It might have been a pleasant ride, Ezra thought, were it not for the company. The sun was shining, birds were singing and even a few small wild flowers were threatening to bloom along the path down which Chaucer was traveling so eagerly. On any other day, Ezra Standish might have gladly traveled the trail back to Four Corners with a good cigar between his teeth and some fine passage of poetry rolling off his tongue as he whiled away a day's long ride that by all visible signs should have been enjoyable.

            What joy he might have experienced, however, was sadly marred by the awareness of the holes being glared through his back by his sullen companion. He shook his head. He should have realized from the moment Larabee had told him who he was riding out with that this could not end well. He and Nathan rarely managed to be in each other's company for more than twenty minutes before they crossed swords about one thing or another.

            --Not that their trip had started off badly. In fact, it had been quite the opposite. They had arrived in Watsonville in a timely manner and provided Judge Travis with the assistance he had requested for a somewhat sensitive case.

            The job had not been particularly dangerous or difficult. They were merely there to lend a hand to the Sheriff and his deputy during the trial of a man accused of murder. Their duties, in Ezra's opinion, had amounted to little more than window dressing. A simple show of force was all that was required to discourage the rumblings of a lynch mob that had momentarily filtered through the town.

            All in all, it had been a small errand, and easily concluded. By the time the trial was over and judgment pronounced, both he and Nathan had been more than ready to take their leave of Watsonville. It wasn't the worst town he'd ever stayed in –not by a long shot—but he found it to be lacking in the charm and bustle to which life in Four Corners had accustomed him. Aside from a few profitable evenings spent at gaming tables where his face and skill were not known, he had found little about the place that appealed to him.

            The trip back had gone rather smoothly, and he and Nathan had actually passed much of the time in amiable conversation as they had made their way back to Eagle Bend. Whatever tranquility they had enjoyed, however, had been cut short by their visit in that town.

            Ezra sighed. Regrettable as the incident had been, it was not entirely his fault. However, if he were to speculate upon the oppressive silence that had reigned over them since their departure, he could be fairly certain that Nathan had concluded otherwise.

            Swearing under his breath, Ezra drew up on his reins and checked Chaucer's long stride, pulling him abreast of Nathan's sorrel gelding.

            "If you have something to say, Mr. Jackson, then by all means I beg you to speak your mind."

            The healer did not deign to look upon him, but fixed his eyes stubbornly upon a point somewhere between and beyond his horse's ears. "I aint' got nothin' to say to you, Ezra."

            "Well, allow me to retrieve my journal." Ezra said acidly as he reached for the small notebook kept ever-present in his breast pocket for the tabulating of odds and recording of statistics, trivia and other useful knowledge of the gambler's trade. "I must record this milestone event."

            Nathan yanked on his reins, halting his horse more sharply than he had intended. He spared the animal an apologetic pat on the neck and then turned to glare at the gambler. "You just had to go an' open your mouth back there," his tone was accusing. "Just couldn't let well enough alone, could you?"

            "In light of the circumstances, I might have thought a thank you was in order."

            "Thank you?" Nathan gaped at him in mingled outrage and disbelief. "You expect me to thank you for that scene back there? You expect me to thank you for getting us tossed out of that saloon like a couple of second rate hucksters?"

            "I've been thrown out of finer establishments –my own included," Ezra observed dryly. "But forgive me if I am under the impression that our escort out of that deplorable den of inebriation is not what has raised your ire." He shot the healer a calculating look. "What is really troubling you, Mr. Jackson?"

            Nathan glowered at him. "I don't need you to fight my battles for me, Ezra."

            The gambler eyed him warily. "It was my understanding that the verbal attack in question, though directed at both of us, was addressed to me. I found it only appropriate that I should respond."

            "Was that because you were embarrassed for me, or embarrassed by me?"

            Ezra sighed. They had finally reached the crux of the matter. Somehow, it always came down to this.

            "I don't care for anyone telling me whom I may choose to drink with, least of all those inbred buffoons. But of course, you would make more of it than that. –Tell me, Mr. Jackson, just what is it that you find so abhorrent about me? Is it my profession? –My eye for opportunity? Is it my lack of standards as you perceive them?" His voice dropped to an angry hiss, "Or is it just the fact that my clothes are well cut, my skin is white and my dialect hails from the lilied halls of Carolina?"

            Nathan's eyes darkened with barely controlled fury. "You're a fine one to talk," he spat, his fists clenching tighter on the reins, "you, with your five-dollar words and fancy clothes! You enjoy waltzin' around that saloon like the Lord of the Manor. The ink wasn't even dry on the deed before you hired on Inez to cook, clean and wait on you and everybody else hand and foot. –God forbid you should put in an honest day's work like the rest of us. You're too fine to stoop down to our level."

            Ezra was uncharacteristically at a loss for words as he absorbed the verbal blow. The vitriol of it burned in his throat, and he felt the raging fury shaking through every part of his body as his mind began at last to compose a scathing retort. Whatever he had been about to say went unspoken as he felt the distinctive whisper of a bullet brush past his cheek, followed by the whine and crack of a rifle report.

            "Take cover!" he yelled, putting spurs to Chaucer as three more shots followed in rapid succession.

            Urging their mounts to top speed, they fled from the open clearing of the trail into the rocky ground above them. Halting in the shelter of a large outcropping, Nathan scanned the skyline. "You get a look at them?"

            "No," Ezra said shortly. He holstered the pistol he did not remember drawing and extracted the Remington revolving carbine from his scabbard, "but if I were to hazard a guess, I would suspect they greatly resemble the individuals with whom we exchanged unpleasantries this afternoon.

            Nathan shook his head in disgust. "You just had to go an' open your mouth."

            Ezra spared a glance from the landscape to toss a retort in the healer's direction, but stopped as he noticed the ominous dark stain blooming on the upper sleeve of Nathan's coat. "You're hit," he stated, his voice flat and businesslike.

            "It's not bad," Nathan said dismissively, grabbing his kerchief and awkwardly binding off the wound. It only took a moment for the blood to seep through the makeshift bandage and spread quickly down the sleeve of the jacket.

            "If you say so," Ezra remained unconvinced. "You go any paler and those miscreants up there will think they've shot at the wrong men."

            He swore and fetched his own white linen handkerchief from his breast pocket, adding it to Nathan's and tying it even more tightly over the wound. A red stain was spreading through the pristine white cloth before he'd even finished tying the knot.

            Nathan shot him a concerned look. "It must have nicked an artery."

            Ezra studied him carefully. "Can you ride?"

            Nathan shrugged his good shoulder. "Don't have much choice. I haven't got anything with me to take this bullet out. If we stay here, I'll bleed to death."

            "It's two miles to Randall's station," Ezra said, gazing at the rocks above them. All was quiet. "If we make a run for it, we might make it."

            Nathan followed Ezra's gaze. "You think they're still up there?"

            "I would not wager against it." Ezra checked the revolving carbine and reached into his saddlebag for the spare cylinder he kept there. "You go first. I'll lay down some cover fire and follow."

            Nathan nodded and turned his horse, carefully picking a path out of the rocks that would provide them with the least exposure. On the edge of the trail he halted, gathered the gelding and turned to Ezra. Ezra nodded, shouldered the carbine and began laying down fire in what he estimated to be the general direction of the shooter. The sixth shot came all too soon, and he quickly extracted the empty cylinder, dropping it into his coat pocket, then slid and locked the full one in its place. A shot rang out somewhere above him, and he caught the slightest shadow of movement in the rocks. Focusing in upon it, he squeezed off two more shots and was rewarded with a cry and a soft expletive. He grinned. That had gotten their attention. He worked Chaucer down towards the trail and fired off another shot. He hesitated, took two more and then putting spurs to the gelding, he made a run for it.

            The shots that followed were wild and wide of the mark, but it added to the adrenaline rush of both horse and rider, closing the distance between themselves and Nathan within half a mile. Nathan was riding awkwardly, he saw. The reins were clenched in his left hand as he clutched his right arm tightly to himself in an effort to stabilize it. He was clinging to consciousness though, and Ezra prayed it would stay with him long enough for them to make it to shelter. He seriously doubted their odds of survival if he had to tow an unconscious man at a dead run for any great distance.

            The welcome sight of Randall's station broke upon them suddenly as they rounded the bottom of the hill and burst forth into the yard. Smoke was curling from the chimney, and a shotgun barrel peered through a slot in the door as they halted their blowing horses.

            "Stage has gone," a rusty voice said tersely. "What's your business here?"

            "I've got a wounded man," Ezra said, showing his empty hands. "We were ambushed on the trail a couple of miles back."

            A wrinkled, deeply tanned face peered warily behind the muzzle of the gun. "Who are you?"

            "Ezra Standish and Nathan Jackson from Four Corners," Ezra replied, carefully dismounting the horse. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure of making your acquaintance."

            "Nope," the old man said, "but I've heard of you. You ride with Larabee."

            "Yes sir," Nathan managed, his face having gone several shades paler in the course of the ride.

            The door was unbolted. "Light an' set," the old man said. "We'll take a look at that arm."

            "Whose tail did you boys twist?" the stationmaster, whose name was Jones, queried as he finished bandaging Nathan's arm with strips of linen torn from a spare shirt.

            Ezra stood beside the doorway looking warily out upon the horizon. "A few individuals in Eagle Bend took issue with our company," he drawled, taking a sip of the wretched coffee the man had offered. "Apparently they decided to pursue the matter."

            Jones raised one bushy eyebrow, clearly crediting the gambler's ability for understatement. Ezra acknowledged it with a shrug. "People are entirely too sensitive these days."

            Nathan grunted. "All this is enough to make me wish we'd taken another way home. We probably should have gone through Dawson's Pass."

            Jones rose from his seat by the fire. "Well, quarrels or not, you were right in coming this way. Now's not the best time to be traveling through the Pass."

            "Oh? Why is that?" Ezra inquired, more out of a habit for polite conversation than any real interest.

            "'Pache's," the old man said. "They been hittin' travelers through the pass for the last couple weeks. Town folk sent for the army, but I doubt they'll be able to find them. Dawson's Pass is the winter hunting grounds. The Apaches got they-selves a little village tucked away up there in the rocks. There's good water and game if you know where to find it, and they do. Any fool of a white man goes stirring around up there and they'll know it. Odds are pretty good they'll be wearin' his scalp before he even gets wind of 'em."

            Jones tossed another log upon the fire. "I got word this afternoon that the Stage line is canceling all trips through the pass 'til further notice. They're gonna run all the stages down this route starting next week."

            The old man sighed and shook his head, "Three trips a week through here, they better send me more horses and help."

            The sun was starting to drop down behind the hills now, casting long shadows from the trees and rocks. Jones measured the remaining light with a calculating eye and then moved to light a lantern. "I reckon you boys might as well spend the night," he said. "There's no sense in riding out 'til you can see where you're going."

            Ezra nodded and tossed the dregs of his coffee out into the dusty yard. He set the battered tin cup on the bench by the door. "I'll see to the horses," he said, and left.

            The dim quiet of the barn had a soothing quality between the sounds of the swallows cooing softly in the rafters, and the horses stomping and chewing contentedly at their fodder. Still, he could not shake the tension that strung itself tightly between his shoulder blades and pulled at the back of his neck. They were out there. He could feel it. They were coming.

            He wasn't sure how he knew it. It was just a sixth sense, a survival instinct that had guided him through a hundred towns and a hundred cons, telling him when it was time to pull stakes and leave. He would have left already, but for Nathan. The healer had lost too much blood on the ride in. It had been a damned miracle he was still sitting upright in his saddle by the time they'd arrived here, and Ezra knew that he was in no shape to continue on tonight.

            The only option, he thought as he forked more hay into the mangers, was to stay and fight. That, and hope Larabee decided to send somebody out looking for them when he and Nathan didn't show in town tonight. He considered the opposition. There had only been four of them there in the saloon. Normally, it would not amount to for him to trouble himself over, fortified as they were in the station with three shooters. But there had been something in the ringleader's eyes as he had spoken. It was an arrogance –no, a confidence—Ezra decided, that made him suspect that if they came this night, they would bring more than four riders with them. He didn't like the feeling that was coiling in the pit of his stomach. Whatever the night might bring, he had a strong suspicion that he wasn't going to like it.

            Setting aside the pitchfork, he brushed the last bits of hay from his shirt and pants, then put on his frock coat and strode back to the cabin. Jones was busy ladling a particularly unappetizing looking stew onto plates of blackened biscuits. Ezra grabbed the coffee pot from the fire and filled the cups before taking a seat at the table across from Nathan. The healer was staring at the food before him with almost as much enthusiasm as Ezra felt himself. He was only half surprised then, when Nathan looked up and flashed him a bashful look.

            "You know that crack I made about you hiring Inez to cook? –I take it back. Might be the smartest thing you ever did."

            Ezra flashed him a nasty, gold toothed grin. "Too late. When I relay your commentary to her, you'll be eating burnt beans for a week."

            "You wouldn't."

            "You're right …I wouldn't," Ezra admitted. "The most likely scenario would result in both of us partaking of scorched lentils."

            Jones returned the stew pot to the fire and took a seat at the head of the table. "I never was no hand with grub and the cook quit two months ago. It's been a sorry state of affairs around here ever since." He took a spoonful of the stew. "Damn! That's awful!"

            Ezra had to privately agree, but managed to down the mess without too many unseemly facial contortions. Unfortunately, the coffee –fresh though it was—was not much better. He pushed back the plate and refilled his cup.

            "You boys are welcome to bunk in here tonight," Jones offered, gathering up the plates and dumping them in a battered enamel dishpan.

            "Thank you, but I believe I will repair to the stable for the evening," Ezra said, "the loft is more than adequate, and the doors will offer a good view to the North."

            Nathan, weary though he was, looked at him sharply, "You think they might try something tonight?"

            "The thought has occurred to me," Ezra sighed. "At this juncture, I am hesitant to put anything past them."

            "Maybe we'd best both keep watch," Nathan said. "We were supposed to deliver those papers from the Judge for the prisoner transfer by this evening so they could get the word out on the telegraph tomorrow. They've got to be wondering why we haven't shown up yet. I wouldn't be surprised if Chris sent somebody out to look for us come morning. It might not hurt to play it safe until then."

            "I'll keep an eye out too," Jones said, rising from the table. He contemplated the coffee pot steaming on the hearth. "I suppose I'd best put more coffee on, we'll need it."

            "Lord forbid," Ezra muttered, grimacing at the black liquid in his cup.

***

            "Ezra, is that you?" Nathan's voice traveled smoothly through the darkness, startling the gambler as he rummaged through the saddle bags he'd tossed on the wooden partition between the stalls after unsaddling the horses.

            "Yes," Ezra replied, quickly laying hands on the object he sought and extracting it from the bag.

            "What are you doing?"  Nathan's voice held the beginnings of suspicion, something that would not bode well for the gambler's plan.

            "I," he said carefully, extracting the stopper from the bottle and splashing a bit of the contents into one of the two cups he carried, "I am endeavoring to bring you a cup of Mr. Jones's wretched coffee with out spilling the foul brew upon my best waistcoat."

            He pocketed the bottle and made an elaborate show of moving carefully down the alleyway of the barn to the feed box where Nathan was seated. He took a seat next to the healer and offered him the tainted cup, then took a careful swig from his own. "This," he declared, "is quite possibly the worst coffee I have ever had."

            Nathan drank some of the questionable brew as well, screwing up his face in distaste. "Well, he sighed, "at least it's hot." He contemplated the cup with puzzlement. "One of the things I will say about Jones' coffee, it never tastes the same way twice. Just wish one of these times he'd make it different enough to taste good."

            "See anything out there?" Nathan asked, nodding his head to indicate the hills that overlooked the stage station.

            "No," Ezra lied, silently counting down the minutes until the laudanum took effect. He had watched the pale line of riders approaching from the west with a feeling akin to cold dread. It was worse than he had thought. As he'd suspected, there were more than four –a hell of a lot more. They were still a several minutes out, moving silently and taking their time. Time, after all, was on their side. He could only hope that he had enough time left to make his play. He had a feeling their lives depended upon it.

            Beside him, he felt Nathan sway slightly and turned to see the healer give him a quizzical look. "Ezra," Nathan began, "did…" he trailed off, sliding sideways into unconsciousness.

            Grabbing a hold of Nathan, Ezra quickly hauled him to the manger beside Chaucer's stall and rolled him into it, along with his gear and the now empty cup of coffee. Grabbing a pitchfork, he stabbed it into the nearest hay stack and began piling large forkfuls of hay over his companion. He heard the soft crunch of a footstep behind him, and turned to find Jones standing there, cradling the shotgun in the crook of his arm.

            "They're comin'," he said.

            "I know," Ezra replied.

            He set down the pitchfork and reached over to jerk loose the slipknot that tethered Nathan's gelding in the stall behind Chaucer. "Take his horse and slip out the back. Push all the company horses down into the rocks behind the cabin. I doubt they'll bother with them then."

            "Where do you want me?" Jones asked.

            "Find a good position up in the rocks," Ezra suggested. "If it looks bad, take my advice. Don't fight, --run. There's more here than you or I can manage."

            "What about your friend?" Jones said, indicating the manger.

            "His best shot at staying alive is if they believe he's not here." Ezra said. "If they ask, I'll tell them we put him on the stage and he's long gone."

            He handed Nathan's gelding to Jones. "Go," he said quietly. "We don't have much time."

            Walking over to the saddles, he extracted Nathan's Winchester from its scabbard, and then stopped, reconsidering. It had been instinct more than anything else that had impelled him to reach for it. On rare occasions, however, his mother's haphazard upbringing returned and counseled him to utilize good sense as well. Every instinct screamed for him to fight. Intuition, however, told him that that way lay death. They were out-manned and out-gunned. To attempt to make a stand here would only result in their imminent deaths –most likely by barbeque—he though sardonically, noting the line of flaming torches that suddenly flared to life perhaps five hundred yards out. No, if he was going to get them out of this with their skins intact, he was going to have to do some very fancy talking indeed. Still, he thought, considering the Winchester, it never hurt to back those words with a subtle show of strength. Tucking the rifle securely in the crook of his arm, he strode out into the yard to meet the approaching band of white-robed riders. His time had just run out.