Title: When Rivers Rise, part 3 of 3

Author: Tipper

Disclaimer: See part one.

Notes: I spent hours trying to fix the spacing of the poem, but I'm just not good enough at this html thing. So, sorry for the way it is all stretched out. I did try!

Description: Wherein a gunslinger faces his fears, a preacher lays down the law, and a gambler chooses his fate. Warning, gets a bit over-dramatic near the end….

When Rivers Rise

Part Three

"Well?" Chris asked, leaning forward in the plush chair. He, Josiah, and a sleepy eyed JD, were all sitting in the hotel's handsome parlour, ensconced in the large plush armchairs, watching Ezra. The gambler sat opposite them, next to the fire.

"The stage was already being held up when I came upon it, about halfway to Red Rock," Ezra said, shrugging slightly, his hands wrapped around a steaming mug of tea. The hotel manager had given him a blanket to wrap about him, and he snuggled his shoulders deeper into the fabric as a chill hit him. "It was being held up by an old man and what looked to be his son. Unfortunately, the driver himself also appeared to be part of the scam, and, together, the three men looked to be intent on murdering their victims. I intervened just as the driver raised his gun to shoot that young woman you saw me helping down from the carriage." He shook his head in disgust, and took a sip.

"Miss Thalia Miller," Mary said, joining them. She sat down next to Chris, and opened her small notebook to take notes. Ezra arched an eyebrow in her direction.

"What happened then?" She asked, pulling the pencil out from behind her ear.

"Is this going in the paper tomorrow, Mrs. Travis?"

"Of course," she replied.

"May I then expect some monetary recompense for my story?" He grinned, his gold tooth flashing in the light of the fire.

She rolled her eyes, and snapped the book closed. "I have more than enough quotes from the other passengers to fill my by-line, Mr. Standish. However, if you would like to ensure that you yourself are pictured in the most favorable light, may I suggest you be a little less fiscally minded?"

Ezra continued to grin as he shook his head, the water droplets still clinging to his thick brown hair dripping off onto the blanket.

Josiah laughed at Mary's frustrated grimace. "I'm afraid, Mary, that asking Ezra not to think about money is akin to asking a wolf not to howl at the full moon."

Sighing heavily, Mary shrugged and leaned back in her chair. But the book stayed close.

"Keep going Ezra," Chris ordered.

"Well, as I was saying before being so pleasantly interrupted," Ezra nodded at Mary, who raised her eyebrows in return, "I intervened just as that villain of a driver was about to shoot Miss…Miller." He stopped, the name Miller ringing in his head for a minute. Blinking it away as a coincidence, he plunged on. "Then, through a feat of impressive skill and a hell of a lot of luck, I managed to disarm all three. Unfortunately, I was not aware until too late that the driver had hidden a gun in the waistband of his trousers at his back. When he drew, I had no choice but to shoot him."

"Well that explains who the dead one was that we pulled out from under those two. I like the way you had them tied down to the luggage rack on top, by the way." JD nodded at Ezra, then switched his gaze to his leader. "Oh, and Chris? Buck had to stick 'em in with the Barrow gang 'cause there wasn't enough room. He's watching them all now, but those cells of ours look fit to bursting."

"Marshal will be here tomorrow, JD," Josiah shrugged.

"Yeah, I know. I just was thinking maybe we should post a double guard 'til they come, just in case." The boy sheriff looked to Chris, and the black clad gunslinger mimicked Josiah's shrug.

"If it'll make you feel better, JD. You can go join Buck at the jail now if you want. Nathan and me'll spell you in a few hours after the healer's got some rest."

"And me?" Josiah asked.

"You need some sleep, preacher. You can have the early morning shift. I'll guess I'll stay up with you."

Ezra coughed politely. "That won't be necessary, Chris. You too need your rest. I'd be happy to sit guard duty with Mr. Sanchez, seeing as I am certainly not planning on heading back out tonight or while this storm is raging. So long as you'll permit me to have a few hours of repose myself first." He tilted his head, waiting for a response.

Chris watched him a second, then shook his head, a slight smirk on his face. "You never cease to amaze me, Ezra."

"I live to please, Mr. Larabee," Ezra replied easily, a dimpled smile on his own face.

"See you in about eight hours, then, Ezra," Josiah said, standing and stretching. Now that Ezra was back, the preacher suddenly felt incredibly tired. JD stood up as well, and offered a hand to Mary.

"Can I walk you home, Mrs. Travis?" The young sheriff asked. Mary nodded, and let him help her up. As a group, Josiah, Mary and JD wandered out the door, stopping only so that Mary could open her umbrella.

Ezra stayed seated in his comfortable armchair, leaning back and soaking up the warmth of the fire. He shut his eyes, and wrapped the blanket tighter around his frame. Chris looked at the fire, and, unbidden, the question he'd wanted to ask Ezra ever since that fight with Buck popped into his head.

"Ezra?" He asked quietly.

"Hmmm?"

"How did you know that I had friends who might be able to shelter you mother in Antonito?"

Ezra's eyes popped open, and a frown creased his brow. "What?"

"Antonito. How did you know I knew people there?"

Ezra glanced at him askance, then shut his eyes again as he stifled a yawn. "You told me. One night over a poker game in the saloon. You'd had a bit to drink, and were losing, and proceeded to tell me all about the night you once threw a cheating gambler out from the second story of a saloon in that fair town. Some friends hid you from the law. Needless to say, I let you win after that." He grinned wryly, but didn't reopen his eyes.

Chris watched him in silence for a few minutes, absorbing this information slowly as the younger man's breathing evened out. Guilt, embarrassment and self-recriminations bit at the gunslinger's soul, until his own eyes shut under the weight of tiredness. He'd have to apologize to Buck in the morning. Damn man would probably make him take all his patrols for a week to make up for it. With this painful thought in mind, he slowly drifted off.

Both were sound asleep within minutes.

The hotel manager and his bellhop peeked into the room, and, a few silent communications later, the bellhop crept in to throw another blanket over the man in black.

________________________

The rain had ceased around midnight, during Nathan and Chris's shift. By the time Ezra and Josiah took over two hours later for the two to six shift, the stars were out for the first time in what felt like weeks. With the hotel blanket still wrapped about him (a "gift" said the manager), Ezra stood on the boardwalk and took in their beauty. There was only a sliver of a moon tonight, making it appear as if one could see all the way to the edge of the milky way. An almost childish thrill ran down the gambler's spine when he happened to catch sight of a shooting star.

"You make a wish?" Josiah queried from the door.

Bringing his head down so that it was level with the preacher's, Ezra gave him a sidelong glance. "Now why would I do that? You know I do not believe in such superstitions." He replied.

"So you say," Josiah shrugged. "I myself can't help but feel that there is still some magic left in the universe." He sighed, and sucked in a deep breath of the crisp, cold air. Ezra lowered his head to hide his smile.

"I didn't think preachers were allowed to give credence to such pagan notions."

"Magic? Ahh, you probably know better than I that there is more magic in the bible than miracles. But that is not why I like the idea of it. To me, magic is a means of explaining the way the world functions. Certainly makes more sense than anything else I've ever read – including the bible."

"Hmm," Ezra looked away, back up at the stars.

"In fact," Josiah continued, aware that he was about to press his luck, "you might even say I even prefer to believe in such ancient whims as kinship and destiny."

This time Ezra simply grunted. "Aren't you supposed to be guarding the sheep we have incarcerated or something?"

"They're all asleep."

"Ah."

The night quieted down, all except for the screaming of the coyote, and the wind as it tickled the loose wooden signs. Josiah was about to return inside when Ezra started speaking again, his voice lyrical above the steady hum of the world.

"What are you stepping westward?" – "yea"

-- 'Twould be a wildish destiny,

If we, who thus together roam

In a strange Land, and far from home,

Were in this place the guests of Chance:

Yet who would stop, or fear to advance,

Though home or shelter he had none,

With such a sky to lead him on?

The dewy ground was dark and cold;

Behind, all gloomy to behold;

And stepping westward seemed to be

A kind of Heavenly destiny:

I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound

Of something without place or bound;

And seemed to give me spiritual right

To travel through the region bright.

The voice was soft, and she who spake

Was walking by her native lake:

The salutation had to me

The very sound of courtesy:

Its power was felt; and while my eye

Was fixed upon the glowing Sky,

The echo of the voice enwrought

A human sweetness with the thought

Of travelling through the world that lay

Before me in my endless way."

He stopped, licking his lips and breathing in the clear air like a drink of ice water. He glanced at Josiah, who was simply standing there, watching him expectantly.

"Wordsworth, again," Ezra explained. "I read that poem a few years ago – read it so often that I can't seem to let it go. It is why he is my favorite poet, and why I find myself so hard pressed to contradict you when you wax mystical on me. That poem was one of the reasons why I came out here, to step westward in my endless way…." He shrugged. "I may not believe in destiny, or wishing, or even luck, Josiah, but I do like the feelings they evoke. Reading a beautiful poem, or looking upon a radiant starlit sky on such a night as this….it makes one whimsical about a great deal of things." He looked upwards once more, then shut his clear green eyes. "'Yet who would stop, or fear to advance, with such a sky to lead them on….' Tell me, Josiah, are you ready to stop?"

Josiah bowed his head, unable to think of what to say in reply.

"Perhaps you are right, Josiah. Perhaps destiny did bring us together, but it is free will which will decide our fate from now on." Ezra watched as Josiah frowned, the preacher, for once, at a loss for words. Eventually, Ezra sighed.

"Go inside, my friend," he whispered, his mind on the stars in the distance. "I'll be in momentarily."

Josiah nodded, and walked back inside. Once out of view of the younger man, he fell heavily into the desk chair and covered his head with his hands.

______________________________

Ezra was gone early the next morning, as soon as the sun came up. Only Buck, JD and Josiah were witness to his departure. When the young sheriff looked at the preacher's face, though, it did not hold the same conviction of certainty that it had the first two times Ezra left. When Buck moved into the darkened interior of the jail to take charge of the prisoners, JD stopped to whisper Josiah a question.

"What's wrong?" the young sheriff pestered anxiously.

"Nothing, JD. Just figured something out last night."

"Oh? What?"

Josiah snorted, and shrugged. "Sometimes….sometimes I forget that there is a force more powerful than destiny or friendship or love, more powerful than religion or truth. The simple…and irritatingly irrational…existence of free will." With that enigmatic statement, he wandered home to the church to get some extra sleep. Behind him, JD's face fell.

"What did he say?" Buck asked from where he leant on the doorframe. "You look as if someone just ran over your dog with a stagecoach."

JD shook his head, and placed a hand over his heart. Buck's eyes narrowed slightly, then the tall man faded back inside.

_____________________________

Vin sniffed, then coughed into the handkerchief for the third time in the last fifteen minutes. Nathan frowned, and leant forward to put a hand on his forehead. They were in the jail, the tracker having insisted he was well enough for guard duty when he woke up this morning. Chris finally acquiesced when Nathan volunteered to sit with him. The black clad gunslinger himself was sitting out front, eating some breakfast that he got from the hotel.

Nathan leaned against the desk, and crossed his arms where he stood over the tracker. "How do you feel?"

"Like my throat is made of sandpaper." Vin spat angrily. His nose was bright red, but the flush in his cheeks from yesterday had faded. He also looked less pale, which is why Nathan hadn't thought to disagree when Vin insisted on doing his duty.

"You been coughing a lot?"

"Yeah. I hate this, Nathan. I really, really hate this."

"Yeah, well, colds are not something that people know much about. Basic wisdom just says rest, liquids and sleeping potions. How's yer nose?"

Vin tilted his head to one side, and sniffed again. When he looked at Nathan again, his face seemed a bit less dark. "Actually, that feels better….Its not so stuffed. And my ears aren't hurting as much."

Nathan nodded, a small smile forming on his lips. "Then you're probably over the worst. I know I always get the cough last."

"Really?" Vin immediately perked up, sitting up straighter in the creaking wooden chair. "So how long does that mean I'll be coughing?"

"Oh, that?" Nathan chuckled, standing up and heading towards the door to check up on Chris. "Coughs usually linger for weeks."

Behind him, Vin blinked at the offhand remark, then stuck his tongue out at the retreating healer like a petulant child. As Nathan opened the door, he caught the mumbled grumbling from behind him about how annoying healthy people can be, and smiled.

As he pushed through the heavy oak doors, Nathan took in a deep breath. The air definitely smelt sweeter than it had in weeks, more like the spring it should have been. The sky above was no longer a uniform gray, but a mixture of shades. The cloud cover was still thick, but white dewy clouds were as common as the heavier charcoal ones. And the sun streamed through in places, sending sporadic rays of sunlight to light up pieces of town. Best of all, it wasn't drizzling, raining, or misting. It was simply clean.

Chris was leaning back on the bench in front of the jail, feet outstretched before him, an empty plate precariously balanced on his thighs. Nathan plopped himself down next to him, and mimicked the laid back position.

"How's Vin?" Chris asked lightly.

"Dreadful. He whines worse than a cat stuck up a tree." Nathan replied. "How are you?"

"Fine."

The curt answer would have stilled anyone else, but Nathan's natural need to help would not be fazed so easily. "Really? Even though what's-his-face took off again this morning?"

"I don't care about that," came the gruff reply.

"No, of course not." Nathan replied smartly. Chris ignored the tone. Neither man spoke for a few minutes, and the healer shut his eyes as the sun brightened the air about them for a brief instant. It passed quickly, and the gray returned. When he reopened his dark brown eyes, it was to see Chris balling his hands into fists above the plate, looking as if he would pick it up and throw it at the slightest provocation.

"You thinking that maybe Ez had the right idea?" Nathan suggested quietly.

Chris gave him a sideways look, but didn't respond right away. Across the way, Buck pushed his way out the saloon, his arm around Allison McAdam's shoulders. The tall gunslinger led her down the boardwalk, until she stopped to lean against the wooden slats of the structure. Buck leaned in close, one arm blocking her from moving anywhere. She giggled and blushed as he continued to whisper in her ear.

"I'm thinking that maybe we're getting too attached," the man in black stated. "People start to learn things about you, like your past, that you don't necessarily want them to. Means that, to them, you aren't just another drifter anymore. You're someone they think they know, and maybe expect to see around."

"And…that's a bad thing?" Nathan asked.

Allison laughed out loud, and smacked Buck on the arm. He staggered back as if struck by a far more forceful blow, and melodramatically placed his hands over his heart. The two men in front of the jail could just make out Allison's "oh, Buck!" as she reached forward to pull him back in. She hugged him, and Buck kissed the top of her blond curly head. Then they moved further down the boardwalk.

Chris watched his oldest friend do what he did best, and wondered at the fact that Buck seemed to be spending more time with Allison than with any of the other working girls here, or anywhere else he'd been.

"Getting attached…out here?" he said, answering Nathan's question finally, "Yeah. It can be." He relaxed his fists, and pulled his feet in so that he could sit straighter. From inside, light coughing and a string of curses could be heard.

Chris lifted the plate off his lap and stood up to take it back to the hotel. "Its no good getting attached when everybody just leaves Nathan. And everybody leaves. Or dies. That's part of what this place is all about. Take Buck and JD. Buck's a drifter. He'll eventually tire of this place and move on, and think what that'll do to the kid? Or what if one of them gets themselves killed? It'd destroy the other one." He shook his head, tapping the plate against his thigh. More coughing punctuated the quiet, and Chris's eyes looked involuntarily towards the structure behind him, the cold steel softening briefly.

"Or Vin…" Nathan suggested, watching the increasingly agitated movement of the plate. "You worried about what losing him might do to you?"

"Or Josiah, or you, or…." Chris stopped, and stared at the saloon as if he expected to see the gambler walk out and tip his hat at them. "But then Ezra's already gone."

With a sigh, the gunslinger looked into the distance, and imagined he saw a small dust cloud on the horizon in the direction that Buck had told him Ezra had taken off in.

"That's 'cause Ezra's a coward, Chris," Nathan said coldly. "I thought you were stronger than that."

Chris looked at him sharply, immediately catching the healer's meaning. Nathan was watching him carefully. The man in black frowned, and chose to look back into the distance. All of a sudden, he straightened, noting that the dust cloud had gotten larger. Meanwhile, Nathan had returned his gaze to his feet, and continued on more sorrowfully.

"Josiah seemed certain he'd be back, but when I went to see the preacher this morning, he looked like someone had just wrenched the heart out from under him….That damn gambler, thinking about no one but himself all the damn time…." The healer shook his head and sighed. When he looked up at Chris, he realized that something else had caught the other man's attention.

Chris was indeed not listening, trying to discern what the cloud was about. Nathan stood to see what it was Chris was peering at, and clicked his tongue.

"I'll go get Vin's spyglass," the healer said, heading back into the jail. Putting the plate on the bench, Chris sauntered into the street to whistle for Buck. The tall gunslinger looked up, hearing the tuneless call, and quickly said a few good byes to Miss Allison. With a peck to his lips, she wished him luck and then watched as Buck jogged over to talk with Chris. For a brief moment, she felt oddly jealous.

Nathan came back out, and raised the spyglass to his eye. After a moment, he put it down and looked at Chris and Buck…then nodded.

"Cavalry. It's the Marshal."

____________________________

All six lawmen were assembled in various strategic positions around the main street when the Marshal rode in. He had about fifteen men with him, all cavalry men from Fort Garland, ready to escort the prisoners there for trial. But he also had one prisoner with him already, which was why the peacekeepers of Four Corners were all present, and why the streets were otherwise empty of folk. The hostility of the welcome was not lost on the somewhat disconcerted U.S. lawman.

"Well, Josiah," JD whispered, impressed by the furious countenance of the preacher. "I think I get it now. I guess he didn't come back of his own free will, did he?"

Josiah simply growled in response and looked up at Ezra, noting angrily that the young man's hands were shackled behind his back, his normally clear face red from both the bruise to his cheek and his embarrassment at his situation. He was sitting astride Chaucer, buried near the center of the large group, his bright red coat making him somewhat distinctive among the dusty navy blue of his captors. Chaucer danced about in irritation at being ponied behind a rather large slate gray charger, the only thing preventing him from rearing was the awareness of his rider on his back.

"Mr. Larabee," The Marshal greeted, looking to the man in black. He smiled in an attempt to defuse the tension he felt. "It is so good to finally meet you sir. My name is Marshal Malcolm Churwell, and I have heard a great deal about you from my superiors."

Chris walked right up to the man on horseback, his jaw clenched so tightly Nathan was afraid it would lock.

"Why have you got that man in chains?" Chris hissed, not breaking eye contact with the blond whiskered Marshal.

Churwell smiled, still not understanding the reason behind the hostility, but willing to ignore it.

"Oh this?" He waved in Ezra's direction, where the gambler was trussed about five men back, smiling at the younger man's sullen expression. "This vagabond is nothing more than a thief and a knave. I recognized him from my days as the Captain in charge of Fort Laramie in the Wyoming territories. His name is Standish, alias Simpson, and weren't we lucky to run across him on our way here. He jumped bail from Fort Laramie almost three years ago, the result of which was my discharge from that post. I have recently returned to the profession of upholding the law as a United States Marshal, and find it my discreet pleasure to be the one to haul his flashy, overdressed ass back to prison where it belongs." He sneered at Ezra, but as he once more looked down at Chris, the smile fell completely away.

Livid was, without question, the only term to describe the expression on Chris's normally stoic countenance. The man's face appeared to have paled to the point that he looked almost demonic, his eyes were almost black as his pupils dilated, and every vein in his neck and brow looked fit to burst. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and strained.

"That man's name is Ezra Standish. He is one of the lawmen of this town, placed here by Circuit Judge Orrin Travis himself well over a year and a half ago. At that time, he was pardoned of his previous crimes, including the bail jumping at Laramie. Since then, he has done nothing less than risk his life time and time again for the citizens of this town and territory. As such he has more than earned the right to traverse this land without certified idiots like you -- who wouldn't know a criminal from crabgrass – waylaying him at every turn in a vainglorious attempt to make a name for yourselves. If you had done your homework concerning the law of this area, Marshal Churwell, or had bothered to ask Mr. Standish about who these facts instead of simply beating him up, you would have known this. Now, release him, or I guarantee you sir, your reputation after this incident will be the last thing on your mind."

The sudden quiet as he finished affected everyone in its hearing, and a somewhat bemused -- though impressed -- air settled on the town's peacekeepers. Even Chris seemed a little surprised at the sheer number of words that had just dripped icily from his lips. It was rare indeed that Chris Larabee spoke more than a sentence at a time, and here he'd practically given a speech.

It was enough to betray just how much the black-clad gunslinger had changed since moving to this place….He'd tried hard to remain stand-offish from the others in the beginning -- refusing to support JD after the boy had accidentally shot Annie, or Josiah when the Pinkerton detective had accused him of being a murderer, and even Vin had gotten a cold shoulder after the whole Charlotte fiasco. Now, though barely a year had passed since that miserable wagon train blew through, he found he didn't want stand down any longer. Without thinking, he had stepped forward, defending, nay, forcefully protecting, the most unreliable, irritating, arrogant, obnoxious member of his unit…the same man who had run out on him just this morning. The last man in the world whom he ever thought he would become friends with.

And it felt good.

Really good.

Chris allowed a small smile to grace his face, and suddenly, the old, cold Chris Larabee was back in control.

"Well?" He said finally.

Marshal Churwell swallowed, and tried desperately not to show his fear. Reminding himself that he had fifteen uniformed men at his back, he straightened in his saddle and asked, his voice cracking slightly, "You have proof of your claim?"

"He does," Mary's clear voice cut through the still air, and Churwell frowned at the blond woman who stood in the door of a newspaper office called the Clarion. She shut the door and strode purposefully up to the Marshal, a rifle tucked under one arm. "I am Mary Travis, Marshal, and I will vouch for Mr. Standish."

Churwell snorted, and disdain distorted his otherwise plain features. "And why should I give one whit what a woman thinks, little miss?"

Mary couldn't avoid a slightly startled expression, and she looked at the man standing to her right. "Chris, did he just call me 'little miss?'"

Chris nodded, "Yup."

She leaned back and put a hand to her chin, tapping it with her fingers. "I wonder how to best describe him in the headline…Which do you like better? Pompous oaf or contemptuous fat-head?"

"Oooh, the second one," JD called from over by the saloon.

Churwell's sneer decreased into a frown, and his brow furrowed. "Headline?" he asked, confused.

"My name is Mary Travis, Marshal," she repeated, stressing her last name. "Travis…as in Judge Travis? I am his daughter-in-law, a fact which any half-way competent Marshal working in this territory is aware. I am also the editor of the Clarion newspaper, which has quite a large circulation, including your Fort Garland. Captain Daniel Rhenford, the commander of that Fort you are working out of, has not only written to my paper, but happens to be a friend of mine. As one of the Marshal's working within his purview, I would have expected you to have been informed of this, as well as of my newspaper. Either you are the laziest Marshal ever to be granted the badge which you wear, or the stupidest. At this point I am not sure which, but I am sure it will come to me soon."

Churwell's frown deepened, until the blond whiskers hiding his mouth seemed to almost press in on themselves. He looked to Chris, back to Mary, then back to Chris. Finally, he lowered his head to his chest and sighed.

"Unlock those shackles," Chris ordered.

"Um, that's…okay. I got it," Ezra interrupted sheepishly. He lifted his hands and unloosed the shackles, obviously already unlocked, and handed them over to one of the bluecoats who'd been guarding him. The man stared at them a minute, obviously confused, then grabbed them roughly from out the gambler's hand. The soldier on the slate gray charger also loosed his hold on Chaucer's reins. Ezra leaned forward to grab them, his movements a little slow from the beating he had endured.

Meanwhile, Chris had backed away from the Marshal, and Churwell recognized this is a subtle order to dismount. Waving to the others under his command to follow his example, he got down and faced the man in black. He was probably several inches shorter than the tall gunslinger, perhaps only 5'6" in stature. Even JD appeared tall next to him. It didn't help that the Marshal man was also slouching. He tried to appear aloof in front of the gunslinger, but the attempt merely made him look ill as he looked up at Chris. The man in black, however, was looking at Ezra, the gambler gamely trying to guide Chaucer out of the pack of now riderless horses.

"Ezra, come here."

The gambler stopped, and frowned. Chaucer pawed impatiently at the ground, seeing freedom only feet away. Inwardly, Ezra quickly pondered his options. If he rode out now, then Churwell might think that Chris and Mary had lied, putting them in danger, as well as himself if the Marshal succeeded in getting out from the town and after him. Then there was also Chris's own wrath to contend with. If he left now, embarrassing Chris in front of everyone, then he would never be able to come back.

Not that he wanted to, of course.

But then there was his pride to consider. He didn't want any more humiliation. And there was the fact that his ribs were sore – getting down off Chaucer would not be easy. And then there was his freedom. What if he got off and Chris wouldn't let him go?

He looked down and saw that Josiah had come forward to take Chaucer's reins. For once, the chestnut stallion didn't fight. In fact, Chaucer seemed unusually docile. Ezra looked at Josiah, and the preacher responded by repeating the hand signal he had just used on the horse, the one he'd seen Ezra use on Chaucer a hundred times before to quiet the normally irascible beast. Ezra grimaced, knowing that Chaucer would not move again until the opposite hand motion was given.

Scowling, Ezra dismounted slowly and whispered into the horse's ear as he stumbled to the ground, "Et tu, Brute?"

"Now, Ezra," Chris barked impatiently.

Ezra flinched, but found himself doing as he was told. With as much dignity as he could muster, the gambler moved to join Larabee, feeling a bit like a French aristocrat on his way to the guillotine. He kept his hat low on his head to hide as much of his face as possible.

When he was a foot from the man in black, he stopped. He was about to ask the purpose behind the summons when Chris's hand shot up to grasp him fiercely by the jaw. The gunslinger tilted the shocked gambler's face up so that he could clearly see the bruising, as if he were a horse trainer checking a horse's teeth for its health and age. Recovering quickly, Ezra swatted the hand away and stepped back, his green eyes flashing in embarrassment and anger. But Chris had already turned away to look at Churwell.

"Who hit him?" Chris demanded coldly. Churwell's face reddened beneath the sunburned visage, and he looked back at his men. The soldiers all looked at the ground. Churwell turned back and straightened his shoulders somewhat.

"I take full responsibility." The Marshal stated.

"Probably means he started it," Buck whispered to Nathan, who stood on his right. The healer didn't respond, his jaw still tense. His dark brown eyes were watching Ezra. The gambler had once more turned his face to the ground, and looked as if he would sprint away if he could.

"Well then," Chris nodded, "you have committed assault and battery on a member of the police force of this territory. That is a punishable offense by…." He snapped his fingers at JD. The young Sheriff answered immediately.

"By both fine and imprisonment. As much as five years in prison." JD smiled.

"It probably also means the loss of your badge, Mister Churwell." Chris finished, stressing the lesser title. The Marshal simply looked away, pursing his lips in annoyance.

"Ezra?" Chris asked, not looking away from the Marshal. "You want to press charges?"

"What?" the gambler was barely listening. He seemed to be focusing on something in the distance. Truth be told, he was staring longingly at the stirrup hanging off of Chaucer's saddle.

Chris changed his gaze to look at him squarely. "Are you going to press charges?"

The head came up and the green eyes were widened slightly, then the face became hidden once more. "Charges? No."

"You sure?"

Ezra allowed himself a small laugh. "I believe you already have a full jail, Chris. Burdening it even further would not be the most prudent of ideas. Besides which, I believe that the Marshal, while perhaps a little overzealous in his apprehension of me, was not necessarily acting wholly without cause. Merely a regrettable misunderstanding, which I am certain he will not quickly repeat."

Chris watched him for a minute, then shrugged. "If that's what you want, Ezra. In that case, you may resume the errand I sent you on. Go…before anyone else tries to stop you." He said the last sentence with a slightly softer air, and Ezra looked up one last time. The gratitude in his eyes was clear, and he turned away to rejoin Josiah with Chaucer.

Chris turned to the Marshal and nodded. "The men you want are in the jail. I want them gone within the hour."

Churwell nodded in return. "Of course. I will also be needing to purchase a wagon to transport the prisoners. If you could have someone instruct some of my men where to get one, that would be very helpful." He paused, and licked his lips below the heavy whickers, "and may I apologize for…."

"Fine, fine." Chris cut the Marshal off and motioned Buck, JD and Vin forward to join them, which they did without expression. "Buck and JD will take you inside. Vin here will find you a wagon."

After that it was all business between them, for which Churwell was grateful. Mary stepped aside to let them pass, then headed back to her office without another look. Chris moved to join Nathan, who had taken up residence off to one side. The Marshal and several of his men entered the jail with Buck and JD, while the rest followed Vin down the street.

Nathan was watching Ezra and Josiah, who seemed to be arguing about something heatedly, though their voices could not be heard. Twice Ezra had reached for Chaucer's reins only to have his hand swatted away by the preacher. Nathan shook his head and looked at Chris. The gunslinger looked a lot calmer, the veins in his head and neck no longer throbbing.

Sensing the scrutiny, Chris looked over at the healer and smiled. "I am not a coward, Nathan." He stated firmly.

Nathan nodded, returning the smile, then turned his gaze back to the two men in the street. Chris joined him.

Josiah had Ezra's right arm firmly held in an iron grip, the gambler trying desperately to pull away or otherwise make the preacher let him go. Dragging the younger man away from Chaucer, Josiah stopped only to slap the chestnut stallion on the rump, sending the pleased animal back to the stable for some much needed rest. All three men heard Ezra's peeved "Josiah!" as the preacher continued to drag the gambler down the street and towards the church.

At some point, Ezra must have given in, because Josiah let him go. Ezra strode ahead of the older man and entered the church first, his anger obvious in every step. Josiah followed him up the steps a couple of seconds later, barely avoiding the doors as Ezra slammed them in his face. He glanced back once at Nathan and Chris, offered them a determined nod, then opened the doors and disappeared inside after his quarry.

"Whaddya think?" Nathan leaned over to Chris.

"Wait and see," Chris replied, unconsciously repeating Vin's words from the time Ezra had first mentioned leaving. He then turned to go help the men in the jail. Nathan watched him leave, then moved to lean against a post.

"I hate waiting," he muttered to the air.

________________________________________

Josiah shut the doors behind him softly, and padded quietly up the center aisle of the small church to the front. He noticed that Ezra had already ensconced himself in the front pew, his posture hunched, as if he were praying. As Josiah passed him, however, he realized that the gambler was merely leaning forward, his arms resting on his knees, twisting the brim of his hat between his fingers. He did not look up as Josiah passed, though the tension in his facial muscles betrayed his still seething anger.

The preacher sighed as he reached the dais, moving heavily up the few steps to the platform as if he were a much older man. He looked about the small space -- at the crude, but functional wooden alter, at the candelabras to either side, and at the high wooden lectern in the center front. With measured steps he moved to the lectern and leaned against it, the dark wood creaking in familiar response.

Neither man spoke for a moment -- Ezra because he was still angry, and Josiah because he was waiting for Ezra to calm down a little. Finally, the younger man raised his head, his green eyes appearing slightly calmer…but no less irritated at having been forced here. Deciding no time like the present, Josiah licked his lips and cleared his throat.

"Son, I…."

"Josiah!" Ezra exploded, sitting up in his seat, his green eyes flashing anew.

The preacher flinched immediately, knowing full well what had caused the retort. For some reason, this knowledge only served to make him angry as well.

"I realize you are not my son, MISTER Standish," he said, as sharply as he could muster. "I am not an idiot. It is merely a term often used by those in my former profession. I unfortunately have not been able to break the habit."

"Really," Ezra spat, "I find it odd, then, that you only seem to use it when speaking either to Mr. Dunne or myself. While I understand Mr. Dunne – his obvious youth almost screams for such an appellation – I fail to understand why you seem so willing to burden me with it."

Josiah frowned angrily, taking the opening without even thinking. "Burden you with it? Damn it, Ezra, I have never known any other grown man who so reminds me of a selfish, spoiled child as you do when someone tries to talk seriously to you. Its just a term of art! There is no meaning behind it. Honestly, I wonder how you ever made it out from behind your mother's skirts – if you ever did."

Ezra stood, his face turning redder by the moment. "How dare you! Who do you think you are?" He snarled, shaking his head in disbelief. "You deign to upbraid me? At the very least I know who I am. I may indeed be a scoundrel, a cheat and a knave, even a spoiled child at times, but I do not hide this fact. Who are you, Josiah? Do you know? Are you a preacher? A devil? Or maybe you're just a fool, looking to save souls when you can't even save your own. No sir, I will not be told off by you. If that is all you have to say to me, then good day." He spun on his heel, aiming to head out the door.

"SIT DOWN!" Josiah boomed. Ezra stopped halfway down the aisle and turned back to look at him, expecting fury. Instead, the preacher was down off the dais, standing in front of the lectern, his face a mass of confused emotions.

"Please," the preacher added, his voice plaintive.

Ezra frowned, disconcerted by this sudden change.

"Why should I?"

Josiah drew a hand across his face, pulling it down over his formidable jaw, trying to calm himself. When he looked up, he merely looked sad.

"Because I am asking you to."

Ezra grimaced and stared at Josiah, trying to read his face. After a few moments, he looked down at the floor, then over at the doors leading outside, and finally back at Josiah. Shrugging, he turned and went back to his seat. Once more, he leaned forward on his knees, and returned to playing with his hat.

Josiah watched him sit back down, and suppressed a sigh. Slowly, he let himself slip down so that he was sitting on the dais steps. When he spoke again this time, he was more careful choosing his words.

"Ezra, I just need to understand one thing. Why are you leaving? I mean really?"

The gambler frowned.

"I already explained this…" the younger man tried, but Josiah waved him off.

"Oh, yes. JD told me about the whole saloon and money excuse. You told him something along the lines that, being a gambler, you have to go where the money is. And there is nothing left to keep you here, correct?"

Ezra simply shrugged.

"Well, as both Nathan and JD quickly surmised, that is, pardon the language, a honking load of horseshit. Tell me, if money was the reason you stayed in Four Corners after your pardon was over, why the hell are you leaving now? As Mary constantly reminds us, this town is growing, with more money and more businesses flowing in every month. At the same time, if buying back the saloon here is no longer a good venture, why the hell did you want to purchase it in the first place? Why not go to Santa Fe, or Phoenix, or San Francisco to find your saloon? You had the money….No answer? Well I think I know why, but before I say it, let's talk about that other excuse of yours."

"Other excuse?" Ezra asked.

"The one you told Chris after the Miller's wagon went under." He paused, and nodded at the gambler's suddenly sullen expression. "Oh yes, Chris told me about that. Just answer me this, Ezra, if you weren't a lawman, what exactly would you have done differently?"

Ezra didn't respond, his lips shut tightly in a thin line.

"Would you have ignored it? Ridden on and pretended that you didn't see it?"

"Possibly," Ezra allowed quietly.

"Right. Just like the way you ignored the men holding up the afternoon stage."

"That was different."

"How exactly?"

Ezra hesitated, unsure of how to respond. When he did speak, it was vaguely. "Well, for one thing, those people on the stage were in immediate danger, while the wagon wasn't going anywhere…." The words sounded hollow, even to the gambler. He put a hand to his face and wiped it across his eyes, stopping to rub the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

"You would have done the exact same thing with the wagon, Ezra. It is part of who you are now. Perhaps two years ago you might have ridden on. But you can't anymore."

"So?" Ezra suddenly spat, "What does that have to do with anything?" He tried to find his earlier anger, but found it had waned under the soft voice of his friend.

"Just trying to understand, Ezra."

"Well, then, perhaps it is because I am exactly what Nathan says I am. A coward. I don't want to stay because I'm afraid of getting too attached to having you all around."

"I'm guessing that's got a ring of truth to it." Josiah nodded, looking at his feet. "Course, maybe its also because you're afraid of becoming stuck here."

Ezra's jaw tensed, then he nodded. "That too."

Josiah looked up, his normally hidden blue eyes appearing bright in the odd light. Ezra's frown faded, and he sighed.

"So, does that answer the question to your satisfaction, Mr. Sanchez?"

Josiah never took his eyes off of Ezra's, until the younger man finally had to look away.

"No."

"Oh, for Christ's sake," the gambler snapped. "Why the hell not?"

"Because I don't think you believe it either. I think perhaps that, in the beginning, the drowned wagon…the depression it created…it did frighten you enough to want to run away. But neither that, nor the money, nor being a coward was why you left the second time, or the third. Or why you want to leave now." The older man replied.

"I'm sorry?" Green eyes looked back, puzzled.

"You rode back to warn us about the Barrow gang, then you took part in taking them down. I saw the look on your face, son. You enjoyed yourself. And when you helped out with the stagecoach, you must have realized that being a lawman had become somewhat ingrained into your habits. Fact is, you like it here, you like who you've become, and I know you like being around your friends. Us. Me." He grinned slightly as Ezra raised an eyebrow. Then Josiah's face became solemn once more.

"I don't think you are leaving because you're afraid of becoming too attached to us, Ezra. You're not Chris. You want to form attachments. You want a home. Hence the saloon. And the reason you stayed after you got your pardon. And the reason you didn't break out of jail when the Judge first put you there, though we all know now how easily you can pick a lock….So, once more, I ask you, why are you leaving?"

Ezra didn't answer, instead he simply crossed his arms. "I have a feeling you'll tell me."

Josiah nodded, moving over to sit next to Ezra on the pew. Glancing askance at the gambler, he noted that the younger man's poker face was in place, as Ezra waited for the gem of wisdom to reveal itself from out of the preacher's lips. Settling himself down on the hard bench, he watched as Ezra continued to play with his hat brim, the only outward sign of his nervousness.

"You are leaving, Ezra…because you can, and you need people to know and understand that."

Ezra's eyebrows shot up, and he turned so he could better see Josiah's face where he sat next to him. "What?"

"Everything you choose is done very deliberately, Ezra, for, as you once told Chris, 'you abhor gambling, and as such leave nothing to chance.'" When Ezra didn't respond, Josiah smiled, getting in to the swing of his thoughts.

"You hate it when other people choose for you, Ezra. Or assume things about you or the way you should be. You refuse to be taken for granted, or to bow down before predictability, because, as our leader implied to Clement Barrow in that fight, you are a gambler – the surprise element no one can pin down, always having an ace up his sleeve." Josiah stopped as Ezra snorted at the description, not sure whether the younger man was mocking his theory or agreeing with it.

"But, most of all, you hate the idea that luck or destiny or some unknown higher power might be guiding your path. The love of free will, above all, is what defines you." Josiah leant back, and looked up at the already cracking ceiling.

"Tell me, son….did that Marshal find you, or did you find him? A single man on horseback, especially one who knows the area well, could have easily avoided the army…especially one who knew the name of the Marshal leading it and the fact that he'd be gunning for you."

"Are you saying I wanted to be beat up?"

"No….of course not. But it brought you back, which IS something you wanted. Gave you another opportunity to find your way back. And I think that, if you left this time, you would probably return again. Maybe not immediately…but you'd find some reason. 'Course, then again, now that I've said all this, maybe you won't." He frowned, wondering if he'd just blown it. He glanced at Ezra, to weigh the other man's expression. Ezra just watched him blankly.

"Regardless," the preacher finished, "based on the last thing that Chris said to you, I think you can safely assume that you have made your point. Whether you stay or not, it is your choice, and yours alone. We all know that now."

Ezra sat stunned for a moment, then a chuckle escaped his lips. "You really are much too clever Josiah. Its annoying."

The preacher nodded, accepting the compliment. He stood up then, and brushed down his poncho. With a nod to Ezra, he crossed in front of him and headed off towards the front doors.

"Well, Ezra Standish, I am not going to make the choice for you this time, or assume anything about you from now on. So whether you stay or not….I'll be in the saloon, getting myself a stiff drink. Or rather, several stiff drinks." Without a look back, the preacher opened the doors, letting in the cool air, and left Ezra alone.

Leaning back in his pew, Ezra pursed his lips and shook his head. "Too clever by half…" he muttered. He patted his chest, feeling the outline of the book Josiah had given him tucked inside his waistcoat. An ugly purple bruise was probably forming around the edges, but it had prevented the destruction of any of his ribs. His smile faded as he thought about that.

Whether Josiah knew it or not, he had in fact said something that Ezra had been unwilling to admit to before. Oh, the preacher was completely accurate about why Ezra left….but that wasn't what was new. No, it was the accuracy with which Josiah had explained why the gambler had stayed in the first place. The preacher had indeed laid it out for him, almost as an afterthought, and yet it was what had struck him the most. He was right. Ezra liked it here. He liked having friends. He liked having a home. He even liked being a peacekeeper. Sort of.

The choice was, in the end, really very easy to make. But it was his choice. The selfish, cowardly choice of a knave who knew it would be highly unwise to give up such a profitable investment.

Slowly, but deliberately, he got up and walked out of the church.

Outside, the sun shone done out of an almost cloudless sky. A spring breeze tickled at the town, and everyone basked in the knowledge that the miserable winter was finally over.

_______________________

Josiah sat sullenly in the saloon, avoiding the worried stare of Inez. None of the others were around, and she hated it when the preacher drank alone. It usually led to a bad end. His fingers drummed the tabletop nervously, clearly waiting and hoping for something to happen.

The sound of the doors swishing open on the well oiled hinges brought her head up from the glasses she was drying, and a hint of a smile lit upon her face. Ezra nodded to her, then walked over to where the preacher sat. He pulled out a chair and sat opposite his friend, a wry smile on his face.

"Josiah?"

"Yep."

"I'm looking for a handful of prudent investors for this new venture I'm working on, and, if I remember rightly, didn't you once say something about money being like manure…?"

End.