DISCLAIMER: The following is an original work of fan fiction based on the television series "The Magnificent Seven". No infringement upon the copyrights held by CBS, MGM, Trilogy Entertainment Group, The Mirisch Corp. or any others involved with that production is intended. No profit is being made - enjoy!!

Mongoose: A Sensible Man

by
Eleanor Tremayne, Ezquire

ACT SIX
PART TWO

"No!"

Chris barked the word out like an order and meant it as such. One long, Larabee stride took him close enough to the smithy so that the tack room on his right no longer obscured his view of its door. Josiah was on one knee behind Buck, and the instinct behind every notch on Chris's gun told Larabee that stopping Sanchez from doing something stupid was the reason why Buck hadn't answered him. Raising the .44 in his hand, Chris thumbed its hammer back to blow Josiah's head off.

His professionalism overcame his anger just in time to keep him from killing J.D. as well: It had almost taken him too long to see the kid's arms wrapped around Josiah's neck in a chokehold. Lowering the Kerr until its muzzle pointed at the ground, he eased the hammer back onto rest. The nearness of his mistake made him even angrier and he didn't hesitate to release that anger on Nathan as Jackson tried once more to get to Ezra. Chris laid Nathan down on his back in the dirt and manure with a left-handed haymaker, ignoring Vin's snarl of disappointment when he was denied his rightful prey. Stepping over Jackson, Chris dropped down beside Buck.

He didn't need to worry about Josiah - J.D. had Sanchez in a ruthless chokehold, and hadn't made the amateur mistake of wrapping his legs around the bigger man's waist and losing all his leverage. Chris could tell by the way Josiah was struggling to lean forward, trying with growing desperation to loosen the pressure on his windpipe that J.D. was braced back on one leg in order to shove his knee into the center of the preacher's spine, pulling the bigger man over it like an archer draws a bow.

Putting a hand on Buck's back, Chris felt the even breathing of an unconscious man. He spared Josiah a glance as the big man made an effort to rise, but as soon as his knee came off the ground by a few inches, J.D. shifted himself just enough to be able to kick Sanchez in the back of his knee without letting up the pressure on the preacher's throat. Josiah crashed back to the ground, both of his knees under him now as the veins began standing out blue in his red face. J.D replaced his knee in Josiah's back, and Chris returned his attention to where it belonged.

Following the trail of blood, Larabee found a shallow laceration on Buck's scalp nearly the length of his little finger. It wasn't a crease from a bullet; most likely Ezra had put it there when he had slammed Buck into the bedpost.

Rolling Buck over as gently as his weight allowed, Chris found Wilmington's Colt in his hand, his finger still on the trigger. The smell of fresh powder told Chris that Buck had fired the shot he'd heard. Carefully easing the pistol from Buck's hand, Larabee checked the cylinder to confirm that one bullet was missing. So the shot they heard had been Buck's -- but who the hell had he shot?

Looking over at the most likely target, Chris saw Sanchez slowly fold over until he was on his hands and knees, carrying J.D. with him. Josiah's red face was beginning to take on a fatal tinge of blue and the kid showed no signs of stopping. Not sure he could convince the Judge that Josiah had needed killing, Chris reminded J.D. that he had a choice to make.

"Kill 'im or don't, J.D., but get over here. I need ya."

J.D. dropped Sanchez immediately, hopping free of the collapsing, coughing, man. He took a step toward Buck, his gaze still on Josiah.

'Stay down,' Chris silently advised the gagging Sanchez.

Josiah didn't, raising himself up to all fours, his arms shaking. J.D. rewarded his efforts with a kick to his jaw, laying Sanchez out flat.

'Can't say you weren't warned,' Chris thought at Josiah, surprised when he found himself smiling at J.D.

Putting a hand on Buck's chest, Dunne reassured himself that Buck was still alive. Looking up at Chris, he asked, "What do we do now?"

'Damn good question,' Chris silently admitted, looking back over his shoulder at Vin and Ezra in search of an answer. He didn't like the one he found in the hot, ugly hate of Tanner's expression. The ten yards separating them had turned into ten years, and everyone but the man Vin held across his lap was a damnyankee bastard - and as good as dead if they took one step toward him, his colonel, or that goddamned horse going insane in the stall behind them.

"Easy, boys."

Chris heard Travis before he saw him. Dragging his gaze away from the muzzle of the Navy Colt that had a bead on his forehead, Larabee turned to the back wall of the livery and the door that led out into the corral behind it.

A cautious man, Travis stopped just beside the wall where the tack hung, letting Vin and Chris see him, but leaving himself a place to duck if any stray bullets happened to come his way. When he was satisfied that both men had seen and recognized him, he walked forward with a slow, deliberate pace. He kept his arms at his side but made sure his hands could be seen, and he didn't stop until he stood evenly spaced between Chris and Vin and the men they were protecting, a Mason-Dixon line in a black frock coat.

"Anybody dead?" he asked gruffly.

"Not yet," Vin growled, his gaze flicking from Larabee to behind Travis, where Nathan lay on the livery floor. The pistol in his hand didn't waver from its aim on Chris, and the judge knew that if the heart under Tanner's hand stopped beating, Standish would have one hell of an honor guard into Valhalla.

In the interests of not having his boys leave this world in a blaze of glory just yet, Travis pivoted on the ball of his foot, enough to block Jackson from Tanner's line of sight. Living or dying after that was entirely up to Nathan and whether or not he had the good sense to stay down and stay quiet. Tanner wasn't like Standish - he felt no sense of duty to protect Jackson from the folly of his own double standard. Likewise, His Honor felt no obligation, moral or otherwise, to get between Vin and Nathan if Jackson was foolish enough to try to debate what was in Ezra's best interests with Tanner.

'Stalemate,' Travis realized. Even Chaucer sensed it, finally standing still on all four feet, every muscle twitching under his sweaty hide. Right at this moment, it would be a cold day in a hot hell before Tanner would trust any of them with Ezra again. Every single one of them had failed Standish, either deliberately or through their own gullibility. Travis had a feeling Tanner would let Ezra die in his embrace, rather than be the one to let him down again.

The rustle of starched cotton petticoats against hoop and bustle interrupted the deadlocked silence. Their breath tight in their throats and their overskirts instinctively clutched in white fingers to keep their hems from the muck, Mary Travis and Gloria Potter entered the livery. Their steps were cautious, careful, bringing them up not quite to His Honor's side. After a few moments, their eyes adjusted to the darkness of the livery and they could see the men they had come to find.

Judge Travis frowned at them, and Mary's chin came up in defiance of the silent dismissal. Mrs. Potter swept it aside with a look only a mother could give, and turned her attention where it belonged.

Vin hadn't turned to look at her. He didn't need to: She wasn't his enemy, she held no threat to him or to Ezra, and Gloria had every intention of keeping it that way. Motioning to Mary to stay put, Mrs. Potter moved slowly toward Tanner, taking a long, curving way around so he would be able to see her from the corner of his eye - and, more importantly, so that she would never come between him and the men he was quite prepared to kill if they provoked him to it.

She forced herself to breathe evenly, calmly, reminding herself that Vin was like Josh had been after his father's death, half way between a sleeping nightmare and a waking grief. Her baby had given her a black eye the first time she'd rushed into his room and tried to comfort him by force. She'd learned to simply come and be by his side, calling his name softly like she was now calling Vin's, and wait for him to come to his senses and come to her. She stopped when two steps would put her at Vin and Ezra's side.

"Vin..." she coaxed, almost humming, and she felt one of the knots in her stomach flutter loose when Tanner blinked, and looked down at Ezra.

'Apple pie,' Vin realized. He was smelling apple pie....

The familiar scent crept over him, enveloping him, laying itself over the blood and horseshit and the acrid gunpowder that he could taste at the back of his throat. Vin knew the smell as well as he knew his own name, and the rustle of Mrs. Potter's skirts under her flour and sugar spotted apron took him back to another woman who had made him apple pie, when he'd still been young enough to hide in his mother's corded petticoats and horsehair crinolines, so she could pretend she didn't see him filching the tart slices covered with the store-bought white sugar she'd pounded fine to sweeten them.

"Vin?" he heard her say, soft and sweet, and he shivered as he realized Gloria Potter was talking to him. Slowly, he allowed his gun arm to relax until the pistol in his hand rested on his thigh. Only then did Mrs. Potter take the two steps left between them.

She touched Vin's shoulder lightly as she knelt down beside him, using the creak of her knees as her excuse. She kept her hand on his shoulder as she leaned over his arm to look at Ezra, letting him know he could move her away from Standish in a moment, hoping that his ability to do so would prevent the need.

'My poor dear,' she thought as she stroked her hand over and then her fingers through Ezra's sweaty hair. He moved away from her touch, his head sliding off Vin's shoulder to rest awkwardly on Tanner's bicep.

Her lips pressed together in white-lined anger. Looking at Vin, she said, "I have his bed ready."

Vin's eyes narrowed, flicking from occupant to occupant of the silent, still livery. Finally, he nodded once in agreement.

"Francis will help," Mrs. Potter said firmly, even though she was well aware it was a question. After a moment, Vin nodded again, his gaze on Chris - on his enemy, she realized.

"Francis," Travis called, giving Corcoran permission to enter. The sergeant came slowly and carefully, making sure to stay in Tanner's line of sight without ever crossing between the tracker and Larabee.

"Need a hand up?" Francis offered, waiting for another terse nod before coming not quite behind Tanner. He wasn't foolish enough to try to take Standish, and settled for lifting Vin onto his feet by dint of main strength. He managed it - barely - with a grunt and crack of sinew and muscle. Mrs. Potter took advantage of being in front of Tanner, and helped him turn Ezra and get him up over his shoulder. Touching the wound running across his back, she fought back the urge to cry. There was simply too much else to do.

She led the way past Travis, out into the empty street, again making sure that she did not come between Vin Tanner and Chris Larabee. Francis brought up the left flank, staying where Tanner could see him.

Travis gave them five minutes before nodding to Mary. Picking up her skirts, she ran to where Buck lay, sinking down beside Wilmington.

"What happened?!" she demanded, stroking the side of Buck's face where the angry red had yet to fade. Even unconscious, Buck's mustache preened at a woman's touch and Chris let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Josiah wanted to be a martyr," J.D. told her. "So Buck shot him in the ar - uh, backside."

Mary stifled her laughter behind the palm of her hand, turning red from her collar to her hairline. She sobered quickly, lowering her hand to pick up one of Wilmington's and hold it between both of hers.

"Mr. Sanchez is in need of some time on his knees," she observed bitterly. "Poor Buck...."

J.D shifted his blackened eyes to catch Chris's gaze, exasperation momentarily winning out over anger and fear in his expression.

'You might as well try and stop the tide, kid,' Larabee silently consoled him.

"Where -" Chris heard Travis say.

"Safe in Mrs. Potter's house," he heard Georg Heidegger interrupt. "My wife, she send me with the stretcher after the door shuts."

'She would,' Chris thought, twisting around to face the glare from the door. Heidegger loomed out of the whiteness, the canvas stretcher furled around its poles and tucked under his arm. Yosemite hovered beside him, his broad, ruddy face unusually pale.

"I'll take care of Josiah," the Blacksmith offered, and Chris nodded. He didn't know if Yosemite's offer meant Josiah would be brought to the clinic, the church, Yosemite's wife, or dumped outside of town, nor did he care. He didn't follow the progress of Sanchez as Yosemite picked him up by the ankles and began to drag him for the back entrance, and neither did anyone else.

Mary stood quickly, helping Heidegger lay the heavy stretcher out next to Buck. Chris and J.D. made room for them, their hands and arms aching in anticipation of the encore they were about to endure.

Behind Travis, Nathan started to crawl up onto his knees. The judge heard him and pivoted to face him. Two steps put him between Jackson and the group clustered around Wilmington, and his glowering frown sat Nathan back down in the dirt. Travis met and held the younger man's gaze, pinning him in place through the muffled grunting, cursing, and moaning of getting Wilmington on the stretcher, lifting it, and the mis-coordination of four people of different strengths and heights each carrying their end of a pole, staggering along more or less in the general direction of the hotel.

It was more than Nathan could bear, and he tried once more to rise. This time, Travis stepped on the hem of his trouser cuff to make him stay put. Nathan stared up at him, stunned.

Travis scowled down at him, every inch a "hanging judge".

"We need to talk, Mr. Jackson."

End of Act Six Part Two

ST. BARB'S MONTAGES - The whole collection of Act Six montages in a smaller format.

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