Setting: OW
Disclaimer: The following is a work of fanfiction based on the CBS television series, The Magnificent Seven. It is in no way intended to infringe on the copyrights of CBS, MGM, The Trilogy Entertainment Group, The Mirisch Corp., or anyone else who may have legal rights to the characters, settings or song references. I don't own the characters. This story is strictly for entertainment. No monetary gain will be made from anything contained in this story.
NOTE 1: I want to thank the kind, generous and understanding editor, aka KET, for effortlessly going through this with her red pen. Thanks Pard, you got no idea how relieved I am to have my' assets' covered. I am very very grateful, KET, thanks a million.
This story is set before the seven meet.
Portions of the conversation between Josiah and Ezra come from the Encyclopedia of Philosophy
Puffing his chest out in pride, John Daniel Dunne, lately of Boston, Massachusetts, felt every fiber of his being crackling with energy. He peered down at the riders, his excitement building. This was what he'd dreamed of since he was a boy. Riding into the thick of battle in the Wild West, guns blazing and bullets flying. He envisioned himself fighting side by side with his hero - the legend in black.
"...one... two... three... four... five..." He jumped when a gun hammer clicked in his ear.
"Six," Buck Wilmington offered. "If you're trying to hide, it's best you remove your hat."
"What are you doing?" J.D. protested when he was pressed on his belly to ground, manhandled and tied up. "You can't do this..."
"I just did." Buck hauled the flustered young man up, stealing the bowler and shoving him forward. So busy was he with his task, he missed Fate waving her hands over them, sending the last and final member of The Magnificent Seven to his destiny.
Tastanagi, the wise elder who held the mixed band of Seminoles and former slaves together, had updated them. Not only were their soldiers coming, but they had a cannon. That changed things. Chris sighed and then frowned when Buck Wilmington returned... and he had company.
"Shit!" the leader hissed, turned and eyed the fire shooting from the hazel eyes. It was a sight he'd seen too often in his life. Too many young men eager to die - for what? This kid was so green it hurt his eyes. How he found them was nothing short of a miracle. Another doe-eyed city slicker too far from home.
"How'd you get out here ahead of us?" he asked the irate youth.
"I told you, I can ride," Dunne protested, eyes hot. "I cut around the canyon rim."
"Well, I suggest you ride back the same way," he ordered quietly, trying to turn away.
The boy protested, then began to pout when Buck shot down his defenses. He waited until those too wide eyes... too young and too virginal... turned back to him. Then he stared the boy down... or tried to anyway.
"Go home, kid, you're not the type."
J.D. felt his 'Irish' rise up and unleashed his frustrations. This was Chris Larabee, whom he respected above all others. This was the man he'd read about and staked his vision of the West on. This was a man he wanted to fight side by side with. This was a cold bastard treating him like a child. Well, he wouldn't have it... No, sir!
"A man comes to you because he respects you..." he shouted, his heart pumping wildly and his eyes blazing with fury. He used the word 'man' with emphasis; he wasn't the boy Larabee thought he was. "Because he'd be proud to work with you. This is how you treat him?"
Chris eyed the defiant gaze without flinching.
"Go home, kid."
He turned away as Buck led the boy off. He eyed the meager village, the high canyon walls and felt like a sitting duck. They had their work cut out for them and only four days to prepare.
They shared a meal with the small group who hired them and waited for the sunset. They tossed around ideas for a plan of defense. That included training the men in shooting rifles and giving the enemy the appearance there were many, not just a few. Chris was distracted by Josiah and Ezra's bantering and didn't miss Vin right away.
"Walked off... just beyond that shack," Buck answered the green gaze that scoped the camp. He watched Chris nod and slowly make his way in that direction. He wondered about this newfound connection between the two men.
Chris paused several feet away, watching Vin Tanner blink, squint, shake his head and rub his eyes. He eyed the full canteens hanging nearby and grabbed one. He walked over and offered it, not missing the combination of weary bones and pain that no man can hide.
"Thanks," Vin whispered before taking a good, long draw.
"Long day," Chris noted. "Headache?"
"Damn crease..." Vin lamented, rubbing his throbbing skull. He desperately tried to hold down his dinner. "Feels like a mule kicked m'head..."
Chris turned away, flicking his eyes at the setting sun. He would tell Tanner about those days in the desert and own up to that nasty wound. But not now, not with a battle ahead.
"Maybe Nate has something that can help?"
"Nate's tired," Vin replied. "'Sides, that damn cat piss he makes me drink'll bring m'supper the hell back up. I'm t'tired t'puke..."
Chris laughed softly and then eased into the companionable silence that seemed so at home with the younger man. They watched as Eve began to dress, putting on an ebony gown laced with silver stars. He chuckled again as Vin swore and tried to disappear when Nathan Jackson's eyes roamed the camp.
"Looks like your goose is cooked, pard," Chris offered in sympathy. "He seems like a good man."
"He saved my sorry-assed Texas hide," Vin admitted. "He didn't know me from Adam... tended t'me... worried o'er me..."
"Is that why you traded your broom for a rifle?"
Vin nodded and absentmindedly stroked his throat, his own fate chasing him. The leering face of Eli Joe appeared. The murderer framed him and now there was five hundred dollars on his head -dead or alive. The bounty was always in his mind, and the ghost of a noose loomed over him every day.
"Wasn't gonna let him git strung up... not like some mangy dog..."
Chris frowned and gazed at the somber profile next to him, wondering about the catch in the drawling voice. He saw the Adam's apple bobbing and a shadow fall across the fine features. The expressive eyes were lost and sad. What was Tanner hiding?
"You're pretty fair with a rifle," he lauded quietly, trying to shake the unease from the haunted blues.
"Hah," Vin tossed back, taking a drink and shaking his head. "Sometimes it's a curse. Helluva way t'make a livin'. Sometimes folks is born with a good gift... " He faltered, blinked again and took his kerchief off, dousing it with water. He pressed the cool moisture to his throbbing skull, before rubbed his burning eyes.
"Get some rest." Chris gave the pale pant leg a pat. "I'll call you later for night watch."
"Jist so's I'm alone... prefer it that way..." His arm shot out, latching onto the black-clothed forearm with a grace and ease that startled both men. He sucked in air wildly and his eyes widened. The village faded away and a strange place appeared, dark and cold, dotted with cacti. The desert? He heard male voices... strange ones... laughing at him. Then he felt something closing on his neck, choking him. Unable to breathe, he gripped hard... his eyes rolled and his legs buckled.
"Vin!"
Chris caught him easily under the shoulders and legs, eyeing the mat laid out inside the shack. The Texan's breath came in short pants and he body twitched slightly. He eased the unconscious man down and frowned, eyeing the spot where the jagged scar remained. A mark put there by his own hand. Sighing, he placed his fingers on the pale neck and waited for the racing pulse to slow. Finally, the tension left Tanner's face and his breathing returned to normal. Whatever it was he saw was now long gone. Chris ducked outside and lit a cheroot, eyeing the full moon.
"I should have rode the other way," he lamented of the course Fate sent him on. He didn't see her smiling above his head, intertwining his lifeline with that of the sharpshooter. He didn't know the road taken was one he'd come to celebrate.
The sun was shining, and he inhaled deeply, filling his starved lungs with the sweet desert air. Then he saw them and his teeth broke through a mustached grin.
"The wind blew, the clouds parted and out came the sun!" Buck Wilmington lauded of the arrival of several women into the camp. Despite his best efforts to win over one of the ladies, his charming aim was shot down. He winced at the sight of the swaying hips and coy smiles of the departing maidens. It brought out his infamous itch.
"You keep Willie in the barn, Buck," Chris warned. "I mean it!"
"Aw, hell, you're gettin' to be an old grump," Buck complained and then Chris banished him to patrolling the perimeter. It was there he encountered the chief's son, Imala. They argued, wrestled, and then a shot almost took his head off. He growled when he saw the familiar bowler hat.
"You stupid son of a ... you damn near shot me!"
While the unexpected return of the native son brought joy to the old Indian's heart, it soured Buck's. The hostile attitude of the warrior and the hatred those dark eyes held for white men angered him. Then there was the matter of J.D. Dunne who kept turning up. He argued with the boy again, pointing out all his mistakes. He saw the hazel eyes plead with Chris Larabee who was too tired to fight.
"You wanna die young, stay." Chris mourned quietly as the younger man exalted.
The day passed quickly with preparations for the upcoming battle. Sensing Vin felt cooped up, having been working inside the confines of the village all day, Chris asked him to scout out the entire area, looking for weak spots. Later, he'd seek him out, looking forward to some quiet time up on the rim.
The cool desert air made the southerner appreciate his coat as he watched the older man work. Josiah Sanchez was a strange one. He sensed a deep faith, albeit a wide crack in the middle of it. What caused him to turn away from his calling? He didn't seem comfortable in these new clothes either. As if he was trapped with one foot in two worlds.
"Why'd you sign on Josiah," Ezra inquired. "What is it you expect to gain?"
"I saw the birds of darkness in a dream," Josiah replied, relating his vision. "When I woke up, a crow was sitting on my windowsill, staring at me like the devil himself."
Definitely some unaddressed issues was the gambler's first thought. The interpretation of a dream as 'signs' from God or Lucifer tied him to a strong background in Christian thought and practice. He listened as the graying man stated he'd 'just as soon meet death head on'. Then he relayed his own brief stint as a 'man of the cloth'. What a con that had been!
"Did fine too, until I attempted to save the soul of the mayor's daughter."
"Yup," Sanchez nodded, "Saving souls has its hazards."
"Care for an aperitif?" Ever the gentlemen, Ezra offered his flask.
"Don't mind if I do." Josiah took a sip and his face split into a big grin. He flashed his teeth and bared his eyes, wagging the gray brows. "You have fine taste in spirits, Brother Standish. We're gonna get along just fine."
"Mother's current paramour is the heir to a rather large bourbon empire in Kentucky. I have several bottles of the very best and a constant supply."
"Her children arise up and called her blessed," the wise man saluted, choosing Proverbs 31:28.
Ezra laughed, clapped the large man on the back, and laughed again.
"St Thomas Aquinas revisited," Ezra tossed back, and it was the other man's turn to chuckle.
"Preacher, teacher, journeyman, author and a man of prayer,'' he paused and nodded, recounting the gifted theologian's talents. "Chase a temptress from my room... not likely," he remarked on the test of faith given to Thomas. "The devil is not the direct cause of sin, but he incites it by stoking the fires of man's impulses... that was Adam's gift to all of us."
"An act becomes evil when we mortals deviate from reason and moral law. Sin has its roots in lust... that which dwells inside of all men. However, God rules with justice and it presupposes his mercy."
"Touché!" Josiah toasted, handing the flask back. "Ezra, you silver-tongued devil, you! You studied the Summa by Saint Thomas?" he inquired of the religious scholar's greatest work.
"A brilliant piece of literature, it fascinated me." The eyes were serene green now as the man took over, replacing the swindler. "The happiest years of my life were those I spent at Tulane," he noted of the university in New Orleans. "Mother was honeymooning in Europe and I was free at last. I miss those days and the comrades I had..."
Something about the sad tone in the southern drawl gave Josiah pause. From what he saw and heard, 'Mother' ruled with a heavy hand. The gambler was molded by her; no mention of the father was given. It seemed like those four years in college were the only time he was able to be himself.
"She still with us?"
"Mother?" Ezra scoffed, shaking his head. "Wouldn't have the audacity to leave this earth. There are far too many poor souls waiting to be fleeced. I dare say she'll win her way through the pearly gates in a victorious game of three-card Monte with St. Peter himself."
"Sounds like quite a woman."
"Truer words were never spoken. She could sell ice to the Eskimos..." He thought on Maude Standish, his beautiful mother. "She'll take your last penny, the clothes off your back and have you looking forward to her return trip."
"Now that's a lady I'd like to meet."
"Hah!" Ezra laughed, handed the flask back and thought on the preacher's abode in the desert. "That would be a challenge, even for Mother."
"Are you thirsty?"
"Thanks," Nathan smiled, taking the mug of cider. She was beautiful. Her skin was pale brown and her hair in waves. The eyes were mezmerizing and she smelled wonderful. His fingers itched to touch the silken skin. Her name was Rain and he had never been so strongly drawn to a woman. He was checking his supplies, making sure he had plenty of bandages and storing the medicinal herbs and plants he'd gathered. He moved over on the crude bench so she could sit down. She smelled of honey and oil and he felt his heart racing. The cider couldn't quench that thirst.
"How long have you been a healer?"
"Since the war," he replied, thinking back on those days. "I worked in a Union army hospital. Started out as a stretcher bearer but by the end of the war, I was pulling bullets out, settin' bones, stitchin' wounds..."
"Your eyes are haunted." She saw a deep sadness in the handsome man's brown eyes. He didn't reply and she lifted her hand, turning his face towards her. She heard his sharp inhale of air and felt him flinch. "Sorry..."
"Don't be," he rasped. "That was a long time ago... but... I still hear 'em callin' out. We couldn't take the bad ones... holes blown through 'em... limbs missin'... there wasn't enough time or doctors. They'd reach out... tug on m'pants... wantin' help... or their mother..." He bit his lip, clenched his eyes shut and pulled his hands into fists. He took several long breaths trying to get that smell away. It always came back, the stench of the dead and dying. He felt two soft hands on his face and then a gentle embrace.
"I'm sorry, Nathan..." She drew back, cupped his chin and smiled. "I like you, Nathan Jackson."
"I like you, Miss Rain..."
"Daughter!" Ebon called out, seeing her with the man called Jackson from the town.
"I have to go." She tapped his cheek. "Perhaps we could talk again sometime... alone..."
"I'd like that..." he managed, his heart thumping wildly. He watched her swaying hips. The breeze lifted her wavy hair and he recalled that beautiful smile. "Sure is gonna be a long night," he commiserated.
He walked along the canyon rim eyeing the orange of the horizon. He saw the silhouette of the Texan just as the sun set on the canyon below. As he watched the wind lift the long hair, he felt that calm again, inside his troubled being.
As his blue eyes drank in every line on the horizon, Vin Tanner felt his spirit soaring. There was no denying it; the green-eyed eagle in his vision was sitting next to him. That hole inside that had become a fixture over the years was closing. He couldn't help but embrace the bond that was being born. This man was his brother; the vision told him that. He snuck a side glance at the blond and felt stronger than he had in a long time. Seeing the light green eyes, he felt his soul open and parted his lips. It was time to share his burden.
Maybe he shouldn't fight it. Chris's heart overruled his logic. Hell, maybe this scruffy tracker was the answer he'd sought. He thought on all the years he'd ridden in the shadows alone. But now, when he stood beside this man, now there was warmth where before there was only cold. The soft drawl interrupted his thoughts. Vin was asking him about Tascosa, Texas.
"Heard of it," he admitted, watching the hawk-like eyes gaze through a spyglass at the canyon floor below.
"If I wind up gettin' kilt, take my body back there. Ye'll git five hundred dollars fer it."
"How come you're so valuable?" he pressed, intrigued and surprised that the younger man would open up to him about something so important. He listened to the tale of Eli Joe and the murder of a rancher named Jess Kincaid. With a welcomed ease, he then wore that smile again as Tanner's dry wit reappeared.
"So I figure if a friend collects, I get the last laugh."
Chris chuckled then, watching the mischievous eyes wag at him before peering off into the distance once more.
As the burnished gold and shimmering orange sun disappeared, Chris felt the heat of the sunset ripple in his chest. He vowed then to help Vin clear his name. He'd ride to Texas and find this Eli Joe. If the bastard gave him any trouble, he'd beat the truth out of him. He owed Tanner and he'd stand by him. No one was going to put a noose around Vin Tanner's neck... no way.
With the new morn came the unsettled air of that which was yet to come. Chris checked the camp twice, placed each man in specific positions and then went to stand by Tastanagi.The sun was already hot and it was still early in the day. He took his hat off, swiped his brow and replaced the dark-brimmed covering just as the signal, a birdcall, went airborne.
Vin chuffed his breath and handed his eyeglass over. Chris's heart sank at the sight that greeted him.Instead of less than two dozen men, there were closer to four!
"I thought you said there were twenty!" he accused the older man.
"No, I asked if twenty men would scare you," the quiet reply came.
"Twenty, no," Chris hissed. "Forty, yes!"
As the riders drew closer, Larabee's keen eyes raked over a graying man riding just in front of a tattered Confederate flag.The state of such matched the ragged collection of bodies trailing behind him.
The weary but keen-eyed Rebel leaned over his pommel, gazing at the stranger dressed in black.The lean man met his gaze head on without flinching. A wary enemy and a worthy one too!That made his gut sing, just like the stench of Yankees always did!
"Ah... I'm Colonel Emmet Riley Anderson of the Army of the Confederate States of America, and you are...?"
"There's no gold here, Colonel."
Anderson's smile widened at the quiet but firm reply from the Yankee leader.
"No, course there isn't," he sneered lightly. "You're here for your health... or, uh, the company perhaps..."
"We came t'ask ya t'leave..."
"...and purely out of the goodness of your heart..." He eyed the upper body of a man dressed in buckskin. The accent sounded like Texas... a traitor to the cause!
"Yep, something like that..." Buck attested, drawing his weapon.
"Well..." the gray fox smiled as yet another Yank voiced his opinion. "How many of you humanitarians are there?" He raked his eyes over several more bodies, each rising and brandishing weapons. "Well, what do you say, Captain?" He turned to Francis Corcoran, his right hand for many years. "Do you think there's gonna be trouble?"
"No, trouble, Colonel, just turn around and ride out..."
"I like that!" He studied the man in black again... the eyes were clear and bold. The words said one thing, but the stance, the lean muscles and that glare said another.A soldier... a worthy adversary, every inch of him. The fact that he was greatly outnumbered never even phased him. "Audacity."
"Move on, Colonel," Vin rasped, already the veteran of too many battles and witness of too much carnage. "These people have nothin' ya want."
With a lingering glance at the Texan, then a sweeping one over the apparent leader, the old Reb smiled easily, his pulse roaring. He could almost smell the blood and gun powder.
"Shoot 'em down, Captain."
"Company!" the dark-haired Irishman ordered, arm raised. "Fire!"
"Now!" Chris screamed, ducking for cover.
Ezra's sharp whistle sprung his pint-sized platoon into action. The figures crafted from cloth and hair the day before and the harnesses of rope sprung to life. With it, the well appointed decoys sprang into action.
Bullets flew in all directions scattering some of the men in gray and wounding others, some mortally. This did not set well with the old gray fox, and his anger rose at the troops behind him that ran looking for cover.
"Stand and fight, damn you!"
"For God's sake, Colonel," Francis Corcoran pleaded. "For the love of God, Colonel..." he ducked as a bullet flew past. "Let's go!"
"Damn it all to hell!" the old man hissed, angry and unsettled. This was not how he had intended the battle to go. Still, he felt they were superior. They would need a new plan... a better course of action. He eyed the canyon walls and the wheels in his mind began to turn. They were set high above the village. It was then an idea was born. "Sound retreat..."
Over the rebel leader's call, a mix of sounds exploded.A bugle calling retreat collided with J.D. Dunne's scream of exhilaration at tasting the first blood of battle. The hooves of the departing enemy danced with the laughter of Eban and the women gathered.Tastanagi's triumphant cry blended with the dust clouds of the villains.
But in the midst of the celebration, two veteran warriors, by experience rather than age, stood silent. The gunslinger and the tracker remained calm amidst the glee. Side by side, their twin gazes raked over the horizon until the horses disappeared.Both had the same burning juices of anxiety churning within their taut bellies.Finally, Vin Tanner broke the uneasy silence.
"Ride on, Colonel, ride on..." he voiced, despite the denial singing inside. He sighed, slinging his gun over his shoulder.
Chris heard the Seminole chief's jubilant words of victory despite the fact they were aired in his native tongue.He turned to the wise man, nodded in admiration.
"Your people fought well," he complimented.
"We fought well together," the chief returned with equal due.
"We whupped 'em good, old pard!" Buck exuded to Chris Larabee.
But the blond's face remained stoic and he didn't reply.Rather, it was the young sharpshooter whose opinion Larabee sought. As if sensing the twin feeling of doubt in the gut of the man next to him, Vin echoed it verbally.
"What do you think?"
Sky eyes met pale green.
Vin felt it too. Chris knew that as soon as the silent footfall ended up next to him as the troop rode out.He felt it now and knew the other man was just as wary. Vin didn't have to speak; he could read those blue eyes like a book. They told him that the younger man didn't believe the old war veteran would have come all this way just to ride off after one short skirmish.
"Maybe," he agreed, his eyes dispelling the equal amount of caution that the other's directed. "Buck, get up on that ridge and keep a lookout."
"Hell, they ain't gonna stop runnin' 'til they hit the Rio Grande!" the mustached one decided, already planning on sweet-talking one of the fair maidens later.
"I'll take first watch!" Vin turned, eager to be free of the bodies, blood and close quarters with too many people.
"Alright," Chris nodded, then turned to the youth whose wide eyes were shining... shining way too bright. Too young, too eager, too inexperienced and way too far from home. His eyes caught the crimson stains covering the Easterner.
"Are you alright?"
"Yeah," J.D. answered distractedly, then patted his chest. "Oh, it's not my blood!"
"You're damn lucky it isn't your blood, son!" Buck chastised the youth. "Now you don't fan your guns. That spoils your aim," he issued sternly, recalling his mental notes of where the greenhorn went wrong. "One good shot is worth six bad ones."
"Anything else?" Dunne was annoyed. Who did Wilmington think he was? What right did he have to constantly get in his face about stuff?
"No, that'll do it for now," Buck warned, shouldered his rifle and headed for the lookout above the camp.
Pain shot up his arm, burning and shifting, causing his jade eyes to flinch.His scarlet coat was covered in dirt and he needed a drink.Ambling into the tent, he watched the Negro tend to the wounded.It didn't set well inside; he was raised in a different climate.
The earliest memories he had were of his grandfather's plantation in Georgia. A huge white house with rolling green hills, teeming with crops. Along with those rows of peaches, sugar and hemp was the primary cash crop of course, King Cotton.Toiling in thousands of rows, doing backbreaking work, were his grandfather's slaves. Like the man before him now tending to Imala, the chief's son, they bore dark skin They were inferior; that is what he'd been taught at his grandfather's knee. Mother was seldom around in those early years and it was Percy Standish's deep set standards that still rode with him.
Through the pain in his shoulder, the clouds of time parted.He saw a large carriage, a man in formal garb under the canopy in the back seat. Standing by his side, a boy of perhaps six or seven with chestnut hair and wide green eyes. Almost too pretty to be a boy... Ezra Percival Standish watched the slaves beaten, whipped and treated inhumanely without blinking an eye.
"Let me see that arm."
"I'm fine."
Ezra stirred from his trip through the past with difficulty. Since the war, he'd struggled with those early morals he'd been ingrained with. Now he found it too close, standing near a man of color who clearly had intelligence. "I just..." He paused again, thinking on Nathan Jackson. His hands were skilled in healing, no different than a white doctor's. He saw his grandfather's body on the funeral pier, his mother weeping. He saw that boy again, about ten years old now, turn and run from her touch. He ran to Hattie, the only true 'mother' he'd known. It was into her large, brown arms he surrendered.He blinked that image away. It caused his insides to churn again. "..bruised it when I fell."
"No... no... no... that ain't no bruise now," the ex-Union man disagreed. "Let me see..."
"I said it's fine." Percy's voice shot out of his grandson's mouth with the same vinegar.
"Suit yourself." The clever healer feigned indifference, then grabbed the unsuspecting conman and abruptly wrenched the shoulder back in place.
Ezra cried out once, then widened his eyes. The once immovable shoulder screaming in pain now moved freely. It was sore, but nearly all the discomfort was gone. His surprised eyes caught the gentle gaze of the healer.
"Just like I thought," Nathan assessed, wiping his hands. "Yuh dislocated it... .might be a little sore for awhile, but at least yuh'll have two hands tah cheat at cards with."
Ezra nodded once then quickly left, needing to separate himself from those kind brown eyes and the uncomfortable feeling raging in his gut. What was happening to him? He never had a conscience before, not really.
Chris and Tastanagi appeared, the latter going to his son. Chris squatted down next to the cryptic preacher who had been wounded. His green eyes went from the large man to the eyes of the one tending him.
"Looks like it went clean through," Nate answered the silent Larabee's question. "But he's lost a lot of blood."
"Why didn't you tell us you were hurt?" the Seminole chief asked the fallen man.
"You didn't ask."
Simple and direct, laced with dry humor. Chris regarded this unusual man, one who carried a cross and gun with equal measure.
"Your birds lied, Josiah," he added, grasping the vision.
"We shall see," the cryptic reply came as the smoky eyes closed.
Darkness fell and with it came the fear of the unknown. As the night creatures sang a bitter song, the stars came out to play and the moon teased her suitors, ducking in and out of her dress. The camp was quiet. Nathan was keeping watch on the wounded and Buck was tormenting the kid.Chris strolled over, eyeing the familiar look on the boy's face.
His hazel eyes were still too bright. The skin was too pale making those orbs stand out. The uneven motion under his shirt told the gunslinger that the youth's heart was racing. The hands gripped a bottle of liquor all too tightly, moved too fast.It spilled from his trembling lips, and Chris observed the shaky hand that chased the drops away. First kill was always rough. Most likely, somewhere out there, the kid left his breakfast and lunch in a steaming pile. The booze would soon follow. Damn shame to waste it like that. Nothing would quench the thirst that first blood leaves. Only time made it easier to swallow. He stepped closer and looked again, with a father's eyes.
"Is he alright?" His quiet tone was directed to Buck, whose face told him he saw the same thing. They'd rode too long and seen as well this same inexperience way too much.
"Wasn't like them dime store novels, was it?" Wilmington accused, drilling the clearly tumultuouseyes of the youth.
"I didn't count on seeing their eyes..." J.D. gushed, too loud and too hard.
"Well, if you can see their eyes," the older, skilled hound drilled into the overeager pup, "then you're too close. And your NEVER break cover," he recalled of one of the many foolish moves the green kid made. "You stand in front of a bullet, you're likely to die."
Chris remained silent. It was clear that Buck was trying to teach the young colt. He could have that job. The gregarious man was cut out for it; he wasn't. He'd seen too many kids that age and younger, equally green, die too soon, their eyes still eager-bright in death. He shook his head as the hot words spilled from the troubled boy's lips.
"You done, Buck?"
JD didn't like it, not one damn bit. He knew they thought he was a kid. So he wasn't as skilled as Buck was or lightning fast like Larabee. Hell, he bet they weren't as good as he was now when they were his age. Hah! He'd show them. He tilted the bottle, guzzling too fast, and it hurt inside, burned like the devil. He sputtered a little, not giving them the satisfaction of his mistake.
"Why don't you slow down a little bit, son," Chris offered in that father's voice. He knew the kid didn't want that booze. He was trying to drown out the sickness. The tidal wave of nausea that comes when you're that young and coming off your first kill. But youth is often wasted on the young. The hazel eyes caught fire, the slight body jumped, the voice rose in indignation, lashing out at him.
"What the hell gives you the right to tell me what to do?" J.D. screamed, unleashing all his frustrations, inner turmoil and confusion on the cool blond. He saw the pale eyes flinch slightly, rake over him before glancing at Buck once. Then the man in black turned and left, carrying a weight too heavy for any mortal man.
Buck's heart broke. He saw those eyes too. Reflected there, under the beguiling moon, was the laughing face of Adam Larabee. That's what Chris saw... in a split second. The 'what if' returned. That look he'd seen as he stood by the heartbroken man's side for many months after the tragedy. The burning greens would linger on a child playing in the street, an older boy going to school or a preteen learning at his father's side.
He exhaled slowly as Chris disappeared into the night, returning to the shadow world he now called home. Buck turned slowly, chose his words carefully and burned a hole right through the troubled young man beside him.
"He had a son once." His voice was low and pained. He loved Adam Larabee like his own and still grieved for him. "Never had the chance to see him grow up though. He lost that boy and his wife in a fire." He paused as the hazel eyes flinched in pain. "And that..." he punctuated, his voice wavering, "burned half of the soul out of that man."
They sat in silence for awhile.J.D. was quiet... too quiet and Buck decided that was a good thing. He'd slowed down, the bottle rested in his lap, but he hadn't taken any more liquor. He saw the eyes trained on the fire, but the mind was far away. He hoped J.D. Dunne would learn to listen and not end up buried in a garden of stone. With the right help, understanding and patience, he thought the boy had promise. If the kid wanted it, he'd show him the way. Hell, somebody had to before the fool got himself killed fanning that damn gun! A large shadow covered them and he broke his thoughts. He smiled and eyed the newcomer.
"Josiah, you still with us?" Buck asked, amazed the wounded man could walk.
"Scoot on over there, Buck." The ailing preacher tapped the tan leg of the younger man. "I'm a spiritual man," he declared, wiggling his fingers for the bottle. He held it up, appraised it and spoke again. "Sometimes, I turn to the wrong kinds of spirits."
That broke the tense mood and Buck laughed. He saw Dunne's face smile and hoped that time would cause more of that easy grin. He liked this kid and if he could corral that fire the boy held, he'd turn out okay.
People who didn't look never saw them. That was shame for they missed so very much. Like the birth of a child, every new day brought hope. Untarnished by actions yet to be done, it was pristine, clean and virginal. The colors bled from her gold bosom in glorious shades of rose, blue and scarlet. It awed him and he paid his respects. As he finished his silent prayers, he heard footsteps.He smiled, recognizing the distinct sound those boots made. He knew by the step, the pressure of height and weight. Moreover, he knew that cheroot. Turning his waiting face to the shy Dawn, he accepted her brilliance.
"She embraces me, sendin' her golden breath deep into m'soul. I accept her deep kiss and let her power invade m'weary heart. I take her virgin light... rejoicin' in its power. We are one now in spirit, yet I remain her awed servant... until the 'morrow... when I greet her sister, new Dawn."
For a moment, Chris didn't speak. He watched the breeze take the long brown hair from the poet's shoulders, almost as if Dawn was rising from her lover's bed and leaving. He couldn't see Vin's face but the quiet reverence that came with the stunning words told him it was full of tranquility. Again, he was surprised at the strong texture this multi-faceted soul held. Bounty hunter, tracker, sure-shot, at equal peace with men of all color and with the ability to produce such an image of the sunrise, harnessing a soul with depth untold.
"Any other hidden talents I should know about?"
Vin turned then, taking the arm he knew would be extended and relaxed fully. He let the other man haul him up. He didn't miss the deep compliment the teasing tone held. He nodded his thanks, smiled, then followed an impulse.He tilted his head back, tucked his left thumb in his waistband and tapped his groin with his right.
"The boys do a pretty fair job..." he boasted with a wicked twist on his raspy voice
Chris laughed at the tone and the devilish light shining from those eyes. That was one more facet, that wry humor. He shook his head, cast the cheroot away and let out a blue stream of smoke before replying.
"Seems like Buck'll have a run for his money..."
Vin shook his head, kept that grin and started back to the village, the other man in even step.
"...ain't m'way t'waste air braggin'..." the Texan chirped. "...let the boys talk fer me..."
"It's you quiet types that ruin it for the rest of us."
"Ya play yer cards right, Larabee," he turned, wearing a serious face, "...I'll put in a good word fer ya. Seen a soiled dove at the saloon. She weren't t'long in the tooth, didn't smell s'bad iffen ya kept upwind o'her and her whiskers was barely gray."
"You're all heart, Tanner."
Chris kept that smile and that image of the other man as they shared a quiet breakfast. Several times, the shaggy head would turn, the sky eyes narrow and full of concern. Then, he stopped chewing as Tanner stood.Chris put a hand over his eyes, shielding the sun, as the younger man turned.
"Ya best git the others..." Vin felt his inner alarm sounding. "We're gonna have company."
Chris swallowed the remnants of his food hard and stood. Then he looked from the barren horizon to the troubled face next to him.Young in years only, he knew Vin had a seasoned gut... and a heightened sense of foreboding.
"Could be they licked their wounds and decided to crawl back to Dixie."
"Mebbe..." Vin shook himself, trying to lose the feeling. He patted his flat stomach and turned. "But m'gut says different. I'm gonna ride the rim..."
"Okay, I'll put Ezra on watch..." He heard the derisive snort and turned, seeing the disgust there as he had in the saloon when they first met the conman.
"...now that's a comfortin' thought..." The long hair shook in disgust. "...only thing that flannel mouth's cut out fer is bein' the coffee boiler..."
"He did okay yesterday... his idea with those dummies helped fool Anderson..."
"Don't turn yer back on 'im... ye'll end up with a new button hole..." Vin warned, clasped forearms and then headed for his horse
Although he hoped the younger man was no visionary, his own gut was tight. Sighing, Chris eyed the camp, seeking out Tastanagi. He hoped when the sun set again the rebels would be gone for good-or dead.
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