still thinking about how to get past Marta's wall. Maybe the day after tomorrow. Tomorrow, he promised himself, he'd find a way out to Hawkins' ranch. He had to see a man about a horse.

Marta hurried back to her own rooms. She hadn't expected to ever see the green-eyed gambler again -- certainly not this soon. She'd thought he'd forgotten her, as he'd forgotten everything else that had happened to him that week. Of course, the other memories were slowly coming back, or so Josiah had told her. Ezra remembered some of the less painful things, like his conversations with Sanderson, and being fed by her. Josiah said she should give him a chance, he wasn't going to be repelled by her scars. No, she had decided, she would live with the dream of him, rather than letting reality break her heart.

Josiah was thrown from a sound sleep by Ezra's scream. He leapt from his bed and rushed to the gambler's room -- just in time to prevent Ezra from shooting himself. He managed to wrestle the gun away, and the gambler collapsed into his arms, moaning, "I remember -- oh, God, I REMEMBER!!"

It was Ezra's nightmare.

Too bad he wasn't asleep.

He clung to Josiah, shaking and sobbing, trying to push the memories away, not wanting to know, desperately trying to hold on to his sanity. "Oh, God, Josiah, I can't -- I can't --"

"Just hold on, Ezra, I'm here, I'm here." Josiah held the smaller man tightly, hoping the contact would anchor his friend's sanity.

"Ogod -- Josiah -- it -- it -- hurt -- I -- they -- hurt me -- can't -- hurts -- please -- stop -- told -- told -- everything -- ogod -- hurts -- no more -- no more -- please --" Ezra forced out the words between sobs, feeling sanity slip away, trying to anchor it with words, and knowing he was failing.

Josiah continued to hold him, rocking him back and forth, and praying to God Almighty to give Ezra the strength he needed to hold onto his sanity. It was all he could think to do, hoping someone, sometime during the gambler's childhood had rocked him to sleep at least once, and that memory would comfort him now. It must have worked, for he eventually quieted and went back to sleep. But every time the ex-preacher tried to lay Ezra down, so he could sleep more comfortably, he'd moan and snatch at Josiah's nightshirt, so he eventually gave up and slept with his back against the headboard, Ezra settled against his chest. He wondered what the gambler would say when he woke.

It turned out Ezra didn't say anything the next morning -- most unusual, as he should have been shocked to awaken in what could have been termed a "compromising position", and he didn't like being fussed over or touched. He simply got up, preformed his morning ablutions, and, if one didn't know him well, behaved in a normal fashion. But he was much too quiet -- no bantering, sarcastic remarks about Josiah's cooking, or asking how soon he would return to Four Corners. Occasionally he would just stop and start shaking, standing perfectly still except for the shudders wracking his frame, and clenching his teeth and one fist. Josiah tried to put him back into bed after the first spell, but he refused, saying he had to work this out, and get past it, or he might as well take a train back East and have himself committed. By mid-afternoon, he was shaking more than not, and the sobbing fits had started just after lunch.

Callie had dropped by, taken one look at Ezra, and left, returning with Dr. Hyatt. Ezra glared at the physician, and wouldn't let him near until threatened by Josiah. The doctor looked the gambler over, asking questions which were sometimes answered by Josiah, sometimes by Ezra, and sometimes completely ignored. When Ezra suddenly went into an uncontrollable fit of sobbing, the doctor gave him an injection of morphine, and after helping to put him in bed, told Josiah he should contact the gambler's next of kin about long-term care, and left him a bottle of laudanum and instructions on dosage.

Josiah looked at the sleeping man, and decided to try an alternative he'd learned from the shaman. He needed things he didn't have -- but he knew someone who might, or who'd know where they could be gotten. He stepped outside and saw Callie waiting anxiously for any news. He asked her to watch Ezra while he ran some errands, saying he should be back before the gambler woke.

Then he went to another set of rooms, and knocked on the door. Marta answered, asked him in, and signed an inquiry. Josiah told her what Ezra'd been going through all day, what the doctor had advised, and what he recalled from the time he was with the Indians. He asked her if she had certain herbs, and she told him she did, but they were very dangerous, and shouldn't be taken by or given to anyone outside proper ceremonial settings. He asked if she knew any shamans in the area, and she said she did, but she wasn't sure he would perform a ceremony for a white man. Josiah told her it wouldn't hurt to ask, and it might be Ezra's only hope.

She threw on a shawl, and motioned him to follow as she locked her door and started down the street. They passed through most of town, coming to an area of rickety shacks and tents. They passed hungry-eyed children, thin, bedraggled women, and men with no hope in their eyes. She stopped in front of a shack which looked slightly better than the rest, and pointed at the door. Before Josiah could knock, the door opened, and an ancient, blanket-covered form stood in the doorway.

"I'm not going to help you"

The shaman turned and re-entered the shack, leaving the door open.

Josiah followed, saying, "You can't judge my friend by the actions of others."

"What makes you think I'm judging your friend?" the shaman asked.

"You refused to help him. What else am I supposed to think?"

"A very good question. One you should consider."

Josiah sighed. He knew from his time with the Cherokee shamans were never direct -- they usually made you answer your own questions. So he needed to ask himself what else WAS he supposed to think. He tried another question, hoping he'd get the answer he wanted.

"Is there another reason you won't -- or can't -- help?"

The shaman smiled -- the answer Josiah had been hoping for. "You don't need my help, as you already know. You know the ceremony, and what you need for it. You can get the things you need without my help." He nodded to Marta, who had followed Josiah into the shack.

# But Grandfather, # Marta signed, # My father told me those things should only be used by a shaman. He said it was dangerous for others. #

"Josiah has the knowledge -- and the need. I could not do for his friend what needs to be done. You must be there also, my daughter, to stand guard. Together you can save the gambler's mind. No other is necessary." With those words, he sent them on their way.

They hurried back to her rooms, stopping only long enough to collect the things they'd need for the ceremony before proceeding to where Ezra lay in drugged slumber -- they hoped. It had taken longer than Josiah had planned, and he wasn't sure Callie could deal with Ezra in his current condition. Fortunately, he was still out when they arrived. Callie was thanked and told if Ezra's condition changed, they'd let her know, and they hadn't meant to take so long, but shouldn't she be getting back home?

After Callie left, Josiah told Marta what the ceremony involved and what it was supposed to accomplish. The two of them spent the next two days keeping an eye on Ezra, whose condition remained mostly the same, and going through the necessary purification rituals and prayers before beginning the ceremony. Josiah decided if he was going to do this, he'd do it properly, even if it took a few extra days. They started the ceremony at dawn of the third day. Josiah couldn't help but make a mental comparison to another dawn that saw a miraculous raising. He hoped it was a sign Ezra's return to sanity would be as successful.

After properly mixing and praying over the herbs, he gave half the potion to Ezra, whom they'd moved from the bed to a pallet on the floor, and decorated with signs for protection and help. Adding a few more prayers, not all of which were called for in the ritual, Josiah drank the other half of the potion and laid down on another pallet they'd put down next to Ezra's. Marta took her place between the pallets, to watch over the bodies, hoping she would haven't to use the knife Josiah had given her, telling her what to look for if another spirit should enter their vacant bodies, and impressing on her the importance of having to kill any body so possessed.

Ezra stood in a location that was somewhat familiar to him. He looked at the lightning blasted tree and dry creek bed, knowing he'd seen them before but unable to recall when. When he felt the big hand on his shoulder, he turned to find Josiah, and knew, somehow, that he was and wasn't supposed to be here.

"Where are we, and why are we here?" he asked.

"Somewhere between the past and the present," Josiah answered, "and where the pain began. You were right about having to face the pain, and getting past it, to regain your sanity. But it's a road you needn't -- and shouldn't -- travel alone. That's why I'm here -- to help you face the pain, to lend a helping hand, or a shoulder to lean on." He pointed at a rider in the distance. "And now it begins . . . "

Ezra watched himself ride up, shoot the men on the ground and in the tree, be shot himself, and saw his rescue plan meet with partial success, as Hawkins rode away while he kept pursuit from following. He also saw himself go down beneath the hooves of a horse after being hit in the face by it's knee, rendering him unconscious. He saw his body being kicked by the horse's rider before a group rode up and the leader had him put on a spare horse and taken away.

They followed the riders, never losing sight of them (though how Ezra didn't know) until they came to a group of buildings that looked like a ranch house, barns, and various outbuildings. Ezra shuddered, for some of the buildings were familiar somehow, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know why. They dumped his body into a small shed with no windows, and took their wounded into the main house, leaving one of their number to stand guard over the shed and their prisoner. Some hours later, a woman and man came to the shed, their faces hidden by hoods, and the guard let them enter. Ezra watched as the woman treated his wounds, stripping him to examine and bathe him before applying medicines and bandages. He blushed as he recalled her gentle touch on parts of his body, and trembled as he remembered the pain of being washed, stitched, splinted, and bandaged, knowing somehow there were worse things to come.

He saw another man enter the shed, and remembered his promises and threats. He saw himself moaning and delirious with fever, and remembered how Marta had stayed by him. He heard himself conning Sanderson about his "Indian trick", and started to shudder in earnest, some part of him recalling what was coming next. He turned to Josiah.

"Please," he whispered, "get me out of here. I think something really bad is about to happen, and I don't think I want to be here for it."

"You're right about the really bad part, but it's the part you have to face to regain your sanity. Don't worry, it's just a memory, it can't hurt you, and I'm right here with you to help with the pain. We can get through this together." Josiah stood behind Ezra with his hands on the gambler's shoulders. "I'm right here for you, and I'm not going anywhere."

Ezra turned back to the courtyard, just as the wildest horse he'd ever seen was put into a corral and he watched himself trying -- and failing -- to get any sort of control over the animal. He saw himself attempting to dodge away, his feet encumbered by shackles, and the horse kicking him in the shoulder, breaking his collarbone. He groaned "No," as he saw the hands moving toward his crumpled form, applying fists and boots to his already pain-wracked body. As he felt the blows once again, he also felt Josiah's hands on his shoulders, and the quiet strength flowing from the larger man into him, giving him the power to withstand and accept the pain, and put it behind him.

Then he saw them dragging him toward the smokehouse. "Oh, God, no! NOOO!!" he shrieked, falling to his knees and burying his face in his hands. He started to shake and sob, and no amount of persuasion on Josiah's part could get him to face this, it seemed. He couldn't make himself watch as they stripped away his clothes, knowing what was coming.

But Josiah hadn't given up. Kneeling down behind the smaller man, he pulled Ezra against his chest, reminding the gambler he was here for him, pulling his hands away from his face and holding him tightly as he screamed with his other self when they pulled his arm up to fasten it to the support post. He poured his strength into his friend as the hot metal was drawn across his flesh, helping him remember, endure and overcome the pain, passing through it on his way to sanity. There was a brief respite as Marta had him lowered for the night, but they both knew there was more to come. Ezra clung to Josiah, begging him to make it stop, saying he couldn't possibly take the next part, even with the ex-preacher's help. Josiah told him he was stronger than he knew, they'd make it, not to give up now they were so close, but as the whipping progressed, they both started to scream, and as it ended, Ezra passed out in his arms.

Josiah picked up Ezra and started walking. He wasn't at all surprised how quickly he came to the room where his and Ezra's bodies -- thankfully still vacant -- lay, watched over by Marta. He gently slipped Ezra's spirit/body into its fleshly counterpart, noting with satisfaction how he gasped and shuddered as he settled into place. He then turned to his own fleshly shell, and slipped in without so much as a flinch, having recalled doing it before, as part of his training.

Marta was watching Ezra when Josiah opened his eyes. He decided not to speak and disturb the pair, watching the young woman run her fingers gently across his friend's forehead, brushing his hair back. Even in sleep Ezra seemed to know she was there, turning his head toward the gently caressing fingers, and reaching up to try to place a gentle kiss on the hand so close by, only to have her snatch it away. Josiah sat up, and she turned, knife in hand at the ready, watching for any sign of possession. He spoke the words they'd agreed on before he started his journey, and she lowered the knife, thankful it wouldn't be needed.

He stood, stretched, and asked Marta to keep an eye on Ezra while he ate, bathed, and put on some more clothes than the loincloth both he and Ezra had been wearing for the ritual. He hoped Ezra would awaken while he was busy, and convince Marta he really did care for her. He padded barefoot into the kitchen, putting on bathwater to heat while he made a meal of cold fried chicken and sliced fresh tomatoes.

Ezra stirred and opened his eyes, seeing Marta sitting next to him and watching him intently. He smiled at her, and suddenly gasped as memory came flooding back. He closed his eyes momentarily, sorting the images cascading into his brain. The terror was there, and so was the pain, and the despair, but he could think of them without falling apart. The memories would never be comfortable, but he could live with them. He opened his eyes again, smiled at Marta, and tried to sit up, surprised to find how easily he could. He noticed air on bare flesh, and looked down to discover he was all but naked, with symbols painted across his chest, belly, and limbs. "Good Lord." he breathed, looking at Marta for her reaction to his state of dress.

She turned away, seeing how uncomfortable he was, and passed him a blanket. She felt him take it, and then felt his hand on her shoulder, his arm on her back, and his breath against her ear as he whispered her name.

"Please," he whispered, "don't turn away. It's not as if you hadn't seen -- and, and touched," he had to pause, remembering soft fingers on skin, and swallow, "my body. Is -- is there -- something I said, or did, or am, that upset you? I only wanted to thank you for all you've done." He paused again. "That's not really true. I wanted to do more than just thank you. I still do, but it's so hard to hold you with only one arm, and when you turn away, I don't have any way to turn you back." He decided to take a chance, and gently touched her ear with his lips.

She trembled at the touch of his lips, wanting nothing more than to turn and feel those lips on her own, while her hands did things totally unrelated to healing. But she knew he would turn away when he saw her scar. She put her fingers on his lips to keep him from saying or doing anything more, and pulled the scarf from her neck, revealing her mutilation. She looked down, not wishing to see the revulsion in his eyes.

Ezra thought he'd overstepped himself when she put her fingers on his lips (oh, what he'd wanted to do to them with his lips and tongue!), but instead of moving away, she reached up and pulled the scarf she was wearing away from her neck, revealing the scar that covered most of the front of her throat. He saw her downcast eyes and felt her shoulders droop. Mentally cursing the fact he had only one good arm, he decided the pain would be worth the effort, and pulled his left arm from its sling, ignoring the stab of pain from his collarbone to reach up and gently cradle her chin, using his forearm to pull her against his chest. After drinking in the essence of her lips in a long, gentle kiss, he rained gentle kisses on her cheeks and neck, never pausing before kissing her scar, softly breathing her name and the words of endearment he'd been longing to say.

Marta's eyes flew up to his face when he touched her chin, and she was shocked to see not revulsion, but hot desire darkening those jade-green orbs. She thought she must be dreaming when his lips covered hers, his tongue darting out to gently lave her lips before plunging into her open mouth, tasting every corner before pulling gently away to cover her cheeks and neck, even her scar, with kisses, murmuring soft words of love. He wasn't repelled! He wanted her despite her scar! He suddenly hissed in pain, and she instantly went from lover to healer, turning in his arms and replacing his left arm in his sling, checking his collarbone, and shifting her hands up to his face to hold him while she gave him a long, passionate kiss, which he happily returned.

Josiah knocked on the bedroom door, after listening at the panel to make sure he wasn't interrupting anything. Marta opened the door, looking flushed and a little embarrassed. He told them there was food on the table if they were hungry, and hot bathwater if they needed to clean up. He'd obviously availed himself of the latter, as his hair was still damp, his face was freshly shaved, and he was fully clothed.

Ezra was about to request a bath when his stomach loudly overruled him. He stared down at the offending organ, and decided to take its advice, proceeding to the kitchen and enjoying fried chicken, tomatoes, and Marta's company, though not necessarily in that order. He then took the hot water, soap, and towels into the bedroom, emerging an hour later clean, freshly shaven, and immaculately dressed, with his hair neatly combed, looking ready to go gambling, drinking, or courting.

The gleam in his eye told Josiah the marks would have been safe tonight, except for one thing. Marta had departed while he'd bathed, telling Josiah she needed to get home before dark. The ritual had taken most of the day, and late-afternoon shadows spoke of a sun that would set within the hour. So the two men decided to celebrate Ezra's return to sanity with a few drinks, and possibly a friendly game or two of poker. The evening went well, as the gambler was his usual charming, loquacious self, and the only low point of the night was having to hear "The Ballad of the Red-Coated Gambler", sung (but not well) by its author. They returned to their rooms early, since the ritual had been tiring, and slept well for the first time in long time.

Ezra was up early the next morning, smiling at Josiah as he poured the big guy a cup of coffee, and asked him what he wanted for breakfast. Josiah half-jokingly asked him if he'd had a relapse, since he'd never been an early riser so far as the ex-preacher knew. Ezra replied he had a lot to do today, and simply wanted to get an early start. The first thing on the agenda was a visit to the Hawkins ranch, or, as the gambler put it, "I have to see a man about a horse." He asked Josiah if he wanted to come along, and the big guy agreed, so an hour later saw the two riding eastward out of town.

Both Hawkins' were glad to see the gambler looking well and happy, but the one who appeared most happy to see Ezra was Samson. As they rode within sight of the corral, the stallion charged the fence, and easily sailed over it, much to Hawkins' horror, Callie's delight, and Ezra's surprise. The gambler was forced to dismount from the horse he rode in on, as Samson made it perfectly clear Ezra was HIS rider, and lesser mounts carrying him simply weren't to be tolerated. It was quite a sight, Samson following Ezra around, sniffing his hair and nuzzling his back affectionately. The sale was, as Callie had known, a forgone conclusion, and if far less money changed hands than anyone had expected, neither side was the least bit upset about it.

The two were invited to stay the night, and after a little wrangling, agreed. They sat on the ranch's front porch, talking the evening away about horses, books, philosophy, Indians, and just about anything else you can discuss in polite company. Then they said goodnight and went to their separate beds, where they slept soundly, knowing all was well, at least for now.

They next morning, they shared a friendly breakfast before the two men departed, Ezra on Samson's back, while the stallion pranced down the road as if saying, "Look who's riding ME!" Josiah came behind, leading the extra horse, and chuckling at Samson's antics, and Ezra's discomfiture. The gambler finally managed to get him into a dignified trot a few miles outside of town, and they entered El Paso with a minimum of stares. The gambler asked his friend a question, and Josiah pointed to a second-story door before riding on to the livery.

Tying Samson's reins to a convenient post after dismounting, he sprinted up the stairs and knocked on the door. No response. He knocked again, then tried the knob. The door was unlocked, and the rooms were empty, except for the letter, addressed to him, lying on a table.

Dearest Ezra,

As fondly as I will always hold you in my heart, I am still uncertain of your affections for me. You've been through so much, and my presence and care undoubtedly saved your life more than once. What you feel for me might be simply gratitude, which will fade over time. Josiah tells me you can be reached by sending mail to a town called Four Corners. I will send letters as often as I can, from wherever I decide to settle down. Don't worry about me, I have money secreted in several places among my luggage, from my father's bank account, and will be getting more as soon as Mr. Hawkins knows where to send it. Be happy, be safe, and always remember me as fondly as I will remember you.

Fondly,

Marta Henderson

Four days later saw them a mile or so outside Four Corners. Neither man had wanted to stay in El Paso, but Josiah had insisted they move at a leisurely pace. Ezra had been devastated to lose Marta, and the slower pace had done nothing to improve his mood. He would have been insufferable had it not been for his growing attachment to Samson, and the horse's equally increasing bond to his new master, or rather, his new best friend. Josiah was still chuckling at the stallion's occasional antics, as he was now. Samson had somehow sensed he was approaching his new home, and had decided to make an "entrance", lifting both head and tail and prancing down the road as it turned into the town's main street, much to Ezra's dismay. He leaned over his mount's neck, whispering urgently into his ear, only to have the horse completely ignore him.

It didn't get any better after they'd dismounted in front of the saloon. Ezra managed to tolerate the good-natured teasing and compliments on his newest acquisition from Chris, Vin, Nathan, and JD, but when he heard Buck singing "The Ballad of the Red-Coated Gambler", he groaned and decided to take Samson down to the livery. It didn't help to hear Josiah saying as he departed, "At least he sings better than the guy who wrote it."

Ezra took his time, grooming Samson till he gleamed, talking to the animal, making sure he was comfortable, feeding him treats and generally doting over him shamelessly. He made long-term arrangements for Samson's lodging and food, and deciding he couldn't put it off any longer, went back to the saloon. He managed to get his old room back, and after putting his bags in his room and washing up a little, proceeded downstairs and, after a few false starts, fit himself back into the ranks of the Seven.

The next month saw very little in the way of lawlessness in the area of Four Corners. There were the usual drunks and a few cases of petty theft and assault, but no major upsets of the Seven's routine. Ezra had taken to waiting for the stage to bring in whatever mail was addressed to the town, frowning at the one letter he did get when he saw it was from his mother. Josiah smiled to himself, knowing what the gambler was waiting for, and also knowing some thing else.

They were sitting in the saloon as usual when Nathan, who'd decided to ride over to Bitter Creek to see if his services were needed, came striding in, ordered a beer, and sat down at their table.

"That was quick." noted Vin.

"Yeah, Nathan," said Buck, "ain't there no sick or injured up in Bitter Creek?"

"I'm not needed there anymore." replied the healer. "Seems they've got their own healer. Some young woman set up an office there, she ain't a doctor, but I'm told she does good work. Got a Kiowa to do her talking for her, since she can't talk for herself. Something wrong, Ezra?"

They all turned to the gambler, who'd just spit out his drink, and now was making choking noises and trying to say something. Josiah, who'd been sitting next to him, gave Ezra a thump on the back which made the rest cringe, but appeared to do the trick. He sucked in a breath, regained his composure, and asked, "Does this young woman have a name?"

"Henderson, I'm told. First name's Martha, I think." Nathan replied.

Josiah leaned over and whispered, "If you leave in the next half-hour, you can be there before dark."

Ezra needed no further encouragement -- he was out the door and halfway to the livery before Buck could even ask, "What was that about?", while JD sat smugly, finally knowing something the older man didn't. Samson seemed to pick up on the need for haste, and five minutes later the two were on their way. Ezra was anxious to test how well he'd learned the lessons in sign language he'd been getting from Josiah for the past month.

The End