Disclaimer: Ahh, you know it already.
Notes: This was inspired by the whole HaleBop Comet thing (is that how it
was spelled?) and the concept of cults.
I’m guessing they were just as rampant in the 19th Century as now, so I
decided to try my hand at one.
Description: This is about Josiah and Ezra. Oh, and there is a cult of
monks thrown in there too. Just for fun.
Part One, Part Two, Part Three
Back to my
fanfic page
________________________________________
False Fathers
Leaning back deeply into his chair, Ezra contentedly began counting the money in his hands. Truth be told, he already knew how much was there, having kept a running tab throughout most of the poker game, but the simple act of sorting the bills was one of his greatest joys in life. With great care, he ordered the singles on top, followed by the tens, the twenties, and finally, and this was his favorite, he placed the fifty on the bottom. What a pretty sight that fifty had been when his opponent had begrudgingly laid it down. Crisp and fresh it looked, even out in here in one of the most backwater saloons in the west, as if it had been minted only yesterday. He was admiring its color and size when he felt those damn eyes on him. Ezra gritted his teeth.
“Would you please stop looking at me like that!” he demanded, swinging around to face Josiah’s disapproving stare. “I do not need your worthless recriminations, Mr. Sanchez. Those men knew who and what I was when they sat down. Please do not expect me to deny my calling in life simply because you are hovering over me.”
“Normally I would agree with you, son,” the ex-preacher replied softly, his deep voice carrying across the loud room to Ezra’s ears, ignoring the gambler’s irritated twitch at the word ‘son.’ “But one of those men was Chester Milton, a new farmer to the territory. That fifty dollar bill was part of the loan he’d just received from the bank to build a home for his young wife and newborn daughter.”
Ezra didn’t reply, just looked at the bill again, understanding a little better why it looked so new. He frowned, and looked back at Josiah. “I did not tell him to lay it down, Mr. Sanchez. It was his choice. May I suggest you go and try your little morality games on someone who might actually be solicitous of your opinions.” With that he tucked the bill in with the others, hid it away in his waistcoat, and returned to shuffling his cards. Despite his best efforts at nonchalance, however, he still felt those damn blue eyes boring into him. His own eyes glanced up to catch the other man’s face.
Josiah’s look had softened, to the point where it was a mixture of both disappointment as well as disapproval. To Ezra’s mind, that was even worse. What the hell did the man want from him? He suspected that Josiah had come to feel slightly differently about him than he did the others, and the thought aggravated him. More than once, he’d caught the preacher watching him with an almost, dare he say it, paternal gaze? Well, he wouldn’t let the man get away with it.
“Mr. Sanchez, if you insist on staring at me while I am exercising my profession, then I must ask you to leave. You will undoubtedly distract my opponents, especially as you continue to display that large cross about your neck.” Ezra’s bristly tone caused Josiah to raise his eyebrows, which the gambler merely sneered at before turning back to his table.
The ex-preacher looked at his companion at the table, who shrugged noncommittally. Nathan shook his head as Josiah got up to approach the gambler. The older man just went looking for trouble.
Josiah wandered up to the gambling table and stood over Ezra. For his part, the gambler ignored him, flipping the deck of cards between his long fingers, waiting for the next gamers to come by. Setting his jaw, the ex-preacher suddenly felt the need to convince Ezra that he should return the young farmer’s money. He needed to show Ezra the danger that his chosen path would bring.
“Ezra…” Josiah began, placing a hand on the gambler’s shoulder. With the speed of a rattlesnake upon being woken from its nap, Ezra flinched and threw the arm off.
“Don’t touch me,” he hissed, looking up angrily then immediately turning away.
Josiah blinked, surprised at the nastiness the younger man suddenly showed him. With slow steps, he retreated back to the place he shared with the healer, calming his mind and trying to erase the despair that simultaneously descended on his soul. Nathan, in an attempt to distract his friend, muttered something about touchy southerners, and Josiah allowed himself to smile weakly at the intended pun. He sat down again with a sigh and took a long draw from his nearly empty mug.
Ezra continued to play with his cards, but his mind was no longer with them. Why had he responded so violently? He’d just been so angry at Josiah lately, unable to place a finger on why. Deep down, though, he knew it was because the damn preacher was getting too damn close….
Several more men had wandered over, looking for a game. Ezra smiled, and gestured to the chairs opposite him. As he began to deal, Ezra spared one more angry glance towards Josiah, and pointedly looked towards the batwing doors that led to the outside. Sighing, the large man stood, shaking his head. The gambler merely rolled his eyes at the man’s deliberately slow movements, and returned to his first love.
At the table with Josiah, Nathan glared at the gambler. Apparently, however, the healer’s gaze was not as “distracting” as the other man’s. He stood as well, and followed Josiah as the preacher drifted out of the tavern and into the night air. Across the way, out of earshot in the crowded room, Chris and Buck saw them leave, but did not do anything more than glance at their retreating backs. The defeated slump of Josiah’s shoulders was noted then forgotten as they returned to their own simpler game of cards.
Outside, Josiah breathed in deeply the warm summer night. It had only gotten dark about a couple of hours before, and a full moon lit the air around him with a shimmering glow. It was still early for the saloon crowd, especially with the long days and short nights, even though Josiah knew it was almost midnight. Straightening up, he moved off the boardwalk, acutely aware of the familiar sounding steps that came up behind him.
Nathan caught up to the ex-preacher as he slowly made his way home to the church, and fell into step beside him. He marked the older man’s dejected countenance, and frowned. “Ezra shouldn’t have said that,” the healer stated with acerbity. “For someone who prides himself on being a gentleman, he can be a real jackass sometimes.”
“No, Brother Jackson, on the contrary, our fellow peacekeeper was well within his rights,” Josiah sighed.
“Within his rights?” Nathan spat. “Oh please. You have just as much right to sit in that room as he does. More so in fact, considering the man’s low character. Cheating young Chester out of his loan, I mean, really! And where does he get off calling you distracting? Hell, with the way I look, I’m probably more distracting to him than you are.”
Josiah smiled slightly, and shook his head. “I don’t believe that our gambler friend thinks of you that way anymore, Nathan.”
“Oh please,” Nathan repeated sarcastically, although he didn’t really have anything to refute Josiah’s claim. After a few minutes, he shrugged. “Well,” he said, changing the subject, “where are you going now?”
Josiah looked at him, an amused expression on his face. They had reached the church steps, and Josiah placed a foot on the lowest one.
“Oh,” Nathan emitted a sort laugh. “Well, I suppose it is late. I’ll see you in the morning, right? What time do you want to head out to the village?”
“Midmorning. I want to check on the Milton’s and their new baby daughter first.” The ex-preacher smiled lightly, but his voice lacked its usual assurance.
“Right. Okay.” The healer turned and headed back towards the livery and the little room above it that he slept in, only to stop about halfway to call back, “I’ll see you tomorrow, then, and don’t let that Ezra get to you!” He waved. As he turned away once more, he frowned at the darkness that seemed to have fallen on his friend. He would confront Ezra in the morning and make him apologize.
In the shadows of the church doors, Josiah watched his closest friend leave, wishing he could explain why these black moods descended upon him so often. Then he moved to open the heavy wooden doors, cringing a little at the heavy groan they made as he entered. He had meant to cure that ill by planing them down a little, but somehow never got around to it. There was always something else that needed to be done first.
Shutting the doors behind him, he meandered slowly down the long line of pews, heading towards the room in the back where he slept. His mind drifted as he listened to the sound his shuffling feet made on the flagstone floor, a noise so familiar and yet, not as comfortable as he would have liked. Despite Nathan’s advice, he was thinking about Ezra, a subject that often led him to remember his own son.
With heavy thoughts, he entered the back room where he slept and stepped directly to the black table upon which sat most of his worldly possessions – mainly books and bullets. He pulled off his poncho and threw it on a nearby chair, then dipped his hands into the small washbasin filled with water that sat upon the table. Nearby was a smaller bowl, containing his shaving brush and blade, and a small mirror, which he picked up. He grimaced at the reflection, and placed the mirror face down. After splashing some water on his face to get off some of the grime, he pulled off his poncho and shirt and went to sit on the bed.
With exaggerated care, he pulled out the small box that he kept hidden under the simple wooden frame. It was a carved wooden box, given to him by the chief of an Indian village out in California. A peace offering from a time long ago, Josiah had treasured it. It seemed only fitting that he should also keep his own personal treasures inside of it.
He ran callused fingers over the carvings that adorned the sides and lid, each carefully and minutely done, and painted with exquisite care. They depicted images of a wedding, a birth, the meeting of two men clasping arms in friendship, a future of light and joy. Scattered in the corners were animals, including the horse, the coyote and the crow. They were his history, and he smiled at the memory of when her father had given it to him. If only they had seen eye to eye back when it all happened….
His fingers ran down the sides to the base, and he felt for the familiar catch.
The lid opened silently, released by a hidden catch on the bottom. The inside was dark, blackened by the fire that had been used to carve the creation, and it contained several objects, all of which Josiah now drew out lovingly.
The first was a locket of gold, containing a lock of jet black hair. He kissed the necklace to his lips, and murmured a short prayer. His wife, who had died when their son was still only a young boy. She had been beautiful, defying her family and her heritage just as he defied his in order to be with her. He had left his father and his sister to be with her. Together, they thought nothing could defeat them. Then the salesman had come to visit, selling the scarlet fever. Always, it was the flesh that was the weakest.
Beneath the locket lay the old bible, its leather cover scarred from the fire. It had somehow remained intact after her Indian family had come and burned down their home. It was payment for what they perceived to be his part in causing her death. He and his son had hidden in the woods while the Indians searched for them, somehow escaping the rage of his wife’s father. At one point, he was sure her brother had spotted them, but the young man had merely returned to the chief with a bowed head. Afterwards, he’d found this bible in the remains, the only thing to survive. It was a shame that Josiah’s faith itself had not been so lucky, perhaps he might not have followed the path he did after that horrible day….
He cracked the volume, and let the pages spill beneath his fingers. The two photographs fell out, into his lap. Gingerly, he raised the first to his tear stained face. He’d had it taken in San Francisco, a picture of a hybrid family – himself, his wife, and their three year old son. He looked closely at Francis, his son. The boy had been so happy then. When his mother had been taken away four years later, everything had changed.
He placed the photograph back inside the book, and lifted up the other. This one was just of Francis, at the age of fourteen, three years before his death. Despite the faded brown of the image, Josiah could see his boy’s face as clearly as if the image had been burned yesterday.
Francis’s eyes were green, a characteristic inherited from Josiah’s father and shared by Josiah’s sister. They also reflected some of both people’s madness. The hair on the boy’s head was black, just like his mother’s, and his complexion was a mixture of both of them, though the high cheekbones, flat nose and dark lips had definitely been hers. Most telling of all, however, was the cocky grin the boy wore on his face. It was a wicked smile, accentuated by a narrowing of the eyes, betraying the sort of person Francis had become. This picture was taken just before Francis had run away to seek his fortune. It was not lost on Josiah that Francis would have been Ezra’s age now, had he lived.
Josiah shut his eyes against the pain, and dug deeper into the box. Below the bible rested the letter Francis had written to him. The letter he had written to try and explain his actions in leaving his father. Josiah did not have to open his eyes to now what it read. Instead, his fingers drifted across the brittle parchment, allowing the words to flow through his mind.
“Father, I write this
to tell you I am leaving. I can no
longer watch as you drink yourself to death, ignoring and forgetting not only
who you were, but who I am. Please
don’t try and follow me. I can’t be who
you want me to be, anymore than you can be whom I want you to be. I hate this life, and plan to find a better,
richer one. We are both lost now, but
perhaps apart we can somehow find a way home – you to your church, and me…well,
to wherever it is that I belong with this mixed blood. Good luck, father. And good bye.
I will not darken your door again.
Your life is your own.
Francis”
Josiah opened his eyes, and looked once more into the box. That was all he kept there. And, it was too much.
He placed the objects back inside, and shut the top. The click of the lock echoed loudly in his ears, effectively shutting his mind off from the memories – a practice he had mastered over time. He ran his free hand over his face to wipe away the wetness still clinging to his face. With tremendous care, he put the box on the beside table. For some reason, he wanted it close by tonight.
He picked up the thick volume he had been reading which lay on his pillow, and opened to the dog eared page where he had last stopped. It was a new book, written by an Englishman named J.S. Mill. The volume contained a collection of his essays, including one he intended to show Mary Travis called The Subjection of Women. Tonight, however, the beautifully written words seemed to ring hollowly in his thoughts. After attempting to read the same paragraph three times, he succumbed to his morbidity and closed it. Carefully balancing the leather volume on top of the carved box on his nightstand, he blew out the lantern, and lay down.
Sometime later, after all the sounds had died down from the outside, he eventually drifted off the sleep.
___________________________
He should have stayed in bed. For some peculiar reason, Ezra had gotten up “early,” that is to say, prior to ten o’clock, and he was now paying for it. The moment he stepped off the last step onto the saloon floor, and that wraith-like man appeared in front of him, he immediately knew this was going to be a bad day.
Pursing his lips in annoyance, Ezra listened quietly as Nathan tongue lashed him for ten minutes. This time the subject of the healer’s anger was the gambler’s treatment of Josiah the night before. Apparently, Nathan had seen Josiah head out to the Milton’s small piece of land this morning looking as if he hadn’t slept. This combined with the man’s unhappy attitude of the previous evening led Nathan to heartily believe that Ezra was to blame.
“And I think you should apologize,” the healer concluded.
Ezra’s eyes widened, and a small smile lit upon his countenance. “Well, Mr. Jackson, if it will make you feel better, then I apologize.”
If possible, Nathan’s glower became even darker. “Not to me, you idiot.”
“Oh, really?” Ezra reached up a hand and scratched at the back of his nape. “Because honestly, Mr. Jackson, I find it difficult to believe that Mr. Sanchez was truly so distraught as a result of my actions last night that it continued to affect him this morning. Far worse things have been done and said to him, I am certain.” He looked outside the saloon, just happening to catch Josiah as the older man moved quickly past on his horse towards the stables, the usual benign look on the older man’s face. He was obviously back from his errand and looked perfectly normal. Ezra grinned a little wider.
“If you ask me, Mr. Jackson, I would check to see that he is not simply going without his morning cup of coffee first before accusing your fellow lawman of unjust behavior. He looks fine to me…” He motioned outside with a nod of his head. Nathan’s eyes narrowed, never leaving the other’s green ones, clearly not caring what Ezra had seen.
Nathan scowled, and took a step forward. “Just do it, Ezra,” he stated firmly.
With a enormous sigh, Ezra lifted the black hat in his hand and brushed some imaginary dust off of it. He completed the ritual by placing it jauntily on his head, then bowed slightly to the healer.
“Your wish is my command, my good friend. As long as it makes you feel that you have accomplished something this day….” Ezra grinned and tipped Nathan a two finger salute before heading out of the saloon and towards the church.
As he walked, he looked up at Josiah’s work-in-progress, his eyes trailing over the half built steeple and rough walls in need of painting. The ever-present smile on his face faded a little, but, with a shrug, threw off the odd sense of foreboding that briefly lit upon his shoulders.
The doors to the hallowed structure were slightly ajar, testament to the fact that they were not completely flush with the frame. Ezra only had to push on one a little in order to allow his lean frame to squeeze through, and then they fell silently closed behind him. Padding up the aisle, he headed straight towards the back, not giving the rest of the room more than a cursory glance. His mind was already on the trip he planned to take to Snowville later that day.
He’d been given the ridiculous task of escorting the children of the apothecary, Mr. Greene, to that fair city to spend some time with their aunt. While he enjoyed spending time with Elwyn and Jeremy, he rarely enjoyed long journeys on horseback, especially when he would be the only adult besides the boy’s boorish nurse. Still, at least Chris was allowing him to spend a couple of nights in the other town to “sharpen his skills.” The thought made Ezra smile as he passed through the door in the back.
The only unfortunate aspect was that he had returned that fifty dollar bill to Chester Milton, along with whatever else the man had lost, via the night manager at the hotel last night. Mr. Sykes would get it to Milton’s wife when she came into town today for supplies. The night manager had tapped his nose as Ezra quietly handed the envelope over, recognizing the need for discretion. He was now used to this early morning ritual of the gambler’s -- to return the money gambled away by those unable to afford it. But, the small act of good will meant Ezra wouldn’t have that lovely bill to play with at the Snowville taverns. He released an extravagant sigh as he stepped into the short hallway, wondering, not for the first time, what had happened to his strong, not to mention eminently practical, sense of greed.
Sucked dry by the dirt of this town, he brooded, just like the spring rains.
With a smirk of derision for his new found deficiency, he turned down the short hall and looked into the back room where Josiah slept, his hand raised to knock on the wall and announce his presence. He stopped when he realized that there was no one there yet.
The room was fairly large, and nearly devoid of any furniture. It contained Josiah’s cot-like bed along with a black iron nightstand, a large table littered with random objects, a wardrobe, a couple of broken pew benches and, of course, the enormous amount of candles.
Candles existed everywhere, resting in large and small candelabras, jutting out of various oddly shaped candlesticks, or just loosely strewn about, to cover every spare inch of space. Ezra was pretty sure Josiah lit every single one of them almost every night. Thing was, there was not much to see. He himself only used a couple of oil lamps in his bedroom, one for the nightstand and one for the dresser and the washbasin. Josiah didn’t even have a dresser, as he had only three sets of clothes. Shaking his head in wonder, Ezra wound his way over to the bed and contemplated the candle fixation. For all that they must shed a lot of light and warmth, this was not a room to take pleasure in.
Shrugging a little, Ezra sat on the edge of the bed, grimacing a little as he realized that the mattress was completely hard. What was it made of? Granite? Shifting to get comfortable, and knowing that his friend would be coming through the door at any minute, Ezra planned to wait quietly. The sound of Josiah pushing inwards the great oaken outer doors to get inside would alert him of the man’s impending arrival.
After a few moments, he began to get bored. What the hell was Josiah doing in the stable? Giving his damn horse a bath? He jumped up, striding as best he could about the cluttered space, glancing at the various objects strewn around. His eyes caught the book on the nightstand, and he picked it up.
“On Liberty,” he muttered, and smiled. He knew of this book, but had not yet had the chance to peruse the writer’s essays as of yet. He was impressed to see it in the preacher’s room. Ezra’s mother had told him of some of the egalitarian views this Englishman espoused, and the gambler was interested to know where Josiah had heard of it. The man was obviously interested in keeping up with the times. The preacher climbed a few notches in his estimation.
He had begun to flip through a few pages when he noticed the box that had been lying under the volume. The book became forgotten in his hands as he admired the box’s detailed workmanship, knowing intuitively that the item meant something very important to Josiah. He unconsciously tucked the essay collection inside his waistcoat, as he tended to do with all his books, and knelt down to look more closely at the box.
Tentatively he reached out and delicately lifted the exquisite piece of work up off the bedside table with both hands. He felt the objects shift a little inside, but he was not interested in them. The box itself was what captured his attention, and he brought it closer in order to look at it more carefully. So caught up in its detail, he never heard the outer doors groan open.
“What the hell are you doing! Put that down!” Josiah boomed angrily. He was suddenly at Ezra’s side, pushing the gambler backwards with a heavy hand to the shoulder, as if trying to separate the younger man from the object he held. Unbalanced, Ezra fell backwards onto his rear, unable to prevent himself from dropping the box in the process. It hit the floor with a thud, causing the lid to spring open. The bible, photos, locket and letter spilled out, collecting in a small pile between Ezra’s legs.
“Josiah, I’m…you startled me,” he stuttered, moving to sit up. He gingerly lifted the photo of Francis up from off his leg.
“Don’t touch that!” the ex-preacher growled, grabbing the picture away. “What the hell did you think you were doing, boy? How dare you be in my things!”
Ezra backed up a little from the man’s tone, never before hearing so much unwarranted fury in the preacher’s voice. He watched with amazement as Josiah gently placed the objects back in the box with disproportionate care, as if he were placing newborns into their cribs. His green eyes unconsciously took the objects all in, including the glimpse he got of the family portrait -- a much younger Josiah, a young and beautiful Indian woman, and a baby. Presumably the young man in the second photograph that he had seen first was the same as the child. Josiah’s son? He recoiled as Josiah’s rage filled eyes focused on him again.
“I…I’m sorry, Josiah,” he replied, his voice as small as JD’s after the boy pulls one of his fool stunts and is reprimanded by Chris or Buck. “I did not mean to….”
“I don’t care what the hell you meant to be doing here, boy, but I would never intrude upon your home like this. Do you see me going through your personal things? No, because I would never presume to do that to you. Do you hold me in such little regard that you feel you can not offer me the same courtesy?” Josiah shut the box violently, and shoved it under the bed. With that he stood up, and looked down at the still floored gambler. Ezra swallowed.
“I was…I was simply waiting for you….I promised Nathan that I would….for last night, you understand? And I was only admiring the box, I was not going to open it, I swear….”
“Oh ho, and I suppose your word is worth something to me? I know exactly how much you value other people’s possessions, Ezra Standish, especially those that you can pawn.” The older man’s lips curled into a sneer of derision, his eyes narrowed to slits as he looked down on his prey.
“So, how much did your calculating little mind figure my box was worth, huh? Because I guarantee that, whatever you got, it would never be close to how much it means to me.” He turned his back and walked to the cell door. “Get out,” he ordered, his arm raised to point out towards the main doors of the church, “and believe me when I tell you that I will hide that box so that you won’t be able to find it again.”
Despite his position, Josiah’s statement about his honor had cut into Ezra, causing him to frown as his face reddened in anger. “Watch what you say, Josiah….” he began menacingly.
“I said out, wretch. I will not tell you again,” Josiah interrupted, his eyes wild. His hand moved to the large Smith and Wesson by his side, emphasizing the point.
Ezra swallowed, his mouth clamped in a fine line. The fingers of his right hand moved, the tendons of his arm feeling the comforting weight of the derringer mechanism. But just as quickly as the impulse came, it was gone, though the anger remained. After a moment’s pause, he nodded. “Fine, Mr. Sanchez, believe what you will.”
With exaggerated care, he got up from off the floor and brushed himself off, no longer able to look Josiah in the eye.
“Please accept my apologies,” the younger man said curtly as he stepped past the preacher, the sarcasm in his voice only thinly hiding the hurt. “I did not mean to intrude. Do not worry yourself further about my obviously nefarious intentions; you will not have to hide the item.”
As he reached the end of the short hall, Ezra paused, his back to Josiah. “Goodbye, Mr. Sanchez, and have no fear. I will not to darken your door again. Your possessions are safe, and your life your own.” He ignored the sharp intake of breath that Josiah took, assuming it to be the forerunner of another tirade, and quickly fled.
Had Ezra seen Josiah’s face, he probably would have stopped. Utter distress filled the older man’s features. His son’s letter rose unbidden to his mind, especially the final two sentences. I will not darken your door again. Your life is your own. How the hell had Ezra managed to quote it so closely….Darkness gripped Josiah’s heart. He had to get out of there.
_________________________________
Nathan stood a little outside the church, waiting for the two men inside to come out. He was feeling proud of himself, both for having knocked the gambler down a peg, and for, he hoped, curing a little of Josiah’s melancholy from the previous evening. Thus it was that he was cruelly disappointed to see Ezra slither out of the church doors as if he had a whole host of demons on his coattails.
“Ezra?” he called across the road, as the gambler steadily strode back towards the saloon. Ezra glanced over at him, his green eyes glassy and his face red. The gambler’s face darkened.
“Leave me alone, Mr. Jackson,” he replied angrily, never slowing his step. Nathan stood up straight, annoyed that Standish had obviously screwed up his plan. He shook his head as Ezra all but ran back to the saloon, and hoped that Josiah would be in better shape.
He took a couple of steps towards the doors when the man himself appeared. It was immediately apparent that Josiah was not feeling better. In fact, he looked far worse. Tension lined the man’s shoulders as he slammed the protesting doors shut, and headed towards the livery. A full set of saddlebags was thrown over his shoulder, along with a bedroll.
“Josiah!” the healer called, forcing the preacher to stop. Josiah looked back, his mouth set in a straight line. Nathan continued to approach him.
“Nathan,” he intoned in his deep voice, a slight quaver evident. “Please forgive me, but I will not be travelling with you to the Seminole village today. Something urgent has come up and…and I need to get away for a while.” He looked down at the ground, covering up for the obvious lie. Nathan stopped moving, his face clouding with anger.
“What did he say to you?” the healer demanded. Josiah shook his head.
“This has nothing to do with…” he began, then changed his mind. “Brother, please, leave him alone. This is not his fault. Right now, we just both need some time. Please.”
“Josiah…”
“Nathan, promise me you will not say a word to him, either in anger or to tell him that I have left.” Josiah looked up, fixing his friend with a determined stare. “And, please cover for me with Brother Larabee. I promise will not be long.”
Nathan was about to argue, but the haunted expression on the normally stoic face threw him. Instead, he nodded curtly, a little frightened by the relieved look that crossed Josiah’s face. As the tall man turned to head towards the stables once more, Nathan called softly after him.
“I hope you find what it is you’re looking for…” he whispered on the wind. Whether Josiah heard him or not, the healer didn’t know. Five minutes later, Nathan watched from the saloon boardwalk as Josiah galloped out of town.
_______________________________
Josiah had perhaps been galloping for a few hours when he realized that his horse was beginning to struggle under the hot sun. He slowed the lathered beast, and slid from his back, apologizing to it the whole time for being so callous. Looking around, the ex-preacher recognized that they were near a small watering hole he knew about, hidden within the depths of a nearby forest of ash and pine trees. He led the beast inside, heading directly for the small grove.
As he brushed the creature down, he silently berated himself. For some fathomless reason, his unconscious mind had sent him in the direction of Snowville, the same way that his conscious mind knew Ezra would be travelling in a few hours. What was he trying to do to himself?
He rested his head against the horse’s flank, breathing in its heady smell and willed himself to calm down. He should head south now, away from Four Corners and Snowville, and towards Vista City….He shook his head, and turned wet eyes up to look at the deep blue sky through the tree tops. What he needed was to take a step back from it all. Closing his eyes, he dropped the brush and walked deeper into the small forest, taking deep breaths. His eyes popped open abruptly as he realized he could hear chanting.
“Am I going crazy?” he wondered to himself, as he approached the sound. It got louder, and he could make out the Latin phrases that were drifting across the breeze. He had heard the chant before, when, as a child, he and his father would occasionally stay at the monasteries sprinkled throughout the territories. It was sung at funerals.
Quietly, he approached the grotto that sat about a hundred yards away from his own little grove. He could make out the chanters now, and counted ten men standing in a rough oval around what Josiah presumed to be a grave. They all wore black homespun robes, and had their heads hidden within deep hoods. Most wore wooden crosses similar to his own, although one wore a silver cross that contained a small amount of filigree. This man also seemed to be the one leading the chant. Josiah stayed back, the tension leaving his frame as the soft sounds blanketed him, speaking only of peacefulness. For the first time in a long while, he felt good.
So enamored was he, that he almost didn’t notice when the song ended. The monks fell back from the grave, and pushed their hoods away from their heads revealing an odd mixture of faces and ages. About half of the men were young, perhaps just in their twenties, while the rest appeared to be over sixty. It seemed strange to Josiah that there should be such a lack of the middle aged, but not impossible. The leader, if indeed that was what he was, looked to be about sixty five.
The group began speaking quietly among themselves as they gathered their things together in order to leave. A fairly large monk, bigger than Josiah, with a shock of white hair, came forward with a large wooden cross. With a grunt, the monk aimed the staked end of the cross at the ground at the head of the grave and drove it in with brute force. One of the younger monks came forward then with a mallet, and helped to drive it deeper. Josiah wondered briefly at why they would carry a mallet with them, since it would seem to only have this sort of purpose, but then he considered how difficult it must be to be travelling monks in this sort of territory.
He squinted to try and read the name carved on the cross, but he wasn’t close enough. Curiosity got the better of him, and he took a step forward, not seeing the dry twig beneath his foot. An audible snap rang out across the clearing, and ten pairs of eyes took him in with surprise.
Blushing deeply, Josiah moved out of his hiding place, his hands raised in front of him. The one with the silver cross moved forward to meet him, a hand on the knife at his belt. It was the first time Josiah noticed that these men were all armed with such knives. He also noted that several of them had also thrown rifles across their backs.
“Brother,” Josiah apologized, “I am truly sorry to trespass in this manner. I was watering my horse nearby when I heard your song, and I must admit that I allowed my wonderment to get the better of me. Please forgive me.”
The leader watched him warily for a moment, then dropped his hand. He smiled benignly, shaking his head. “And I am sorry, Brother, for being so untrusting. It does not befit men of our calling. I see you wear a cross around your neck, are you such as we?” His voice was scratchy, as if he had just smoked a whole sheaf of tobacco without taking any cleansing breaths in between. His tone also suggested how tired these men probably were. Josiah dropped his hands, drawing them together behind his back.
“I was once, yes. Unfortunately, unlike you good souls, I have lost my way.” He inclined his head to take them all in. “However, I believe I am finding my way back. Certainly witnessing such a peaceful scene as yours helps greatly, however inadvertent. But there again, I must beg your apology for my rudeness on this sad occasion.” He kept his head bowed as he looked around. The other monks looked to their leader, waiting for the older man’s response.
The leader inclined his head, his smile becoming warmer. “Of course you have it, my Brother. We are all family here. As for the sadness of this occasion, while a death is always a loss for those of us left behind, for the one who dies, we are content to know he has gone to a better place.” He looked over at the grave, then back at Josiah. “Please, will you join us? We were about to travel back to our main camp and have lunch.” He gestured vaguely to the south. Josiah’s own face broke into a pleased smile as he nodded.
“Thank you, I would love to.”
This broke the awkwardness, and the monks went back to their tasks, gathering wood and so on for the trip back. Josiah approached the leader and introduced himself. He also explained that he had some food of his own he might contribute, although it was back with his horse. The leader smiled.
“Thank you, Brother Josiah. That is very kind but unnecessary,” the older man said, “We have more than enough. I am Brother Calvin, by the by, and the leader of this small group of wayward monks.” He grinned wider, noting Josiah’s raised eyebrows. “I use the term ‘wayward’ in that we were supposed to be travelling to a monastery in the Dakota Territories but got sidetracked. At first, we simply got lost, but, somewhere along the way, a handful of us decided that we might better serve the population of this Godless place if we stayed among the people. Now, we no longer heed to any one particular order – preferring to create our own.”
Josiah took this in with a nod, not wishing to delve too deeply, and looked around at the other monks who moved quickly past them. “Is this all of you?”
The smile fell a little from Calvin’s face. “Yes. Most of our initial group continued north to the monastery.” He sighed, “We tried to persuade them, but not everyone has our, shall we say, passion for life?” He chuckled dryly as he led Josiah out of the clearing and towards the main camp.
The other monks had already disappeared in that direction, having gotten lost in the trees in their dark clothes. Josiah wondered at how quickly these men had adjusted to life in the wild, he hadn’t even heard them as they left. Calvin continued to speak, prompted by questions from Josiah about how long they had been out here and where they had been.
“I suppose we have been travelling for about a year now, heading generally in a westerly direction deeper into the heathen lands. We have dedicated ourselves to spreading the word of God, although not as missionaries. We do not believe in trying to force the heathens to our way of life until our own people have seen the light. As such, it is towards those of our race that we dedicate our energies, trying to cure the sins of gambling and death that have infested this land.” He laughed a little at Josiah’s grimace. “I never said it was an easy goal, Josiah, merely the one we have chosen.” He sighed, “At the moment, we are on our way to visit Snowville next, and then down to Greeley.”
“Not Four Corners?” Josiah couldn’t resist the question.
“Is that you’re home?” Calvin returned, looking up at the much taller man. Josiah didn’t answer immediately, then nodded curtly.
“For now,” he replied.
Calvin nodded as well, not pressing. Ahead of them, the forest opened to reveal a large clearing filled with a variety of tents and several small fires. The monks were bustling about, obviously getting lunch together. Calvin gestured towards a centrally located tent, and together the two men headed towards it.
“Well, perhaps if you will be there, we might stop and visit,” the monk grinned. Josiah grinned back, and happily let himself slip back into the religious atmosphere of the camp as if he were slipping into his poncho.
He was so well distracted, that he was not even thinking about the gambler as Ezra and his two young charges drifted past on the outskirts of the forest about an hour later. For his part, Ezra saw the smoke from the cooking fires above the trees, but chose not to investigate. Vin and JD would be by this way on patrol soon and would be in a better position to ensure that nothing was amiss.
The gambler placed a hand to his chest, feeling the outline of the leather bound volume of essays he still held there. He hadn’t meant to take it, and part of him wondered if Josiah had been right about his penchant for thievery. Briefly, he thought of returning it, but found he was too much of a coward to face Josiah again that day. The damn preacher had a way of cutting Ezra’s heart to shreds with a few words, and, even after the incident with that assassin’s ten thousand dollars, he still held on to the vain hope that Josiah still believed in him. The others didn’t trust him, but Josiah….Well, damn the man. Ezra didn’t need any of them.
Yeah right.
He wiped a tired hand across his dust covered face, and closed his eyes. Look into your own heart, Ezra. Blame yourself.
The boys yelled for his attention, and he allowed himself to be drawn into their game.
_____________________________
After several hours, Josiah was feeling extremely comfortable. Lunch had been wonderful, and to be able to talk dogma with these men had been so refreshing. He found that the monks had quite a few opinions that diverged with his own, but for the most part he felt as if he really fit in. His happiness must have been obvious on his face, because as the monks began to break camp in order to travel the rest of the way to Snowville, he found Calvin by his side asking Josiah to go with them.
Josiah sat up straight, amazement on his face. “What? You mean join your order?”
“Umm,” Calvin smiled, looking around, “yes, in a matter of speaking. Of course it is not as simple as just agreeing, and what we do is not for the faint of heart….”
“Oh, of course,” Josiah replied, his eyes . “I did not mean to sound so flippant. Its just, well, it is a surprise….” He shrugged, one hand moving up to scratch self consciously at his neck. Calvin nodded his understanding.
“I realize this is not a simple decision Josiah. However, my brothers and I have spoken, and we believe you would do well within our ranks. You clearly care deeply for the Faith, and your strength and courage would be a welcome addition.” He stood, and Josiah quickly stood as well. Several of the others were watching them, though most pretended that they were not listening.
Calvin continued, “From what you have told me about what you do in Four Corners, I thought that perhaps you were not happy with your current way of life. I am offering you a new one.”
“Brother Calvin, I am truly…thankful. But you do not know everything about me. My past holds a great deal of darkness, and while I am trying to return to the light, I am not sure that I am there yet….”
“Josiah, what you have been and done in your past does not concern me. Many of us here have shady pasts, myself included, all happening before we found God. You are an honest man with more to offer than a gun. You have the ability to save men’s souls, brother, and it is to that future and that future alone that I look.” Calvin stepped back, his face firm and his stance steady. “What do you say?”
Josiah swallowed. Maybe this was it? The crossroads where he could finally find a way home – to the church he had lost so long ago. Again, his mind was taken back to Francis’s letter, and Josiah marveled at how so much could happen in so short a time. These monks were offering him the life he thought just last night that he’d lost forever, the life he’d secretly wished he would return to someday. He looked down at Calvin, who was still watching him quietly.
Josiah took a step back and hurriedly went over in his mind what he would leave behind: a ramshackle church without a congregation, a town that would probably disappear back into the dust from whence it came within a few years, a rough life of guns and blood, a thankless job protecting people who barely registered his existence….Not much to hold on to. But then…there was his friends. Those six men who had come to mean a great deal to him, and, he was pretty sure, he meant something to them as well. They were men that he counted on as if they were his blood. Especially the one he sometimes forgot was not his own blood. Could he leave them?
Calvin sighed, seeing the warring emotions playing across the other man’s features. Perhaps he was wrong, he thought. This Josiah was obviously a God fearing man with the qualities of the Archangel Michael, and he had tremendous potential, but perhaps he was not as true a believer as he seemed. The older man shrugged, looking away. Perhaps Snowville would provide the solution, a way to prove to this man the strength of their path. Calvin’s eyes glittered – they needed men like Josiah. He would not give up yet.
“Josiah, I realize that we sort of sprung this on you. Do not believe you must make a decision now. We will be passing this way again, in order to travel to your Four Corners. Perhaps you would be kind enough to meet us here tomorrow evening. I am certain by that time you will be able to see more clearly who we are and what we do.” With that, Calvin nodded farewell and headed towards the wagon on which he and several of his elder brothers rode. The rest of the monks uncharacteristically rode horses.
Waving farewell, Josiah shook his head a little after the clearing emptied of everyone except himself and his horse, whom he had brought into the grove a few hours ago. He headed to the horse now, and took his saddlebags and bedroll off the mare’s back. He would spend the night here, for he had an awful lot of thinking to do.
__________________________
It was leading towards twilight when Vin and JD started drifting through the woods on their horses to where Josiah rested. It was their final stop on their way home after their patrol, and both were looking towards a few long draughts and a deep sleep. They were not even going to stop, but they saw the smoke from Josiah’s campfire.
Picking their way through the dried leaves, Vin cupped his hands to his mouth and called into the clearing and the lone man resting there, “Hello the camp!”
Josiah stood up and returned the greeting, surprising both newcomers. Vin scratched at his head as they rode up, and JD grinned. Surreptitiously, Josiah placed the nearly empty bottle of whiskey back on the ground by his wobbly legs. Only Vin had noticed the death grip the man had had on the bottle before letting go.
“Hey Josiah!” the young sheriff greeted, “what are you doing out here? I thought you were with Nathan at the village.”
“I am merely sorting a few things out, brother Dunne. Needed solitude. What about you?” Josiah’s words slurred slightly, and JD’s smile faltered a little. His surprise at realizing Josiah was drunk prevented him from answering immediately.
“We saw your camp, thought we should check it out,” Vin replied, covering for JD’s loss of words, and looked around him. He took in the trampled grass and still smoldering fire pits. “Looks like you were not the only one to use this field today.”
“Nope. There were some monks here earlier.”
JD blinked. “Monks? As in long robes and funny haircuts?”
Josiah smiled, shaking his head a little. “Well, not exactly, though you got the robes right. Actually, they were a very interesting group of men. They claim to be on a quest to save the souls of men such as ourselves.” Taking in Vin’s frown, Josiah nodded understandingly.
“They are not here to save those who do not share our faith, Brother Vin. They will leave our Indian friends alone, although I may have convinced them to visit Four Corners.” Vin continued to frown, but tempered it a little in the face of Josiah’s strange mood – he seemed to be sitting somewhere between euphoria and utter despair. Meanwhile, Vin noted, the bottle wasn’t helping. Next to Vin, JD merely wanted to hear more.
“How did you meet ‘em, Josiah? I always thought Monks were supposed to be taking vows of silence and all that.”
The rumbling laugh from the large man echoed a little in the clearing. “Don’t believe everything you read, Brother Dunne. These men are big talkers, and singers. Indeed, it was their singing that awakened me to their presence. They were singing over the grave of one of their brothers over yonder.” He pointed vaguely North. Vin followed his direction, planning to have a look later. Just in case. He’d never heard of Monks just wandering around like that, and a nagging feeling itched at his spine.
“Well, sounds like a great experience, Josiah. I wouldn’t mind meeting some monks, if for no other reason than that I can tell Casey about it,” JD mused, patting down his horse who was getting a little bored just standing around. Vin’s Peso shifted a little as well, and the tracker smiled lightly one more time down at his friend.
“We’d best be heading home then, Josiah. You going to be alright out here on your own?”
“I’ve been out on my own for more years than you’ve been alive, brother Vin,” The ex-preacher chastised. Vin nodded and turned Peso’s head around towards the direction of the grave. If Josiah noticed, he didn’t say anything. Instead, the ex-preacher sat down heavily, and took a long swig of the amber liquid, finishing the bottle. Another was quickly fished out from his saddlebags. JD blinked where he sat on his horse, thrown by the abrupt end to the conversation and Josiah’s amazing ability to hold onto his alcohol, and looked after Vin.
“Oh,” JD said, “I guess that means we’re leaving. Okay. See you later Josiah!” He waved and headed out after Vin who was already half way across the field. Josiah watched them leave with a sigh, his mind returning to the fact that they were very good friends…friends he would miss terribly.
Vin leapt off Peso’s back as he reached the graveside. In the deepening gloom, the area took on the uneasy quietness of a cemetery. Shaking off the foreboding in his soul, the tracker knelt by the grave and tried to make sense of the letters etched into the wood. He was learning still, but he felt he should be able to make sense of a name by now.
“Can you read it?” JD asked, thinking of the lack of light in the secluded glen.
“Of course I can,” Vin spat angrily, peering more closely. Not understanding the tone, JD jumped from his horse and came to stand next to where his friend knelt.
“Oh. Just thought you could use a match,” the young Sheriff said quietly, not wishing to offend again. Not that he knew why he offended in the first place. He looked down at his feet, then over at the horses.
Vin shut his eyes and mentally slapped himself. Looking up, he nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “a match would help. Sorry I snapped, guess I’m just tired.”
Brightening immediately, JD pulled a book of matches from his pocket and handed the book to his friend. He stepped forward as Vin struck one and held it to the cross. JD hissed in surprise.
“Lyle ‘liver-eating’ Jones?”
Equally surprised, Vin had dropped the match, forcing him to light another. They checked the name again. JD stepped back, looking wonderingly at the place, and back towards where they left Josiah. “That’s the man we arrested by accident when Governor Hopewell was here last year, right? The one who told us about Stutts and his son?”
Vin shook his head. “Well, he did say he found God.”
“Jones weren’t no monk, Vin. And, while I may not know much, I’m pretty sure someone like him would need to do an awful lot of praying before he’d be allowed to be one. It seems awful quick.”
Vin stood and looked back towards the tiny glimpse of firelight they could still see through the trees. JD made to head back to his horse, intending to go ask Josiah again what he saw. Vin clucked his tongue, stopping the younger man.
“Not tonight, JD. Josiah’s not in the mood for questions.”
The young sheriff looked ready to argue, but he too knew what Josiah was like when he was drunk. They remembered all too well what happened the time the Pinkerton Agent came to town. Josiah’s near suicidal temperament at the time had nearly cost him his life when he wouldn’t deny killing Irene. Not that any of them had believed that Josiah had done the killings, but his behavior had been scary, to say the least. Only Vin knew what had charged it. Seeing Josiah drunk in the field reminded Vin of that time, and he wouldn’t press the man now.
“Then we’ll come back in the morning,” JD answered. Vin merely nodded. Quietly, both men led their horses away from the gravesite and back towards Four Corners. They gave the campsite a wide berth.
____________________________
Snowville was bigger than Four Corners, and held more money. It also boasted a far rougher group of clientele. Normally, Ezra made sure he stayed sober and alert when he visited its depths, but not tonight. After dropping off the children, he gave into the depression and anger that Josiah had dredged up inside of him and started to lay waste to several bottles of good Tennessee whiskey.
Sometime around midnight, Ezra found himself smiling blearily through the alcohol induced haze that shrouded his eyes and watered down his brain. In his amazingly steady fingers he held the winning hand, nodding slightly as the man to his right raised the pot yet another five dollars. He dug into the rather large pile of cash in front of him and raised himself, tossing bills into the center pot. The man to his left scowled, and threw his cards down, muttering some cliché about this game being too rich for his blood. Ezra glanced at him with disdain, and then eyed his next opponent. He grimaced slightly as he watched the man suck at his cheeks, obviously working on a spectacular amount of saliva.
The large rancher spit loudly into the spittoon near the bar, releasing some of the chewing tobacco in his mouth along with the saliva. Black liquid ran down his chin, causing him to rub a roughened palm over his well tanned skin to wipe it away. With the hand still on his chin, he glared narrowly at Ezra, his smaller mind obviously trying to calculate the odds that Ezra had already worked through…and sneered.
“I call,” he growled hoarsely, ignoring Ezra’s raised eyebrow. Down the line, the others called as well, until it returned to the red coated gambler. With a calm demeanor, Ezra laid down the four of a kind – all deuces.
“Bastard!” The caller yelled, standing up quickly. “Cheater!”
Ezra sighed as he drew the pot towards him. He’d already been thrown out of the only other saloon in town for getting into a fight with the last man to call him cheater. His luck was too good tonight to risk getting tossed out of this one as well.
“I do not cheat, nor would I need to with such opponents….” he drawled thickly, sorting the bills into a nice wad and tucking it away in his pocket. “However, if you wish to check my sleeves I would be happy….” Suddenly he felt an arm around his neck. Somehow, without his noticing, his accuser had rounded the table and taken him into a choke hold.
This was really too much, Ezra thought absurdly as he struggled for breath. Green bloodshot eyes looked around and quickly realized that no help was forthcoming. Gritting his teeth, he flicked his wrist to release the derringer and lifted his arm to point it over his shoulder. His consciousness on the verge of fleeting, he aimed at the man’s arm, trying to graze him.
“Hey,” the rancher yelled, his arm loosening as he saw the weapon. His call was too late, however, and Ezra’s shot rang out. His assailant screamed and fell backwards like a ton of bricks, bringing the gambler and his chair with him to the floor. They fell to the ground with a loud clatter.
The whole room silenced, then the shouting began as Ezra slowly moved to pull himself out of the other man’s grip on the floor. For his part, the large rancher had begun yelling, screaming bloody murder as he gripped his left arm. “He shot me! Bastard shot me!”
Several other men approached the gambler, probably intending to take him down, something Ezra expected. Quickly, he spun around, the tiny gun still in his right hand, his reflexes moving to simultaneously pull the Colt out from his shoulder holster with his other. Unfortunately, his inebriated semi-conscious state refused to permit such a rapid move, and he fell sideways into a nearby table, flipping it upwards. With large roars of anger, the table’s occupants took offense at having their drinks spilled and their money scattered.
That was when the fighting began in earnest.
At some point, Ezra found himself crawling on the floor, men, alcohol and shattering glass all around him. He never actually managed to remove his guns from their holsters, so, with only his derringer in hand, he slithered steadily towards where he hoped the back door would be. Someone stepped on him, bringing his face to the floor with a painful whoosh. Shaking the dizziness from his mind, he tried to keep to his goal of escaping. Gamely, he got up once more to his hands and knees. Again, however, he was not to be successful.
This time, someone was pushed over him, falling heavily across his aching back. Ezra felt himself lose his balance, nearly falling into a heap with the man who had been pushed. Somehow, though, he managed to catch himself. His relief was short lived, however, as the pusher, seeing Ezra’s position on the ground, proceeded to deliver a rib busting kick to the gambler. Gripping his side with his free hand, Ezra collapsed onto his back with a yelp, staring upwards and gasping as an unknown face grinned down at him.
“My,” the gambler whispered up at the grinning face standing over him, “how you mother must have cried when she saw that face come out of her.” With a speed borne of anger, Ezra whipped his legs around to sweep the laughing stranger of his feet, bringing the bastard down to the floor with a harsh thud. Then the gambler got up and poured a handy glass of beer over the man’s head. He grinned, his gold tooth flashing at the man’s pitiful spluttering.
A bottle smashed somewhere near his head, startling the lawman. Staring about wildly, he ducked and remembered where he was. At once, he was headed once more to the back of the saloon, this time on foot. Men pushed at him from all sides, and he shoved back, but he didn’t lose any time. Shots rang out near the front of the saloon as the local law arrived, calling an end to the revelry. Embarrassed, and hoping to avoid a night in jail, Ezra found the rear and lit out through the kitchens to the back door.
With a huge sigh, he stepped out into the cool night air, pushing his derringer back into place under his sleeve, and thanking Fortune for letting him escape. Taking a deep breath, and groaning a little as his bruised ribs protested, he made to look around to find the quickest way back to the hotel.
Of course, that was when the blow fell.
The pain was sharp and sudden, forcing bright stars to dance before his vision. He collapsed forward into utter blackness, his last thoughts damning the fickle goddess for her inconstancy.
___________________________________
Calvin looked up as the large silver haired monk pushed through the door of the disused barn on the edge of town, carrying a large sack over his shoulder. Four younger monks bounced inside after the large man, and one came forward with a blissful smile on his face.
“We got him, Brother. This is the sinner who started the brawl in the Silver Mine Saloon earlier, as well as the fight that just ended in the Golden Goose.” He looked around as the large man dropped his burden to the floor with a heavy thud, allowing a red coated arm to spill out of the black burlap. With slow movements, the other monks moved forward to extricate the gambler out of the rest of the sack. “From what we observed, he is an inveterate gambler, a cheat and a con, and a drunk. As if that was not enough, he shot a man in the arm in the Golden Goose, as well, in order to save himself.”
Calvin nodded, and stood to look down at his new charge. Ezra lay unconscious on the floor, black blood crusting on the back of his neck. The monk knelt down and brushed a hand across Ezra’s forehead, brushing back the hair almost gently.
“Welcome to your salvation, my son,” he whispered. He looked up at the men around him. “Tie him to this chair. We’ll begin in the morning. By tomorrow afternoon, we will be able to present him to our newest member with pride.” With creaking joints, Calvin stood up and silently drifted off. He knew his orders would be carried out without question.
______________________________
______________________________
Vin looked up at the darkened windows of Nathan’s clinic above the livery, and tensed his jaw. If something was going on with Josiah, the healer was probably the best one to explain what. But Nathan was away, and wasn’t expected back until noon the next day. Part of the younger man wondered whether they should wait for the healer’s presence before going out and questioning Josiah about the grave.
It was pretty clear to Vin that something was not quite right with Josiah. He had that same lost look on his face that he held whenever he came back from visiting his sister. But this time there seemed to be confusion in the older man’s eyes. As if he were standing on the edge of oblivion, and wasn’t sure which way was up.
Sighing, Vin nearly jumped as JD wandered up to stand next to him. The boy smiled, pleased that he seemed to have gotten the jump on the tracker, even if it was unintentional.
“You thinking we should wait for Nate to get back?” JD asked, yawning. He too looked up to gaze at the dark windows.
“I don’t know. Maybe we should ask Chris in the morning.” He paused, pursing his lips. “You know, JD, there maybe nothing to this.”
JD looked askance at his friend, “But you think something is wrong.”
Vin thought on this for a minute, then nodded.
“Then something is wrong,” JD announced. “We’ll talk to the others in the morning.” He yawned again and stretched his back. “Right, I’ll see you then.”
Vin smiled as he watched the young sheriff walk quietly away. Damn it felt good to be so trusted. Then his smile fell as he realized that, what was being trusted was that something was wrong with Josiah and his so-called monks. Not for the first time, Vin wished one of his hunches was wrong.
________________________
Dull, irritated aches intruded upon the blackness of his mind, calling attention to various different parts of his body. His legs ached, his arms throbbed, especially at the wrists, his chest complained and his head….Oh god. As he became more aware, the discomfort began to translate into throbbing bursts of pain, radiating from his skull down his back to his legs. Everything hurt, and to top it all off, his bladder was on the point of agony.
Then he realized he couldn’t move.
Green eyes shot open, and a cry of irritation escaped his lips at his fettered state. His confused, hung over brain desperately tried to take stock of his surroundings, but nothing made sense. Was this reality? Was he really in some cobweb filled barn somewhere, tied rudely to a chair, surrounded by figures dressed like death?
No, not death. Dressed like…monks? What in the world?
Slightly more cognizant now, he took stock. His head hurt like hell, why? A blow to the head and a nasty hangover. The fight in the saloon. Were these men here because of that? Did they work for the rancher he’d shot? Monks, working for a rancher? He shook his head, trying to clear it. His ribs hurt like hell, from the abuse at the saloon he understood. Also, the tight bands of coil around them, holding him to the chair, weren’t helping, especially as they pressed Josiah’s book irritatingly into his skin. These men hadn’t removed it…nor had they taken his clothes other than his jacket and hat. He sat there in his shirt and heavily brocaded waistcoat, its thick material effectively hiding the book tucked neatly inside, and shivered slightly. Of course, his weapons were gone….
Blinking rapidly to bring some liquid into his dry eyes, he watched haplessly as a monk with a silver cross about his neck approached him quietly. He looked wonderingly up at the slight figure, unable to keep the confusion from his face.
“Welcome, sinner.” The man announced, his face deeply hidden in the recesses beneath his hood.
Sinner? Ezra closed his mouth, his brow furrowing. His headache pulsed angrily in response.
“I am Brother Calvin, and we are here to save you from yourself,” the monk continued, smiling, his white teeth flashing in the half light of the ramshackle structure. Stepping back into a sliver of sunlight that peeked between the cracks of the disused barn, the monk threw back his hood to reveal himself. As Ezra got a good look at the man’s face, he couldn’t repress the hiss of worry. The insanity that dwelled within the man’s features was as plain to the gambler as red cardinal in the snows of Missouri. Such was the gambler’s gift of reading people, as infallible as Vin and his hunches.
Course, being tied to a chair in a filthy disused barn helped.
“Brother John,” Calvin indicated a huge man standing taller than Nathan behind him. The man threw back his own hood, revealing white downy hair. “John will take you out to relieve yourself of some of the filthy liquor you imbibed last night. Then you and I will begin your work.”
Still unable to speak, Ezra watched dumbfounded as the other monks also dropped their hoods, revealing similarly maddened visages that he perceived as easily as the color of the hair on their heads. He tensed involuntarily as the huge man named John came forward with a knife. For a second, he thought of running, but the sound of several rifle hammers being cocked changed his mind.
One thing he knew for sure, these men were not monks.
Maybe they were missionaries?
____________________________
Ten minutes later he was being tied again to the chair by the same large, and silent, monk named John. The gambler grimaced slightly at the soreness in his ribs and the way the volume of essays dug even deeper into his skin. However, at least one part of his body wasn’t screaming in pain at him anymore, and he hoped water would be forthcoming soon. He turned quieter eyes on the one named Calvin.
The old monk approached him, and grabbed the bound man’s chin roughly in a vice like grip. Ezra held his breath, but didn’t take his eyes off the fool in front of him.
Calvin nodded, happy to see that the gambler’s pupils looked even. No concussion. Probably just a terrible headache. He smiled.
“Well, sinner, how about we begin by you telling me your name?”
Annoyed, Ezra didn’t answer.
Calvin smile listed strangely, and he tilted his head to one side. “Well, I suppose it isn’t necessary for you to tell us. You see, we have your wanted poster in our possession.” He released Ezra’s chin and looked towards a young blond monk, no older than JD. “Brother Peter found your face on an old bill from Fort Laramie, Mr. Standish. Bail skipping. Interesting. Care to tell us what the charge was?”
In the background, young Peter held up the faded bill in his hands to show Ezra. The gambler’s own face looked back at him, poorly drawn, but definitely him. Ezra looked away.
When the gambler once more didn’t answer, Calvin sighed. “Fine, well, again, I suppose it doesn’t matter. We have easily discerned from watching you last night that you are a gambler and a con. Also, an attempted murderer.”
Ezra’s eyes narrowed, then realized that Calvin must be referring to the rancher he had shot in the arm in self defense. He considered arguing, but something deep inside him told him it would be pointless. He would just have to ride this out.
Calvin kneeled in front of Ezra, and looked up at the younger man’s face. “However, Mr. Standish, I will not tolerate insolence like yours for long. At this point, it would appear that actions may speak louder than words, especially as you seem to be at a loss for them. Something which I believe is rare in your profession,” Calvin smiled, then turned to a short, rather plump, young, black-haired monk. “Brother Paul?”
John, Paul, Peter? What was this, the cult version of the last supper? Ezra looked up as the black haired boy approached him, knife in hand. He reflexively flinched backwards as Paul grabbed his left shoulder and ran the knife across his upper arm. A shocked cry of pain burst from his lips, and he had to shut his eyes to try and calm the abused nerve endings.
“Not mute after all, eh?” Calvin grinned. Paul proceeded to rip the rest of the fabric off of Ezra’s arm, leaving it bare.
The gambler took a few deep breaths, then opened his eyes once more. The knife wound wasn’t deep, just painful. He glared at the monk. “Pray explain why you felt it necessary to abuse such a fine shirt,” he demanded.
“It always amazes me how men of your ilk value such transitory possessions,” Calvin replied, shaking his head. “Nevertheless, the action has done as I’d hoped and loosened your tongue. To answer your question, Ezra, this is the first step on your road to redemption. For the ruination of a mere material possession and the temporary shock of pain, we offer salvation.” A beatific look lit upon Calvin’s face, and the other monks stepped closer behind their leader.
“Salvation,” Ezra repeated, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“You must repent your sins, sinner Ezra, and embrace the true faith. You must believe in the light of God, and forsake the devil that has you in its embrace. When we have helped you find your way, you will be ready to take the last steps on your own. At that time, we will release you from this mortal coil to join your brothers above, where you can face God with a light heart, and we will sing your praises as your soul is graced.” Calvin’s arms became outstretched as he said this, his eyes taking on a far away look.
“When you have released me from my mortal coil…” Ezra’s eyes widened, his body shuddering a little at the meaning behind those words. “Does that mean what I think it does? Um, forgive my ignorance…gentlemen…but isn’t killing a man sort of against your code? I mean, isn’t the point to send the saved back out in the world so that they might also spread the word, so to speak?” The gambler looked at the four men who stood behind their leader, all young except for John. Ezra wondered how many more were outside. Calvin just regarded him benignly, now the one not answering. Ezra swallowed.
“And what if I don’t repent?” the gambler asked.
Calvin’s gaze focused intently on the bound man. “That won’t happen, my son. You will be saved.”
Ezra’s jaw clenched, bristling at use of “son,” and thinking suddenly of Josiah. From there, his mind drifted to the others, and he realized they had no idea that he was in trouble. His only hope was that he might stall the monks long enough for the others to get worried. He looked up at Calvin, and managed one of his famous smiles.
“Don’t bet on it,” Ezra drawled. “My money will be on my friends when they come to ‘save’ you once they learn of your little cult.”
Calvin’s face fell slightly, but it was clear he was not about to be daunted so early in the game. The older man spun on his heels and indicated to Paul. The young monk disappeared out the door. Calvin then nodded to Peter, who put down the wanted poster still in his hands and picked up a bible.
“Brother Peter will read you a few relevant passages of the Good Book, while Paul helps our other brothers cleave you of your mortal possessions,” Calvin smiled wider.
“So Sayeth the Lord,” the gambler said mockingly, wondering what they could have of his other than his jacket, cards and weapons. Calvin merely favored him with a look, then Peter opened the bible and began reading.