Thanks Tex, for not giving up on me! Thanks Alex-- we're separated by an ocean, yet work for the same Standish Corporation! How nice that Ezra brings folks together.
Notes: Fanon, out of character, angst. When you live with pain, you write "painfully" :-)

"Excuse me, sir, may I have a moment?"

Philip Carleton-Pickering IV stepped off the boardwalk, tapping his muddied cane against the hitching pole.

Chris ignored him, for the fourth or fifth time, plunking his boots in a timed cadence across the softened earth. He was headed for the south-corner table with only two chairs, at the Red Dawg. That fat-assed bastard popinjay could catch up with him, or not; didn't matter.

Pickering stepped lively, mincing carefully along, avoiding the piles of horse shat and the swarns of green flies, and gnats, flicking his handkerchief at the drove of insects targeting the dung on his boots.

He jostled Larabee's arm, getting so close to the man that he could see the stormclouds rising in the blue-green.

Larabee pulled his black hat down further against the searing glare of the sun, and casually finger-pleated his serape away from the weapon slung low at his hip. "The hell you want, Mister?"

Pickering eyed the man who stood so very still, chin outthrust, pointed down at him. The man in black narrowed his eyes and tensed at the unwelcome touch so much like a coiled rattler at a careless horsefly.

"I want Ezra. May I have him?"

Chris smiled, rubbing at his chin with steady fingers. "Listen, ya damn fool. It's not that I---"

Pickering cheered up. "Larabee, inside my pocket is a Wells Fargo draft for $5,000. Would you consider that adequate payment for one night with the man. Surely he isn't worth more than that---"

Chris felt a very familiar arm circling his wrist, then dropping.

Ezra was standing there, of a sudden. He turned on the charm, smiled, bowed, then grimaced as the heat flushed his cheeks. "Good afternoon, Mr. Carleton-Pickering. May I be of service?"

Chris patted Ezra's hand and interrupted. "This bastard just offered me enough money to choke a mule, hell, every mule here to St Louis and back, and all I have ta do is let you play the whore for him one night."

Ezra grinned, and clapped his hands. "Oh, Good Lord, did he?... he did... I... how much money... did you say?"

Chris playfully poked Ezra's ribs, turned to face the man. Pickering was a bit taller than Ezra, broad-shouldered, with iron-grey hair that tended to curl with the aid from heated tongs. The shaggy brows and slightly protuding eyes over baggy lids, button nose and pencil-thin mustache made him quite remarkable.

Chris' face was shadowed, the storm was returning, the sky darkening, the wind was shifting from the east, fine blasts of sand was stirring around Ezra's new pointed-toed rattleskin boots. Thunder was rolling afar off; probably raining in Ridge City.

Ezra laughed, wound his arm tightly around Chris' elbow. "My dear, are you now my pimp, procuring my intimate skills in exchange for legal tender?"

Chris' face burned. "Hell. Hell no. Look Prick-ring, Ezra's gonna do what he wants ta do, same as always. Ask him yourself if he'll let ya fuck him for money. If you ever..."

Ezra flinched, and Chris' hand dropped to his gun butt, then suddenly with a hard blow, he struck the rich man across his jaw, knocking him into the mire. "Touch him," he snarled, watching as the man collapsed butt-end first into a convenient horse patty. He swung again, and missed as Pickering unexpectedly kicked him in the shin.

Chris staggered, eyes now wild, hat whirling and sailing, blonde hair tossing, stunned, ready to rage in a jealous lunge.

Ezra stepped between the two, his heel coming down hard on the wrist of Carleton-Pickering who was trying hard to find his hide-out gun in his inner vest pocket.

The man on the ground squealed and cursed. He damned himself for the profanity; it was his background, his heritage, that kept him usually controlling his tongue. He prided himself that he did not indulge himself, losing his temper, resorting to common vernacular with a common criminal, a killer, who dared defy his wishes and refuse payment for use of one laughing, green-eyed tramp.

Chris found his hat, clamped it atop his hair, and sneered, "See ya found yer gun. Ya wanna play it? Even-draw? Right now? I know the town marshal. Just delivered him Pecos Gaines, for trial and hangin'." Pickering-Carlton boggled. Gaines had murdered two whores and their madam, in Dodge City, strangulation with a twisted bit of barbed wire. and had even shot the deputy's Scottie dog for biting him after attempting to escape from his first incarceration.

"Calvin's a quarter Paiute, he won't think nothin' of it, if I just blow yer balls off."

Pickering raised a hand to his swollen jaw, and tensed. Looking into Ezra's eyes, he made his last attempt to bully the man. "Remember Kinsey Naylor? My brother-in-law was your last patron at the Lavendar Salon, in N'Awleans; yes, I'm certain you do, Mr. Simpson. You were quite the 'delicate' performer, as I understand it. Your manager, Mr. Yancy Le Roi, called you 'the best cock-sucking bitch it's ever been his joy and fortune to employ..."

Mr. Carleton-Pickering the Fourth saw Larabee's, no, it was Standish's fist coming, but had no time to block it. It came bursting, slamming into his flesh, as quick as chain lightning. He did hear Standish crying, as if in agony, but the stars and the thunder in his head confused his sense of hearing, and the pain blurred his sight. He bellowed in a throe of suffering, rocking back and forth on his heels, as the sting from the sodomite's Derringer gouged the flesh of his kneecap. He fell face down, into the muck, and lay there absolutely still, then began trembling.

Ezra turned to Chris. "Hell, Chris. Am I worth it? Worth that much? To you?"

Chris tugged Ezra into his arms, never mind the mass of men, women, and horses streaming on both sides. The women gasped, the men averted their faces from the intimate scene, and the horses plodded casually by the common display of violence. "Worth every god-damned penny of it, and more--- if he was offerin' me two bits or two million."

Ezra leaned closer, almost daring to meet his lover's lips in a public display, startled at the unusual humor, and then chuckled. He leaned to the side, whispering in Chris' ear, "I want you to kiss me, darlin'. I have to know that you don't believe all that--"

Chris placed his fingers against the perspiring nape of Ezra's neck. This was as intimate a gesture as they could afford, in this teeming crowd. Wasn't as if it was Four Corners, where the unexpected became commonplace with the Seven. He growled hoarsely, "I love you. You make me happy... purdy much o' the time, that is. Let's go home."

Ezra beamed wtih joy. His eyes misted in the gleam of the sunshine. "You ever have any doubts, Chris, please, give me a chance to dispel them?"

Chris looked up at the roiling clouds, "Fixin' ta get a rain. Maybe we'd better go back ta the hotel, and wait it out."

He knew Ezra's fears, he knew 'em all, he'd held him throughout all those nights, terrible, desperate nights, the worst when Ezra begged him to leave, give up on him. The mornings when Ez would cuddle against him, stream kisses down his forehead to his lips, lay his cool cheek against Chris', and say, "Oh, you give me hope," smiling at him, trust in his eyes. Ezra was worth more than gold. Having Ezra's heart made him the wealthiest man in the universe.

"We all got somethin'..." and in a hushed voice, he said, "No condemnation."

Ezra glanced up at him, then, into the beautiful face he adored, and wanted for one moment to be in a world of two, so that he could weep.

Chris stepped over the now rousing Carleton-Pickering, and paraded Ezra down Main Street, past the Stockgrower's Assocation, the Red Dawg Saloon, the greyed plank walls of the First City Bank of Newton. Ezra's eyes gazed at the structure and commented, "Too flimsy by half. If there were a fire, the pine boards would go up, like a lucifer on a coal oil wick," and Chris had to squash the laugh from tumbling out. He escorted Ezra into the dim and cooler Hotel Colonial.

Ezra reeled and staggered at the $3 cost of continuing there through the rainy night, and assured that there was only one room currently vacant, with a double bed, the same room they'd vacated that morning, he was somewhat mollified.

"If you'll just sign the book again?" the bespectacled clerk asked, scowling, turning the log around for the 'delicate' man who obviously did not rate a stay here at this metropolis' finest accomodations. He was fit for a dive on Gambler's Row. Blood on his knuckles, manure on his cuffs; how dare he beat the filth and sand from his loud clothing onto Mr. Bridge's brand-new Brussels carpet! And that savage man pushing greenbacks across the counter was obviously the fit companion for him.

Chris sneered, took the pen, dipped it into the ink and scrawled, "Mr. Bad Element and Wife," shoved it back, making it skid and flop its pages, accidentally thumping and overturning the tin bell.

Mr. Parnell opened his mouth, gaping in astonishment. Wait a minute, he cautioned himself, that's the man who shot that whore-killer in the shoulder, and when the desperado spun around in a half-circle, Mr. Element shot him in the other one, then calm as you please, shot the .44 out of his hand, making it fly, and his 'Wife' took a turn at it, shot it mid-air, breaking the pearl handle, smashing it to smithereens and dust.

He shuddered, closed his eyes. A rotten job; the pay was nonexistent. He swallowed a sharp lump in his throat, cleared it, and said, "Sir. Your key? Thank you sir. I hope you and your... um, wife's stay was...will be, pleasant."

The End