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The men on the periphery of the mob saw them first, the five vengeful horsemen bearing down on them. This threat seemed to bring them out of their bloodlust, like coming out of a trance. Even as they realized what they had done, they recognized vengeance bearing down on them. They were too confused, some too appalled by what they had done, to move. The others scattered like cockroaches in the light.
The marshal who was being held by the crowd spun around trying to determine what was happening.
But Halpin's men knew the farce was over. And they ran toward the bank to help gather the loot and escape.
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Ezra saw the rope go taut and turned on the man beside him, released his derringer and pulled the trigger. Swenson's eyes went wide and white as the tiny bullet did its job.
Without waiting to see if the man was dead, Ezra was already putting his full weight behind slamming his wounded arm and shoulder into the plate glass window, shattering it and, covering his face with his good arm, diving into the street. "They're robbing the bank!" He shouted.
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It says a lot about a man, how he reacts to tragedy. JD and Nathan rode straight to Buck. Nathan went to their unmoving friend and with infinite tenderness rolled his face out of the mud, his first thought being to remove the offensive rope from his neck.
JD leapt from his horse and, both guns raised, stood between his friend and the crowd. JD would shoot if given the chance. Unlike Coltrain, JD had no qualms about shooting innocent townsmen. They weren't innocent in his eyes. His eyes showed a rage beyond his years and those men who hadn't quickly melted away from the event, avoided eye contact and circled at a prudent distance.
Vin stopped his horse beside these two. The threat from the rabble was gone. The moment of mob violence had passed. And the reader of men sensed that JD, if he hadn't unloaded on them by now, would not do so unless provoked.
Tanner looked down the street.
Chris and Josiah were like wild dingos. They saw the men who chose to run, they saw prey, and gave chase. Their retribution would be swift.
The faster of the two outlaws who were being pursued by the gunfighter and the preacher skidded around the corner into an alley behind the bank. The second one, hoping to discourage the chase turned to take a shot at the horsemen bearing down on him. A bullet from Larabee's gun hit the man's thigh before he could pull the trigger. He went down grabbing his leg with both hands, trying to staunch the flow of blood.
Vin was looking for Standish who he knew should be in the area. He saw Larabee and Sanchez's horses pull up in surprise as a familiar wine colored jacket burst through the splintering glass and rolled on the street in front of them. It was so close that flecks of mud, kicked up by the hooves, speckled the gambler's fine woolen coat.
Three gunmen ran out of the bank's door, saddlebags over their shoulders. One had a rifle, the other two .44's. They all had their weapons aimed at Standish. One of the men with a hand gun was able to get a shot off. It went wild. Larabee and Sanchez cut him down.
Sanchez shot the second man three times before that first one, wounded, fell into the water trough.
One of Larabee's bullets slammed into the rifleman. Its force threw his chest back, but his feet kept moving. The message from the brain that the body was dead took a few minutes to reach the feet. Then they slid to a stop pushing up tiny pyramids of muck at the worn down heels.
Without acknowledging the two rescuers, Standish staggered and swayed back to the dead men, snatched up one of the .44's on the run and headed back through the bank doors.
"Preacher!" Larabee called, and with a nod toward the surviving gunhands, he left the bigger man to take care of the dead and wounded and the crowd gathering in the street. The dark gunfighter took off to back up the gambler.
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Larabee's eyes didn't need to adjust. The bank's lighting wasn't that much off from the dusky evening outside. His instincts clicked in. A dead man was spread eagle on the floor, a small bullet hole between his eyes. Ezra's work. The thought registered in Larabee's mind as he looked around. Most of the broken glass was outside but a few shards twinkled beside the corpse. Sensing no threat, the regulator was already through the low swinging door that separated the front of the bank from the back.
The teller, his visor askew on his brow, lay dead, slumped against the counter. Paper money was strewn about. Obviously it had been dropped in someone's hasty attempt to take what they could on the run. The back door was ajar.
Chris Larabee slammed through the oaken door into the alley. It was empty.
Then the gunshots rang out from the next street over.
Larabee ran to where the alley met a back street in a "T" intersection just in time to see three men making a break on horseback. The man in the lead he recognized as one of Coltrain's deputies. The corrupt lawman still had his own saddlebags over a shoulder, having decided not to take time to secure them to the saddle. Some of the stolen money was escaping on the wind and danced behind the horses.
Larabee, head down, as if a decision was being made, took two unhurried steps into the middle of the street. Then, with his body at an angle to the oncoming horses, he raised his right arm, the gun had been an extension of that move for many years. Ignoring the bullets directed his way by the oncoming horsemen, the gunfighter methodically gunned down one after the other. The riderless horses continued past the man in black as he casually walked up and studied his handiwork. He would by damn keep the devil busy and give Buck time to slip through those pearly gates.
Then he realized Ezra was still missing. Long strides carried him in the direction from which the shots had originally come.
It wasn't long before he came to a dead end.
Ezra heard the noise behind him, looked up quickly and identified the leader of the regulators.
At the same time, the sound of a hammer falling on an empty chamber echoed from the back wall. Once. Twice.
"Gambler!" Halpin sang out, "I'm out. I give up." The gun sailed across the crates the deputy had been using for cover. "I'm unarmed. Comin' out." Slowly, hands raised, the smiling lawman sauntered from behind his protection. qqq qqq Moving his gun in a downward motion, Ezra quickly directed Larabee to stay back, stay hidden. The cold, determined look so out of place in those green eyes, had Larabee complying.
Standish cautiously moved forward. His wounded arm had him listing heavily to one side. He staggered, slipped in the mud, but seemed to somehow force one foot after the other. Then it happened. His knees gave out. He fell. The gun jarred out of his hand, skittered and slid across the muddy narrow road and came to a stop just inches from Halpin's boots.
Halpin dove for the handgun, grabbed it, rolled, and came up aiming at Standish. The deputy had only the time to recognize the fact that there was now a small derringer in the man's hand before he heard the explosion.
Standish watched the man through the slight smoke wafting from his derringer. He saw the moment the mean eyes recognized they were dying, that they'd been outmaneuvered and beat and then the light left them forever. The body slumped to the ground.
Ezra was finding that he was in fact surprisingly weak and having trouble getting to his feet when a strong hand grabbed his upper arm and pulled him up.
"What kind of damn fool stunt was that?" Larabee demanded even as he reached the black sheep of what had been evolving into his dysfunctional family unit. The taller man pulled off the bloody jacket, handed it to the gambler who took it weakly and haphazardly in his good arm. Larabee pulled back the once white shirt and as gently as possible probed the entry wound for the bullet.
"I was aghast to find that some of Mr. Dunne's simplistic dime novel codes were influencing me. I couldn't kill the man in cold blood." Then the cloudy green eyes turned to the ones that had been murky with self-hate and anger for much longer, "But that man needed to be dead. He had to die." He didn't say it was because Halpin had heard the words Tanner, bounty and $500 in the same sentence and that made him a threat. He didn't say this was the man who masterminded Buck Wilmington's hanging. He didn't need to. Whatever Larabee was seeing in those eyes was enough.
Despite his best effort, Standish's legs finally gave way and he began to slump to the ground. Strong arms caught him and guided him toward the main street, "Nathan's here. He'll take care of you," The surprisingly gentle voice promised.
Larabee took the burgundy jacket from his friend. He noticed a worn piece of paper fall from a pocket. He stuck it in his own deep pocket as they made their way back to the main street.
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Night had settled uncomfortably over Mineral Wells. Larabee supported Ezra as they made their way back to the main street. The sky had cleared and the moon's light was sufficient to see by. The occasional street fires added texture to its silver quality. A part of Larabee's mind noticed that the bodies of the would-be bank robbers had been removed from the mud.
Ezra seemed to be holding his own. His body trembled slightly. Larabee convinced himself it was a natural reaction to the letdown following danger, action. Shock.
Spotting Josiah and Vin they headed that way. When they were close enough to see that their two fellow regulator's heads were bent over the long hank of rope still knotted at one end in a noose, the gambler's step faltered. He swallowed twice, hard, battling and finally mastering his rebelling stomach. Larabee wrapped his arm more tightly around the injured man and forced them both to take the next steps toward the inevitable.
'Where's Nathan?' Chris thought to himself, 'Ezra needs help … at least doctorin' can help him. It's too late for Buck … Shut up! Don't go there! Larabee demanded of his own thought process. 'Keep walking… hold onto Ezra. There's Vin and Josiah. What's Josiah holding? The rope …STOP!' He mentally pushed any thoughts of his dead friend from his mind.
Since completely losing it immediately after the death of his wife and son, Larabee had become proficient in ordering his mind away from thoughts he wasn't ready or willing to dwell on. An emphatic, internal denial to himself could stop a painful line of thought and crowd it out with rote orders. And it worked, right? For, oh, all of two minutes before free association dragged him back to the inevitable. Then he started the cycle again. Larabee was well self-disciplined in not letting regrets and haunting thoughts overcome him until he was alone. But then, sometimes, he was lucky and something of substance could distract him, he frowned, like now, 'Who the hell's that fat piece of grizzle standin' next to my men?'
Larabee picked up the pace to reach the other two. The long hair and graying head raised at their approach and matching blue eyes greeted them.
"Ezra?" Josiah's low concerned voice whispered.
"He took a bullet." Larabee explained, "Where's Nathan?"
"He's at the bathhouse. Helping Buck get cleaned up."
A tremble worked its way down Larabee at the words. It was so subtle that no one saw it. But Standish felt it.
It was the paunchy, old man with thinning, wispy, white hair and Ben Franklin glasses who spoke next, "I'm Dr. Wilkins. I'll see to …"
Somehow Larabee kept supporting their gambler and at the same time became a buffer between him and the stranger, "You got blood on your hands," The gunfighter hissed, referring to the fact that the doctor's face was one of the ones he had memorized on the fringes of the mob. He wouldn't touch the southerner.
"Chris," Josiah began, "He's a doctor. Ezra needs …"
"On the contrary," Ezra spoke up weak but determined, "I concur with Mr. Larabee. I will wait for Mr. Jackson's ministrations," The cold emotional finality of the statement had the doctor taking a step back and pushing the metal rimmed glasses higher on his nose.
"Mr. Standish," a stove pipe of a man bustled up completely unaware of the tension surrounding the group. He carried pants and a shirt which he thrust forward at the conman, "I'm Mayor Thornson. We've arranged to supply you some clean clothes. I hope you will accept them. We sent some over for Mr. Wilmington…"
Before he could finish the sentence the reedy man found himself starring down the barrel of the revolver of the infamous gunfighter Chris Larabee.
"Clean clothes?" Larabee's emotion-filled voice was choked down to a whisper, "What good does that do Buck now?"
The mayor, who had thought offering the clothes with a Good Samaritan attitude would indeed placate these men, stood frozen in the moment. He was afraid to breathe lest any move be enough to set off this madman. And he was insane. One only had to look in those dead green eyes to see that.
The politician's legs almost gave out and he flashed his eyes pleadingly to Larabee's companions. What he saw was that they, too, were afraid any movement would see Larabee pulling the trigger.
It was Vin who finally registered the meaning of his friend's words and slid up to his side, "Buck's not dead, Chris."
Larabee's body was like a statue, the arm fully extended and never wavering from the mayor's brow. Everything that was Chris Larabee migrated to his brain trying to understand the words he'd heard, daring himself to believe them. Finally his eyes slid toward Tanner with a silent plea, 'Tell me I heard your right.'
Josiah moved then, carefully holding the rope up for his leader's inspection, "Hell of a shot." He said softly.
Still only the eyes moved and took in the end of the rope. One half was severed cleanly as if by a knife - or a bullet. The other half of the rope, weakened, had unraveled under the weight of a man.
"Where is he?" The words were exhaled like a breath.
"Bathhouse." The ex-bounty hunter confirmed with a quiet little smile that spoke volumes. Then he gave a slight nod in the right direction.
The man who had lost so much finally lowered his gun, ever so gently handed the gambler into the preacher's care and without a word walked that way. He was quickly lost in the shadows that camouflaged his soul as well as his body.
Ezra tried to follow but Sanchez gently but forcefully sat him on the boardwalk. He was swaying. His arm was bleeding. All the ex-preacher saw was that the smaller man needed to rest. "Take a minute, Ezra, then we'll get you over to Nathan." The big man pulled back the bloodied shirt to make sure they could take this short respite; that it didn't need immediate attention. There were small cuts along Ezra's neck and face. Slivers of glass might be embedded in two of them. These didn't seem too serious.
A single glance from the ex-preacher's ice blue eyes demanded the townsmen back off and give them privacy. The mayor, doctor and a couple of others who had dared come forward quickly found someplace else to be. They still weren't sure of all that had come to pass. Two deputies lying dead in the mud beside bank robbers told a story. What changed the ending was that the bank robbers had instigated the hanging. And outlaw and lawman alike had died with saddlebags of stolen money over their shoulders. Before he disappeared into the saloon, US Marshal Ezekiel Coltrain had said little more than Wilmington was innocent and the town owed him and Standish a debt for what had almost happened.
A debt the town didn't know how to repay and one that Wilmington, Standish and their friends seemed unwilling to accept.
Standish couldn't stand on his own, couldn't catch his breath; wasn't making it clear to Sanchez and Tanner that he needed to confirm Wilmington's health as badly as Larabee did. Or so he thought. But then the former bounty hunter hunkered down to meet him at eye level, "Ezra, let's give Chris a bit with Buck if it's okay with you." Something in the gentle tone said this was important. Standish nodded slowly. Vin produced a very fine brandy, "Compliments of Mineral Wells," he smiled and offered the bottle to his friend.