This borders on slash. If I get to Part 2, it WILL be slash. I hesitate to put this out, mainly because I haven't written Part 2.

Ezra stared at the telegram for a long while as it sat on the saloon table, taunting him by its very existence. Ezra cocked his head to the right. He cocked his head to the left. He gained no insight in this irrational attempt to discern what frightening secrets the fragile yellow paper might contain.

"Eeeeezrraaaaaa...?"

The gambler sighed wearily. "Yes, Mr. Dunne?"

"What are you doing?" JD asked from across the table, watching Ezra watch the telegram.

Never taking his eyes from the paper that seemed to invite a dark cloud to hover ominously on the horizon of his life, Ezra answered, "Speculating." JD furrowed his brows and looked at Nathan, who sat to the gambler's left.

"He says he's thinking," Nathan answered JD's look.

The kid's eyebrows rose in understanding. "Ohhh..."

Buck shook his head, trying not to laugh, even as Josiah emitted a deep, rumbling chuckle.

Chris and Vin remained silent, wondering at Ezra's odd behavior, but not concerned enough to question the gambler.

After almost an hour of not doing much of anything, Buck and JD had grown restless.

"Ezra."

Ezra sighed. Again. "Yes, Mr. Wilmington?"

"Starin' at that thing ain't gonna open it."

"I am quite aware of that, Mr. Wilmington."

"Then," JD broke in, "Why don't you read it?"

"Because I fear there is only one person it can be from. And my mother only sends a telegram for three reasons."

When no explanation was forthcoming, Buck growled with frustration. "What reasons?" he demanded.

Ezra condescended to answer the scoundrel, all the while never taking his eyes from the note on the table. "Either she's coming to visit..."

"God help us all," Josiah muttered. Solemn nods agreed with this statement.

"Or?" JD asked.

"Or she's had a brilliant idea and requires my expertise for some con or another..."

"Right," Buck said. "Or?"

"Or she's managed to get herself into some sort of bind and I'm the only one who can extricate her from whatever it is she's gotten herself into this time." Not waiting for an answer, Ezra slowly reached out and snagged the telegram firmly between his fore and middle fingers. Touching as little of the paper as possible, as though it might taint him in some way, Ezra unfolded the note, reading silently.

Considering the length of the letter, he stared at it for an abnormally long time. "Well?" Vin broke the silence, his curiosity getting the better of him.

Ezra took a deep breath, calming and preparing himself. "MY DEAR SON EZRA STOP YOUR ASSISTANCE IS REQUIRED IN NEW ORLEANS STOP I HAVE FOUND MYSELF CAUGHT IN THE GRASP OF A MAN WHO DOES NOT TAKE KINDLY TO LOSING HIS MONEY STOP MY PARTNER HAS DOUBLE CROSSED ME LEAVING ME WITH NO FUNDS TO PAY MY DEBTOR STOP PLEASE COME QUICKLY STOP LOVE MOTHER STOP."

The men exchanged questioning looks, but JD was the one who finally asked, in a soft, fearful voice, what they were all wondering. "Are you going?"

Ezra folded the telegram and it disappeared into his tailcoat. He bowed his head. "I am afraid I have little choice. She is family."

"You're leaving us?" JD asked with disbelief, not seeming to understand that the seven could break up now, or ever, a youth's flimsy dreams shattered so easily.

Ezra finally raised his eyes and smiled at their youngest. "Oh, do not fear, Mr. Dunne. After I've aided my mother in whatever it is she requires, I shall return with all due haste to resume my duty in this... fair city. Surely you can manage without me for a month."

JD smiled hesitantly. "You're sure?"

"He is," Chris answered.

Ezra looked to wonder once more at the one man who remained a mystery to him. "You answer for me, Mr. Larabee?" he dared.

"He'll be back," Chris said to the group, ignoring the gambler.

Ezra slowly drew up his arms so that his fists sat on his hips in a gesture of melodramatic indignation. "And how do you propose to keep such a promise, Sir?"

"By going with you," Chris answered simply, before standing to retreat out the doors, leaving six astonished men behind him.

Chris was walking down the dark street, lit only by the burning braziers at the end of each alley, when he heard light footsteps trotting up behind him. "Mr. Larabee!" Ezra called. The gunslinger did not slow his steps, forcing Ezra to run all the faster to reach him. "Mr. Larabee," he repeated once he could finally stride side by side with the man he sought. "Are you quite sure this is a sensible idea? After all, you are the leader here; I'm not sure it would be at all prudent to leave the others without..." Ezra sounded flustered until he finally came to his point. "Do you have any idea what you're getting yourself into?! Once Maude spots you, any hopes you have of staying out of her business will be finished, trust me! She'll wrap you up in her plans until you owe more than she does! Please reconsider this foolish plot to ensure my retu--"

Chris stopped in his tracks, turning to face the gambler, who stopped with him, still breathing heavily from his running and babbling. "D'you jus' call me a fool, Ezra?" the gunslinger demanded without emotion.

"No, no Mr. Larabee! Not at all! I simply think--"

"You think too much," Chris advised as he resumed walking. "When are we leaving?"

Letting it go for now, Ezra again ran to catch up with the taller man's longer strides. "The sooner the better," Ezra muttered, not at all happy now about his revelation. He should have kept the letter a secret, just left in the middle of the night, like his first instinct had warned him to. Things would have been so much simpler... but no, he had bought into the morals of these men: honor, trust... what next? "I'd better pack," Ezra said, slowing down to return to the saloon.

Chris stopped, turning again to face his companion. "Me too."

Ezra shook his head sadly, not willing to fight the man any longer.

Chris Larabee was more stubborn than a mule, and he didn't break his promises. Besides, Ezra had to save his strength. "Well, don't pack anything you value, including your guns or your clothes. The less you have, the less you have to lose," Ezra seemed to recite, half to Chris, but also half to himself as he turned to go back to the saloon. Chris narrowed his eyes, staring after him a moment, before resuming his walk to the boarding house.

The next day, Ezra ran about town making travel arrangements, pestering Chris about said arrangements, wiring the judge, wiring his mother, and generally keeping himself busy while still successfully retaining his cool demeanor.

"... should arrive by this time next week, and I did tell my mother you were coming along with me."

"Why?" Chris asked, not angry, just curious.

"Because if I didn't, that's just one more thing she would criticize us about upon our arrival. You really have no idea what you're getting into, do you?"

Chris glared at Ezra, silencing the man. "I'm helping a friend," he replied before heaving both his and Ezra's luggage to the top of the stage that would take them to the nearest railroad. Ezra shook his head before climbing into the coach, watching as Chris and Vin made their silent farewells. Chris left the others with a few words of encouragement before climbing in across from Ezra who waved and smiled to the five men to would remain behind, hiding the turmoil that swirled within him.

The coach took off with a jolt and the men traveled in silence, each with their own thoughts. Chris really didn't know what would be expected of him. He had been to a few big cities before, but not like New Orleans, and what sort of trouble had Maude gotten herself into? Surely there was more to it than what could be contained in a simple telegram. And why was Ezra so withdrawn all of a sudden? He'd been awfully quiet lately, or babbling constantly, both of which were starting to wear on the gunslinger's nerves.

But like everything in his life, he'd just take it in stride. He was nothing if not adaptable. Four Corners was long behind him when a sudden thought sprang to Chris's mind: just why had he invited himself along in the first place?

Ezra tried to hide his nervousness, but guessed he wasn't succeeding. He kept fidgeting about in his seat, and every time he did so Chris would shoot that glare of his. It was Threatening Glare Number Three, Ezra decided. The one he usually used on JD that meant someone was doing something extremely annoying and if said person did not stop soon, Chris would stop it for him by whatever means necessary. Ezra ceased the nervous movement, instead pulling his black Stetson down over his eyes and stretching out as much as possible in the cramped vehicle. He knew he wouldn't sleep, but he didn't want to have to look at Chris anymore. The man was a walking enigma, and now, instead of staying in the relative safety of a small town surrounded by friends, he was traversing half the country with a man he barely trusted to help with some family problems. Not only was something wrong with that picture, everything was! But that wasn't what Ezra was worried about. He knew Chris could handle himself, physically and mentally, but the gambling underworld of these huge American cities would be a completely foreign culture to the gunslinger. Not only would he be looking out for himself and watching his mother's back, Ezra would also have to keep Chris on a short leash to ensure he didn't lose the man to any of the many threats that awaited an innocent mark. Of course, Chris Larabee was by no means innocent--Ezra knew this--but he also knew what the true gamblers of the world were capable of. He, and even his mother, tempered their scams: they didn't want to intentionally hurt anyone. If you scam a few dollars out of a lot of people, it's no skin off their necks for the money that will keep you alive in winter, but these big-time gamblers cared nothing for the innocence of their targets and would strangle the money out of you without a second thought.

God help them all.

The weeklong voyage from the New Mexico Territory to the bustling city of New Orleans seemed to take no time at all, both men lost in their respective thoughts, oblivious to the time. But now, two lone men, each with nothing but the clothes on their backs and a single bag a piece, made their way through the busy streets to the dingy hotel where Ezra had reserved a room for them.

Despite what mental preparation Chris had put himself through for the journey, he still wasn't quite ready to jump into the twisting throng of people that surged about him on a Saturday evening in such a huge metropolis. Thus, he stuck closer than usual to the gambler, occasionally even grabbing onto the man's belt for fear of losing him in the crowd. Ezra accepted the burden of being Chris's temporary safety line without comment, but both were relieved to step out of the harsh city atmosphere and into the quiet, if much hotter world of the ugly hotel. Ezra easily masked what weariness he felt as he strode to the desk clerk and laid his hand on the countertop to get the attention of the old woman who sat behind it. "Standish," he announced.

The woman nodded, turning to retrieve the key. "Room 408," she instructed. "Top floor, end of the hall."

Ezra nodded his thanks, gesturing that Chris should follow him. Larabee couldn't for the life of him understand the disgusted smirk the woman sent after them.

Both men were breathing hard after the climb to the fourth and top floor where Ezra fought with the old lock and key until the door opened. He and Chris gratefully fell into the room, though it was even hotter than the train station or the hotel's lobby had been. Chris collapsed into the chair while Ezra dropped onto the bed. Finally, Chris broke the silence. "I would have liked my own room," he informed his companion.

Ezra shrugged. "Gamblers make the best use of their money. Right now, we use it best by living in filth, keeping up appearances, and gambling enough to pay off my mother's debts. Hopefully, we shall win enough to live out the rest of our stay and return trip in luxury."

"We?"

Ezra did not answer as he suddenly sat up and looked quizzically at the gunslinger. "Those clothes must simply go," Ezra proclaimed, rising and stalking toward the other man.

Chris suddenly looked worried. "What's wrong with my clothes?" he asked, looking down at the faded black denim and shirt he had traveled in.

"Not fit for a man of wealth, certainly," Ezra explained as he grabbed Chris's wrist and dragged the exhausted man out into the hallway, barely taking the time to shut the door behind them.

"Where are we going?"

Ezra smirked at the question that sounded suspiciously like a whine. "The tailor's."

"Ow, that's poking me!"

"If you stood still, it wouldn't be."

Sigh

"Now, hold this up to your chest--"

"Oh no! I am NOT wearing that!"

"You most certainly are; now stand up straight; gentlemen do not slouch... I said straight. Stop that!"

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip

Silence

"I didn't do it."

"Yes you did; surely, I am not paying for that. Besides, I told you to stand still."

"I am not a peacock! I refuse to dress like one!"

"Welcome to the world of high society. Now, go try those on before the final alterations."

Grumble. Plod, plod, plod. Creak. Shuffle, shuffle.

"Damn! Stupid fucking--"

"Gentlemen do not swear, Mr. Larabee!"

"So that's why you use all them fancy words..."

"Are you finished yet?"

"I don't understand how anyone can even manage to dress themselves wearing the clothes you do..."

"Well, if you require my assistance--"

"No! I'm almost done."

"Very well. And might I remind you, if I could dress like a woman for a day, I'm sure you have the integrity to dress as a gentleman for a week."

Grumble. Ahem. Gulp. Creak. Plod, plod, plod.

"Well, Mr. Larabee, I must say the difference is remarkable--"

Growl

"Hm. I see you don't approve. Too bad; we'll take them all."

"Mr. Larabee, please cease that ridiculous action; you're drawing unnecessary attention."

Chris tugged at his collar one last time before returning his hands to his sides. He couldn't believe he'd allowed himself to be dragged into this.

If he hadn't been half asleep and suffering so from the unusual humidity of the heat he probably wouldn't have. But now, here he was: awaiting a meeting with Ezra's mother while dressed almost identically to the gambler with new, shiny black boots, black pinstriped trousers, gilded and brocaded pine green vest with miniature pocket watch, frilled white shirt, tiny black cravat, and new black Stetson hat, but where Ezra wore his crimson tailcoat lined and trimmed with navy blue silk, Chris had been dressed in a dark grayish green colored one, with a deep brown trim (Ezra had only agreed to the plain colors because the gambler insisted they matched Chris's eyes.) Larabee couldn't fathom how Ezra lived in all these layers with all their various fastenings while out in the wilderness of the wild and untamed desert. The one thing that had the poor man even more nervous than the clothing, however, was that Ezra had not allowed him to carry his guns. The gambler had purchased for him a shoulder holster that would hold a concealed weapon, as well as a derringer to hide in his boot, but Chris just didn't feel right without his own guns. His contemplation was cut short before long, however.

"Ezra, darling! Mr. Larabee!" Maude swooped down upon them from the swirling crowds of the saloon, obviously happy to see them, though one could never be sure how honest the outward emotions of a Standish were. The woman hugged them both and granted Ezra a kiss on the cheek. She embraced her son once more. "Thank God you've come!" she breathed in relief before taking Ezra by the hand and leading them to a corner booth of the dimly lit barroom.

Chris ignored the idle prattle that passed between mother and son, examining the woman who had summoned them. Her dress was not nearly so fine as anything Chris had ever seen her wear, though it was by no means cheap. It was, however, tattered and dirty, as though she'd worn the old thing for days without chance to bathe or wash. The traitorous bags beneath her eyes and an innate nervousness to her movements gave her happy faade away. She constantly looked to the door and continued rubbing her thinly gloved hands together. She seemed to have lost the carefree and self-assured attitude Chris remembered the stately woman possessing in Four Corners and he couldn't help but wonder how many times she, and Ezra, had been in similar situations.

"All right. It's agreed then."

Chris looked up at the tone of finality in Ezra's voice. "What's happening?"

"Watch and learn," Ezra promised as he extended a hand to Maude as she rose from her seat.

Maude dismissed herself and disappeared out the door.

Over the next hour, Ezra coached Chris on the part he was to play in the scheme. Then, they took a coach across town to a cheap little saloon where many gambling tables were set up. Ezra instructed Chris to sit at the bar and look as rich, as gentlemanly, and as non-threatening as possible until he was needed. Chris pulled up a stool near the end of the bar and watched as Ezra introduced himself at the table where Maude was sitting. To anyone else, it looked as though they'd never met before.

Hours passed, either Maude or Ezra winning near every hand. Near midnight, Chris finally picked up on the slight foot-taps the two were sending to each other under the table. It must have been a complicated code, for Chris could not make it out.

Finally, an audience gathered around the table as Maude and Ezra faced off alone. Chris was amazed at their talent. This last hand was no act as the two fought to win the final pot; neither was it mother versus son, but card-player versus card-player: no cheating, no trickery, only talent and luck.

As it turned out, Maude won the final round, and Ezra gave a stunningly realistic performance, standing and crashing the chair back behind him. "You cheat, Madame!" he accused, pointing a finger at his mother.

Maude also stood, clutching her winnings to her chest. "How dare you, Sir!? This money was won in a fair poker game, with talent and luck. I would never cheat!"

Ezra snarled and made a lunge for the money. Other patrons backed away from the confrontation.

Maude shrieked and ran around the other side of the table. Ezra released his derringer and pointed it at his mother's heart. "You give me my money!" he demanded in a primitive growl.

Silence reigned as Maude and Ezra fought to catch their breaths. No one noticed the finely dressed figure that had entered the fray until Chris set his hand atop Ezra's gun. "Come, my friend," he instructed in a soothing, low tone. "You've done plenty well, tonight," he persuaded, gesturing at the wad of cash in Ezra's belt. "I think you've had a bit too much to drink. Let's just get you home and leave the lady alone."

Ezra looked questioningly to Chris, as though unsure he should believe him, but after an intense moment, he pushed the derringer back into place and nodded, turning stiffly to exit the building.

Chris tipped his hat to Maude. "Ma'am," he addressed before following Ezra out.

Two weary men climbed the stairs to their room that night. Chris took his time undressing, being careful of all the little buttons and whatnot that he was not accustomed to. Ezra paid no attention and ignored his own heavy, sweat-laden clothes as he counted out the money in his belt. "Four-hundred fifty-eight dollars and twenty nine cents," he smiled. "Not bad for the first night, not bad at all. And my dear mother took home over twice that amount. We have made a good start."

When he received no reply, Ezra turned to look at Chris, who swayed unsteadily near the foot of the bed. "Please, sit down before you fall down, Mr. Larabee..."

Chris fell onto the bed, forcing Ezra off it from where he'd been counting the money.

Chris mumbled something into the bedsheets.

"Could you please repeat that, Mr. Larabee?"

"There's only one bed," Chris observed in a tired slur.

"So I noticed," Ezra agreed, somewhat puzzled. When Chris did not continue, Ezra guessed at his meaning. "Have no fear, Sir. The floor will do quite well for me."

The next morning, several short raps on the door awakened two weary cowboys. Ezra grumbled unhappily and pulled the blanket up over his head where he lay on the floor. Chris sighed before rolling out of bed to open the door.

"Boys, boys, what a turn out we had last night! I can hardly wait--well now, I must say. You aren't even dressed," Maude pushed her way into the room, ignoring a half-clad Chris to criticize her son. "Now Ezra, the sun has almost risen; it is time to rise and shine, my dear boy."

Ezra grunted and rolled over. Maude did not hesitate to step over the man and send a firm kick to his stomach. Her son sat up with a shout, clutching his abdomen, but before he could issue a single complaint, Maude was already planning the day's activities and fishing through Ezra's bag to find suitable clothing.

Still only half awake, Chris watched with wide eyes, wondering if this was how Ezra had grown up, how he'd lived: rising before morning, living out of a hand bag, relying on untrustworthy cons to earn a living, and running from your past. No wonder he'd finally settled in Four Corners.

The next three days were spent running all kinds of scams, taking money from the unsuspecting. Chris did indeed find himself wrapped up in the middle of these plots, but with Ezra on one side and Maude on the other, he--ironically--felt relatively safe and trusted the two to their life's work.

The trio implemented all manner of trickeries and the money grew steadily. Soon, nearly four thousand dollars sat collecting in Ezra's and Chris's hotel room, just waiting to be handed over to Maude's debtors.

On the forth night of their stay, Maude escorted Ezra and Chris to the meeting place, all their collected monies stowed in Maude's little handbag.

Chris was sent ahead of them and his instructions were to observe but not interfere. Maude and Ezra arrived early, and sat near so that any conversation could reach Chris where he was situated at the bar.

A good thirty minutes later, several men arrived and sat at Maude's table without invitation. Maude and Ezra rose to greet them. "Ah, Mr. Stanton! This is my son, Ezra Standish, and your associates?"

Mr. Stanton frowned, but made the introductions. "Mr. Jones, Mr. Hastings. They're here to ensure I receive my dues."

Maude paled at the implications, but placed her purse on the table. Ezra finally spoke. "Three thousand six hundred twenty eight dollars," he announced.

Stanton pocketed the money, frowning. "You owed me five thousand," he informed Maude unhappily.

"Yes, yes I know, but you see, things have been difficult, and since my son's arrival things have gone ever so more smoothly--"

"I don't care. You were supposed to have my money, all of it, tonight."

"Mr. Stanton," Ezra broke in. "Might I have a word with you, in private. I have an offer that you may find... intriguing."

Stanton narrowed his eyes, but accepted the invitation and the two men moved off to a private booth to converse.

Maude shared strained conversation with the other two men at the table for nearly an hour until Ezra, who appeared considerably more downtrodden, and Stanton, who appeared considerably happier, returned. The nasty man smiled down at Maude. "Your debts have been erased, Madame, you are now a free woman."

Maude smiled and thanked the man before he and his cohorts left. Ezra looked to his mother, then to Chris. "I must go for a short walk to get myself some air, if you'll excuse me..."

Chris stared after the gambler, puzzled at what had taken place.

Maude sighed with relief, collapsing back into her chair with a genuine smile fixed on her previously drawn features. "Ah, that Ezra. He does his mother proud."

Chris slowly sat, joining Maude at her table. "Mrs. Standish, I... I don't understand. A little conversation and your debts are cleared? That isn't the way things work."

Maude shook her head. "I'm sure I don't know either, but Ezra's magic works every time."

"Every time?" Chris's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You mean he's done this before?"

Maude nodded. "Whenever things turn badly for me, he always manages to reverse the situation with a little smile and glass of sherry."

"But that can't be it; he must be making them some sort of offer."

"Oh, Ezra was a conman long before he was a conversationalist. He knows his trade and plies it well. I don't question him, and I'm sure he would never give his secret away. So I don't bother him, and he clears my debts. And why shouldn't things be that way? I'm his mother, after all."

Chris made no response, sitting back to watch the people of the New Orleans streets drift about the saloon and to contemplate what on earth Ezra could have offered to take the place of one thousand three hundred seventy two dollars.

Sometime between late evening and early morning, Ezra returned, dumping a small pile of wallets onto the old, splintered table. Without a word, Ezra and Maude began sorting through them: cash on one side, wallets and everything else on the other. Ezra took fifty dollars, leaving Maude the rest, almost another hundred dollars.

Ezra finally broke the silence with a weary sigh. "I suggest, Mother, that you use this money to take leave of this city before Mr. Stanton changes his mind."

"You are correct, my dear boy. I'll be off at sunrise. Thank you again, to you and Mr. Larabee." Maude flashed the men a smile before disappearing out the door in a swirl of petticoats.

Chris frowned. "Where'd those wallets come from, Ezra?"

"Mr. Larabee," Ezra began, his voice laden with fatigue, his eyes downcast and shoulders slumping. "Long before I cheated thousands with a deck of cards, I was quite a proficient pickpocket, almost a prodigy I should think." He pointed at the leather wallets gathered at the edge of the table.

"Thirteen marks, and not caught a single time. Good work, I must say." Before Chris could reply, Ezra continued. "You need not say a word, Mr. Larabee. You have tolerated my cheating nature from the beginning, and these past days you have even assisted me in a time of trouble, but theft, outright robbery... I know what your thoughts of me must be now. I shall understand if you return home tomorrow, and instruct me not to follow."

"Ezra," Chris addressed him, ignoring the speech, "you've gone over forty-eight hours without sleep. Let's get you to bed and talk about this in the morning."

Ezra looked confused, but accepted the hand up that Chris offered him, glad of the support as he nearly stumbled in the simple act of rising from his chair.

The sun was just rising as Chris sat Ezra down on the bed of their hotel room. The gambler was asleep the minute his head touched the threadbare pillow.

Ezra blinked. He stared up into two slate gray eyes peering curiously down at him. "You okay, Ezra?"

"Why shouldn't I be, Mr. Larabee?"

"You've been asleep over twenty hours."

"Twenty hours?!" Ezra sat up, only just realizing that he was in the bed.

Chris nodded, handing over a cup of hot coffee and some biscuits. "Eat. You'll feel better."

Ezra nodded, taking the food and gobbling it down as fast as he could without choking; he had been hungry.

"What do you owe Mr. Stanton?"

Ezra raised his eyes from his coffee, two great, green orbs staring fearfully up at Chris. "What are you taking about?" he asked slowly.

"You got rid of Maude's debt, but what did it cost you?"

"That's none of your business--"

"I'm making it my business." When Ezra made no reply, Chris continued. "Your mother said you'd done this for her before. Why? How?"

"Why? Because she's my mother. How? That is a secret."

"And you won't share this secret with me?"

"It's mine to keep."

Chris frowned. "I don't like it."

A corner of Ezra's mouth quirked up. "Who said you would, Mr. Larabee?"

An hour later, Ezra demanded he visit the bathhouse, but with every minute of their walk, the gambler withdrew into himself more and more. Chris escorted the man to the bathhouse, uncertain of Ezra's true motives.

Leaving the gambler to his ablutions, Chris waited nearly an hour outside on the small porch, watching the sunset, before his worry got the better of him. He entered the building only to discover that Ezra had snuck out the backdoor over thirty minutes before. "Damn that conniving gambler!"

Without hesitation, Chris set off on the back street leading away from the building. Making a few inquiries, the man managed to track the gambler nearly a half-mile through the city before losing him. Chris settled down right where he was, leaning into an old doorway, waiting for his friend to return.

For five hours, Chris remained in the shadows of a pourer part of town, watching its few nightly inhabitants go about their (most likely illegal) business. There were all manner of pimps, whores, and their customers. There were dangerous looking men: criminals of the city. Orphaned children, pickpockets, and thieves of the streets ran wild, if quietly, through the night, along with the no less silent rats and other city animals. There were those without anyplace to live who slept on the cobbles themselves, wrapped in rags and garbage.

Chris wondered where Ezra had disappeared to in the midst of all this filth.

The sun had just risen, awakening a friendlier breed of beggars and thieves into the streets, when Chris saw the sad, slumping figure of a richly dressed man plodding along the side of the buildings, as if keeping his head down and not seeing anyone would thus enable no one to see him.

Chris waited until Ezra was only the short distance of a few feet away before addressing him. "Sudden urge to run out on me again?"

Ezra looked up, startled and humiliated at being tracked by the gunslinger. "Mr. Larabee..."

"Shut up Ezra. Let's get breakfast." Without another word, no accusations or questions, Chris turned, heading back a bit more respectable part of town.

Ezra, bewildered, stared after him a moment, marveling once more at this one man he could not fathom, before following in awe fear and awe after him.

"The eggs are quite delicious," Ezra agreed, timidly hurrying along with his breakfast while Chris took his leisurely time about it.

"Care to tell me where you were last night?"

"Not at all, Mr. Larabee."

Chris frowned, but didn't push the matter, not yet. Changing the subject, he asked, "When do you think we'll be done here?"

"I should finish with this business by the end of the week," Ezra answered (laconically, for him.) "Why do you ask?"

"Cause I want to know when we're goin' back."

"We?" Ezra asked with wide eyes.

"Of course 'we,'" Chris clarified. "I'm not letting you run out on me cause ya stole a few wallets and keep a few secrets. That would be too much to ask in today's world, especially of a man like you."

Ezra did not respond, but seemed a bit more content as he picked through the rest of his meal.

For a week, the men remained in the hot southern city, sweating under the unforgiving sun, within the crowded saloons, among the rushing multitude of the streets. And for hours at a time Ezra would disappear, leaving Chris to worry and wait while the gambler accomplished whatever it was he did for Stanton.

Then, twelve days since they'd stepped off the train, they boarded again, heading for Four Corners.

Chris gestured for Ezra to sit first and the gambler did so, shrinking into the large, finely upholstered first-class seat as much as physically possible. Chris lowered himself into the place opposite, not hiding the glare he aimed at the gambler.

Ezra looked away, glad of the great window, now showing the back of the Louisiana train station, overflowing with all manner of people. But whatever he expected Chris to do or say, it wasn't what the gunslinger finally pronounced. "I'm glad you're coming back, Ezra."

Shocked, Ezra turned his great, green eyes back to the man across from him. All he could respond with was, "Thank you, Mr. Larabee."

"Chris," Larabee demanded.

"What?" Ezra was more confused than he had a right to be, but he simply could not figure out this man.

"That's my name: Chris. Friends generally call each other by their first names," the older man explained gently.

But Ezra only turned away again, coldly telling the window, "I don't have friends."

Chris frowned, and Ezra did not see the hurt look in the mean, gray eyes that softened for a split moment. "As you like it, Mr. Standish."

The words stung him, but Ezra made no reply, not willing to accept the obvious reason why Larabee had traveled half the country to help him. It had to be out of some misplaced sense of duty or loyalty, because Ezra was no one's friend, and he hadn't thought Chris was stupid enough to trust the likes of him. But apparently Chris was more insightful than Ezra himself, because at that moment the gambler suddenly realized that he would die for Chris, for any of them. That loyalty, the selflessness, had reigned his heart for the past two years he'd been with the men, but only now did that knowledge breach his logic to make its presence known in his mind.

He might not consider them friends, but they were all brothers.

Chris looked to the door that enclosed their private compartment, wondering what the hell it took to get through to this man. Whatever Larabee did, it wasn't enough. Ezra would always remain distant, cut-off. Alone. That was the man's choice and Chris knew there was nothing HE could do to change it. He could only continue to stand at the man's side, and hope that it was enough.

Ezra could just barely make out Four Corners in the distance and allowed himself a wry smile. When had that dusty little town and the six men who lived there become home?

The coach finally pulled onto Main Street and Ezra hid a grin; it was time to have a little laugh at Chris's expense. "Hmm. I wonder what the others will think of your change in wardrobe."

"Huh?" Chris looked down. And groaned. What on earth? He hadn't even thought to change back into the one pair of clothes he'd brought with him. He now wore one of the fancier outfits Ezra had dressed him in upon their arrival at the southern city, and now, he would have to endure the good-natured laughter of five rough and rude men. He glimpsed Ezra's smug smile and knew it would be worth it.

JD's shouts announced the arrival of the two who had gone on the quest, and all five men were out on the dusty street, ready to greet their friends. Without ado, Ezra flung open the door and jumped down out of the cramped stage, greeting the men with smiles and jokes and much hand-shaking and back-patting until they finally noticed that Chris had not emerged.

Vin poked his head around Ezra to peer into the darkened coach. "You plan on comin' outta there, cowboy?"

With many a curse and grumble, Chris climbed from his seat to descend awkwardly to the ground, facing five stupefied men with a fierce glare. "Chris--?" Vin began, but the gunslinger held up a hand, a finger pointed upwards, though he did not meet his friends' eyes.

"Not," he whispered viciously, "A word." Silence overwhelmed the small group. "Not. One. Word."

Vin nodded and the others remained silent as Buck and Josiah liberated their luggage and the two travelers allowed their weary bodies to be dragged within the saloon for a celebratory drink.

They sat around, drinking and joking, no one daring to comment on the canary-yellow tailcoat that Larabee sported, nor upon the rest of his gentlemanly attire that rivaled even Ezra's own, although Buck did make a remark about how the amount of luggage had tripled since their departure and Vin murmured something about Ezra having a good influence on the man's fashion sense.

And Chris and Ezra pasted on the smiles--or glares--that were expected, and laughed and joked with the rest until the sun set and both pleaded fatigue, retreating to their respective chambers.

Most of the other men soon followed their example, but Josiah and Vin remained behind, sharing concerned looks. They knew that neither Ezra nor Chris were ever completely open about their emotions, if at all, but something had happened on that trip to New Orleans, something that had changed the dynamics between the two men. Something was... wrong. And they had to figure it out, bring it out in the open, before someone got hurt.