Part of Mary's article was paraphrased from an original newspaper account that appeared in the *Arizona Daily Star* on 9 December, 1879.

Thanks as always to the Three Furies (Aithine, Tiriel and xangel) for support and encouragement, and to DanielMedic for allowing me to mine his vast knowledge of injuries and their effect on the human body. Any remaining inaccuracies in the text are no fault of theirs and purely my own.

Sequel to Dog in the Manger.

I.

The axe bit deeply into the stump with a loud thwack. Chris wiped the sweat from his eyes with the back of one hand then reached for a ladle of water from the nearby bucket. Splitting firewood was hard, satisfying work. His shoulders ached but it was a good pain, the kind that came from pure, honest labor.

He heard the sound of a rider approaching from the north and dropped the ladle back into the bucket to reach for the Colt Peacemaker resting on a fence post close at hand; in his experience, visitors usually meant trouble. Looping the gun belt over his arm like a makeshift shoulder holster, he walked around the side of the cabin only to pause in mid-step at the sight of Ezra Standish tethering his bay gelding to the front porch rail.

Giving himself a little mental shake, Chris continued walking forward. "Didn't expect to see you here," he said.

Standish shrugged. "I thought it time we talked."

The gambler's movements were shaky, his voice clipped and oddly hoarse. Chris narrowed his eyes. Something was wrong, something more than just the strained silence that had existed between them since that kiss in the saloon over two weeks ago. "Ezra. Look at me."

Ezra sighed quietly and turned around The side of his face was a bruised and bloody mess, one eye blackened and already beginning to swell. "Jesus," Chris whispered. "What the hell happened?"

"A few well-meaning townsfolk decided to impress upon me the error of my ways," Ezra replied mildly. "You'd be amazed how eloquent a fist can be."

Chris rubbed the side of his jaw. "Yeah." He jerked his head towards the front door. "Go inside and sit down. I'll be along in a minute."

Ezra nodded and headed for the cabin with the slow, precise movements of someone trying to coax motion from uncertain limbs. Swearing quietly, Chris walked back to the woodpile and grabbed the water bucket, dumping the sun-warmed contents into the grass before refilling it with fresh, cool water from the well.

He found Ezra sitting at the small kitchen table with his head cradled between both hands, chestnut hair matted with dirt, sweat and bits of straw. More straw and dirt covered the plush red velvet of his coat and there was a strong odor of horse manure; whoever had done the beating must have jumped Ezra in the livery.

Chris set the bucket down on the table and scrounged around until he found a clean rag, soap and a bottle of whiskey. "Here," he said, and handed Ezra the bottle. "There's clean water in the bucket if you want to wash up."

Ezra's hands trembled as he pulled the cork and took a long swallow. "Thank you."

Chris nodded. "Why didn't you go to Nathan's?"

"It was strongly suggested that it would be in my best interest to leave town. I concurred."

"Ezra--"

"A wise man knows when he is beaten, Mr. Larabee, and I am certainly that. If you have no objections, I'd like to stay here tonight, but I'll be on my way again come morning."

Chris snorted. "If you can get half a mile without fallin' off your horse, I'll eat my hat."

Ezra smiled faintly. "We'll see."

It took quite a bit of whiskey before he was able to coax Ezra into lying down on the bed in the back room. When he was sure the gambler was either sound asleep or passed out, Chris pulled on a fresh shirt, fastened his gun belt around his hips and walked outside to saddle his horse. Ezra needed more care than he could provide. That meant heading into town to fetch Nathan, and hoping Ezra would still be at the cabin when he got back.

Buck caught him on the outskirts of town. "I was just comin' to get you," Buck said, bringing his grey gelding alongside Chris's black. "There's trouble."

"No shit," Chris snapped. "Ezra's back at my place with the living hell beat out of him."

"Damn! I was afraid of that."

"What's goin' on Buck?"

Buck reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded newspaper. "This," he said, handing the paper to Chris.

Chris felt his stomach knot as soon as he saw the front page. Mary Travis, it seemed, had finally decided to weigh in on recent events.

SHOOTING IN SAFFORD

The Arizona Daily Star reports that John Ringo, also known as Jack Ringgold, was arrested for the shooting of Louis Hancock in Safford last week. It appears that Ringo wanted to buy Hancock a drink. When Hancock refused, Ringo struck him over the head with his pistol and then fired, the ball passing through the fleshy part of the neck. Hancock is expected to recover.

Ringo, meanwhile, is free on bond and apparently riding with the Clanton Gang. If the Safford incident follows the same pattern as Ringo's previous arrests, we can expect no justice for Louis Hancock. A dangerous man with a long history of past violence, Ringo has been indicted for murder on several occasions only to be acquitted of these crimes after witnesses refused to testify against him.

Until recently, Four Corners has avoided such notorious visitors as John Ringo. A message must be sent to let such men know that they and those who support them will no longer be tolerated among us. Silence will not protect our families and our children from harm. We must stand up for what we know is right. Only then can we expect to bring true law to Arizona.

Chris squashed the paper into a ball. "God DAMN it!"

Buck held up a placating hand. "Now Chris, I seriously doubt Mary was tryin' to get Ezra hurt. Out of town, sure, but not hurt. She just, she don't think things all the way through sometimes."

"That ain't an excuse, and you know it." He shook his head in disgust. "Go get Nathan, then head out to my place and stay there. Don't want anyone comin' round to finish the job."

"Don't you worry, big dog," Buck said with a grim smile. "Ain't nobody comin' through your front door unless they been invited."

Chris nodded. "Good," he said. "I'll catch up in a bit. Need to have a little talk with Mary."

The urge to ride into town like the wrath of God was powerful, but Chris kept his horse to a sedate trot and tried to bring his temper under control. If a man had written the article, there would have been no question of what to do: return the favor by beating the bastard into a little gritty paste. But this was Mary and he simply could not thrash a woman, no matter how richly provoked.

He could, however, cuss a blue streak at her; and after his years in the army, he had a mighty fine vocabulary at his disposal. The thought was a comfort to him as he spotted Mary in front of the general store, idly chatting with Mrs. Potter. She smiled when she saw him dismount, sweet and bright as though all was right and well with the world. Perhaps for her it was.

"Mr. Larabee, this is a pleasant surprise," she said.

He tossed the crumpled newspaper at her feet. "What the hell is this?"

Mary arched one elegant brow. "I see you've read my article."

"Mary--"

"It's the truth, Mr. Larabee," she said evenly. "Nothing more."

"Well, your truth got Ezra beaten to a pulp."

"I never intended--"

"Don't matter what you intended," Chris said, low and cold and dangerous. "Ezra could've been killed. That's a helluva way to repay a man who stepped in front of a bullet to save your life."

A faint blush rose to color Mary's cheeks. "No-one appreciates the sacrifices Mr. Standish has made on behalf of this town more than I do," she said, "but I can't help feeling that a man of such... questionable tastes is better suited living somewhere else."

"Well, you got your wish. Soon as he's well enough to ride, he's gone." Chris turned and began walking back to his horse. "And so am I."

Chris stopped to gather his belongings from the boarding house. He was a man of few possessions and there was nothing here he couldn't truly live without, but he needed a little time to think before facing Ezra once again.

There was no denying he had badly mishandled the situation with Ringo, and Ezra was paying the price for it. He had cost the gambler his lover and now his home and there was very little Chris could do to make up for it. That Ezra still trusted him enough to come to the cabin for help was a minor miracle; had their situations been reversed, Chris would have simply ridden on until he either reached the next town or passed out on the side of the road.

Vin found him sitting on the edge of the hard, narrow bed, kit still resting at his feet. "You all right, cowboy?" Vin asked softly.

"I'm an asshole," Chris replied.

Vin smiled wryly. "Reckon I knew that."

"God." Chris hung his head. "Mary's on the warpath."

"I heard," Vin said. "Heard 'bout Ezra, too. You shoulda let him go, Chris."

"Yeah," Chris agreed. "But I didn't."

"Nope." Vin sighed. "What you gonna do now?"

"Head back to the cabin. Look after Ezra till he's healed up. After that--" He shrugged. "Move on, I guess."

"Reckon I'll be headin' out, too," Vin said. "Don't much like the idea of stayin' in a town that tries t'kill my friends."

"Heard that." Chris stood and shouldered his gear. "Best get goin'."

Vin nodded. "Just let me get my horse."

The good people of Four Corners came to watch as Chris and Vin rode out. The town had been ambivalent about the seven men hired to protect their streets from the very beginning. They remained ambivalent now, standing on the dusty boardwalks in silence, some looking on with regret, others with satisfaction and approval.

There was no sign of Mary. Chris suspected that she was back in her office, drafting a letter to her father-in-law to explain how she had single-handedly undone all the judge's efforts of the past two years. He did not envy her the task, or facing Judge Travis's wrath once he learned of the incident.

They would not be leaving Four Corners defenseless. Nathan would be back once this business with Ezra was finished. He had Rain waiting for him at the Seminole village just as J.D. had Casey to think of. The others had less reason to stay. Like Chris, they were wanderers by nature, held to the town only by their promise to Judge Travis and their loyalty to each other.

Nathan and Buck were waiting patiently on the porch when they arrived at the cabin. "Ezra's gone," Buck told them. "Looks like he lit out not long after Chris left."

"Which way?" Vin asked.

Buck looked warily at Chris. "South," he said, "towards Tombstone."

Chris sighed. "Figured," he said quietly.

II.

Curly Bill Brocius was an opportunist at heart. So when Ike Clanton came riding up to report a drunken man on a fine horse weaving his way along the banks of the San Pedro river, he took the opportunity to make some easy money.

"You sure he's drunk?" he asked.

Ike nodded, watery eyes bright with greed. "Got a bottle of whiskey in one hand and reelin' in the saddle."

"Heh." Curly Bill scratched at his moustache and grinned. "Guess we better go make sure the poor fella's all right."

The mark was right where Ike said he would be, and so drunk he hadn't even noticed his horse had wandered off the trail. Curly Bill reckoned he was doing the animal a favor, liberating it from such an absentminded soul. "That's far enough!" he shouted, and fired a warning shot from his Winchester over the man's head.

The rider started and dropped the whiskey bottle to the ground. He turned to blink blearily in the direction of the rifle blast, and Curly Bill saw that the left side of his face was swollen and mottled with bruises. "Are you robbin' me, suh?" he asked in a thick Southern drawl.

"'Fraid so, son," Curly Bill replied, keeping the rifle trained on the man as Ike and his brother Billy approached to take the bay's reins.

"This has truly been an abominable day," the man said, raising his hands slowly.

"I can see that. Looks like somebody put you through a damn meat grinder. Tell you what, we'll just take the horse and leave you whatever's in your pockets."

"That's very generous of you, but I fear I must decline." There was a quiet snickt and a derringer suddenly appeared in the man's hand, muzzle pointed directly at Ike's head. "I simply detest long walks."

Curly Bill blinked. Southern accent, red coat, red horse, spring loaded derringer... He began to laugh. "You must be Ezra Standish."

The man raised an eyebrow. "My reputation precedes me. How quaint."

"What's goin' on, Curly?" Billy demanded.

Curly Bill lowered the rifle. "Ike, Billy, relax. He's a friend of Johnny's."

Ike and Billy exchanged a nervous look. "You know Johnny Ringo?" Ike asked.

"We are... acquainted," Standish replied.

"I-I'm sorry," Ike stuttered. He raised his hands and backed away from Standish's horse. "I d-didn't know you was a friend of Johnny's."

"No hard feelings," Billy added, joining his brother in retreat.

Standish looked thoroughly bewildered. He also looked ready to fall from the saddle. "You might want to put the derringer down now, son," Curly Bill said. "Your hand's shakin' somethin' fierce."

"With all due respect--" Standish began. Stopped. Blinked. Swayed slightly and then toppled sideways, landing on the ground with a resounding thud.

"Well shit," said Curly Bill.

The room was small and heartlessly plain, but it was his alone and that was all John cared about. A frayed rag rug softened the floorboards somewhat, and he'd nailed a flour sack over the window as a makeshift curtain. Enna had promised to send a quilt once he'd gotten himself settled, but John was still not sure how long he'd be staying at the Clanton Ranch. Curly Bill had assured him that Old Man Clanton could use a man with John's experience running cattle, but he'd left Texas to get away from that life. Now he was smack in the middle of it again, living with a bunch of outlaw cowboys just as devious and bloodthirsty as any he'd ridden with during the Hoodoo War.

John sat on the end of the bed and sighed, fingers tracing the gilt pressed lettering that decorated the cover of the slim volume of poetry Ezra had given him on their last night in Four Corners: Catullus, in the original Latin. It was a lovely book, printed on heavy cream paper with a quarter cloth binding and marbled end papers, and quite probably the nicest thing John owned, apart from his guns.

There was a commotion in the main room of the bunkhouse, and he heard a deep, booming laugh: Curly Bill, back from whatever mischief he'd gotten up to with Old Man Clanton's half-wit sons. The laughter grew louder and John realized Curly Bill was heading for his room. Setting the book aside, John stood with the intention of telling Brocius he just wasn't in the mood for company tonight. Before he'd gotten more than a few steps across the room the door banged open and Curly Bill barged in with an all too familiar body slung across his shoulders like a sack of feed. "Got a present for you, Johnny," Curly Bill said gleefully. "Where you want him?"

John found he couldn't speak. He simply stood and stared at Ezra, unable to comprehend what the gambler was doing here of all places and in such a bedraggled state.

"Come on, son, I ain't got all night," Curly Bill said with some impatience. "He's a lot heavier'n he looks."

"Yeah, I know." John gave himself a little shake. "Better put him on the bed."

Curly Bill grinned and thumped John smartly between the shoulders in approval. "Ike spotted him wanderin' down by the river," he said as he lowered Ezra to the mattress with surprising gentleness. "He's pretty banged up."

John knelt beside the bed, and gently brushed the sweat tangled hair off Ezra's brow. "What happened?"

"Hell if I know, he was like that when we found him."

He continued stroking Ezra's hair, more for his own comfort than anything else. Ezra stirred slightly beneath the touch and his eyes fluttered open. "John."

"I'm here."

"Don't let them take Chaucer."

John turned to stare at Curly Bill. "You tried to steal his horse?"

Curly Bill held up his hands and smiled nervously. "Now, Johnny, it was an honest mistake--"

"Mistake?" Anger drove him to his feet. "You tried to steal my partner's horse!"

"And what the hell would you have done?" Curly Bill snapped back. "Jesus, Johnny, it ain't like you never stole a horse before. You may act all superior with your fine words and fancy ways, but truth is you're nothin' more than a drunk and a thief, same as the rest of us."

John's hand slid towards his holster. "Get out," he said softly.

"I'm goin'," Curly Bill said, "and I think you'd best be goin', once you've seen to your partner."

Curly Bill stalked out, slamming the door behind him hard enough to rattle the window. John let out a deep breath and relaxed his shoulders, hand falling away from the gun on his hip. He turned back towards the bed to find Ezra watching him. "Well," Ezra said quietly. "It looks like we've both been turned out into the street today."

"Is that what happened to you?"

"More or less." Ezra shifted gingerly from his back to his side. "Lord," he gasped. "I feel like I was beaten with a shovel."

"Who did it?"

"Please don't ask me that, I'm altogether too tempted to tell you."

John smiled wryly. "All right. Can you at least tell me why?"

"Undoubtedly the same reason any mob of angry villagers drives the monster from its lair with pitchforks and torches."

"And a shovel."

"Oh, yes. Mustn't forget the shovel."

John settled on the edge of the bed, and covered Ezra's hand with his. "I'm sorry you were hurt," he said, "but I'm not sorry you're here."

Ezra's fingers laced with his and squeezed tight. "Neither am I."

John remained perched on the edge of the bed long after Ezra's breathing slowed and deepened and the fingers clutching his grew lax with sleep. When his back began to complain from the uncomfortable position, he finally slid his hand free and stood, lifting his arms into the air and stretching until his spine popped.

He packed swiftly and quietly. There wasn't much, just a single change of clothes, the copy of Catullus, a few odd toiletries and a stack of letters from Enna. Except for his rifle, hat and coat, everything else he owned was on his person.

He needed to go outside and saddle his horse. More, he needed to know that Curly Bill was not thinking of retaliation because of their argument, brief though it had been. He had known enough men like Brocius through the years not to leave a grudge where it might fester into something darker and more dangerous.

It was growing late, but the other cowboys who lived in the bunkhouse were still up and rowdy, drinking and smoking and playing cards in the common room. Ike and Billy were among them, even though they had their own set of rooms back at the main house with their father. The brothers watched him warily and John watched them back, keeping his face carefully neutral. Ike was a coward at heart, but Billy was young and hot-tempered. He was also intensely stupid, and would reach for his gun at the slightest provocation. John had no doubt it would get him killed one day, and probably others as well.

"Hey, Johnny," Billy said with forced cheer.

John nodded politely.

"We're real sorry 'bout your friend," Ike said. "I swear, we didn't--"

"Forget it," John said brusquely. "Have you seen Curly Bill?"

"On the porch," Billy said.

John nodded and headed for the front door. He hated giving the pair his back, but doubted they would try anything under the circumstances. They were just too scared of him.

He found Curly Bill sprawled in a wicker chair, smoking a pipe and staring out into the still desert night. John leaned against the porch rail, pulled out his tobacco pouch and began rolling a cigarette. "I don't want any trouble," he said.

"There's a good half dozen armed men in the room behind us," Curly Bill said. "If I wanted to give you trouble, you'd be crow food by now."

"Fair enough." John patted his pockets. "Got a match?"

Curly Bill stared at him for a moment, then began to chuckle. "Here," he said and tossed John a block of matches. "You find out what happened to your friend?"

John lit his cigarette and took a long drag. "He got chased out of Four Corners. Didn't say why."

"Four Corners, huh. Poor bastard probably ran afoul of that pack of law dogs they got up there."

"Doubt it," John said, "seeing as he's one of them."

"You mean to tell me you're fuckin' a goddamned lawman?"

"He prefers the term peacekeeper."

Curly Bill slapped his knee and fairly howled with laughter. "Peacekeeper," he wheezed. "God have mercy! You may be one high-handed son of a bitch, but I do like your style."

John smiled, and felt some of the tension knotting his stomach ease. For all their occasional squabbles, Curly Bill liked him, knew he was competent and good with a gun. The only remaining question was his ability to devote himself completely to the outfit, and the reason for that doubt currently lay half-conscious and sweating with fever in John's bed.

With one last nod to Curly Bill, he dropped the cigarette, grinding it out under the heel of his boot as he headed back inside the bunkhouse. Whenever John was ill as a boy, his mother would use water scented with lavender to cool his skin and calm his restless tossing. He had no idea if it really worked, or if it was merely nostalgia associating the smell with home and comfort. Still, it couldn't hurt, and he filled a small washbasin with a mixture of fresh water and lavender oil before returning to his room.

Ezra watched with too-bright eyes as he settled on the floor beside the bed. "Where did you go?" he asked.

"I had to talk to Curly Bill."

"Is there a problem?"

"Not anymore."

John unfastened Ezra's rumpled silk tie and undid the top two buttons of his shirt. Dipping a clean rag in the water, he wrung it out and began gently bathing the sweat and dust from Ezra's face and neck. Ezra closed his eyes and lay still beneath John's touch. "That feels lovely," he whispered.

"I need to get you undressed. Can you move at all?"

"Yes, but I'd rather not. I don't suppose you know what happened to my guns? Or my coat?"

John rewetted the towel and turned his attention to Ezra's hands. The skin was filthy and bruised but at least the bones seemed intact. "They're on the porch with the rest of your gear."

"And Chaucer?"

"In the corral, giving Piper a hard time."

Ezra opened his eyes and gave John a disbelieving stare. "Surely you have that backwards."

"Are you casting aspersions on my mare?"

"I wouldn't dream of it. She is the very flower of equine femininity."

"Damn right, and don't you forget it."

They both snickered. Still chuckling, Ezra reached out with trembling fingers and brushed ineffectually at John's bangs. "God, I've missed you," he said.

"The hours have been endless to me while you were gone," John replied. (1) "Ezra, I have to know. If you hadn't been run out of Four Corners, would you have come here at all?"

Ezra sighed. "That is truly the great irony of this whole situation. I was preparin' to leave for Tombstone when I was attacked. Had the fools waited a mere hour more, I would have been gone without the need for violence at all."

John smiled and pressed a soft kiss to Ezra's forehead.

FIN

(1) Sappho again. The whole poem goes:

Thank you, my dear

You came, and you did
well to come: I needed
you. You have made

love blaze up in
my breast--bless you!
Bless you as often

as the hours have
been endless to me
while you were gone.