The initial blow knocked Ezra to his knees, the second landed him face down on the dirt street and the sharp kick to his ribs curled him into a tight ball of self-preservation.  His first instinctive thought was that the men he had beaten at cards decided the southerner was in need of a beating himself.

Most of Standish's life had involved pissing people off and then putting as much distance as possible between his person and them.  But over the past year things had changed, he had changed.  No matter how hard his conditioning fought it, Ezra realized that the peacekeepers he rode with trusted him, expected him to back them up and, in turn, were there for him.

Hell, he'd barely cheated in a game for nearly nine months, not only because he didn't feel the need to but because this odd, new-found conscience tended to make him feel guilty if he tried.

So what had he done to get someone this mad at him?  The gambler's brain screamed at him to fight when the large rag was stuffed in his mouth and locked in place with a bandana, but his body was still stunned by the suddenness of the intense attack and his limbs were sluggish in responding.  Ezra felt the leather strap bite into the flesh of his wrists and what he guessed to be a second one secure his feet together.

He attempted to twist around, trying to see who was responsible but all he glimpsed was the sack just before it came down over his head.  A disorienting pull across the ground gave Standish some relatively unabused seconds to shift his arms into place.

Just as he felt his feet released, Ezra engaged his Derringer.  Raising his bound arms as high as he could away from his back he let off both shots.  A pained yelp helped ease the shock of the kick to his ribs that came shortly after he fired his handgun.

"Sonofabitch shot me!"

"With what?! You got his guns.  Check his hands!"

"You check 'em!"

Ezra's stomach muscles tightened as his knees came up protectively in front of his ribs.  He was only half-aware of the strong hand that wrenched the two-shot pistol from his grasp.

"Damn.  Take a look at this."

Standish's southern pride let fly a string of curses muffled by the gag.  An uncle had once called him a 'wildcat in a hound dog skin', impassive until pressed.  Well, he certainly didn't wish to disprove his uncle's description.

I'm gonna kill him!"  A kick to the shoulders this time.  Ezra's back arched, he groaned and blinked back the pain and adrenaline pushed tears hidden by the smothering hood.  He detected some more talking but was having a hard time hearing past the pounding in his ears.

Next thing he knew he was being roughly lifted onto the back of a horse.

"…Which is more than I can say for you, Tanner."  A hand grabbed Ezra's hair through the sack and yanked his head up.

That was directed at him.  'What the hell?'  The fingers released him and Ezra's head flopped forward, he made no effort to control the drop.  He was in pain, disoriented and alone…no, not this time.  Ezra's concern for his own well being shifted abruptly as he realized he had no idea what happened to Vin.

Craft and Grey, as he overheard their names, seemed focused only on him.  And the one Ezra had shot, Grey, had called him Tanner.  'What the hell?' he thought again.

"…sew it when he make camp.  Sure as hell ain't the first time.  I'm gonna go get Norwich, you head out with Tanner, I'll catch up."

'Think later, hold on now.'  Positioned like the proverbial sack of potatoes it was all Ezra could do to tighten his muscles and stay on the back of the horse.  After a few minutes the tingling from his hands falling asleep overshadowed, albeit slightly, the pain in his ribs.  Shortly after that Standish heard other riders approaching, two from the sound of it.  He wondered if Vin was on one of those horses.

"Any trouble?"  Ezra recognized the voice as the one called Craft.

"My arm hurts like hell, ain't that trouble enough?"

"I woulda guessed the thought of 500 bucks mighta helped ease the pain some."

Ezra sensed Grey shift in his saddle, "Yeah, I guess that plus Norwich's 650 does make it feel a little better."

They rode the rest of the way in silence and Ezra guessed it was another twenty minutes before they reigned the horses to a stop.  The gambler was sweating terribly between the strain of trying to stay on the back of the smelly animal and heat produced by the rough sack that still covered his head.

He heard one rider dismount; then, without warning, a strong hand jerked Standish from the horse.  A leather strap still circled his boots at the ankles and as his feet hit the ground Ezra's inability to stabilize himself sent him tumbling face down to the dirt.

The southerner lay on his side, half expecting another kick but instead the now frigid air of the desert night rushed across his face as the sack was yanked away.  Hands working at the back of his head released the bandana and pulled the gag from his mouth.  Ezra ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth in an attempt to dispel the cottonmouth generated by the rag.

And he got his first look at his captors.  The one he guessed was Craft, since he showed no sign of a wound, also undid the binding at Ezra's ankles and hauled the gambler to his feet.  He stood an easy half a head taller than Standish, a shock of short red hair and strawberry blond eyebrows set off a pair of dark green eyes.  And he held a Smith & Wesson .45 comfortably in his left hand.

For an instant the deep-set lines at the corners of the man's mouth reminded Ezra of Chris, but then the southerner realized the respect he held for Larabee could never possibly carry over to an individual as deplorable as this one.

"Well, Tanner, looks like you used up all your luck at the poker table.  You might have deserved that shot of whiskey, but I think we're much more deserving of the five hundred we're gonna get for bringin' your ass back to Tuscosa."

'My God,' thought Ezra as the realization his him.  'They've been watching us all night.'

Standish bit back the sarcastic comment that sprang to his lips.  It would be more advantageous to keep quiet until he had a better handle of his situation.  The gambler was enormously relieved when he saw that the fourth member of their party wasn't Vin.  But it was only a partial relief.

If these two idiots thought Ezra was someone they could collect a bounty on then that would be sufficient reason to keep him in at least good enough condition to travel in.  But Vin meant nothing to them.  Ezra didn't suspect they'd kill Tanner outright, but you don't have to put a bullet through a man to kill him.  A decent collection of kicks to the stomach and ribs could do that.

Craft still maintained a vise-like grip on the arm he had pulled the smaller man up by.  As his partner dismounted and secured the horses, the redhead guided Standish toward a medium sized structure a few meters away.

A half moon in the night sky offered vague illumination on the building.  It reminded Ezra of a larger version of the burnt out plantation's slave's quarters he had spent some time in when he was down on his luck in the months following the war.  'Isn't life just a glorious little cycle,' thought Ezra sardonically.

With one hand holding Ezra firmly and the other hand keeping his .45 resting against the side of Standish's neck Craft waited by the entrance of the shelter for Grey to arrive with their second bounty and an oil lamp.  Hamilton led the way, the iridescent offerings of light stretching only a few feet before being swallowed by the darkness that surrounded the men.

"Hey, take a look here!  This night just keeps getting better."  The stocky hunter pulled something from the door of one of the cells.  The clanking of metal made it obvious that the keys to the old enclosure were still on the premises.  And the squeak of well-worn hinges announced the fact that the keys still worked.

Grey shoved his captive into one of the small rooms, locked the heavy wooden door and crossed back to Rueben to help him secure his prisoner.  Craft finally released his severe grip on Ezra's arm and nudged the gambler into the second tiny room with the barrel of his pistol.

Ezra decided to take a chance and break his self-imposed silence.

"Should I tell you gentlemen now that my name is not Tanner, or are we going to wait until we arrive at our destination and have the local authorities inform you?"

Grey barked a laugh and shook his head.  "Ya hear that, Rueben?  We made a mistake."  He handed the lantern to his partner and strode forward to Ezra, stopping inches from the gambler. Hamilton reeked of beer and Standish braced himself for another blow but was surprised and relieved when none came.

"I guess that bartender who pointed out 'Tanner, the one with the nice coat' made a mistake, too.  Oh, and your friend who raised that glass to ya, I guess he made a mistake as well.  And you sure as hell made a mistake when you shot me."

That was when the punch came.  A sharp drive into his stomach dropped Standish to his knees, gasping for breath.  His entire body tensed for another attack but the second one came in a different form.

Grey simply gave the gambler a hard shove backwards.  His still bound arms bore most of the brunt of the fall.  The southerner opened his eyes just as Hamilton pulled a bowie knife from the sheath at his boot.  Ezra set his jaw firmly and tried to slow his breathing in an attempt to arrest from this cretin any pleasure that would be derived from seeing trepidation in his victim.

The stocky hunter knelt over Standish, laying the seven-inch blade against the downed man's neck.  With his other hand he proceeded to rifle through Ezra's jacket pockets.  Relieving the gambler of his flask and pocket watch.  Out of habit, Ezra had tucked his winnings from that night into his boot.  A brief thought of at least not having to suffer the indignity of dying penniless flitted through Ezra's mind as he felt the blade slice lightly across the soft skin of his throat.

He had been unaware of clamping his eyes shut until he heard Craft's bored voice in the background.

"Enough, Grey.  I still gotta tend to the horses, start a fire and see to your arm.  You gonna help or not?"

"Yeah.  Oh, almost forgot."  Hamilton stretched to keep the knife at Ezra's throat while his free hand shoved the fine black material of the southerner's dusty pant leg up out of the way.  The bounty hunter ran his fingers around the top inside of the boot till he gripped the stash of money hidden there.  "You're a damn good poker player, son."

Grey stepped away from Ezra, laughing in a low tone as he left the cell and letting Craft lock it behind him.  "Ooh-wee, remind me not to turn my back on that one. Ya see the fire in that boy's eyes?  Burnin' green like a demon.  Suppose if looks could kill, you sure as hell wouldn't have to worry 'bout tendin' to my arm."

Left in the darkness Ezra rolled wearily onto his side.  He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the sting of the harmless slice at his throat, the nauseous feeling from his beatings, the cold numb in his hands from lack of movement and the overall sick sense he got from being totally out of control of his situation.

Standish trembled uncontrollably from the rush of unused adrenaline coursing through him and the penetrating cold night air as it sliced through his jacket and sweat soaked shirt.  In an effort to pull his thoughts from his unfortunate state Ezra concentrated on working his hands free.  His practiced manual dexterity was beneficial for more than just cards as the gambler loosened the leather constraints.

Ezra didn't even try to lift his arms; he simply rolled himself onto his stomach and lay there as the blood began to pump fluidly into his hands.  Eventually, he bit his lip against the pain in his ribcage and used his stomach muscles to turn himself onto his back where he lay a bit longer.  Finally dragging himself into a corner of the stone structure and dabbing, with a saliva dampened handkerchief, at the dried blood caked at his throat and matted at the back of his head from the earlier blows.

The southerner, worn down from both the physical and mental exhaustion of the past hour or so wrapped his arms around his aching ribs, pulled his knees against his chest and let his chin fall to his chest, eyes closing.  He tried to control the shivering brought on by the cold night that worked its way through his body, but he soon gave in and again bit the inside of his lip against the strain of his ribs.

'Haven't come very far at all have you, Mr. Standish?' a voice in his head mocked.  'Your mother was right to leave you on your own, got you used to the position you'll be in when you die.'

'NO!'  Ezra snapped back at the voice, trying to dismiss the self-defeating thoughts.  Things weren't like that anymore.  It took this moment of pure weariness and fatigue for the gambler to allow himself the realization that he had come to depend on someone besides his own person.  Six others, actually.

Sleep came to collect the gambler as a few thoughts continued to run through his mind.  Vin would find him; Vin was an excellent tracker.  Vin was alive and he would find him.  He had to be alive…'please, let him find me.'
----

With each hard landing of Peso's hooves against the dirt road Vin's head impolitely reminded him of how pissed he was.  To ambush a man on such a beautiful night…well, it just shouldn't be done.

Tanner had no difficulty following Craft and Grey.  They were going to make camp tonight, which meant they weren't likely to be traveling far; so Vin was comfortable with the large distance he allowed between himself and the men on horseback.  There was no reason for them to think they were being trailed, all the tracker had to do was stick to the road and make sure he didn't get too close.

Tanner was a little surprised when he realized just how tense he actually did feel.  But it wasn't just a headache and a ruined night that put such an edge on Vin's temper.  Though he wasn't consciously aware of it, the tracker's anger was drawn out of concern for Ezra.

The fact that Tanner had caught himself thinking of the odd collection of gunfighters he rode with as family had not escaped his notice.  If he had given it more dedicated thought he would have realized just how much like brothers they had all become to each other.  And it was from these feelings that an unconscious indignation arose at the idea that anyone would dare try to take one of those siblings from the fold.  Even if it was the black sheep.

Vin saw the small fire from quite a distance away.  The half of the moon that showed itself in the night sky offered Tanner limited visibility to the positions of the camp's parties.  But Vin was thankful for the cover of dark that the dull lunar coin would provide for him when he would need it.

The landscape was sparse.  Vin had secured Peso's reins to nothing more that some scrub brush before grabbing his spyglass and some jerky from his saddlebag.  Pulling his hide coat tight against his lean frame Tanner settled in, watched and waited.
---

Ezra awoke to silence, cold and darkness.  'Divine.  Place a wooden box around me and we'll just call it a life.'  Some moonlight slid in through a barred window high in the wall and allowed Standish a reminder of what squalid quarters he was being forced to endure.

The southerner wasn't sure how long he had been asleep but didn't feel it had been very long.  He wasn't even sure what had pulled him from his pain-relieving unconscious state until he heard the sound with alert ears.

Crying, low and muffled, from the other side of the wall.

"I take it I'm not alone."

A slight gasp was followed by silence.  Ezra sensed the other was listening and continued.  "Seeing as we are both in the same lamentable state, perhaps you could see your way to providing me with some information."

Standish paused again and for a second wondered if the sounds he had heard had not just been in his dreams.

"You're…you're southern."

Ezra had to laugh, much to the protests of his ribcage.

"That piece of information I had already, but I appreciate your willingness toward conversation."

"My mama was southern.  Not heard talk like that in a while."

Ezra had briefly seen Craft and Grey's second prisoner but the low light had made it impossible for him to get a look at the man.  The voice had a northern accent and sounded young, definitely no older that JD.  Ezra caught the slight hitch in the voice and the use of the word 'was'.

"Well now, how is it that a man of such fine lineage could end up in this part of the country?"

"Mama died of the pox last spring, Father of consumption two months before that."

'My God,' the gambler thought to himself, 'and I thought I'd had runs of bad luck.'

The boy continued, obviously grateful to have someone to talk to.  "I was supposed to go live with my aunt and uncle in Sacramento.  I was on my way there but…well, things changed."

Ezra smiled wryly, 'They often do.'

The gambler could not help but notice the boy's mix of speech patterns.  'Mama' and 'Father'.  And neither did it escape him that the other didn't seem stumped by the southerner's own use of language as were so many people that he had met in the west. He decided to hazard a guess.  "Your father was from the North?"

"Ye-yeah."  The surprise registered in the boy's voice but he continued.  "He owned a cotton mill.  Mama's family owned a plantation."

'Love and business, what more does a man need?'  Ezra guessed again, "Your future was not seen to?"  With that background, the boy had to have come from money and he obviously had had some sort of schooling.  Yet, there was that unrefined edge to him.

"Mama did charity work, that's where she caught the pox.  Things didn't go so well after Father passed."

A very clear picture began to form for the gambler.  Probably neither family was very pleased that the geographically mixed couple had gotten together but if it brought in money, well, family could certainly be seen to look the other way.

But if his mother devoted her time to charity it definitely set her apart from most of the southern plantation belles Ezra had known in his past.  God forbid, a gentleman's daughter devote herself to anything more than gossip or fashion.  And once the boy's father died, the paternal family most likely made a successful move to take over the business, graciously allowing the widow more time for her grieving, no doubt.

Ezra rolled his eyes in disgust.  He had certainly done unscrupulous things in his past but shipping a child away form his home while the parents' bodies were practically still warm just to secure a factory; that was low.

"So the collective families decided it would be in your best interest to come west."  The gambler didn't even attempt to hide his disgust.  "Was this on their agenda, as well?"

Ezra thought he heard a slight chuckle.

"I guess you could say I got sidetracked.  They're taking me back to Tuscosa to stand trial for train robbery."

"That would constitute 'sidetracked'."

"I wasn't part of it."  The statement was practically blurted.  As if the boy desperately wanted someone, anyone to believe that he wasn't some sort of hardened criminal.  "I was part of the gang but I just waited at the checkpoint with fresh horses.  I wasn't anywhere near the line when they hit it."

Ezra didn't wish to scare the young man anymore that he already was but curiosity got the better of him.  "People hurt?"

"Three killed, one was a guard in the vault car."

This boy was in trouble.  Banks did not take such infringements lightly and had no qualms about setting examples with whomever they could.
.
"Fell in with the wrong crowd," he added in a small, sad voice.  Six little words, yet mumbled in the dark of a cold, rotted straw lined cell they spoke volumes.  How close had JD come to being the boy on the other side of this thin wall?

"How 'bout you?" the voice queried, obviously wishing to take his mind off his own plight.

"Mistaken identity, I am afraid.  One which I'm sure will be cleared up."  Then, adding in a low mutter to himself, "If I live that long."

"I hope it is," came the honest reply, "no one should be in a place like this."

"Ah, yes.  I don't suppose you'd know exactly where this 'place' is?  I fear I was a bit disoriented when we arrived."

"Just on the outside of town.  I think it was the first jail, guess they didn't want the good people being affected by the bad.  But it prob'ly got too inconvenient as the town got bigger."

'Intelligent and intuitive,' thought Ezra, 'what a waste.'  Of course, it dawned on him, not as much of a waste as the gambler would be if Vin didn't find him soon.

The chirp of crickets pervaded the air as the two prisoners fell silent.

"I'm Nathan Norwich, by the way."

The gambler had to smile at the introduction.  Even in a small pit a thousand miles from home, this young man's breeding instilled in him by his mother shone through.

"Ezra Standish, at your…limited service."

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