notes and disclaimers in part 1

Auguries of Innocence
Part 2

Ezra's legs gave out a few miles west of town. Vin stopped trying to keep up with him and simply followed his trail. Approaching quietly, the tracker heard the hoarse rapid breaths before he saw the gambler. Ezra knelt in the sandy dirt, hands resting on his knees trying to get his wind back.

Softly, so as not to panic him, "Ezra?" Vin called.

The auburn head dropped. "Mr. Tanner," came the quiet rejoinder.

"Watering hole, just over the hill there."

Vin walked off slowly, glad to hear Ezra climb to his feet and follow behind.

Sitting back on his heels, Vin watched as the sweat-soaked man dipped his head into the water.

"It wasn't your fault, pard. You was just a little kid."

"I should have waited." Ezra was firm.

"You couldn't have known those people were coming. You did what you had to do. Wasn't your fault."

"Mr. Tanner. Spare me all those foolish arguments. I have heard every one. The facts remain. I killed my father. Shot him and killed him. I killed him." Spent with fury, Ezra's voice dwindled to a whisper as he dropped his head to his hands.

"It's a damn lie, Ezra. Them men killed your pa. Nobody else."

"I shot him. I took up the gun and shot him. He told me to stay put and I didn't. It's my fault. I know it and my mother knew it, and now y'all do too." Ezra bolted, again.

Crap, Vin thought, this is a pain. Launching himself, Vin snared the gambler by his arm and pulled him around into a headlock on the ground. Ezra was wiry with a tensile strength and soon the two were in a full-fledged fight. Ezra's head caught Vin under the chin and suddenly everything stopped.

"Aw hell, Vin?" Ezra was horrified. Chris would kill him. Good. Wasn't any less than he deserved. Ezra, you fool.

Vin was out cold. Even in the faint moonlight, the gambler could see the growing bruise creeping up the tracker's cheek as if it were a bizarre five o'clock shadow. Ezra was appalled. He had never struck one of the other six regulators. Digging in his pocket for a handkerchief, Ezra worked on reviving Vin.

"Come on, Mr. Tanner. Time to rise and shine."

"What happened."

You fell and hit your head on a rock. Ezra was sorely tempted. He resisted.

"I'm afraid, Mr. Tanner, that I let my baser side overcome reason."

"Huh?"

"I struck you, an act I regret deeply."

"Oh. Well don't worry about it, pard. It's nothing."

"I beg to differ. It's definitely something. Let us return to that burgeoning metropolis where we currently reside and seek out the services of Mr. Jackson."

"Nah, I'm fine." Vin climbed to his feet and swayed slightly, before starting to walk.

Ezra stepped around in front of him. "Yes, well perhaps you are in excellent health, but I doubt you are planning to walk to California tonight."

"Huh?"

Ezra pointed behind the tracker, "Town is that way Mr. Tanner."

"Oh," Vin was puzzled.

"Allow me," gesturing with his arm, the gambler guided the dazed sharpshooter towards the faint lights of the town.

With every step Ezra cursed himself. How could he have been so credulous? Things were considerably better in Four Corners than they had been anywhere for such a long time. Chris Larabee actually wanted him. Ezra had no doubt that if Larabee wanted him gone, he would be gone. No one would cross the gunslinger.

Ezra sighed, steadying the disoriented hunter. Maybe Larabee would finally put him out of his misery.

********

Chris leaned his tall form against the post, the red glow of his cigarillo the only light in the shadowed corner. Pale eyes roamed over the quiet streets. No sign of Vin or Ezra. Tilting his head to rest against the rough wood, he thought about the horrible story Joseph told. It didn't take too much imagination for the intelligent man to understand the horror of that lovely July morning. He understood so much more about the Southerner.

No wonder Maude always seemed so distant. He didn't have the heart to despise her, even though she had treated her son unjustly. It must be terrifying to suffer as she had, to be violated, loose your husband at the same time and have your own little boy fire the gun that killed him. Those strange allusions she made in the letter made sense, in the light of the truth.

How could a little child face that kind of pain? He couldn't begin to imagine his own precious little son standing before him and being forced to watch impotently as murdering devils coerced the boy into taking an action that he could barely comprehend.

A movement on the street interrupted his train of thought. "Vin?"

"Hey, cowboy," the tracker slurred slightly.

The gunslinger grabbed the sharpshooter's chin and turned his head to see the deepening bruise. He turned his attention to the gambler. Shame shone from his entire being, eyes overflowing with self-loathing. As his hand moved to grip the Southerner's shoulder, Ezra flinched and moved away slightly, putting some distance between them. Chris moved right along with him, and let his hand rest there.

"Let's get this boy over to Nathan."

"I deeply regret striking Mr. Tanner, I assure you I…."

"Not a problem. Come on, give me a hand." Chris peered worriedly at the gambler. He didn't like the dead tone, and dullness of the man's normally animated visage. He could see the melancholy that had entangled the man since his mother's death wrapping its vines around Ezra's spirit, fighting to regain the chokehold that had only been recently severed.

All through the month after his mother's death, Ezra was withdrawn and distant. He chose to ride solitary patrols, usually in the dead of night, returning with the dawn to sleep most of the day away. He eschewed their companionship; all his waking hours were spent at the tables. Winning mostly, but without any apparent pleasure. He reminded the gunslinger of a boy forced to spend his time at some hated chore. The dry wit that enlivened their conversations was conspicuously absent.

The late fall snow vanished and the early December weather was downright warm. The changeable weather was typical of this unsettled time of year. With the warming weather, the Southerner seemed to regain his balance. Chris knew now that the man's change in demeanor was a true as the pseudo spring that was upon them. Winter lay just behind the masquerade.

As Ezra woodenly moved to do his bidding, Chris amended, a long, bitter winter.

*******

Nathan pushed the bucket aside. The sour, rancid smell of vomit lingered in the air. His stomach twisted with the awful desires that shattered his composure. He wanted to kill a man. No, not just a man, he wanted to kill a man who he rode with, one of the seven. Nathan stared at his hands as the horrendous mass of despondency bore down like the weight of every shackle ever forged.

Closing his eyes, he could still hear that suave Southern voice catapulting him into a past he wished to discard like a worthless card from one of the sharp's winning hands. The words fell into memory like knives from his hands, "no position… your betters…show deference before one's superiors… acquire… civilization before presuming…boy…nigger."

"Nathan, you here?" Chris pushed open the door, leaving the gambler to guide the woozy tracker in behind him. The gunslinger scowled at the smell of someone's regurgitated dinner. He ignored it; the clinic often bore that distinctive odor. Judging from the puddle Vin left at in the middle of the street, it was likely to get worse before it got better.

Years of harsh discipline brought the healer to his feet, instinctively reaching for the weaving man. "What happened?"

Squinting at the healer, Vin mumbled, "Ran into Ez…."

He got no further. Ezra felt the convulsive movement of the tracker, warning, "Nathan, move." The Southerner reached up and pushed the healer out of the way of the spewing sharpshooter.

At the imperious words and abrupt push, Nathan literally saw red as the haze of rage drove him over the brink of lucid thought. Looking up through a veil of crimson frenzy the healer saw the object of his wrath right before his eyes.

Work-worn strong hands folded into hammers of destruction. Nathan nailed a right uppercut into the gambler's stomach, driving the diaphragm up into the thoracic cavity.

Fists flailing the unsuspecting Southerner, Nathan screamed his fury. "You murdering bastard."

The forceful expulsion of air bent the body in half. A stiff left jab stuck the exposed right eye and cracked the cheekbone. Teeth ripped into the tender flesh of the lower lip.

"We don't want your kind around here."

The explosive right hook flung the slender Southerner through the open door and onto the landing.

"How's this for position? Who's better now? Huh, boy?"

Unprepared for the sudden attack and hampered by the vomiting tracker, the gunslinger made it to the landing just in time to see Nathan grab the barely conscious gamester by the neck and toss him backwards down the stairs. Dread filled the lean man's gut as he watched Ezra plunge haphazardly down the steps. Racing down the stairway behind the ex-slave, Larabee spun the man around just as he reached for the disoriented gambler.

Thrusting himself between the two, Chris shouted, "Nathan! For God's sake stop, you're going to kill him. Get away from him."

Ezra painfully pulled himself up to his knees, trying to make some sense out of anything. All he heard were the echoes of the words 'murdering bastard…don't need your kind…get away'. He ran, stumbling through the darkening streets in terror. Hands grabbed for him and Ezra tore away, breath catching in his throat.

Hearing the commotion, JD and Buck burst out of the jail to see the dazed Southerner run past, eyes wild and his face bruised and bloody. As they reached for him, he pulled away, panting with fright. Josiah and Joseph came out of the church just in time to see the two lawmen chase the fleeing man into the small, fenced graveyard.

*******

Stop! Larabee's shout was like a slap in the face. Nathan gasped, the awful knowledge of what he did to Ezra dropping him to his knees.

"What in the hell is the matter with you?" the gunslinger's voice was harsh with anger. He clenched and unclenched his fists, wanting no less then to slam the ex-slave.

"Chris?" Vin asked tentatively.

Looking up to see the tracker hunched at the foot of the stairs stirred the shootist to action.

"Nathan!" Chris demanded.

The healer met the gunslinger's eyes, remorse shining like a nimbus around his shadowed features. Modulating his tone at the sight of tears streaking the gentle healer's face, he asked, "Can you tend to Vin?"

Nathan nodded numbly, mumbling, "Ezra?"

"Don't know, ran off. Going after him. Stay with Vin."

"Sorry," the healer's voice caught. "I…I'm so sorry."

"Alright, Nathan, we'll straighten this out later. Go help Vin."

Chris watched as Nathan climbed slowly to his feet, went to the wobbly tracker and guided him back into the clinic.

A gunshot sounded. "Shit," Chris exclaimed, drawing his gun as he ran down the street after the gambler.

Joseph knelt a few feet away from the distraught man. The wavering Remington keeping him at bay. Ezra was wedged firmly between two grave markers.

"Ezra, it's Joseph, give me the gun."

Hands around his neck choked the life from him. He heard the desperate weakening shrieks of his mother's screams. Lights blinked around the edges of his vision. Help me, Daddy. Please. Mama. Little fingers clawed at the meaty digits, frantic to get free of the strangling pressure. Suddenly he was falling to land with a dull thud on the hard-packed dirt. Rough hands shook him and those strange lights swirled making him dizzy and nauseous.

Hot, venomous spit hit his cheek as the gorgon cackled in his face, "See that rope, you little shit, you hit that rope and we'll let your pretty little whore mama and that asshole of a nigger-lover go. If you miss they're gonna die. You got that boy?"

Wide, terrified eyes stared in scant comprehension.

"Murdering bastard. You answer me. Ain't no use calling for help. We don't want your kind around here. Nobody gonna help you, not ever. Worthless piece of shit. You better shoot that rope. Your Daddy dies boy and it's gonna all be your fault. You hear me?"

The huge old gun was propped in his hands, he blinked rapidly trying to clear his vision. He could do it. Daddy was a crack shot and had taught his little fellow to handle a gun. He could hear the calm words in his memory, "Take a deep breath son, let it out part-way and squeeze the trigger like testing a pear for ripeness, still and quiet son."

He saw his beloved Daddy dangling on the end of the rope. He heard the wheezing and gasping of suffocation. He picked his spot, near where the rope met the tree branch. He fired.

The sudden weight on the end of the barrel pitched him forward to sprawl under his dying father, blood from the gapping chest wound dripping on his upturned face.

"Daddy!" the agonized wail reverberated with the cry of the fatherless.

Hearts writhed at the hopelessness of that one voice.

The gun turned.

"Ezra, no!"

The short black barrel swung toward the unprotected temple.

Lean ligaments pulled the bones firmly against the rounded metal, the hammer falling to trigger a spark that blew the .45 caliber lead on a ruthless track down the narrow tunnel. Ejected with a minute explosion, the slug spiraled towards it's objective, perfectly and with unerring aim.

A small geyser of scarlet splattered over the grave markers and Ezra slumped to the side in an unmoving heap.

"Dear God in Heaven!"

No one could move. The sound from the shot faded away.

Chris holstered his Colt and ran with heart pounding to the fallen gamesman. Joseph beat him, just, bending down with a tearful face to gather his friend into aged arms. JD grabbed the bloody Remington, while Josiah reached for the bleeding hand.

"Damn, that was close Chris. Never ever seen you shoot better." Buck stammered in amazement, unable to believe that Chris Larabee had shot the gun right out of the gambler's hand.

The gunslinger gritted his teeth, breathing hard, trying to calm his shattered nerves. It was close, damn close. Ezra was, there was no doubt in his mind, about to blow himself to kingdom come. What an awful mess. Pulling the gloves from his hands, Chris slipped his shaking hands over the damp auburn hair and bruised face, coming to rest on the neck. The rapid, weak pulse made his head swim with relief.

"Mr. Larabee?" Joseph questioned, his voice tense with anger and fright. "Why did this happen?"

"Hell, if I know," the gunslinger confessed, fear freezing his face into a fierce grimace, eyes almost black in the dim light.

"Who beat him up?" JD wondered, staring at the card sharp in disbelief.

"Nathan."

Shocked silence struck the regulators. An unreal situation took a more bizarre turn.

"Who is this, Nathan?" Joseph didn't remember the name.

"Nathan Jackson. He's one of us, a healer." Josiah supplied, "Are you sure?" he turned to Chris, unable to reconcile the bleeding gambler with the gentle man that was his friend.

"You think I'd joke about something like this!" Chris's anger was palpable. "I swear he was trying to kill Ez. Lit into him for no reason, no reason at all. Belted him and tossed him down the stairs. The stuff he said."

"Vin's at the clinic with him. JD, make sure he's okay, then bring him over to Ezra's after you toss Nathan's sorry ass in the jail. Josiah, you talk to the son-of-a-bitch and see if you can figure out what's wrong with him. Keep an eye on him until we get this mess sorted out."

"Chris?"

"You heard me JD, damn it. Let's go." Buck swung the limp gambler into his arms as he and Joseph followed the enraged gunslinger down the street.

The young sheriff stood immobile, staring after the shootist. "Ezra was gonna shoot himself, Josiah."

The preacher nodded sadly. "I know, son. I know."

********

"What happened Nathan?"

The healer sat back against the wall in the jail cell and softly confessed his unspeakable rage to his old friend.

"How could I do such a thing? Why did I let him get to me?"

Josiah's heart clenched. He had almost forgotten the earlier conversation between Joseph and Ezra. It was a horrible, tragic misunderstanding, the whole thing.

*******

The two lawmen stripped off the unresponsive Southerner's coat, vest, and shirt wincing at the violent marks marring his torso. Impassive to their ministrations, Ezra sat limply, eyes focused in some other time and place. Buck gently washed the tattered face while Joseph soaked the wounded hand, cleaning the deep furrow caused by the careening bullet.

"Son, that was a one in a million shot. You took a mighty big risk."

Chris sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed, taking the gambler's hand in his own. "Riskier if I hadn't."

"You got that right. I can't imagine what ever possessed him to…" Joseph trailed off, nodding his thanks to Buck as he accepted the bandages purloined from Inez.

"Nathan said some pretty low things."

"I think you need to tell me."

"What about?" Chris asked, nodding his head at the gambler.

"Reckon he's heard it all already."

Chris told him, sparing nothing.

*******

Nathan looked at Josiah in disbelief. "His friend? No, there must be some mistake." The handsome healer rubbed his hands roughly over his head.

"That's not all , brother, sit down, I'm afraid there's more. You aren't going to like this much."

Nathan didn't. Nor did he like himself very much. What had been a lapse of control was really a horrible lapse in judgment.

Josiah hated to tell him the rest. He knew Nathan's tender conscience was about to flay him alive.

"After Ezra ran off from the clinic, Buck and JD cornered him in the graveyard. He…" the old preacher sighed, dragging a weary hand over tired eyes.

Nobody spoke for a long time.

Soft brown eyes roved over his friend's craggy face, swallowing hard he asked, "He what, Josiah? You best tell me."

"He drew on us, there in the graveyard. Couldn't make heads or tails out of what he was saying, but he was really upset. Joseph tried to get him to give up the gun, but he didn't pay us any mind. I honestly don't believe our brother was here. I think he was back at that awful time when his father was killed. Suddenly, he yells out Daddy and turns that gun right against his temple."

"Dear God," Nathan sobbed. "Did he…? Is he? Oh dear God."

"No, no! Chris shot the gun right out of his hand."

The tear soaked face came up sharply. "Chris shot the gun out of his hand?"

"It was a fine a piece of marksmanship as I have ever seen. I don't believe Vin or Buck could have made any cleaner of a shot."

*******

Vin stared at JD in dismay as they walked from the clinic over to Ezra's. "This ain't right, JD. This just ain't right at all. I got to see him."

The two men hurried to Ezra's room.

"Pard, you in there?" Buck knelt down in front of Ezra, trying to get some response. Nothing, not a blink. The ladies' man was not deterred. Larabee had been just like this, though it was doubtful he remembered those dark, deadly days after the death of Sarah and Adam.

Wrapping the cold fingers around a mug of hot tea, Buck simply demanded, "Drink this, Ezra. It'll warm you up." Buck guided the cup up to the blue lips and hoped the habit of reflex to kick in.

Unfortunately, it didn't and the warm tea dribbled down his chest. Ezra just wasn't aware of anything. He was still trapped in another time and place.

The room was hot and humid. The sweat mixed with the fresh gore staining his shirt and clung to him like a gruesome shroud. Pressed tightly into a dark corner he watched with huge frightened eyes as people circled his father's bed. From the doorway he heard the feeble cries of his mother and the harsh weeping of women.

The horrid rusty smell of blood permeated the air mixing with the underlying scent of camellias rising up in the warm air. It formed a bizarre myrrh of death. Ezra knew his father was dying. He thought his mother was dying too. He had seen the bloody basins and rags carried from her room, heard the horrified whispers of the women and saw the strange pitying looks they gave him.

Dr. Harper stood back from the bed and shook his head. "I am so sorry, Peyton, my dear old friend, there is nothing else I can do. It won't be much longer. "

"My son," the faint whisper carried in the still room.

"Come here, lad," the doctor beckoned him.

Like a broken marionette, he went to the bedside. His Daddy's handsome face was contorted with agony and the eyes were glassy and strange. Ezra was terrified. Then his father's hand reached out and for just a moment all was right in his world again. His Daddy was strong and kind and good. Surely, nothing bad could stand against that.

Peyton Standish drank in his last communion with his son. He did not fear death and was comforted that his death, like his life was not in vain. But, oh how he ached for his boy. Ezra was the apple of his father's eye. From the day he held the red-faced squalling infant in his arms, he was smitten. His son was a delightful child: bright, lively, compassionate, affectionate and intrinsically tenderhearted. Oh to be sure, a more willful, stubborn creature was probably not born, and with an innate gift of gab and his penchant for mischief, there was never a dull moment in the parsonage.

Peyton carefully cultivated respect, kindness and gentleness and worked steadily on pruning out selfishness, foolish pride and dishonesty. Who would tend his little whip now? He adored Maude, she was the one love of his life. As much as he loved her, Peyton knew she was singularly ill equipped to raise Ezra alone. What possible words could convey a lifetime to his child? What could he impart that would insure that his little tree grew straight and strong?

In the end, there was no language for this, so the dying man simply clasped his little son around the neck and kissed him. "I love you Ezra P., always and forever."

Ezra pressed closer to Peyton wanting in some primitive way to absorb his father's very being into his soul. But neither goodness nor kindness, strength nor love stopped mankind's oldest and most victorious enemy. Once more death won and life was forfeit.

With a fearsome gasp and bone-chilling rattle, Peyton Standish died.

Just then a very disheveled Maude stumbled into the room. Her hair swirled wildly, her eyes were wide and terrified and bruises covered her pretty face. She began to cry in disbelief and grief realizing that her lover was dead.

Sunny yellow beams of the rising sun danced around the room and the cheerful chatter of birdsong heralded another day. The dawn was ignorant and uncaring of the human misery playing out before it.

He stared with stony shocked eyes at the gapping mouth and vacant eyes of his father's face, once so kind and pleasant now twisted with the grimace of death. His mother stood screaming in the center of the room, a scarlet splotch staining the pure white cotton of her nightgown.

Over and over she screamed, "You killed him, why didn't you wait? Oh, Peyton."

Frozen in abject fear as his mother collapsed into a senseless heap in a pool of her own blood, Ezra struggled to catch his breath, trembling uncontrollably.

JD just lifted his hand to knock when they heard an anguished cry from the room. Bursting into the room, they came upon the unnerving sight of Ezra pressed into the small space between his dresser and the wall. Arms clasped around his knees, he rocked back and forth softly whimpering.

Rough and ready regulators were frightened by the fierce torment of Ezra's emotion. It was as if some awful monster was tearing apart one of their own right before their eyes and they were powerless to stop it.

Vin breathed a low, "Ah, hell." His confused eyes sought answers from the other men in the room, but no one had any to give.

Minutes passed, each one longer than the one before.

"Somebody do something." JD begged, unable to bear seeing the suave Southerner reduced to mindless quivering.

"Joseph?" Chris dragged his eyes away from the gambler to the old man who slumped against the headboard, his aged face gray with worry.

"I ain't never seen him like this, well not since he was a little bitty boy. " Joseph shook his head, voice quaking. "He's just like he was when his Daddy died. It was bad, really bad. I thought we were gonna lose 'em all. Maude, she was hurt real bad, all tore up, half-crazy and almost bled to death from what them bastards did to her. And Ezra. Oh, Lord. He was frantic, wouldn't let go of his father. Clung to that dead man's hand for hours. The doctor was busy working all day on Maude, they were able to save her but she lost the baby."

"She was pregnant?" JD broke in with a shocked whisper.

Joseph nodded sadly, rubbing his aching chest. "Baby girl, born dead. Buried her in her father's arms. Anyway, with the doctor, their housekeeper and some neighbor ladies helping out with Maude, there was just me and old Robert, the houseman. We didn't know what to do."

Chris rubbed his eyes. He felt tired and worn out. What a dreadful, horrible thing to live through, to see and experience. It made him sick just hearing it. Vin knelt down by Ezra and spoke to him softly.

Joseph picked up his mournful tale once more. "Finally, they got that poor woman taken care of and they came to take care of the Reverend. Ezra kicked and held on for all he was worth. Child was beside himself. It was just too much for the little guy. He was only six years old. " The sad old man looked at them, begging for understanding. Ezra would hate this. He was such a private person.

"We had to hold him down while the doctor poured laudanum down his throat. He was out for almost two days. Being summer and all, we had to go ahead with the funeral. When Ezra woke up, he looked everywhere for his father. Maude tried to help him, but she was still so sick and weak. He ran off, nobody could find him anywhere. Late that night we came across him, trying to dig up his Daddy's grave with his bare hands. Doc drugged him up again. That time he almost died, think that maybe some part of him did. Maude once told me those devils killed four people that day."

Sounds from the saloon drifted up through the floorboards. Vin leaned his aching head back against the dresser, closing his eyes to shut out the sight of the agonized gambler. The only problem was he could clearly envision Ezra on his knees beside a freshly dug grave hands clenching the moist soil. Hell, he didn't even have to imagine it, he'd seen it.

"You okay, Joseph?" Buck asked.

"Have to admit it's all been a bit much," The old man continued to rub his chest and arm.

Chris brought his head up sharply. That's all they needed, he thought, remembering what Joseph said about his heart condition.

JD felt so helpless. It took a moment for him to realize that Buck was calling his name. "Buck?"

Buck laid his hand on the young man's shoulder, "How about me and you take Joseph over to the hotel and get him settled in?" He turned to Chris. "Maybe we ought to get Nathan to check him out?"

"Nathan stays right where he is."

"But Chris don't you think he ought to see to Ezra?" They could hear the Southerner's teeth chattering as he sat shivering in the corner.

"No!" The lean gunslinger was adamant. "He's done enough. Shit, Buck he tried to kill him. Don't you think Ezra's had enough help from Nathan?"

Buck hung his head. "We don't know the whole story, Chris. That ain't like Nathan. Something else must be going on."

"What Buck? What could justify him grabbing Ezra around the neck and tossing him down the steps as if he were a piece of trash? What could explain him beating on Ez like that without any warning? I know what I saw, Buck. I know what he said. "

The gentle hearted ladies man conceded defeat for now. He worried his mustache, terribly concerned about the gambler. Maybe he could figure something out if he talked to Nathan and Josiah. One thing was certain, Larabee had his teeth bared and claws unsheathed. He was in no mind to listen.

"All right, but we're gonna stop by the jail. Let Nate take a look at Joseph. Make sure he's okay."

"Fine," Chris snapped, reluctantly agreeing only for Ezra's sake. He surely did not intend to cause the beleaguered gamester more grief.

Nodding at JD, Buck and the young Sheriff eased Joseph to his feet. "You hang in there hoss."

"I'll be fine," the old man breathlessly assured them. "You boys just look after Ezra." Shaking his grizzled head in sorrow, he added, "Lord, I never should have come. I wouldn't hurt that boy for the world, not for the world. I ain't so sure Maude weren't right. Maybe he'd be better someplace else. Might be a bit of a rogue, you don't want to gamble with him and he could con the devil out of his horns but I can tell you right now, Ezra Standish never, ever beat nobody like that for no reason at all. Hell, I hardly ever even heard him say a cross word to anybody. Let alone somebody he called friend."

None of the regulators knew what to say. None of them wanted to believe that the gambler would be better off someplace else, they couldn't help but wonder if it might be true.

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