Manifest Destiny
By JJJunky
Warning: This is an OW story written about that time. If you have a problem with the words or circumstances of that period, please do not read any further.
Previously printed in Let's Ride, 2001, NeonRainBowPress.
Dust floated on the cool breeze, landing on a bright red coat. Ezra's face twisted with annoyance as he brushed it off and backed further away from the source. Remembering what had happened once before, he stayed close enough to keep an eye on Jacob. While usually reliable, the stable boy was not averse to assisting Buck Wilmington in one of his pranks. The last one had included a burr and a strategically placed manure pile.
A crooked smile on his face, Vin shook his head as he continued to groom his own horse. "Why ya insist on wearin' such fancy clothes on patrol is beyond me, Ezra."
"I have a reputation to maintain, Mr. Tanner."
"I reckon a reputation can get mighty expensive."
"You have no idea."
The sound of gunfire echoed into the stable from the street outside. His wardrobe forgotten, Ezra pulled his gun and followed Vin to the barn entrance. Positioning himself on the opposite side of the door from the tracker, Ezra cautiously peered out. They saw two men disappearing down the alley beside the general store and a man was lying face down on the sidewalk. Blood stained the back of his shirt. A familiar red bandanna around his neck identified him as Sirius Lindstrom, a local rancher.
The sound of horses' hooves on the hard ground relaying the murderer's location reached Ezra's ears as Chris Larabee ran to the stricken man's side. He knelt, putting a hand against a wrinkled neck.
"He's dead," the black-clad gunfighter shouted. Rising, he waved a hand in the direction the killers had taken. "Vin, Ezra, get after them."
Holstering his gun, Ezra quickly returned to his mount to find Jacob picking the gelding's hooves in anticipation of the hard ride ahead. Running a hand under Chaucer's belly to check the cinch line for dirt, Ezra lifted his saddle and blanket in one experienced motion and threw it across the chestnut's back. Lacing the cinch, he retrieved the bridle and slipped the bit into the open mouth. From the corner of his eye, he could see Vin following the same routine. For once, Peso wasn't giving the tracker any trouble. The horse must have sensed the urgency in his master's movements.
Ezra tightened the cinch one last time before leading the animal outside. Mounting, he frowned as dust from Peso's rapidly receding hooves settled on his coat.
"Ya best git goin', Mr. Standish," Jacob advised, "or yer gonna lose Mr. Tanner. Don't reckon Mr. Larabee would be too happy if'n ya did."
"Out of the mouths of babes."
Laying his heels to Chaucer's sides, Ezra raced out of town, pursuing Vin Tanner. He cursed as his red coat turned a dingy shade of brown. It seemed to be his lot in life to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Why couldn't someone else have been scheduled for patrol?
Ezra caught up with his companion when Vin was forced to ease down to a walk. The dry ground was revealing fewer and fewer signs of passage. Ezra settled gratefully into his saddle, only to stiffen again when the weather abruptly changed from mildly cool to freezing cold. Snow started to fall lightly from gray clouds, melting instantly when it encountered warm flesh.
Pulling the collar of his coat around his neck, Ezra miserably demanded, "What the hell just happened?"
"Indians call it a Chinook wind." Vin continued to stare at the ground, quickly disappearing under a carpet of snow.
"Which means?"
"Which means the weather changes suddenly."
"I determined that," Ezra sighed. "What is the literal meaning of the word?"
"Can't rightly say. I only know it's what they call sudden changes in the weather."
Exasperated and realizing he wasn't likely to get the answer he was seeking, Ezra asked, "When will it change back?"
"Spring."
"Very funny." Frozen hands gripping his reins, Ezra hunched over his saddle horn. Moisture seeping through his coat to his shirt finally encountered his skin. His teeth chattering, he shivered. He couldn't remember ever being so miserable. What had ever induced him to stay in such a godforsaken region? A sense that Vin Tanner was actually enjoying their predicament only added to his displeasure. "Mr. Tanner, thanks to your Chinook wind there is no trail left for you to find. Thus, I think it would be prudent for us to expeditiously return to the warm domicile of hearth and home."
Vin didn't reply as he dismounted. Bending, he brushed snow off a section of dirt with his boot. The terrain showed no signs of passage.
"Mr. Tanner," Ezra hoarsely repeated. "A sagacious course of action would be to return to town and send a telegram to the sheriff of Eagle Bend detailing the villains' descriptions. In this weather it is doubtful they will attempt to camp on the prairie."
"Hired guns usually like their comfort," Vin softly agreed.
Barely able to keep the surprise and relief from his voice, Ezra sighed. "Then you concede? We should return."
"Well, you should," Vin drawled, pulling himself back up into the saddle.
Alarm drove the discomfort from Ezra's body. The tracker's stubbornness was a particularly vexing feature to the gambler and to anyone else who knew the young man. "You cannot possibly intend to pursue those miscreants unassisted?"
"Nope," Vin soothed with a smile. "By the looks of things, we're in for a bad storm. I'm gonna check on Larsen's place. It might be my last chance for a while."
Ezra was torn between his desire to return to a warm fire, a stimulating drink, and a challenging card game; and protecting his companion's back. Vin Tanner was one of the most capable, independent men Ezra had ever met. The sharpshooter's confidence contradicted the pieces of his past he would inadvertently reveal in idle conversation. However, he was also a man with a five hundred dollar bounty on his head. An ex-bounty hunter who once did the hunting had now become the hunted.
"Mr. Tanner, your duty towards Mr. Larsen is admirable. But might I point out, you and Mr. Sanchez assessed Mr. Larsen's ranch only yesterday. I doubt things have deteriorated in the last twenty-four hours."
"I made a promise."
Knowing he would be wasting time arguing further, Ezra wiggled the numb fingers on his left hand in the direction they would have to take to reach Larsen's ranch. "Then we should be on our way. The sooner we proceed, the sooner we will arrive."
"What we?"
"You don't think I'm going to let you sally forth unattended?"
"Don't think," Vin agreed, his face impassive. "Know."
The crisp reply jangled Ezra's strained nerves. Sometimes, he wondered if the tracker deliberately used as few words as possible in a conversation knowing how it grated on the gambler's sensibilities. To him, language was as much a skill as shuffling a deck of cards or firing a gun.
"You," Vin continued, a knowing smile on his face, "need to go back to town and send that telegram."
"I believe it would be safer if we remained together. Mr. Larabee--"
A flash of anger darkened the blue eyes. "Despite what Chris seems to think, I don't need a damn babysitter. I'll bet there isn't a bounty hunter within fifty miles."
"That is one wager I have no desire to cover," Ezra heartily vetoed.
"I'll see ya back in town."
When Vin kicked his horse into a slow canter, Ezra was tempted to follow. The sharpshooter's wrath wasn't half as formidable as Chris Larabee's. Respect overcame self-preservation. Vin often felt boxed in by their concern. If they weren't careful, they would drive him away. The seven would become six.
Laying the right rein on his horse's neck, Ezra turned. In the distance, columns of smoke swirled into the gray sky, marking the location of the town. As eager as he was to sit in front of a warm fire, he dreaded his arrival. Chris Larabee would be waiting.
****
Vin didn't check to see if Ezra was following. He didn't need his eyes to tell him what his ears already had. On the one hand, he was sorry. He knew the reception the gambler would receive. However, relief outweighed his sympathy. There were times when Vin felt like a prisoner. While he appreciated his friends' wariness, they were beginning to make him feel trapped.
Enjoying his freedom, he took a deep breath. The cold air seared a path from his nostrils to his lungs. Snowflakes became trapped in his eyelashes, blurring his vision. He stuck his tongue out as he had often done when he was a child. The cold flakes melted instantly.
Less than a mile from Larsen's ranch, the wind picked up, driving the snow before it. The gentle flakes became shards, stinging exposed flesh. Vin was tempted to turn back, but stubbornness and pride kept him moving. There was one consolation: the wind would be at his back when he rode home.
His hat pulled low, he raised his eyes to check the area. Almost lost in the white blanket swirling around it, Vin could see a large, pastel, two-story frame structure. Larsen had built the fancy house for a wife who had died only days after its completion. Grief-stricken, he had taken her body East to bury her near the ocean she had loved. He would return in the spring to sell the ranch that had been his dream and his nightmare.
Vin shook his head. When Death took a life, he destroyed many others. For the first time, Vin regretted sending Ezra back to Four Corners. Chris had barely survived surrendering his wife and son to the Grim Reaper. Losing a friend could destroy his fragile control.
Resolving to complete his task quickly, Vin touched his heels to Peso's sides and guided him towards the barn. They had only taken a few steps when he felt the air around him shift. Instinct told him he wasn't alone. He reached for the Mare's Leg strapped to his hip.
The roaring discharge of a firearm reached his ears before he felt the bullet tear a path into his right shoulder. The force drove him off the back of his horse. Peso reared, his nostrils flaring. Feet danced dangerously close to his fallen rider. Another shot skimmed across the animal's flank. Whinnying in pain and fear, Peso cantered away. Bullets followed the frightened horse.
****
Chris stood at the jailhouse window, looking out upon the almost deserted street. The weather had driven most of the townspeople inside. The coffee he was sipping warmed his body but not his heart. What had possessed him to send Ezra with Vin? Two guns against two professional killers.
It had happened so fast, Chris didn't have time to think, only to react. Vin and Ezra were preparing to go on patrol. They were the logical ones to purse the killers, the only ones with a chance of capturing the fleeing felons. The hard ground and low clouds had told Chris they didn't have time to wait for the rest of the seven to gear up. Even a tracker as good as Vin couldn't follow an invisible trail.
Aware of JD sifting through wanted posters at the desk behind him, Chris silently swore at the fates. Why did it have to be Ezra who had drawn the morning patrol? Ever since the gambler ran out on them at the Seminole village, Chris had found it difficult to trust him. It didn't matter that Ezra had turned back and attempted to redeem himself by rescuing them. Chris' memory tended to be critical. When it came to watching Vin's back he was very selective. Ezra didn't meet his high standards. The man was too self-serving.
A lone rider appeared out of the gloom and entered the livery stable.
Chris pressed against the window, straining to see who the snow-covered horseman could be. His hot breath fogged the cold glass. Disgusted, he pulled his coat around him. "Someone just rode into the livery."
Rising from behind the desk, JD crossed to stand at the older man's side. "Who was it?"
"Can't tell."
"You don't think it's one of them killers, do ya?"
"Not likely." Chris frowned at the boy in exasperation.
"It's jus' the storm and all," JD stuttered, defending his theory. "Takin' his chances with a jury might seem more appealin' than freezin' ta death on the prairie."
Checking the chambers in his sidearm to make sure each contained a deadly missile, Chris suggested, "Why don't we go find out?"
The wailing wind concealed any sign of their approach. Motioning for JD to cover him, Chris entered the barn. The identity of the rider made his blood boil. He quickly holstered his pistol before he was tempted to use it. "Ezra, where's Vin?"
The gambler shook off the snow layering the shoulders of his coat. Holding his hands to his mouth, he blew on the frozen fingers. "Playing Robin Hood."
"You best start speaking English if you want to walk out of here alive," Chris warned, noticing JD was moving to a position where he could stand between the two men if necessary.
Daring to incur their leader's wrath, the boy asked, "What happened to the killers?"
"We lost their trail. Even Mr. Tanner couldn't follow prints lying under an inch of snow." Though he answered JD's question first, Ezra's eyes remained locked with Larabee's. "Vin decided to check out Larsen's place. He said this storm is going to be pernicious. He might not get a chance to go out there again for a while."
Venom dripping from every word, Chris demanded, "You let him go alone?"
"He insisted. Rather forcefully, I might add." Shivers wracked Ezra's body as his numb flesh thawed. "It appears the miscreants are headed for Eagle Bend. We decided I should return to Four Corners and send a telegram to the sheriff, warning him of their impending arrival."
"We?"
"Yes, Mr. Larabee, we."
"Obviously it never occurred to either of you that I'd send telegrams to every sheriff of every town within a hundred mile radius."
Wet shoulders slumping in defeat, Ezra acknowledged, "Obviously not."
Anger increased Chris' heartbeat, pumping blood through his veins at a rate that caused his vision to blur and muffled the sounds around him. His hand inched towards his gun.
Thundering hooves penetrated the cottony barrier enveloping him. It wasn't unusual for a rider to canter into town. But there was something different in the beat of the hooves striking the hard ground. Uncertain why the resonance worried him, Chris exited the livery stable.
His gaze strained to see through the snowy curtain. Out of the white cloak, a black horse suddenly appeared. Chris lifted his arms, waving them to draw the animal's attention. The gelding slowed, its sides heaving. Dancing in place, he allowed Chris to grab his bridle and lead him into the warm stable.
"It's Peso," JD unnecessarily supplied. His gaze shifted from Ezra's fear lined face to Larabee's cold green eyes. "But where's Vin?"
"Good question," Chris growled, looking at Ezra.
Crossing to soothe the weary horse, JD noted, "He's been ridden hard. He's also been shot." The boy held up a hand to show the proof of his statement; bright red blood coated his fingers.
Air became trapped in Chris' lungs, starving his body and his mind of oxygen. He couldn't think what to do. One minute all he could see was Vin lying on the ground slowly disappearing under a shroud of snow. The next, he envisioned his friend's body draped across the back of a horse, heading for Tascosa and the five hundred dollar bounty.
"JD," Ezra ordered, taking charge in their shocked leader's stead, "get Buck, Josiah and Nathan. Tell them we have to ride."
JD started running towards the door but stopped at its threshold. "Billy's sick. Nathan's been lookin' after 'im."
"Judging by this wound on Peso's flank, I'd say Mr. Tanner will be in greater need of Mr. Jackson's skills. I'm sure Mrs. Travis will understand."
The boy nodded before bolting outside to complete his mission.
Patting Peso on the neck, Ezra lifted a stirrup and hooked it to the saddle horn. Continuing to use his voice to calm the restless horse, he unlaced the cinch. Placing his hands on the front and back of the sweat-soaked blanket, he pulled the saddle off the injured animal.
"You ain't comin' with us." The menace in Chris' tone was clearly audible.
Outwardly unaffected by the voice or the green daggers shooting from the emerald eyes, Ezra dropped the saddle on a rack. Brushing the dirt from his hands, he softly noted, "Last I heard, Mr. Larabee, this was a free country."
****
Pain radiated from Vin's right shoulder. The fierce fire at its center sent tendrils of agony down his arm and into his chest. He reached across his body with a trembling hand and pulled his Mare's Leg from its holster.
The gun had barely cleared leather when the sharp toe of a boot drilled into Vin's wrist, paralyzing its muscles. The weapon fell from numb fingers. Vin stared up at the two faces he'd seen briefly in Four Corners. There was no fear in his eyes, only disgust. Their crime had been heinous and cowardly. Besides being old and unprepared, Sirius Lindstrom had been unarmed.
"How did he find us, Frank?" The shorter of the two men trapped Vin's arm to the ground with a booted foot. The heavy weight threatened the fragile bones in the struggling limb. "You said no one would look fer us here."
"Shut up, Roger." A slap across a bearded face re-enforced the order.
Massaging his stinging cheek, Roger grumbled, "Now we can't stay here. Can we?"
"Of course we can't, ya dumb coot. You let the horse git away." Frank pointed his gun at Vin's head. His thumb pulled down the hammer.
Vin's blood ran cold at the action. He sent a mental apology to Chris. The telepathy they had shared since their eyes met across a dusty street a month ago had never been tested at such a distance. But Vin had to try. Chris would blame himself for this. The Chris Larabee that Vin knew would cease to exist. The friend he had valued would be irrevocably changed.
"It's gonna be cold campin' on the prairie," Roger whined, scratching his chest.
Staring at the gun pointed between his eyes, Vin had never realized the bore could look so big. A part of him wondered if it would hurt when the bullet entered his brain.
Frank eased back on the hammer. "If'n we gotta suffer, it seems only right the man responsible should suffer, too."
His foot stomping on the arm beneath it, Roger cackled, "What ya got in mind?"
Vin bit his lip. He instinctively knew a verbal indication of his pain would entice his captors to increase the torture. This wasn't the first time he had encountered bullies. No matter where he went, there always seemed to be someone who thrived on inflicting pain on others.
Black eyes studied the buildings visible through the overcast. They finally rested on a high stone circular wall. "We'll throw 'im down the well. The water will be colder 'n a witch's tit. Even if someone comes lookin' fer him, they'll never think ta look there."
"Damn." Roger giggled, holstering his gun. "Someone is shore gonna be surprised the next time they fetch water."
In spite of the pain constricting his lungs, Vin knew he had to fight. Lifting his right leg, he kicked out. The action was done blindly out of desperation. A howl from Roger made the pain Vin endured worth the effort, when the killer bent over, clutching his privates. Vin's initial delight at the sight disappeared in a blinding flare of pain as he felt the butt of a gun connect with his temple. Dazed, he tried to get his limbs working again.
"Give me a hand here," Frank ordered, gripping Vin's left arm.
"I can't," Roger moaned. "I'm hurtin' too bad."
"I'll show ya real hurt if 'n ya don't git over here and give me a hand."
Vin screamed, almost passing out when Roger squeezed his right shoulder. He could feel the warm blood running down his chest and arm. Another cry died in his raw throat. His heels scraped across the hard ground as he was dragged to the well. He briefly lost consciousness as he was lifted, but regained it when he felt himself falling head first.
Cold water swallowed him, stealing his breath away. Self-preservation took control of his numb senses. He kicked out with his feet, trying to swim in the cramped confines. His fingers raked across smooth stones, guiding him.
Breaking the surface, he filled his starving lungs. Each breath became more labored as the cold water reclaimed the air. Grabbing a jutting rock with his good hand, he wondered which would claim his life first, the water or the freezing cold.
****
If looks could kill, Ezra knew he would have died a thousand deaths before they reached the Larsen ranch. He didn't need to see Chris Larabee's eyes to know they burned with a desire to see the gambler dead. What the gunslinger would never believe was Ezra was angrier with himself than Chris could ever be.
Ensconced in a warm coat and gloves, Ezra was more miserable now than he had been the last time he rode this trail. He yearned for the physical discomfort he had felt then. It was preferable to the mental anguish he now endured.
Chris Larabee was their leader. No vote had ever been taken, electing him to the position. It was unnecessary. The man had an ingrained control that was as much a part of him as the gun strapped to his hip. Despite this, his disposition depended on whether Vin Tanner was alive or dead. Alive, things would eventually return to normal. Dead, these men Ezra had come to look upon as family would go their separate ways. Chris would crawl back into the bottle he'd only recently vacated. He wouldn't let anyone draw him out again. His association with the others would become too painful for him to bear. Ezra knew this like he knew a deck of cards.
"Buck, JD," Chris ordered, "search the barn. Nathan, Josiah, check the house."
Ezra looked up, astonished to discover they had arrived at the Larsen ranch. He wasn't surprised however, when Chris didn't relay orders concerning the area the gambler should survey for their missing comrade. As far as the gunslinger was concerned, Ezra Standish didn't exist.
Dismounting, Ezra studied the ground, searching for any sign that would help him locate Vin Tanner.
****
Vin knew that voice as well as he knew his own. Chris Larabee was here.
His teeth had stopped chattering, but he still found it impossible to make his frozen lips announce his presence. A frantic cry whispered from the back of his throat. A sound issued from the constricted organs, but it was barely audible to his own ears.
Chris, look in the well.
Vin sent the desperate message across the invisible telegraph he shared with the gunslinger.
****
"Nothing in the barn." Buck shouted his report.
Chris didn't need verbal confirmation from Josiah or Nathan to know they had been equally unsuccessful. The slump in their shoulders was proof enough. Shielding his eyes against the blowing snow, Chris spun on his heel. When his seeking gaze rested on the well, he knew. He didn't know how he knew. He just did.
Dropping his reins, a silent command to his horse to stay, he started running. "Buck, get a rope."
Buck's mouth opened in protest but the words went unspoken. The futility of the requested action was clearly written on his face. At a far slower pace, he crossed to his horse.
"Vin?" Chris stared into the dark depths; straining eyes fell upon the ashen face of his missing friend. "Hurry, Buck."
Joining the other men ringing the reservoir, Buck gasped, "Well, I'll be damned."
"I wouldn't be a bit surprised," Josiah muttered. "Why should you be any different from the rest of us?"
Uncoiling his lariat, Buck threw one end down the shaft. Josiah's strong hands joined his on the other end.
Vin released his grip on the wall, reaching for the lifeline. His frozen fingers wrapped around the hemp, but they had no strength to grip it. When Buck and Josiah started pulling, the cord slipped from Vin's grasp.
"Bring it up," Chris ordered.
Buck glared at his friend in confusion. "Chris?"
"Someone's going to have to go down after him." Chris shrugged out of his coat. His hat, boots and gun belt joined it on the snowy ground, making it clear who would be the one to make the descent.
"JD," Nathan instructed, joining Buck and Josiah. "Git a fire goin' in the house. Collect some blankets and towels."
The young man glanced into the well before reluctantly running to obey.
The rope knotted securely under his arms, Chris sat on the edge of the pit. "Ready?"
"Ready," Buck acknowledged, planting one foot against the stone enclosure encircling the spring.
Pushing off the wall, Chris hung suspended above the dark hole. He shivered as the cold air blew through his thin shirt. Fear squeezed his heart as he watched Vin flounder in the murky water. His descent too slow for the panic gripping him, Chris shouted, "Faster."
When his legs entered the glacial water, he found it impossible to speak at all. His lungs heaved, unable to process air. The level rose to his waist. Numb, Chris wrapped his arms around Vin. He longed to whisper words of reassurance to his friend but the cold body pressed to his stole his breath. His teeth were chattering too violently to allow words to pass his lips. A different kind of fear gripped him when he realized there wasn't enough air in his lungs to scream at Buck to pull them up.
"Start bringing them up."
Chris was surprised to hear Ezra issue the command he could not verbalize himself. It was even more surprising the words had been few in number and simply spoken. It was an audible indication of the gambler's distress. For a brief moment, Chris regretted his treatment of the Southerner. A soft moan from the body in his arms dampened his forgiveness and renewed his anger.
Stones abraded Chris' back. He gritted his teeth against the pain and tightened his grip around the injured man's chest. Wind swirled around him, telling him they had reached the top before his eyes registered the fact. The water clinging to their clothes and skin turned to ice.
"Buck, Josiah, can you all hold 'em?"
Nathan's question was quickly followed by hands reaching out to take Vin.
"Ya kin let 'im go, Chris, I got 'im."
The words registered in Chris' sluggish brain. Dazed eyes stared at the healer. Nathan was asking the impossible. He couldn't let Vin go. The black abyss waiting below would swallow them both.
"Chris!"
Warm hands pulled Chris' cold ones apart. Panic seized him as he felt his grip around Vin loosen. "No!"
Other hands trapped his arms.
"Mr. Larabee, allow Mr. Jackson to assist Mr. Tanner."
Despite his anger with the gambler, Chris found solace in his words. Nathan would save Vin. Reassured, Chris eased his grip. The weight disappeared, making his arms bereft. He reached out, seeking the body that had given him life again. There was only air. "Vin?"
"Mr. Jackson and Mr. Sanchez have taken Mr. Tanner to the house."
Fingers tugged at the knot securing the rope around Chris' chest. A part of his brain was aware of Buck and Ezra pulling him from the well. However, it wasn't the part that could offer assistance.
"Get his stuff, Ezra, and let's git 'im in the house."
Buck's gruff voice cracked as he issued the order. Chris wondered why as he felt the dead weight of his arms being lifted and slung across warm, dry shoulders. One was much higher and broader than the other.
The house, which had seemed so far away, grew progressively closer. But Chris was certain his legs weren't bearing his weight.
"It's all right, Chris. We've got ya."
Buck's reassuring voice soothed Chris' fears. His old friend wouldn't let him down. He was so tired. If he just closed his eyes for a few minutes maybe no one would notice.
The arm around Ezra's shoulders started to slip. Although one hand was laden with Larabee's clothes and gun belt, Ezra managed to grab the sliding limb with the other. He had known the gunslinger was only half-conscious when he offered his support. In his present state of mind, Chris would never have allowed Ezra to touch him. The thought caused the gambler more pain than he had expected.
To this day, Ezra couldn't explain why he had joined this group of men to help the Seminole village. Certainly the specter of a gold mine had enticed him. However, there was no explanation for why he had stayed after finding it was played out.
Or why he continued to stay.
His mother had taught him to seek friendship only when it would prove profitable. Not one of the other men had a dime. Yet, one by one they had broken through the barrier Ezra had placed around his heart.
Josiah had been the first. The gambler had found the preacher's unorthodox view of the battle they were about to wage against the mad confederate general and the deaths it would cause, refreshing. He had looked forward to and had since enjoyed many lively conversations with the preacher. Josiah's faith in an unseen deity made Ezra wish he'd spent more time in a church and less in gambling halls. Unfortunately, it was too late to redeem his sinning soul.
The next person to breach his defenses had been a surprise. One reason Ezra had initially hesitated joining the mercenaries was due to the presence of the black healer. All his life, Ezra had been taught to see the white man as superior to the slaves who labored in their fields, cleaned his house and prepared his meals. Even though he had been rudely dismissed, Nathan's compassionate heart wouldn't allow the Southerner to suffer. With a pull and a twist, Jackson had replaced Ezra's dislocated shoulder. Not seeking, nor expecting so much as a thank you in return.
From the start, Ezra had found Buck and JD's playful antics amusing. Jealously would eat at the gambler's ego when he observed their brotherly affection towards each other. Would anyone ever care for Ezra the way these men protected each other?
Vin had been the hardest for Ezra to understand. Men like him didn't frequent gambling establishments, as a rule. It didn't help that the tracker rarely spoke. Shame filled Ezra as he remembered the one time Vin had asked him for a favor. Ezra's inebriated state had found it ludicrous that a man of the prairie, a man like Vin, could write poetry. Days later, after he'd read, "A Hero's Heart" in the Clarion, Ezra had wanted to apologize. But he didn't know how. It was a new experience for him to lament his actions. He had never done so before, because there had never been anyone whose respect he had wanted to garner. Until now.
Stumbling up the steps to the front door of the ranch house, Ezra didn't know how to classify the man whose weight rested heavily on his shoulders. The gunslinger was an enigma. The heart that was still in pieces three years after the death of his wife and son seemed to slowly be mending. He had a family again, giving him a reason to keep living. Sometimes, Ezra felt he was a part of that family. Other times, he felt like a trespasser.
A trail of warm air led them to the large living room. A fire roared in the fireplace. Nathan and Josiah were laying Vin on a blanket in front of it.
"You all get those wet clothes off Chris."
Watching as the healer started to do the same for Vin, Ezra shifted uncomfortably. He was sure Larabee would resent the gambler's assistance, fueling an already barely controlled temper.
"Why don't ya help Nathan and Josiah?" Buck softly suggested. "JD can give me a hand."
Ezra didn't even try to hide his gratitude. After helping Buck ease their burden onto a blanket, he stepped aside to allow JD to take his place. Shrugging off his coat, Ezra hurried over to where Nathan and Josiah were working on Vin.
Kneeling, he started to pull off Vin's waterlogged boots. Suction was working against him. It wasn't until Josiah lent assistance that he finally succeeded. Gripping Vin's left leg, Ezra allowed his gaze to wander. With the buckskin coat and shirt removed, he saw the bullet hole in the right shoulder. Little blood oozed from the wound. His knowledge of medicine limited, Ezra wasn't sure if this was a good or a bad sign.
When his gaze rested on the deathly pale face, Ezra received his answer. Vin's blue eyes stared at him, but they were glassy and unfocused. Despite the almost suffocating heat of the roaring fire, a chill crept along the gambler's spine.
With a sucking noise, Vin's other boot slid off. Water poured over the edge before Josiah turned it upright.
Ezra had Vin's belt unbuckled by the time Josiah had returned from placing the boots near the fire. Together, they pulled off the wet pants, followed by the underwear and socks.
Towels appeared at Ezra's side.
"Start drying 'im off," Nathan directed.
Ezra avoided Vin's eyes, unwilling to see if the tracker knew what was being done to him. It would be a mentally painful procedure for the intensely private man.
"Josiah," Nathan asked, "can ya lift Vin so's we can put dry blankets under him?"
"It would be my pleasure, Brother."
Throwing aside the boot he'd just removed from Chris' foot, JD stood. "I found a small mattress in one of the bedrooms upstairs." JD crossed to the couch, retrieving his find. With Nathan's help, he rolled it out on the floor in front of the fire.
With infinite gentleness, Josiah laid Vin on the bed.
"Ezra, start rubbing his feet." Nathan threw a blanket across the naked body.
Surprised at the cold the flesh beneath his hands, Ezra started to massage the flaccid limb. Chilled by the foot in his hands, he trembled. Fear coursed through him when he realized Vin wasn't shivering. It wasn't natural. It was almost as though Vin's body was dead.
"Cold."
The crack of a log splitting in the fire almost drowned out the softly spoken complaint. Shocked, Ezra's hands halted their movement. He stared at the pale face.
"I know you are, Vin." Nathan soothed. "We're trying to warm you up."
"Cold."
****
Sweat trickled down Vin's brow as he poured grain into Molly's bin. It was the last of the feed. Come morning, there would be nothing to give the hungry animals.
Soon after his mother took sick, Vin had started to cut down the portions he served, hoping to make the supply last until his mother was well enough to go into town. But she had gotten worse, not better. The deep snow prevented Vin from turning the animals loose to let them fend for themselves. Half-starved, they would die faster in the cold and snow than here in the relative warmth of the barn.
Feeling the hot breath on his neck, Vin dropped the empty bucket and braced himself against the wall. A soft muzzle kneaded his shoulders before the bony head pressed against his back. Vin giggled, unafraid though the huge horse's head was almost as big as the five-year-old. The back rub complete, Vin patted a satiny shoulder before exiting the stall. His teeth worried his bottom lip, listening to the crunching as the horse consumed the meager portion of grain.
Weary in mind and body, he pushed outside through the narrow opening he'd managed to trample in the deep snow. The sky was gray, threatening another storm. Trudging down the path, he sighed. The snow was already up to his waist. Much more and he wouldn't be able to reach the barn and the animals inside who depended on him. Maybe, if he tried pleading again, his mother would allow him to ride into town for supplies. He was five; he wasn't afraid to make the three mile journey alone. At least not too afraid.
His stomach growled, demanding attention. Entering the house through the kitchen, he didn't bother to look for something to eat. The pantry was as empty as the grain bin. The only thing left were staples such as flour and sugar. Vin knew his mother could make something edible out of the ingredients, but he couldn't.
Shedding his coat, he walked down the hallway, past his own bedroom to his mother's. The smell filled his nostrils. It had started several days earlier. Now it was so bad, Vin was finding it difficult to breathe. Once, a similar odor had permeated the barn. After searching every nook and cranny, his mother had finally found the source, a dead raccoon. Remembering that episode, Vin had looked everywhere in the bedroom, but couldn't find anything that had died.
He stomped his feet as he entered the room. Up until now, he had been trying not to disturb his mother, letting her sleep as much as possible. While he was sure he could go several more days without food, the animals couldn't.
The smell was so overpowering, it forced him to breathe through his mouth. Laying another log on the fire, he held his hands out, allowing the blaze to warm his numb flesh. He stared at his mother buried under a mound of blankets. She looked so peaceful. He was tempted to hop on Molly and ride into town without permission. However, his mother had raised him to be obedient and respectful. Such an action would be contrary to everything he had been taught.
"Mama." Vin crossed to the bed. "We've run out of feed, Mama."
When his verbal plea yielded no reaction, Vin put his hands on her arm. Despite the blankets and the fire, her skin was icy cold. "Wake up, Mama."
Denying the truth his mind had accepted, but his heart couldn't, Vin shook the limb with all his strength. "Mama, wake up."
****
"Mama, wake up."
The heartbroken plea tore into JD. His eyes strayed to Vin. The normally passive features were twisted with an anguish JD remembered seeing on his own face only months before. His hands shook as he pulled Chris' boot off. The same cry had issued from his own lips and still echoed in his ears.
****
He yawned, his mouth opening so wide it cracked his jaw. There wasn't enough strength in his body to lift his arm to cover the gaping hole with his hand. The manners his mother had instilled in him were being put on hold by his exhausted body.
The bills had been piling up ever since she had taken ill several months ago. JD took extra work whenever he could, though it often meant he would go without sleep several days in a row. Rent was due at the end of the week and he was still short. He would go home, get a couple hours sleep, then return to the stable. With any luck, he would pull another double shift.
It hurt leaving his mother alone for such long periods of time. But he didn't know how else to keep a roof over their heads and food in their bellies.
JD paused at the bottom of the tall flight of stairs leading to their apartment. His legs shook, already protesting the task they were being asked to perform. Gritting his teeth, JD put his hand on the banister and lifted his right leg. Muscles spasmed as he put his weight on them. The throbbing got worse with each step. By the time he reached his destination, he could barely stand.
Staggering into the small apartment, he hung his cap on a hook. His jacket quickly joined it. "I'm home, Ma."
Unconcerned when there was no reply to his greeting, he entered the kitchen. Filling a kettle with water, he placed it on the stove. His mother loved a hot cup of tea in the morning. Rolling his shirt sleeves to just below the elbow, he washed his hands and face. No matter how tired he was, this was one ritual he would not forego. The first thing his mother would do was inspect his nails.
Satisfied he would pass inspection, JD crossed the small living room to the apartment's only bedroom. His eyes strayed longingly to the couch, which served as his own bed. "How are you feeling, Ma?"
As soon as his gaze rested on her unseeing eyes, JD knew there would be no answer to his question. Tears rolled down his cheeks unchecked. He wasn't ashamed of his reaction. He had loved her. Though he knew there would be no response, he couldn't resist putting a hand on her arm and gently shaking it. "Wake up, Mama."
Unable to bear the thought that she had died alone, he shook a little harder. "Mama, wake up."
Legs no longer able to support him, JD collapsed on the edge of the bed. His fingers trembling so violently he could barely control them, he rolled the eyelids down over the blank eyes. His other hand snaked under the mattress and pulled out a bulging wallet. Putting it in his trouser pocket, he rose. Dazedly walking from the room, he paused long enough to switch the stove off and retrieve his cap and coat before he left the apartment. Her mortal soul was gone. But her dream for her son was still alive in the money she had worked so hard to save.
Lacking the funds to take public transportation, JD walked the three miles to the Boston College campus. His mother's last wish was that he go to the school. No matter how destitute they were, JD had been forbidden to touch the money she'd set aside for his education. Though his own dream was to go west, JD would not dishonor her by pursuing his fantasies.
The sidewalks were bustling with the mid-morning crowd. It made his progress difficult as he was forced to slow his pace to match the person in front of him until there was room to pass. He constantly rubbed shoulders with the elite as well as the common laborers. For the first time, he noticed how the former would disdainfully brush their clothing whenever it came into contact with the latter. The dust, rising from beneath the wheels of the passing carriages coated everything, unable to distinguish the rich from the poor.
The campus was a blessed relief from the sights and sounds of the busy city. JD had lived his entire life in Boston but had never felt at home here. Students strolled by, their arms laden with books. Their suits and bowler hats were a sharp contrast to his own dirty work clothes.
For the first time since his mother disclosed her dream, JD felt excited at the prospect of attending the prestigious school. The bowler hat was worn by one of his heroes, Bat Masterson. It was something tangible that would represent his own dream along with his mother's. The cool, tree-lined sidewalks and lush green grass of the school grounds felt a world away from the bustling city.
Seeking directions to the administration building from a passing student, JD ignored the sneer on the thin lips and the look of disdain in the pale eyes. Soon, he would walk among them as an equal.
The stand of trees abruptly ended, revealing the building he sought. JD stared at it in wonder. Its size and design were more sophisticated than those in the city. He was overwhelmed when he realized it represented his future.
Inside the structure, he followed the signs to the admissions office. Fingering the thick wallet hidden in his pants pocket, he vowed he would make his mother proud. Squaring his shoulders, he opened the frosted glass door and entered the busy office.
"Can I help you?"
Tears filled JD's eyes as they rested on the woman standing behind a tall counter. She reminded him of his mother. The same gray hair, the same build, the same work worn face. Pulling the money pouch from his pocket, he laid it in front of her. "I'm John Dunne, and I want to enroll in your school."
Hands hesitantly flipped back the flap and counted the bills inside. "I'm sorry, son." She slid the wallet across the counter. "This isn't enough to cover tuition for one semester much less the eight you would need to graduate. Then there's room and board, plus books."
JD stared at the pouch, his mother's dreams for him destroyed in less time than it had taken him to traverse the beautiful campus. He felt numb. The future his mother had envisioned for him was as dead as she was.
"I'm sorry."
Embarrassed by the compassion in her eyes, JD lifted his head. "I'm not."
His gaze was drawn to a painting depicting a buffalo hunt, and he realized he was speaking the truth. If he couldn't fulfill his mother's dream, then he would satisfy his own. Once she was properly buried, he would board the first train heading west. He would ride until he found his destiny, the place he belonged.
****
"There's no exit wound."
Wrapping his blanket tightly around his naked body, Chris allowed Buck to help him walk the short distance to Nathan Jackson's side. The healer was inspecting the hole in Vin's shoulder.
"I gotta get this bullet out."
Knowing how often Nathan had performed the operation, Chris couldn't understand his reluctance. "Then do it."
"It ain't that easy. He's real weak."
"Can you wait 'til he gits stronger?"
"If'n I do, it could get infected."
Josiah's deep voice spelled out the consequences. "Either way, Vin could die?"
"Yes."
"Seems to me," the preacher advised, "you need to weigh the advantages of waiting against the disadvantages."
Speaking more to himself than to his companions, Nathan outlined, "In his condition, I can't give 'im any laudanum so it might be less painful for him now since he's only semi-conscious. Plus, the cold water has thickened his blood. He's less likely to bleed so much. Extensive blood loss could weaken his heart, even stop it."
"What would be the advantages of waiting?' Josiah prompted.
"He'll be stronger, more likely to live through the operation."
Chris dropped his gaze and let it rest on his best friend's pale face. Listening to Nathan, he knew the advantages of waiting were fewer than the disadvantages. He was no doctor, but he knew what had to be done. "What do you need, Nathan?"
"Hot water, bandages, and you all holdin' 'im down. This is gonna hurt."
Though his strength was returning, Chris knew he wasn't strong enough to immobilize an arm or leg. Vin was a fighter. Even half-frozen with a bullet in his shoulder, he would rail against every knife stroke, every cut Nathan was forced to inflict.
Gently brushing back the wet strands of long hair clinging to the pale cheeks, Chris cupped his hands along the sides of Vin's head. Josiah had already positioned himself at Vin's left shoulder while Buck and Ezra kneeled at the injured man's feet. JD scurried to collect the items Nathan requested.
Warmth flooded through Chris on a tide of anger when his eyes rested on the gambler. The necessity of their actions was caused by Standish's avaricious predisposition. This was the last time any of them would suffer due to Ezra's selfishness. As far as Chris was concerned, the seven were now six.
Nathan folded back the blanket, exposing Vin's chest and the ugly wound scarring the smooth shoulder.
****
The icy wind moaned as it passed through the gaps of the poorly constructed shed. Vin huddled under the thin blanket, its threadbare fibers and the man curled next to him his only source of warmth.
Groans punctuated the darkness cloaking the small building. Injuries or illness accounted for only a small portion of the suffering. Empty bellies were the main source. Hunger was the universal hardship all the prisoners shared. Though they had been comrades-in-arms on the battlefield, here they were individuals doing whatever was necessary to survive. The prisoner of war camp had been nicknamed Hellmira, a fitting title for a hell hole.
Vin shivered as the cold wind rustled his hair. The body next to his had stopped radiating heat. The Texan had barely entered the camp when Rupert Johnson had appeared at his side. An Englishman by birth, a Virginian by choice, he had been willing to share his food, his small space in one of the sheds, his blanket, and his soul.
Several months after their initial meeting, Vin had asked the Englishman why he had chosen to help a skinny kid from Texas. Johnny had been quiet so long, Vin had decided he wasn't going to answer. Embarrassed, he'd silently cursed himself for the insensitive question. Then, Johnny softly revealed, "You looked like you needed a friend."
Sliding a hand across his companion's broad chest, Vin held his breath, waiting for his fingers to feel the rise and fall of expanding lungs. There was no movement. His initial belief Johnny's fever had finally broken died as the flesh cooled quickly in the frigid air. Vin had touched death before. The first time was when he was five-years-old. Since then, he'd seen its face often, most recently at Sharpsburg, Chancellorsville, and Gettysburg.
Pulling away from the chilling body, Vin huddled under the blanket that belonged to him now - if he was willing to fight for it. Since the alternative was to freeze to death, he would fight. He closed his eyes, knowing it would be the last chance he would have to sleep for a while. Tomorrow, he would be no one's friend.
Morning sunlight, as dreary as the gray sky from which it issued, glowed through the gaping boards and dirty windows. Guards shouted orders in the compound. Rising, Vin wondered if there would be food for breakfast, and if so, if there would be enough for everyone. Folding the blanket, he wrapped it around his waist, tying it the way Johnny had showed him. The ragged fabric was the most precious possession he owned.
Though his small frame was half the size of his deceased friend's, Vin put his hands under the stiffening body. Dragging it towards the door, he wasn't surprised when his path was blocked. A soft sigh of resignation escaped his lips. The few hours since Johnny's death were all Vin would be allowed to mourn his friend. Even that time had been granted out of ignorance rather than compassion.
"It looks like the kid has lost his bodyguard, boys."
"It's better than losing my brains like you have, Crowley." Vin tensed as he felt the bullies take positions at his back and on each side.
"Ya got a big mouth, kid."
"You've said that before."
"I think someone needs ta shut it fer ya. Permanently."
Vin eased his grip on Johnny's body, knowing he would need his arms and hands to fight. He was outnumbered three to one. Even emaciated, each man outweighed him by a good fifty pounds. But he wouldn't back down. They would remember the name Tanner.
A sharp pain near his right shoulder was the first indication Crowley intended to fight with more than just fists and size. Dropping his friend, Vin turned to the man on his right and kicked him just below the knee. Almost before that foot had touched the floor, he was planting the other in the second goon's stomach.
Crowley stared in shock as his two accomplices moaned, hands protecting their injured areas from further harm.
Ignoring the blood dripping from his arm and off his fingertips, Vin faced the last man standing. "It's jus' you and me and yer knife, Crowley. I reckon ya got the advantage. But then, I don't know much 'bout gambling."
"Seems to me, ya already beat the odds, kid." A man, the flesh on his bones proof he was new to the prison, leaned against the doorjamb.
Vin kept his eyes on Crowley as he addressed the newcomer. "I don't play games of chance, Reynolds."
"Life is a game of chance, kid. Yer jus' too young ta know it. What're ya, ten-years-old?"
"Twelve," Vin indignantly snapped.
With a snort of disbelief, Reynolds crossed to stand at Vin's side. "Crowley, go pick on someone yer own age and size."
Faced with an opponent who still had the strength to defeat him, Crowley backed down. Hiding his homemade knife in his boot, he glared at Vin before striding from the shack.
"I coulda taken care of myself," Vin protested, scowling at Reynolds.
"I know, kid. I broke up the fight ta help me, not you."
Though he'd never had the chance to go to school, Vin knew he wasn't stupid. Yet, no matter what angle he looked at it, he couldn't figure out how Reynolds could benefit from his victory. "What're ya gettin' at?"
"If Crowley kills ya, he gets the blanket."
"So yer gonna kill me for it?"
"Nah. I'm willing ta share."
There was a smile on Reynolds's face, but it didn't reach his eyes. Vin sadly regarded Johnny's body, remembering the man's unselfish companionship. Would he ever have such a friend again?
"Come here, kid, let me look at that shoulder."
"I can take care of it." Even as the words left his mouth, Vin knew they were a lie. He could neither see, nor reach the knife wound. Now his adrenalin rush had subsided, it had started to throb. Still, he was unwilling to show any weakness, especially in front of this man.
Reynolds shrugged his shoulders. "Suit yerself."
****
Nathan visually inspected the bullet wound as he waited for JD to return with the boiling water. The deeper the slug, the harder it would be to extract. He could only hope no muscles would be permanently damaged during the operation. The price on his head made Vin's skill as a sharpshooter essential.
Attuned to his patient, Nathan was surprised to see Vin's left hand moving slowly towards the blanket the healer had pushed out of his way. Red, swollen fingers twisted around the thick fabric. The effort reminded Nathan of another time, another place. A place where a blanket meant life and death. A place he never wanted to go back to, not even in his memories.
****
An odor so offensive it made his stomach twist, pushing bile into his throat, greeted Nathan upon his arrival. The gates to the prison camp hadn't even opened, and he was already regretting his temporary transfer.
"Dr. Jackson."
Nathan shifted his attention to the black trooper only a few years older than himself. "I ain't no doctor."
"Would ya follow me to Colonel Tracy's office?" The trooper stumbled, trying to find an appropriate title for the private standing in front of him. "Sir."
Though uncomfortable with a station he associated with his former masters, Nathan simply nodded and followed his guide. When Tracy had first contacted him, Nathan had been surprised to learn a colored troop had been assigned to guard a Confederate prison camp. He had been even more shocked when the colonel had requested he be temporarily transferred from the medical unit he was attached to. Nathan had no training as a soldier. He didn't belong here.
The administration building was little more than shacks thrown together. The commanding officer's office was one of the tiny buildings. It only had enough floor space to accommodate a desk, two chairs, and a file cabinet.
Pushing aside the paperwork lying on the desk in front of him, Tracy motioned for Nathan to take the other chair. A wave of the hand dismissed the trooper. "Thank you for coming, Private."
"I didn't have much choice." Aware of the single stripe on the sleeve of his uniform, Nathan hastily added, "Colonel."
Regret reflecting on his face, Tracy dropped his eyes. "I'm sorry about that, Jackson."
"I'm not a soldier, Colonel," Nathan insisted. "All I've done in this war is work with a medical unit."
"Those are the skills I need." Tracy rose from his seat to stare out the small window on the back wall. "Elmira was built to house five thousand rebels. We have over nine thousand. The prison hospital has admitted over two thousand patients. Seven hundred of them have died. There are four hundred and fifty men in the hospital on any given day, with another six hundred injured or ill in quarters."
Realizing where the colonel was leading, Nathan fearfully interrupted, "I'm not a doctor, sir."
"If you were, you wouldn't be here."
More confused than ever, Nathan stared at the officer with unblinking eyes.
"Chief Surgeon Sanger won't allow a doctor to treat prisoners of war."
"That's crazy."
"The policy is in retaliation for the way Union prisoners are being treated in Confederate camps."
Horrified, Nathan shook his head. "Never much cared for that eye for an eye attitude."
"Good." Tracy turned from the window to regard Nathan. "I've got prisoners with clothing stuck to open cuts, untended broken bones, and every disease known and unknown to man."
"I ain't no doctor, Colonel," Nathan repeated, dismay making it difficult for him to breathe.
A pleading note in his voice, Tracy pointed out, "Ya got more knowledge, more skills than any of my men. My men are black. I can't transfer a white medic to my unit." The voice dropped to a whisper. "Even if only a few lives are saved, maybe I won't feel like an executioner."
"I'll try, sir," Nathan reluctantly agreed. He didn't have the proper training. He could kill as easily as he healed. He would be the one to live with that on his conscience, not Tracy. "I'll need equipment, medical supplies."
"Everything should be in the building next to this one." Tracy gestured to his left. "If ya need anything let me know. I'll see what I can do to get it. I can't make any promises, but I'll do my best."
Nathan rose. "Thank you, sir."
"One last thing." Tracy avoided Nathan's gaze. "You'll have to treat the prisoners in the compound. I can't take a chance Dr. Sanger might make an unscheduled visit."
The odor permeating the air was all the proof Nathan needed to know how unsanitary conditions were inside the camp. The expression twisting the colonel's features told Nathan any protest would be futile. "I'll get started right away, sir."
"Make sure a guard can see you at all times."
Nathan felt shell-shocked as he exited the office. In his years as a slave and then on the battlefields of this war, he thought he'd seen the worst of man's inhumanity to man. Never could he have imagined that medical aid would be deliberately withheld, be used as a tool against one's enemy. He thought educated men were above such barbarism.
Absently following Tracy's directions, he entered the building housing the meager medical supplies. He could tell at a glance there wasn't nearly enough to treat half the prisoners he'd been told to expect, much less the entire camp. Despite the colonel's assurances, Nathan knew more would not be forthcoming anytime soon.
Finding a small knapsack, he put a variety of instruments and medicines inside. With a dread that had nothing to do with the prisoners themselves, and everything to do with their possible illnesses and injuries and his lack of skills to treat them, Nathan walked to the main gate. Would he do more harm than good? With a nod of reassurance from the guards in the towers, he waited expectantly as the gates were opened.
Men lay in the trampled snow in various stages of dress and undress. Several had obviously lost their minds, many more their lives. His hot breath blurring his view of the horrors laid out before him, Nathan bit his lip. This was even worse than he had imagined. The utter disdain shown towards the corpses stacked like cordwood around the compound unnerved him.
Forcing himself to concentrate on the living, he crossed to a man with a nasty cut on his forehead. "Here, let me take a look at that."
"Git yer hands offer me, nigger." Skeletal hands swatted away Nathan's offer of assistance.
Seeing the hatred on the faces around him, Nathan was tempted to retrace his steps. Go back to the world where his skills were more important than his color. Swallowing his pride, he explained, "I've got some medical training. I can help you."
The dirty, emaciated faces continued to regard him with hostility.
"Kin ya fix this arm of mine?"
Nathan searched the masses, looking for the body accompanying the voice. A young boy with long brown hair and startling blue eyes was making his way towards Nathan. Patches of skin, white from the cold, showed through gaping holes in his tattered clothes. A filthy, threadbare blanket was wrapped around the thin waist. The fingers of one hand were twisted around the shredded fabric in a desperate grip Nathan knew would be difficult to break, even though the boy was half-starved. When he reached Nathan, he turned, revealing a deep cut running the length of his upper right arm.
"Well, whaddya think? Can ya fix it?"
The demand, spoken in a raspy voice with a slight lisp, tore Nathan from his shock. Gently examining the wound with his fingers, he reached into his knapsack and drew out a bottle. "I kin help, but I gotta cut away this infection. I got some laudanum to help with the pain."
"No drugs." The boy pushed the bottle away.
Nathan opened his mouth to protest when a tall, brutish man reached out to grab the boy.
"Don't touch me, Crowley."
Cowed by the warning he heard in the cracking voice, Nathan wasn't surprised when the larger man backed away.
"Ya can't let no nigger doctor treat ya, kid," Crowley sneered.
The boy shrugged. "Didn't notice his color."
"What're ya, color blind?"
"Reckon I must be." Blue eyes rested on Nathan's face. "I'm ready when you are, Doc."
Continued in Part Two
