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.
It was dawn again. The night had departed all too swiftly; a silent thief stealing away his time, energy and strength. He sighed wearily and stretched, wincing as the aches in his bones shrieked as one. He rose and tiptoed outside, pausing to watch the new color blush the skyline. Stepping off the modest home's porch, he paused at the rain barrel, cupping water in his hands several times to wash his face. The droplets lingered, running off his dark skin and onto his blood-stained shirt.
He sighed again, worn-out from the lack of sleep over the past several nights, exhausted from the physical and emotional trauma. He closed his eyes, willing himself to go on. Fatigue seemed all the worse when you only had limited skills.
His brooding gaze sought out the door. Beyond the humble entrance was Michael Moore, yet another obstacle in his dark week.
The tall, friendly young man, a tad on the quiet side, was new to the area. He'd come on the stage a few weeks before, all of twenty-one years old. He had been blessed with a head full of wavy, sandy blond hair, and blue eyes that shone with promise. An easy smile and a friendly manner had made him welcome almost anywhere he went.
JD had become his closest friend, their similar ages and shared New England birthplace giving them common bonds. Dunne had spent a lot of his free time helping Mike find the just right homestead. An old abandoned farm just outside town proved to be the young man's ideal.
Mike had spent long hours repairing the rotting timber floors, whitewashing the repaired walls, putting in a new well, and shoring up the corral and barn. He hoped to bring his new bride there by the spring.
Easing back through the doorway, he crossed and poured himself a cup of coffee. He eyed the pale body on the bed, watching as the bandaged chest rose and fell. His young patient had been lucky. As he sat down in a chair and sipped on his coffee, thinking back over the past several days. Was it just a bad run of luck, or had his limited abilities finally caught up to him?
The coffee suddenly tasted bitter as he recalled the events of the past week and he pushed the mug away. Dipping his head, he stared at his open palms, letting his thought roam, remembering the new graves, soft earth shrugged into mournful mounds. His hands trembled as he heard the words again: "If only we had time to get a real doctor" ... "I should've stayed in St. Louis; they have a hospital there."
The images tumbled though his mind, as vivid and real as they had been the first time. And just as harrowing and hurtful as they had been in every nightmare thereafter.
"Nathan! Nathan!"
If not for Ezra Standish's cat-like reflexes, he would have been run down. He stopped the hurried figure in the middle of the boardwalk. Gripping both shoulders, he pushed back against the determined force, staring with annoyance at the disheveled boy.
"As I don't see our fine city in flames, what is the cause of your alarm?"
"Something's wrong with Jim Flanders." The young man coughed, resting his hands on his knees gulping in a great lungful of air. "I— He— Nate— Hurry."
"Jim Flanders?" The gambler frowned, recalling the elderly man who helped out around town. He delivered letters and wires from the post and telegraph offices, or sat outside the Clarion, selling papers for Mary. Sometimes he helped Virgil at the hardware store, or wherever else a hand was needed. "Where is he?"
"He's on the floor at Virgil's," Paul Ward answered as the thirteen-year-old dropped his school books. "I was late, running hard to get to school. I saw him through the window. I couldn't find Virgil. Mr. Flanders was sitting on the floor. He can't catch his breath."
"All right," Ezra said and eyed the store across the street. "You'll find Mr. Jackson at the hotel, having breakfast. I'll go stay with Mr. Flanders." He picked up the books and handed it to the winded boy. "Go."
By the time Nathan arrived, Ezra had moved the wheezing man from the spot where he'd found him, as the morning sun pouring in on the man's pale, sweating face had caused him more discomfort. Now Flanders was resting on a cot in the back of Virgil's store, although the gambler had him sitting up, leaning back against the wall. A cold compress rested on his forehead.
"Jim, yuh been chasin' after them young gals again?" Nathan teased, his gaze not missing Ezra's grave look.
"Do you need you bag, or any equipment?" Standish asked him. "He shouldn't be moved."
"Sent Buck for it, but yuh can get me some more water." He unbuttoned the man's tight flannel shirt and pressed his fingers against the old man's neck. Flanders' pulse was racing and his skin felt clammy.
"Jim, can yuh hear me?" Nathan asked, noting that the man also appeared disoriented.
"Yeah ... sorry ... hard ... to— to..."
"Don't talk then," Nathan advised.
"Nate?"
"Back here, Buck," he hollered, watching Flanders' grimace of pain. "Where's it hurt, Jim?" He watched the man's hand rise and move across his chest feebly, then drop. "How long?"
"Don't ... know ... can't breathe."
"Thanks, Ezra," he nodded, using the basin of water to wipe the gasping man's face, neck and chest. He took the bag from the worried ladies' man and opened it, removing his stethoscope. He listened to several spots on the heaving chest and then stood. "Buck, ease 'im forward."
Nathan moved the instrument over the man's back, frowning at the uneven rhythm he heard. He saw Buck mouth the words "His heart?" and nodded grimly.
"I'm gonna ease yuh down on the cot, Jim, okay?"
"Pain ... can ... give ... me ... something?"
"Yeah," the frustrated healer nodded, gently easing the man down onto a pair of thin pillows. "Where's Virgil?"
"Picking ... up ... delivery ... depot."
The train depot was a half-day's ride from town.
"You rest easy, Jim," Buck told the old man. "Nate here will take good care of you." He waited until the old man's eyes closed, then stepped over to where Nathan and Ezra stood. "Can you give him something? I mean, make him comfortable?"
"I'll give him some laudanum," Jackson replied, letting several drops dissolve into the water in the mug he held.
"He has no one. He lives alone in a room at the boarding house," Ezra said. "I'll update Mrs. Carson," he said, knowing the proprietress was going to be upset by the news.
It was twenty minutes or more before the old man relaxed, his breathing evening out a little as he seemed to get more comfortable. His eyes slid shut and Nathan stayed close by, checking on his breathing.
Meanwhile, Ezra was having a conversation with Mrs. Carson, the plump woman trying to ply the elegant Southerner with a blueberry muffin. He managed to decline and told her about Flanders.
"Oh dear, I'm sorry to hear that."
"Has he been ill?"
"He's old, Mr. Standish, his body isn't what it used to be. He has his good days and his bad days." She paused, placing a large tray of muffins on the table. "But now that you mention it, he has been spending a lot of time in his room. And his appetite has fallen off a little."
"Maybe we should investigate? Perhaps there is something in his room that might aid Nathan."
"All right, it's this way." She led him up two flights of stairs to a room in the back. Unlocking the door, she stepped inside, eyeing the tidy room. "Everything seems fine." She moved as the gambler squeezed past her bulky figure. "Maybe his heart is giving out."
"That is what Nathan suspects," Ezra admitted, studying the old man's room. Then his eyes narrowed as he caught sight of a pile of cloths in the corner. He walked over and squatted down to examine the cotton rags.
"Good Lord!"
"Buck, keep an eye on him," Nathan asked, patting the ladies' man's shoulder when he saw a pregnant woman halfway up the stairs to his clinic. "Mrs. Remer is headin' up m'stairs."
"Go ahead," Wilmington replied, easing into the chair next to the cot.
Rose Remer peered into the open door of the clinic. "Nathan?"
"Miz Remer? Yuh okay, ma'am?" he said, coming up behind her. He led her inside, having her sit down in the large chair by his desk.
"I'm probably just making a lot out of nothing." She patted her extended belly. "But I've got three more months and it's our first..."
"That's alright, ma'am." He smiled at the young woman. "What's got yuh worried?"
"Well, I've been having some little pains." She flushed, embarrassed. "I've never had a baby before, and I don't know if it's gas pains from the ham and cabbage we ate for dinner, or if it's ... well, I didn't want to worry John."
"Where's the pain?" he asked, watching her hands fly across her abdomen. "How often?"
"It started during the night ... just small fleeting pains that come and go." She shifted. "It's been getting worse since daybreak."
"Yuh bleedin'?" he asked quietly, watching her blush again.
"No ... Oh God!" Her dark eyes widened. "You think it's the baby?"
"I didn't say that, ma'am," he soothed. "Yuh got no blood showin', it might just be what yuh ate, but I need to make sure." He paused, thinking about the couple's house nearby. "Is John home?"
"Yes, he's going over some legal briefs," she said of her lawyer husband.
How 'bout I walk yuh back? I want yuh to stay in bed today, take it easy, okay?" His eyes softened, taking away her uneasinessness. "I'll stop over and check on yuh later."
"Alright." She sighed, squeezing his hand. "I'm so glad I talked to you."
While Nathan walked the young woman down the street to her home, Ezra was running the other way, toward the store.
"Where's Nathan?" Ezra asked breathlessly, finding Buck sitting beside the slumbering man.
"At his place. Mrs. Remer was there. What's wrong?"
"This!" He tossed the rags onto the table and saw Buck's face screw up. "I'll get him."
"Jesus!" Buck exclaimed as the gambler hurried out of the store.
Nathan waited until the young mother-to-be changed into a nightgown and slid under the comforter on her bed. He did a quick examination and assured the anxious father that his wife was all right, but to keep an eye on her. He was walking back to the hardware store when he heard Josiah's deep voice as he passed the church.
"Looks like you're having a busy day, brother!"
"Yeah, yuh hear about Jim?" Nathan squinted up at the roof of the church where the preacher was hammering.
"Ezra flew by twice. He's looking for you. He was all worked up over something."
"Damn!" The healer hurried his step, hearing Josiah lumbering down the ladder behind him.
Ezra and Buck were both by the cot when Flanders gasped loudly and begin to cough. Both scrambled to help, Ezra grabbing the old man from behind, Buck supporting his head.
"God, he's choking on it," Buck said. "Nathan!"
The healer sprinted through the door just as Buck's bellow reached his ears. He froze, stunned by the amount of blood pouring from the old man's mouth. It covered his chin and both his own shirt and Wilmington's.
"Nathan, he's spitting up blood. He's choking on it," Wilmington said. "Nate!"
The stunned healer blinked and moved in, grabbing Jim's shoulders. "I was so sure it was his heart..."
"What the hell's wrong with him?" the ladies' man asked, washing the blood off his hands in the water basin.
"I don't know," the shaken healer replied, spotting the rags strewn on the table. "I didn't ask. I figured it was his heart."
"He's bleeding inside." Sanchez rested his hand on Nathan's shoulder. "Could be consumption."
"Could be a lot of things!" Nathan snapped, annoyed with himself. "His stomach. His windpipe."
"Can you fix it?" Buck asked him.
"I set bones, Buck, and I can find a bullet, stitch-up a knife wound ... I ain't a surgeon. I wouldn't know where to start."
"You've gotta do something!" Wilmington said, eyeing the gasping man. "You can't just leave him like that."
"I got eyes, Buck!" Jackson stormed, wiping the blood from the old man's mouth.
"Buck," Sanchez warned the ladies' man, his hand still firmly clamped onto the healer's shoulder. "He's old, Nathan, he wouldn't survive surgery. He's too weak."
"Stop makin' excuses, I'm ain't no child!" Nathan hissed. "This ain't a train station."
"Do you need anything?" Ezra asked quietly, sending his support in a strong stare.
"Thanks, Ezra," Nathan managed. "I'll stay with him. Josiah, Miz Remer's havin' pains. It's too soon. Keep an eye out?"
"Will do," the older man replied. "But if it's his time, you can't change that, Nathan."
"No sermons, okay?" Nathan sighed, taking the soggy shirt off his now-unconscious patient.
Josiah spent the rest of his morning and the early afternoon going between the Remer's and the hardware store.
He entered Watson's store with some lunch and saw the dejected healer approach, his shirt covered with blood. He set the platter down, following Nathan as he walked with shoulders sagging to the large basin of water.
They were both silent while the healer washed his bloody hands. Finally the emotional chocolate eyes met Josiah's own.
"He's gone. He never woke up."
"I'm sorry, Nathan," Josiah offered. "I'll take him over to the undertaker's. You need to eat. I think Mrs. Remer's getting worse."
"Shit!"
Josiah winced as a tin mug flew across the room and the mournful eyes turned stormy. Muscles rippled under the man's broadcloth shirt and both fists clenched, pounding the table hard. Wisely, the ex-preacher didn't say a word.
Sanchez packed up the medical bag and then gave the angry healer's shoulder a tap, holding out the bag to him. "You take a few deep breaths on the way over; she don't need to see that face."
"Yeah," Jackson muttered, taking two deep breaths and then the bag. "Thanks." He moved back to the bed, resting his hand on the still-warm shoulder of the dead man. "I'm sorry, Jim."
"Nathan..."
"Don't, Josiah." He shook his head and glanced once more at the body, then left.
It was dark when JD arrived back in town. He headed straight for the saloon and grabbed himself a beer and a bowl of chili. He carried them over and sat down beside Buck. He grabbed a biscuit from the plate in the middle of the table.
"Damn, I'm starved!" He ate a spoonful of the spicy concoction, then took a long swig of beer. "We worked straight through lunch. The place looks great! Maggie's gonna love it," he said of his friend's bride back east. "She should be here in a couple weeks. Mike says she's sending half of the furniture in Boston. She loves to shop." He continued to eat, finally noticing Buck's pensive expression. "Jeez, Buck, who died?"
"Jim Flanders," the ladies' man replied softly, then gulped down what was left of his whiskey. "And it wasn't pretty."
"Oh God." The youth swallowed the meat and beans and wiped his mouth. "How? When?"
"This afternoon. He had a spell at Virgil's. Nate thought- Hell, we all thought it was his heart. But he started coughin' up blood ... He choked on it ... Passed out and never woke up."
"That's awful! How's Nathan?" Dunne asked, knowing how hard his friend took anyone's death.
"Blamin' himself," Wilmington replied sadly. "He's over at the Remer's. She's in labor."
"She can't be," JD said and shook his head. "It ain't been long enough. I mean, she's just really showing..." He caught the painful expression in Buck's eyes and swallowed hard. "Oh no ... She gonna lose the baby? ... They were so excited. That's not fair!"
"Life ain't always roses, JD." Buck sighed, pouring himself another shot.
The long, brutal night ended in a rush of blood. It saturated the sheets and the exhausted woman screamed once and fainted. Mary Travis gripped her hand, wiping her face with her free one. She saw the tiny thing in Nathan's crimson covered hands and flinched.
"Is it alive?" she asked, seeing that the usually emotional brown eyes were totally void of feeling.
Dawn was kissing his face, shedding too much light on the tiny body in his hands. He felt his chest constrict with pain and had to stifle a cry. He wiped the blood and muck from the tiny child, which barely fit into his hands. He'd never seen something so small or so fragile; it didn't seem real.
He gently used a cloth, wincing at the miniature fingers and toes. It was blue, despite his best efforts. To his eye, it had been dead at birth.
He wrapped the tiny being in a clean cloth and stood, his back aching. He heard Mary's question and his eyes rose first. He shook his head once and saw her bite her lip.
"Do you want me to get John?" she asked of the father-to-be, who was waiting downstairs with Josiah.
"No, I'll tell him." He set the baby in the cradle, which had been waiting by the bed. "She's so small," he choked, one dark finger brushing the tiny blue cheek.
"She'll have more, Nathan. It happens. I lost two before Billy."
"Don't make it hurt any less," he whispered, moving back to the bed. "She needs a fresh gown and-"
"I'll clean her up and change her," Mary offered, pulling the sheet down.
They knew before Nathan said a word. John sat down hard on the chair, his head dropping into his hands.
Josiah massaged the back of the disheartened man's neck. "I'm sorry, John."
The man's dark head bobbed and he lifted his head, teary-eyed. "How's Rose?"
"She's fine, John. This one just came too soon. It might not happen again. I'm sorry."
"I know, Nathan." The grieving man stood and shook the healer's hand. "Thanks for saving her." He took the glass of brandy Josiah offered and downed it in a single gulp, wiping the excess from his lips as Mary Travis appeared. She hugged him and squeezed both hands.
"She'll be waking up soon. You should be with her, John. The baby ... your daughter, is in the cradle by the bed."
"Thanks, Mary," he said. "For everything." He sighed hard and picked up a tiny bonnet. It was white and trimmed in lace. "I bought it on an impulse in Mrs. Potter's store yesterday. I was going to surprise Rose. She wanted a little girl." He placed it in the bottom drawer of his desk and went upstairs.
"Nathan, you look awful. Go home and get some sleep. I'll stay," Josiah offered. "Where's your bag?"
"It's upstairs," he replied flatly, staring down at his hands. He could still see the tiny corpse lying there in Jim Flander's blood. "I never asked about Jim."
"We'll bury him tomorrow afternoon. I guess we'll bury her too." He saw such sadness in the healer's dark eyes that it cut him to the bone. "Don't bear that wounded spirit alone, brother, your shoulders aren't that broad."
Nathan brushed past him, climbing up the stairs.
He was about to knock on the door when he heard Rose weeping. Her cries tore right through him, hitting every nerve like bullets. His knees buckled and he grabbed the railing, holding on to stay on his feet. The pain lingered and he forced himself to look past the half-open door.
It was a mistake.
The grieving father was sitting on the bed, holding his wife in his arms. She was cradling their dead child.
"I should've stayed in St. Louis," John said, voice breaking. "They have a hospital there."
"Don't." Rose placed her fingertips to his lips and curled against his chest.
Somehow Nathan got down the stairs, never pausing, even when he nearly ran down Mary Travis in the doorway.
"Nathan, did you get your-? Nathan?" she asked as he ran by, disappearing up the street. "Josiah?"
"The Lord sure talks in riddles sometimes," he answered gravely.
The rain began at midday and continued in a steady drizzle. There was a small gathering around the new grave. Buck and Ezra lowered the coffin into the ground. JD stood by solemnly as Josiah read a verse.
"He's here," the young sheriff said and nudged his best friend.
Buck's head turned as Nathan staggered to the grave.
"He's looks awful."
"I reckon he's got good reason, kid," Buck muttered, moving to support his wounded friend. The ladies' man remained silent until Josiah was done. Then he waited patiently as the others left. It wasn't Nathan's ashen complexion that worried him, it was the void where his eyes should be. And he smelled the liquor and saw the red clay on the man's cloths. Jackson must have ridden out right from Remer's, and found a nice spot outside town where he could grieve in private.
Nathan never moved, his gaze fixed on the muddy grave. A simple cross bearing Jim Flanders' name and age were all that was left. But Nathan bore other scars - the questions that had nagged at his brain all day.
He'd ridden out of town, pausing only long enough to take a bottle with him. With every swig of the strong liquor, he had felt the liquid fueling the fire that burned inside of him. His lack of skills screamed at him. They shrieked from Jim Flanders' bloody mouth and cascaded over the tiny child's corpse, fell past the grieving father's lips.
"They have a hospital there."
He heard a cough and turned long enough to see Buck's muddy boots and tan pants. He'd left most of the liquor he'd consumed in vomit by the river. But he'd left more than old whiskey and bile there; a part of his soul had drifted away as well. He knew he should feel anger, or remorse, or cold, but he felt nothing inside. He was totally numb. He didn't feel the soaking rain that drenched him. He didn't feel Buck's strong hand on his back.
"Leave me be," he croaked. "I'd like to say goodbye ... alone!"
"Alright," Buck agreed, the rain soaking him. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry, Nathan. I was wrong. This, the baby, all of it. It's not your fault. Don't punish-"
"Go away, Buck," Jackson said in a cold, flat voice, moving away from the ladies' man.
Buck sighed and started down the street toward the church. He stepped inside, making his way to where the large man was pulling on a dry shirt. He caught the towel Sanchez threw at him and wiped his face and hands.
"We've gotta do something, Josiah. I've never seen him like this."
"If we walk in the light, as He is in the light, we have fellowship one with another, and the blood of Jesus Christ, his Son cleanses us all from sin," he quoted from John 1:7.
"Yeah, well can you tell 'Him' to hurry?" Buck tossed the towel away. "Because we can't afford to lose that man," he added, his heart aching for his friend.
"It's gettin' worse!" Chris shouted over the wind. The storm had come up so suddenly that they hadn't had any time to prepare.
The best friends were two days from home when the dark, angry clouds exploded. The driving rain was accented by harsh winds so severe the riders were unable to remain upright. "We need to find shelter. Vin? ... Vin?" He reined his horse in and turned his head, squinting through the darkness. "What's wrong?" He yelled over the thunder, watching the tracker rubbing his throat.
Helluva time t' get sick, was Vin's only thought. Two days from home and he had a cold coming on. His head hurt, his throat was sore and now a damn storm was sucking his breath away. He swallowed hard, immediately regretting it. It felt like there were razors slashing his throat.
Tanner hunched lower, wincing and trying to turtle-up against the storm. The trip to a neighboring town to eyeball some horses had been a nice diversion. He had enjoyed Chris's company - they rarely got the chance to spend time alone. But then he had woken up this morning with a heavy head and a tender throat. He'd ignored it, heading back to Four Corners with Larabee.
He didn't see or hear Chris until the gunslinger's hand snaked out and grabbed his swaying body.
"Vin, what is it?" Larabee hollered over the gale.
"Nothin' ... jest' tired," Vin shouted back, eyeing the horizon. "Line shack?"
"Yeah," Chris said and nodded after squinting at the tiny building. "Let's ride!"
The line shack was small but dry, and that was all that mattered. Chris got their horses settled, shoving Vin ahead. "Get a fire started," he urged the tracker.
There was a single bed, a table and two chairs, a pot, a few plates and utensils, and large cobwebs. Vin eyed a small stool near the door and broke it, tossing the pieces into the fireplace. He shucked his coat off, hung his soggy hat on a peg by the door and shivered.
Tanner was nearly knocked over when Chris stumbled in on a gust of wind, bringing the cold, pelting rain with him. "Get over by the fire!" he heard Chris order loudly, just before he shoved him again.
"I look like a cow t' ya?" he rebuffed the gunslinger. "Quit ridin' herd on me, Larabee. What's fer supper?" He rubbed both hands together and squatted by the fire, letting the flames warm his face.
"Jerky and peaches," the sodden leader replied, tossing his saddlebags onto the table. He pulled out the items, along with coffee and two mugs. He took his poncho off and hung it near the fire, his nose wrinkling. "Jesus, Vin, that thing stinks when it gets wet," he complained as he moved the tracker's beloved hide coat farther away.
"It's a dead buffalo, ain't a bunch o' flowers," Tanner tossed back. "Snob."
"I heard that!" Chris filled the coffee pot with water, added coffee and put in on a rack in the fireplace. He saw the flinch as Vin swallowed and saw the flash of pain in the man's blue eyes. "Keep an eye on the coffee, I'll open the peaches."
"Nah, I'll do it." The ex-bounty hunter rose and moved to the table. "Last time ya got near a can, ya ended up shootin' it all t' hell."
"It wouldn't open," Chris defended himself. "It was defective."
"Ha," Vin scoffed. "Them beans wasn't as defective as yer impatient ass. They'd go down real good 'bout now." He sat down and opened the can defty, arching an eyebrow with a smug expression when his best friend appeared.
"Shut up, Tanner!" Chris growled, dividing the jerky.
"None fer me," the Texan said and shoved it back. "Sugar?"
"Yes, dear?" Chris smirked, grinning when the blue eyes rolled. He shook his head and pulled a bottle of liquor from his saddlebags.
"Better," Vin decided, pouring shots into both mugs of coffee. He took half of the peaches and then moved the can, only to be intercepted.
"I don't want 'em now; your fingers were all over them."
"So?" Vin replied, his voice rising with indignation.
"So, I don't know where else they were roamin' and scratchin'."
"Go t' hell!" the sharpshooter sassed, but he didn't take the can back. He gingerly ate the peaches, glad that they slid down his sore throat easily. Chewing the tough jerky would be out of the question. He swallowed the coffee too fast and swore. He pressed his hands against the tabletop, waiting for the pain to subside.
"You're gettin' to be a sloppy drinker, pard," Chris commented, dumping the rest of the peaches onto the younger man's plate. He knew why Vin had turned down the jerky. Now Tanner was rubbing his temples.
"Not so bad as I can't open a can without puttin' a half-dozen bits o' lead in it," he tossed back, nibbling the fruit gratefully. His gaze roamed to the cot for a second. He sipped the coffee and winced again.
"Looks like somebody needs some ditchwater," the blond said about Nathan's herbal teas.
"Looks t' me like somebody needs a gag," Vin grumbled, shivering again.
"Get some shuteye, Vin," Chris said seriously. "Once this storm blows over we're gonna have to make up some time."
"Okay." Vin yawned, rubbing his throat. "Wake me up in a couple hours. I'll trade ya." He nodded at the chair his friend was sitting on.
By the time Larabee finished his jerky and coffee, and stoked the fire, the younger man was snoring softly. He paused at the bed long enough to cover Vin with a damp bedroll. He saw Tanner shivering and frowned. Two days was a long way to ride with a fever. His poncho was dry, so he laid it over the ailing tracker, hoping the wool would provide some warmth.
He settled at the table, lit a cheroot and pondered on the ride home.
They next day passed slowly, each man weighing the situation carefully. JD felt awkward, not quite sure what to say around Nathan. Buck tried, but was rebuffed. Ezra tried too, and actually got the healer to eat a meal with him. But Jackson's eyes remained cold and lost, even Josiah, his closest friend, couldn't help.
It was near suppertime, and Buck was crossing the street when gunfire erupted from the freight office.
"We've got trouble!" he shouted behind him, watching Ezra and Josiah run from the saloon. "Get in the alley, kid!" he warned, knowing they needed to spread out.
Three men ran from the building, firing freely. One was felled by Josiah's gun and the others rode away. Buck ran to the office, watching JD, Ezra and Mike Moore jump on horses and give chase.
"Buck, gimme a hand," Josiah shouted, kneeling over the clerk. "He's got two bullets in him. Let's get him to Nate's. He dead?" he asked and nodded to the body lying in the street.
"Yeah, head shot," the rogue replied, gingerly picking up the slight man.
Nathan heard the shots and roused himself from slumber. He shook off the mental cobwebs and staggered to the door just as it flew open.
"What happened?" he growled, eyeing the huffing body of the preacher.
"Frank took two during a robbery." Josiah made his way to the bed. "One went through his shoulder, the other's in his gut." He nodded to Buck, "Get the trash off the street."
"Yeah," Wilmington nodded and left.
"I'll boil some water," Sanchez said and saw a spark of something in Nathan's eyes. He wasn't sure what it was, but it was better than the dead orbs he'd been staring at for two days. Still, he watched the puppet-like motions as the healer cut away the injured man's shirt. The man's dark hands shook as they pressed a clean cloth to Frank's abdomen.
As Josiah filled the pot with water to boil Jackson's instruments, he thought about the funeral that morning. The tiny body of the Remer baby had been buried. The grieving parent's didn't linger long. As soon as they thanked everyone, they retreated to their house. Nathan hung back on the outskirts of the group, feeling the eyes of the townsfolk on him. He'd been in his office all day, unable to pull himself free of the guilt that clung to him.
By the time the steaming instruments arrived on a hot plate at the bedside, Nathan's arms were scrubbed to the elbow. He never said a word, just went to work. Upon seeing the damage, his heart sank. The bullet had sliced through intestines and struck the liver. He heard Buck's voice outside, trying to dissuade the man's wife from entering.
"Keep going," Sanchez said, then turned at the screaming woman's entrance. "I'll talk to her."
"Keep goin'?" Nathan snapped back. "Where? I can't do this, Josiah, I'm not a surgeon!"
"You're also not a coward," Sanchez replied sharply. "God don't give gifts to fools. Now pick up that scalpel and get to work." It was tougher than he'd intended, but it was necessary. He saw Jackson's hands moving, methodically doing what instinct and study had taught him.
But it wasn't enough. Twenty minutes later, as Nathan tried to sew up the torn bowels, Frank died; he had felt nothing.
Nathan closed the wound and washed the body off, then cleaned his hands. He moved numbly outside to the landing. "He's gone. I'm sorry."
"No!" Frank's wife screamed, pummeling the healer's chest with her clenched fists. "He can't be dead! If only we had a real doctor..."
"Shit!" Buck hissed, kicking the railing and gripping it hard enough to split. He knew she was grieving, but it was just one more nail in Nathan's coffin. Curiously, the other man never flinched. It was as if he hadn't even heard her. He sighed once and moved away, taking each step slowly.
"Nathan, wait up." He jogged after the stiff figure, leaving Josiah to support the new widow.
"I'm tired, Buck," Nathan said, dropping down to sit on the edge pf the boardwalk. "I ain't been so tired since the war."
Buck wasn't sure how to reply. Fighting in the war was one thing, holding someone's life in your hands and watching them die, over and over, was another. He'd seen the gore up close. Mountains of arms and legs piled high outside field hospitals, men screaming and writhing on blood-soaked tables while a surgeon sawed off a gory appendage. He'd flinched and turned away, unable to bear the horror. But Nathan hadn't been so lucky. He'd fought the hardest battle and was still carrying the scars.
"I never realized what kind of courage it took to do your job. Then, it was strangers ... doctors working next to meat wagons. Now the stranger is a friend, and I've never been prouder," he offered with a pat to Nathan's knee.
For the first time in the past harrowing days, Jackson felt a flicker of warmth. Deep down in the cold tomb he was walking around in, something stirred. He sighed and eyed the lingering crowd watching the empty freight office and whispering amongst themselves. "Thanks, Buck," he managed. "I think I'll take a walk..."
Buck watched Nathan go and shook his head, not sure how to help the suffering man. He drew himself up and headed for the telegraph office. He would send a message to the Judge and the surrounding towns, then head out to find the others.
Nathan walked for a while, letting his emotions rise and fall. For the first time in years he thought back to his days before the war. He had lived in Texas, on a plantation. Life had been simpler ... before he chose to carry the burden of life and death. Everything changed when he had become a stretcher bearer.
He had worn the Union blue proudly and absorbed as much as he could from the tired doctors he had worked with. As each passing month had given him more and more knowledge, he had seen his road. And it wasn't long before he was assisting the physicians and learned that his judgment was good. His instincts were sharp, and he was a fast learner, too. He had never looked back or questioned that, until now.
Maybe it was time to find a new road, one without such a terrible toll. He was on his way back to town, when he saw a figure slumped over a horse.
"JD!" he cried out, running forward as the dark-head rose.
"Nate, thank God! Mike's hurt bad. We caught 'em. Ezra shot one. Mike and me were pinned down. We got the other guy, but he got us first. I'm okay, it went through," he slurred, the blood loss from his arm wound catching up to him. "Mike got it in the side ... Ezra's with him ... at his house ... it was closer."
"Okay," Nathan advised, climbing up behind the pale, drooping sheriff. "Let's get yuh to town and I'll ride back."
By the time Nathan got to Moore's house, Ezra had wrapped the bodies up and tied them to their horses. He also had the wounded man stripped and in bed.
"The bleeding's stopped and he's breathing good. It doesn't appear serious." The healer stood and moved away from the bed.
"Boil?" Standish asked.
"Some days I hate that word." Nathan sighed and nodded. "JD's okay. I cleaned the wound. It broke his arm. He's sleeping at my clinic. Buck's keeping an eye on him."
"The clerk?" Ezra asked, putting a pot on the fire. He saw Nathan's head shake and winced, wondering how much one man was meant to bear. He did his job silently, watching the healer skillfully remove the bullet and sew up the wound. The bullet had only tore muscle and there was minimal damage. "He'll be fine," he said.
"Yeah, with some rest ... he might get a fever." Jackson frowned, pulling the blanket up. "I'll need some supplies..."
"If you give me a list, I would be glad to retrieve whatever you require," Ezra offered. He took the note from the healer and pulled his coat on. "Nathan, I know this week has been insufferable for you. I wish I could find the words to take the pain away, but there is no such verse. However, I would like you to know that despite these past dark days, you've never stood taller." He saw the other man's eyes widened for a moment, a hint of shine in them, and then they dropped again. "I'll be back as soon as I can," Ezra said.
A moan from the bed drew Nathan out of his thoughts. He moved over and sat next to his patient, who stirred and blinked at him.
Two confused blue eyes studied his face. "Nate?"
"Yeah, Mike, just rest easy. Yuh got shot in the side. Yuh'r gonna be fine. I got some tea for yuh. It'll help with the pain." He saw the man's chin dip once and fetched the mug from the stove. He got Mike to drink half of the warm liquid before his eyes closed again.
"Nate?"
"Yeah?" He waited as one eye opened. A hand came up, shaking badly, and Jackson grabbed it.
"Thank you ... for saving ... for..." He yawned and blinked. "Tell Josiah ... thank God, too..."
It was late in the day and Vin Tanner was beat. He felt the horse moving under him, his shivering body swaying with every motion. Every so often he would glance up, catching sight of Chris's back and then let his head drop back down again. When Four Corners finally appeared, he never felt the words, "Home Sweet Home," more. He shut his eyes, swearing softly as the pain in his throat intensified. He didn't look up again until someone tapped his knee.
"I'll see to him," Chris offered, steadying Vin until he was down. "See if Nathan's in."
"Ya ain't gotta tell me twice," Vin said. "Thanks, Chris."
JD winced and saw the same expression mirrored on his best friend's face as Buck came over to share dinner with him. Had it not been for a slight fever and some dizziness due to blood loss, he would be in the saloon.
The cause of their pain was the arrival of the demonic twins. David and Daniel Livingstone were as spoiled, nasty and obnoxious as they came. The ten-year-old boys were whining and fussing as they came through the door. Their loud, nasal voices pierced the air painfully. "I ain't lettin' that darkie stick me with a needle," David protested.
"Hush up!" Lottie Livingstone pulled her other son through the door behind her. "If you need a needle-"
"He ain't even a doctor," Daniel whined, pulling free and trying to escape. "I heard Pa say there ain't no darkie doctors."
"You'll do as you're told!" she warned them, shoving them down onto the bench and watching Nathan Jackson approach.
"What's the problem, Miz Livingstone?" he asked, spotting the boys.
"They've been throwing up and having diarrhea," she told him. "It started about an hour ago."
"Yuh been eatin' Mrs. Fletcher's crab apples again?" he asked the pair, recalling a previous incident when their teacher had brought them over.
"I ain't gotta tell you nothing, you stinkin' slave!" David hissed, kicking Nathan hard in the knee.
"You ain't gonna touch me," Dan agreed. "I ain't gonna end up dead like them other folks you been killing all week."
Before Nathan could reply, a brown blur appeared. Jackson retreated to find something to ease their pain, letting the tall ladies' man address the pair.
"You're gonna sit there and eat mud if that's what'll fix you," Buck ordered harshly as he glared at the dreaded pair. He knelt down and leaned in close, whispering to them, loathing in his eye, "You keep those filthy, whinin' mouths of yours shut, you hear? Or I'll get rid of your bellyache."
For a moment, silence reigned. Buck remained in place while Nathan gave the haughty mother instructions and a bottle of medicine. Then the demons stood up defiantly.
"You're nothing but a whore-monger, I heard my pa say so!" David snarled at Buck.
"You're an animal, just like him!" Daniel agreed, nodding at Nathan before his mother cuffed the back of his head. "What?" He jerked free of her grasp. "It's true. They all are." He snorted and followed his brother to the door. "They'll end up dead, too ... like all the other folks he killed."
"Daniel!" She shoved him outside, but a long arm shot out in front of her, preventing her exit.
"Ain't you forgetting something?" Buck growled, letting his dark blue eyes reflect how disgusted he was with her and her children.
"Thank you," she mumbled, not even looking at the healer.
"I don't think he heard you!" Buck forced her to turn around. She repeated her words but he still gripped her arm. "I think you forget something else." He nodded to her purse.
"How much do I owe you?" she snapped, shooting Buck a hard look.
"Lady, they're ain't enough money in the bank for that!" the ladies' man replied. "Nate?" He drilled the other man and waited.
"Two dollars, Miz Livingstone," Jackson replied, still stung by the children's words. They were repeating what he knew was already circulating around town. He took the coins from her and retreated to his desk. He saw a flask appear and fought the temptation. "No, thanks, Buck," he sighed, his head pounding.
"I hope to hell that pack of rats leave town," he said about the Livingston family. "Because I don't want to be responsible when them two hit manhood. You okay?"
"No, Buck," Jackson replied honestly, "but thanks." He didn't move away from the hand that came down on his shoulder, and missed the touch when it was gone.
Vin flattened himself against the wall as the Livingstone lizards ran by. David turned and stuck out his tongue at the tracker.
"Stinkin' Injun-lover!" the brat hollered.
Vin's eyes narrowed and he pulled his Mare's Leg well out of Mrs. Livingstone's sight. He aimed and pulled the hammer back, grinning when the pair paled and screamed. They scampered ahead of their startled mother.
Tanner turned and jogged up the remaining stairs slowly.
Nathan sat, studying the patterns of wood in his desk. He heard the words of the hellions, mixing with the other whispered snatches of conversation that had been circulating around town. Jim Flander's voice joined in, along with Frank's and the hollow cries of the dead child. Frustration built, bringing all the anger and wrath he'd been holding in to the fore. Maybe they were right. Maybe they did "need a real doctor," and he should "stick to his own kind." He never heard Vin knock, his own head pounding too hard.
"Nate?" Vin leaned around the door. "Ya busy?"
"No, Vin!" he exploded, shooting to his feet and towering over the shorter man. "I was just countin' my money. After that I'm gonna eat some bon-bons and ride over to my estate." He was so consumed with the pent up rage, finally airborne, that he didn't see startled blue eyes. "Yuh better be careful. Us darkies is a scary lot. Yuh best hide your youngun's and women folk," he ranted, not even aware of what he was saying.
"Nathan?" The shocked tracker recovered slightly, his gaze locked on Jackson's rage.
"Get out, Vin! I ain't got time for no speeches. I'm done used up." Vin and Chris were back and they had no doubt heard about what had happened. He didn't want sympathy, or any kind words. He didn't know what he wanted. He was too consumed by a dark coldness, he didn't even care. All he saw were corpses, graves and wagging tongues. He didn't see Vin turn away and retrace his path down the stairs.
"Buck?" JD sat up, shocked by the loud words that shook the room. He'd never seen Nathan so livid.
"Yeah." The rogue shook his head and rose. With a pat to the stunned youth's back, he made his way to the healer's desk. Nathan was gripping the chair in front of him so hard Wilmington felt sure it would break under the pressure.
"What the hell was that?" Wilmington demanded. "I'm talking to you!"
"I ain't listenin' no more," Jackson returned. "I'm done listenin'."
"Fine, you go ahead and choke on self-pity," Buck issued coldly. "That man damn near got himself shot to death savin' your hide. He didn't even know you that day. He doesn't see the color of someone's skin, only their heart. He's never done a thing to deserve that, except treat you with respect."
Nathan exhaled deeply, as the image of a young man with long hair and compelling blue eyes cleaved the voices that damned him. His soulful stare and courageous stance chased the demons away. Nathan could remember the slim man in the cemetery, standing in front of a lynch mob without flinching.
Jackson sighed, rubbed his neck and shook his head. "You done?" he asked Buck, feeling more tired than he'd felt in years. His spirit was floundering, beaten down by the air of uncertainty.
"No," Buck said. "One more thing. When was the last time Vin Tanner came up here and asked for your help?"
The ladies' man saw the healer's sad brown eyes and his trembling hands. They both knew Vin wasn't one to complain. Tanner had ridden with bullets in him, broken bones, and worse. And he usually waited patiently for Nathan to finish tending to one of the others before letting himself be treated. For him to come in voluntarily meant something was hurting him - bad.
Buck waited for Nathan to reach him, watching as the dark head came up again.
"I need some air," Jackson said simply. "I'll find him..."
Chris was halfway through a ham sandwich, his hand on his beer, when Vin dropped to the seat next to him.
Ezra stopped shuffling long enough to confirm something deeper than physical pain in the young man's eyes.
"You see Nathan?" Larabee asked, wondering why his friend was back so soon.
"Yeah," Vin managed, refusing a plate Inez carried over for him. "No thanks," he told her, rubbing his throat.
"You haven't eaten all day," the blond warned. "Soup?" he asked Vin, then turned to the pretty young woman when the Texan's head bobbed.
She nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.
"Well?" Larabee asked, chomping on a pickle.
"Well what?" Vin shivered, pulling his coat closer.
"How's Paris in the spring?" Ezra offered, knowing exactly what the leader meant.
"Huh?" Vin wrinkled his nose at the gambler, who rolled his eyes.
"Nathan!" Chris growled, then drained his beer. "What'd he say about your throat?"
"Dunno," the Texan replied, nodding his thanks to Inez when she returned with a bowl of beef vegetable soup. He was so hungry he didn't even bother to pick out the mushrooms.
"You must be ill," Standish quipped, watching the liquid meal disappear, vegetables and all.
"What do you mean, you don't know?" Chris demanded from Tanner as he pushed his empty plate away and stared at the tracker.
Ezra stood and got Larabee another beer and a platter for himself.
"He was ... wasn't..." Vin paused, lifting the bowl and sipping the rest of the broth. "... had somethin' buggin' him ... I jest said hello an' he took m' head off."
"It's not his fault," the Southerner said in the healer's defense. "He's had a trial since you left town."
"What happened?" Larabee asked, eyeing the shadows on the gambler's face.
"It began when our resident octogenarian passed away," Standish began.
"Who?" Vin interrupted, screwing up his face at the strange word.
"Jim Flanders," Ezra said, opening his mouth to continue.
"He weren't no such thing," the sly Texan interrupted again. "He worked fer the railroad after he got out of the Army."
Chris hid his smile behind his beer mug and Ezra swallowed his chuckle, almost.
"What?" Vin asked, watching his two friends grinning.
"I was referring to his age, not his profession," the gambler replied.
"Oh." Vin scowled. "He was in his eighties, wasn't he?"
"I've already established that fact," Ezra rebuffed.
"Why the hell couldn't ya just say that?" the tracker huffed, finishing his soup and standing. "All yer tangled-up words is givin' me a headache." He left his friends, the smoke-filled saloon only making his throat worse. He wanted a soft bed and a long nap.
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