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 FIVE

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It took Chris a moment to associate the soft clicking sound rousing him from his half-sleep with the smells of hot food and lilac-scented female. Blinking himself out of his torpor, he stifled a groan as he hauled himself up out of his chair to acknowledge the entrance of Mrs. Heidegger into the sickroom.

She gave him a stern “sit back down” look as he took the heavy wooden tray that held his dinner from her, but she didn’t press the point. From long experience, he knew that it wasn’t so much her approval at conduct becoming a gentleman that prompted her leniency, as the distraction of Buck’s labored breathing.

Settling back into the soft support of his wingback chair, he positioned the tray across its arms, one part of his attention on the woman bending over Wilmington, the other firmly on the deep china bowl crowded with pieces of chicken and matzo dumplings in a thick, clear stock.

Swallowing down the saliva flooding into his mouth, he picked up his spoon from its place on his napkin and dug in. He’d been prepared to endure a scalding in return for his haste, but the soup was the perfect temperature for dedicated eating. Despite the sudden hunger urging him to abandon the spoon and go face down in the dish, he found himself savoring the smooth perfection of the broth, perfectly complimented by the hint of pepper and garlic in the poached chicken. His second foray with the spoon sliced through a dumpling so light and tender, it was a miracle it didn’t float away.

“No change,” Mrs. Heidegger said, touching the back of her hand to Wilmington’s fevered cheek, her thumb stroking the edge of his mustache into line.

‘No change at all,’ Chris reflected to himself. He’d been jealous of Buck’s way with the ladies when they’d first met, to the point of leading the roaring drunk barbering party that had shaved that damned mustache off its incapacitated master’s face. It hadn’t prevented the ladies from flocking like butterflies to milkweed, but Wilmington had been so forlorn and mopesome without it that within a few hours of sobering up the pranksters had suffered terrible remorse. It hadn’t helped matters that every female in their orbit had taken it as a personal affront – even the mares had been pissy for the weeks it had taken for it to grow it back to its former glory.

The knot between his shoulders loosened a notch, relaxed as much by the filling warmth of the soup as by the reassuring preen of Buck’s mustache in response to a woman’s touch. They were in for a hell of a night, but morning would arrive.

++++

Nathan was awake when dawn began to stub red-orange along the horizon. It was a welcome sight to Jackson, who had spent a long night staring into the darkness of his ceiling, contemplating perspectives that left him decidedly uncomfortable with himself. The arrival of the sun and his suddenly tenuous position as one of Travis’s men gave him an excuse to think about other things, and he gladly took the opportunity. Ignoring the protests of his weary, aching body, he pushed himself out of his bed and went in search of something else to think about.

++++

“Morning!”

The hail of the stagecoach driver was entirely too cheerful, sending a surge of acid gurgling through Nathan’s stomach that made him set aside his untouched coffee. There hadn’t been any passengers on the stage and the mail had been safely claimed, so if Boris was heading his way it had to be deliberate.

The coach driver grinned with a mouth made evil by tobacco juice and missing front teeth. “Thith ith for you,” the little man said without preamble, fishing in the outer pocket of his great coat. A thick, short bundle wrapped in brown paper and twine appeared in his gnarled fist and he held it out to Nathan expectantly.

Repressing the urge to turn around and go back to bed, Jackson took the package, paying the postage due before turning the parcel over. Doc Sylvester’s spidery copperplate handwriting was unmistakable on the address.

“Damn,” Nathan muttered. “Day late and a dollar short, Doc.”

++++

It had been a long time since Nathan had been nervous about looking someone else in the eye, but the cool gaze of Mrs. Heidegger made him want to duck his head and curl his toes. A deep breath prevented the reversion to childhood, and he tipped an imaginary hat.

“Need to see… Mr. Larabee?” he said, hating himself for the rise in his voice that sounded like he was asking for permission. She raised a skeptical eyebrow at him, and it sent a spurt of anger in him that straightened his spine and lifted his chin. Showing her the parcel from Doc Sinclair, he said in a tone he almost recognized, “It’s important.”

The hem of her skirt twitching over the floorboards like an angry cat’s tail, she led the way down the corridor to the sickroom. Another frigid glance made it clear he was to stay outside until called for or dismissed. Another pump of anger clenched his fingers around the package and he took a deep breath, as deep as the pain of his bruised flesh would allow.

“He’s gonna need this,” he told her between clenched teeth, holding Sylvester’s packet out to her. She took it from him warily, as if it might explode, and Nathan shook his head in disgust. His reward was another chilling eyebrow before she swept through the door to the sickroom – leaving it open a crack.

It was the crack in the door that did him in – the brief glimpse into the sick room. He was ready to leave, his mind already packing, damned if he was going to take this kind of treatment from anyone – but he could see a fraction of the bed from where he stood, and a blanket tented over a foot. The certain knowledge that he was the only person in town with the tools, knowledge and experience to take Buck’s leg off if it came down to saving his life, kept him standing at the door in spite of his pride. He could always leave later – but if he was the reason Wilmington died, he’d never sleep quite right again.

++++

“Herr Chris?”

A snore becoming a snort, Larabee woke up instantly, one hand gripping the unfamiliar hilt of the Kerr, the other digging into the arm of the wingback, ready to catapult him to Buck’s side in one step.

“Herr Chris,” Mrs. Heidegger repeated, her voice softly reassuring. She stood in front of him, but to the side, out of the line of fire or of attack but in his line of sight. The smoothly worn handle of her husband’s pistol explained her insight to his reaction with a wincing clarity. She smiled as she walked up to him, holding out a whiskey bottle filled with a burgundy liquid and stoppered with cork and wax with one hand, and a rumpled sheet of writing paper with the other. He took both from her, swallowing down a yawn. Weariness pounded through him, digging like fingers into his temples, and he had to blink the words of the letter into focus:

My Dear Boy,

That blasted fool at the rail station only just handed me your telegram. He is gibbering in fear for his job after the accident on the rail – 5 dead, 17 broken limbs, 3 amputations, and a slew of angry families with lawyers waving papers at him. I had the same problem with Standish when he was here – bloody stubborn fool. I should have sent this for you as soon as I heard the news from your Mr. Wilmington – I trust you have been a sensible patient yourself? Such injuries as yours can be very dangerous, make no mistake – I have seen them kill men while their companions were still laughing.

This should see him through it, if he is still alive and has yet to see reason about the usefulness of morphine. I would hate like the devil to have to handle that one raving in pain – a man with a physique like his could kill with one punch. Cable me back COD and tell me how you are getting on – Molly is worried. She took quite a shine to him when he was laid up here – expect some rhubarb wine and bramble pie by the next stage.

I am putting the receipt for this in your notebook – make time to come see me and I will teach you how to brew the stuff. It is older than Noah, but it still does the job – better than opium, as it will not linger in a patient. I recommend it to you, as well – the dosage is two ounces per six hours, though you may go as high as three, but only if the need is pressing, and cut down as soon as may be.

Cable me when you receive this.

Your friend,
Hamish Sylvester^[i]

PS Molly demands a report on the reception of her pie. Lie, if necessary. She has had a most difficult time in the recent catastrophe.

Chris blinked a time or two, then re-read the letter, making sure there was no error in his understanding. He was vaguely aware that Mrs. Heidegger was opening the door behind him, bringing Nathan into the room. Looking up from the letter, he caught and held Nathan’s gaze. He saw anger, uncertainty, maybe a touch of fear, and more than a little frustration in Jackson’s expression, and it struck Larabee that he was looking at an honest man. Exactly the kind of man that Ezra could wind up and send spinning with a flick of his finger.

He heard Mrs. Heidegger murmur something about “kinder” as she glided by on her way out. She made sure to shut the door with a distinct “click”, punctuating the sudden, not necessarily welcome privacy.

The two men regarded each other in silence for a long, long time before Nathan finally shook his head with a bitter laugh. “Ain’t nobody know better than me that trying to use a chain or a whip to put a man in his place don’t work. It just makes ‘em madder, tougher – willing to cut their own leg off just to get free. I know that, Chris. But I ain’t figured out how to stand aside and watch a good man die.”

After a moment, Chris slowly nodded. He, too, had followed that particular path of good intentions straight to hell. Standing up, he indicated the bottle with a practiced flourish. “You up to keeping an eye on Buck?”

“When ain’t I been?” Nathan challenged.

Chris acknowledged the point with another slow dip of his chin. “This stuff really work?” he asked, indicating the spirits bottle.

“If Doc Sylvester says it will, it will.”

‘That’ll have to be good enough,’ Chris thought, taking one last look at the peacefully sleeping Buck before squaring his shoulders and heading out the door.

Nathan waited until he was well out of earshot before he grudgingly muttered “Good luck.”

++++

“Saints preserve us,” Francis murmured to himself, watching Chris Larabee leave the hotel. He lingered a moment on the boardwalk, his frowning gaze locked on Mrs. Potter’s place. He shifted something in his right hand to his left, setting off in march step toward the mercantile.

A quick glance at his brother-in-law confirmed that things would be well in hand during his absence. He was on the street quickly enough to watch Larabee cross the street, heading for the backstairs and the kitchen. He put some speed into following the gunslinger, every cell vibrating with the sure and certain knowledge that life was just about to get very, very interesting.

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

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NEXT CHAPTER OF MONGOOSE: A SENSIBLE MAN

^[i] There is such a thing, brewed from some herb or combination of herbs. Alas, I can’t find my citations for the specifications, and rather than looking for them at this time I’m going to press on with the actual writing. I suspect y’all will forgive me.

since 8th January 2005