Thanks, Heather, for helping with information about horses and medical information. And Chris for having a copy of this story when I lost mine. This story takes place very shortly after the Seven were hired by Judge Travis.

48 Hours

Mother - Despair this request. STOP – Send funds. STOP – Betrayal by Larabee finds me aggrieved here. STOP – Wish to leave soonest. STOP – You were right. STOP – Life too short. STOP – Friendship Death Knell. FULL STOP – Ezra

Ezra Standish's hand, as he presented the missive to the telegraph operator, was at less than its manicured best. But then his hair was in disarray, the long gash that disappeared into his hairline was weeping again, the bruise marred his jaw and cheek even more now that it was fading, and the frills of his linen shirt had worked their way up inside his jacket sleeve. The gentleman con artist didn't seem to give any notice to his appearance.

Just as the clerk reached for the yellow flimsy, it was snapped up from the counter by dirty, meaty fingers. The uncharacteristic flinch this caused in Ezra did not go unnoticed. The pinpoint black eyes that watched him seemed to flash with amused light. Ezra Standish reconfirmed his first analysis of this man. Jake Goodall, like the other deputy, was a cold-blooded killer who would only find humor in another man's misfortune.

Goodall was clearly hired for brawn not brain. He struggled to read the words; sounded each one out to himself like some six-year-old. But he figured it out at last, and when he did he flashed a derisive, cigarette-stained grin at the smaller man. It was met with a well-rehearsed poker face, one that somehow still hinted an air of superiority, but it was subtle, nothing more than a feeling, nothing that could consciously antagonize the rough older man or spark retaliation.

The yellow and gray smile evolved into a sardonic snort, but the deputy marshal finally passed the telegram to the wireman; tacit permission to send it on…\

12 HOURS LATER

The gambler might have been calculating odds as he stepped out of the telegraph office. He fingered his copy of the wire he'd sent the day before. There was still no reply. No reply. And time was running out. He tried to find some comfort in the fact that this telegram had at least gotten through, unlike the ones he'd tried to send directly to Judge Travis and Larabee. But he concealed that faint and waning hope in the practiced slump of his back.

Every bit the Southern gentleman as he walked out onto the main street of Mineral Wells, and knowing he was in hostile territory and under constant surveillance, his well-honed instincts were telling him to get on his horse and get out of town. He looked down the street to where the ever present mob was gathered outside of the saloon. Even in the early morning hours the rabble was near fever pitch.

The crowd had swelled during the night as every cowpuncher and farmhand had come in with drawn wages. Seeing nothing but profit - certainly not a human life in the balance - the bartender had stayed open all night. Cheap, watered down whiskey and warm beer had flowed freely and still did. The whispers were becoming shouts - "Justice", "An eye for an eye", "Lynch 'im up."

For the benefit of his audience, Ezra Standish squared his shoulders, tugged his shirt cuffs into place, flicked an imaginary speck of lint from his lapel, and walked across the street to the marshal's office. For all the world he gave the appearance of a man who was deceiving himself about what the future held.

The Southerner was prepared for the strong lye and pine resin scents that were unique to this jail. He was even prepared for the living quarters the Marshal kept off of the main office area to be as neat and pristine as if they were maintained by a spinster schoolmarm. What he wasn't prepared for, and what had his gun leaping into his hand, was the scene in front of him. "Ah should drop you where you stand," he said, with deadly sincerity.

"It would be hard to explain shooting a sworn lawman in the back," the cigarette-hoarse voice responded. And indeed, the man kept the back of his wrinkled shirt to the door.

"Cut him down." There was no hiding the threat in the proud Southern drawl. Playing cowardly or weak or ineffectual were at times his weapons, used to make his marks underestimate him. But not this time. He wanted this man to fear him and obey him. Or by God, he would shoot.

He shouldn't have left, Ezra berated himself, and it was like a mantra. For in the short time he'd been gone, Buck Wilmington had been strung up spread-eagle against the outer bars of one of the three cells. He was held there by manacles locked around the highest crossbar near the ceiling. His shoulder blades protruded painfully beneath the skin, suffering through the unnatural position the cuffs held them in. There was an angry bruise on his left cheek. His eyes were closed. Blood flowed from at least six deep, ragged gashes inflicted on his back by the whip still in Halpin's hands. The damned lawman coiled the blacksnake whip with long, dexterous, gun-honed fingers. He didn't make any move to release the prisoner.

"Buck, can you hear me?" There was no answer. Ezra turned his attention back to the lawman. "Get him down from there and onto a cot." The precise articulation reinforced the order. "And I shall put a bullet in you for every new bruise Mr. Wilmington incurs between now and then, Deputy Halpin." Ezra was just stepping inside to close the door when he felt a metal cylinder pressed into his back.

"The only reason I don't drop you where you stand, is that I don't condone what my deputy is doing," US Marshal Ezekiel Coltrain stated unemotionally as he took Standish's gun from the now limp hand.

There would be time enough later when Ezra would curse himself for being so focused on Wilmington's condition that he let the other man get the drop on him. There was no excuse to sacrifice self-preservation. How could you help someone else if you couldn't help yourself? 'Ezra, Ezra, when did the first priority of helping yourself become so that you can help someone else? Oh Mother, what has become of your son?'

Recognizing that tactically there was nothing to be salvaged of this situation, Ezra started to move forward and do what the deputy would not, which was to help his friend. A waggle of Coltrain's gun stopped him. Standish recognized that the duly appointed Federal Marshal Coltrain was going to reinforce the fact that he was in charge.

"A confession coerced by torture would hardly hold credence in a legitimate court of law," Ezra baited the lawman. How could this self-righteous popinjay see himself as a soldier for justice? "Get him down," Ezra demanded, despite being outnumbered and outgunned. "Or do you think that your badges put you above the law you accuse us of violating?"

"He killed Welch," Larry Halpin, the deputy, pled his case even as he toyed with the whip. As if he considered it some kind of threat directed at the gambler.

Ezra ignored the man. "His gun hadn't been fired," Ezra demanded indignantly.

"Proves he had an accomplice. I'm tryin' to get a name."

"Buck Wilmington had no part in killing your deputy, Marshal Coltrain." Standish had given up on talking with Halpin long ago. He directed his statement to the senior peace officer, and with enough conviction to make the usually apathetic man blink.

"You vigilantes and ruffians try to run this territory," Halpin spat at the gambler. "Civilized courts can't control the likes of you." The words were carefully selected to fuel his boss's contemptuous opinion of local peacekeepers.

"You sir, are supposed to enforce the law and make it work, not use the fact that you can't control the men who settle these lands as an excuse for violence." Ezra, like the deputy, geared his argument for the benefit of Coltrain's strong convictions. The Marshal was wont to implement the letter of the law rather than the spirit of the law. "In beating Mr. Wilmington, is your deputy enforcing the law - or breaking the law?"

"Cut him down," Coltrain ordered finally.

Halpin knew he'd lost this round, and complied none too gently. But at last, and with Standish's gentling touch, Wilmington was sitting on the cot inside the first cell, facing the wall with his brutalized back turned toward the other men in the room.

"Get me some medical supplies for his wounds." Green flint sparked from his eyes as he gave the order. Without waiting to be obeyed, Ezra strode back to the office part of the jail and to the water bucket standing by the door. He ladled the clean liquid into the dipper. Then he snagged a towel from the fastidious stack of linens beside the bucket and dipped it in the water. Turning back to the cell, the southerner "accidentally" brushed the rest of the stack of towels onto the floor. He would have liked to make it flagrantly obvious that he caused the disruption on purpose. But he couldn't afford to further antagonize these men. Ezra was moving back to the cell when he found his way blocked.

"You plannin' a jail break?" Halpin asked sarcastically, ignoring the earlier request for first aid.

Standish knew what the man was hinting at. While they had Standish's one gun, they had yet to relieve him of the shoulder holster they knew he wore as backup. The conman read the deputy easily and could see he would get a certain satisfaction out of forcing a man he saw as a threat to hand over his weapon. The deputy used his tone of voice to insinuate that by turning over the gun Standish was begging to be allowed to see to his friend.

A thought flittered across Standish's mind as he stared down the two bigger, authority-welding men, 'What am I doing here? I've only known this man three weeks. Ride out, Ezra. Ride out.'

After what seemed like hours it was Halpin who looked away first, but not without another sarcastic challenge. "Give me the other gun if you're man enough." But even more, as Halpin met the smaller man's eyes, he silently sent a message. 'I know you're up to something. Try getting him out and running for it now.'

Ezra weighed the situation and then with no apparent hesitation, graciously, perfunctorily flipped his gun to offer it butt first to Coltrain instead of Halpin. He refused to give the bully any satisfaction. Intelligent, green eyes tried not to narrow in amazement or acknowledge the fact that the marshal took the gun gingerly with his thumb and forefinger. He treated it as if it carried the plague. Not for the first time Standish recognized the fact that this man was almost afraid of dirt.

The gambler wished for a moment that Josiah were here. They could discuss the philosophical - that perhaps this fanatic somehow saw a metaphor between soilage of any kind and the criminals he arrested? Who was he kidding? He didn't want a theoretical discussion; he wanted to figure out how to use the phobia against the man. Categorizing the information until he could use it, Ezra chose not to alienate the head lawman. He unbuckled his gun belt and handed it empty over to Halpin - him, he would alienate. "Thank you, my good man." It was a dismissal of the hired help.

The educated marshal didn't miss the slight to his man, but chose to ignore it on his deputy's behalf. Coltrain, as if he couldn't stand the disarray anymore, moved to compulsively refold and straighten the stack of towels.

No sign of hatred or apprehension leaked through Ezra's calm façade as he addressed the deputy, "Don't presume for a moment, that I don't recognize that you beat Mr. Wilmington for the sole purpose of incapacitating him, and thereby preventing any escape attempt."

Halpin simply stared, the hint of a derisive smirk defying Ezra to do something to get himself arrested as well.

The Southerner started to push harder, but was distracted and surprised when he looked back into the cell and met the two dark blue eyes staring at him from beneath the swollen lids. They were trying to tell him something. Ezra thought he knew what it was and didn't want to accept it. "Mr. Wilmington?" Buck let his gaze drift back to the floor.

"Let me lock you in that cell. I may or may not let you back out," Halpin dared.

Standish strolled into the cell and allowed the door to be locked after him. "I still expect those medical supplies," he said loud enough for the marshal to hear.

"I'll see if Mrs. Oltorf has supper ready for the prisoner. Get a few bandages while I'm out," Coltrain stated. Ezra suspected the sight of Buck's back, not neat and tidy and clean, disturbed the man and he was looking for an excuse to leave. "Prisoner only gets to visit for five minutes," he ordered and was gone.

Ezra waited until Halpin had moved away from the cell before going to his friend. "Mr. Wilmington?"

One rangy leg draped off the cot, the knee almost touching the floor. The right leg was akimbo across the flat pillow and threadbare blanket. The strong torso was slumped bonelessly until it almost touched the leg bent along the cot. The long arms, usually so animated, so open, were locked around the broad chest closing the man in on himself even more. The dark, sweat-beaded head leaned against the cinderblock wall for coolness and support. Every third or fourth open-mouthed breath turned into a shuddering fight for air. Hunched over as he was, he gave Ezra a clear view of the shredded shirt and bloody gashes that crisscrossed the tanned, muscled back. Blood was already drying and sticking the stringy and raggedly torn ends of the shirt to the whip-inflicted wounds. The rivulets of sweat that trickled into the enflamed edges had to add to the pain.

Studying him made it hard for Ezra not to want to extract some measure of retribution. Standish allowed himself no comfort in the fact that the beating would have been much worse if he hadn't returned when he did. This guilt was a singularly new and unpleasant emotion to the conman. He could easily see how Chris Larabee chose to convert all of the gentler and more personal emotions to anger and deal with them that way.

He shouldn't have left, Ezra berated himself, and it was like a mantra. Now it was too late. He'd been gone for such a short time. And he had only left to try to get word to the other regulators in Four Corners. "Mr. Wilmington?" The soft Southern drawl repeated.

There was still no response.

The Southerner moved around to hunker on the floor in front of his friend and attempted to get an angle that would allow him to contact the midnight blue eyes. "Buck, can you hear me?" He tried to keep the worry out of his tone.

Finally he was rewarded with a partial nod that dislodged a single drop of sweat. The soft eyes opened at last, but stared down at the cot.

"You need to let me get that shirt off."

There was no response.

"At least try to get more comfortable. Lie forward." Ezra knew that was a useless request. In studying the men he had found himself riding with he had noticed that Mr. Wilmington would not lie down when injured unless he was too weak to sit, or unless Chris Larabee was nearby. Apparently the moody gunfighter had somehow earned this rogue's trust, even in a vulnerable position.

As the gambler predicted, Buck gave a quick negative, almost frightened, headshake at the suggestion. The eyes came to meet his now, hardened and opened wider. "Ain't gonna be flat on my back and helpless 'round the likes of them."

And so there it was again, that dark past the man hid so well but that affected everything he did, and had gotten them into this situation in the first place.

Buck noticed that the angry bruise left on Ezra's left cheek from the day before had drained toward his jaw line in ugly yellows and grays. The blackened eye on that side was still partially swollen shut. There was an angry red gash on his temple. "You're hurt," Buck's raspy voice accused.

Ezra reflexively reached up to touch the cut that disappeared into his hairline. "It's nothing."

"Sorry."

"It's certainly not your fault."

"Want you… leave…"

"Most assuredly not. How would I answer to Mr. Larabee if I left you here alone?" He knew the words sounded hollow. And yet, something in the southerner's makeup had him trying to make light of the situation, trying to portray his loyalty to this man as stemming from a perceived threat from their leader. He wasn't ready to admit, even to himself, that the loyalty sprang from a growing friendship. He tried not to see that feeling as a weakness.

"Chris ain't comin'. "