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!!

IMPORTANT!!! This posting is a direct continuation from Act Six Part Two; please re-read the last few paragraphs for continuity. If you are very familiar with the last scene of Act Six Part Two, go ahead.

Mongoose: A Sensible Man

ACT SIX
PART THREE

"They gonna need my help with – "

"You abused my trust," Travis continued, as if the other man hadn't spoken. "I don't like being used. I like it even less when it hurts a man who will ride into harm's way because I ask him to."

"Judge – "

"In fact, the only thing that makes me angrier is being conned into becoming the accessory to a crime."

"Ezra's the only one here who's committed any crime!"

Something dangerous flashed in Travis's eyes, and his voice turned cold. "Ezra Standish is a designated officer of my court. As an officer of my court, he was given custody of evidence in a crime. Finding said evidence on his person during the performance of his duty is commendable, not illegal."

Anger and outrage twisted Nathan's face. "Never thought I'd see the day you'd play games with the truth for the likes of Ezra Standish!"

"What did he do to you, Nathan? Why do you hate Ezra so much, you'd lie to me to get back at him?"

Nathan shook his head in confusion. "I didn't – Ezra – hell, all you gotta do is look at him to know he ain't gonna be up to anything good ~! You know his kind as well as I do ~ you know what they do to decent people! He's got the folks in this town thinking the sun rises and sets in a man who'd sell them out on the turn of a crooked card!"

"I haven't heard any complaints about Ezra from the townspeople."

"Guess I shouldn't worry my head about a bunch a idiots who stood by and watched while I was being lynched," Nathan said, with a bitterness that surprised him.

"Not all of them," Travis reminded him softly. "Or you'd be dead, son."

"All I know is, they ain't bakin' me pies."

"Is that what this is about?" Travis demanded. "Damn it, Nathan, you're better than that."

"He's usin' these people, making 'em think they can count on him, and when they need him, he's gonna be gone and they're gonna be dead," Jackson countered. "Ain't making sure them fools stay alive why you pay me a dollar a day?"

"If Ezra was the kind of man you've just described," Travis replied, almost amused, "we wouldn't be having this discussion. We'd be dead."

Nathan opened his mouth to reply, slowly shutting it when he realized there wasn't a thing he could think of to say.

"You crossed the line, Nathan. I know what you and your skills have done for this town, but you are not a doctor, and Ezra was not your patient. He was lucid and competent enough to make his wishes regarding your care known – wishes that I have since discovered you were well aware of."

"So's I'm the one in trouble, because I tried to drag Ezra off his high horse before it ran him to death?"

"The law protects a man's right to be stupid. If he survives this, I'll have to ask Ezra if he intends to press charges against you for aggravated assault. If he doesn't come through it, it may very well be my duty to charge you with manslaughter."

"Manslaughter?!"

"Equality before the law means equality before the law in all cases. If Ezra raised an unprovoked hand against you, I'd be the first in line to hang him. Law only works if I hold you to the same standard."

"You can't – "

"Yes, I can. More importantly, I will. What the hell were you thinking?!"

"I don't want Ezra to die," Nathan said, looking down at the clenched fist resting on his knee.

"Then what the hell do you want?"

Jackson looked back up at the judge, unable to answer the question because he suddenly didn't know.

Picking up his foot like a man strongly resisting the urge to deliver a kick, Travis looked down at Jackson. "I'd stay out of my sight for a while. I really don't want to throw you in jail, and seeing you just might remind me that I probably should."

"It wasn't like that," Nathan muttered to the judge's disappearing back. 'It can't be like that....'

++++

Travis stopped in the middle of the empty street, looking from the Potters' mercantile to the hotel and back again. Not for the first time in his life, he wished for the ability to be in two places at once. Deciding to give Mrs. Potter time to settle Ezra in and Vin down, he turned his steps toward the Heideggers' establishment.

The eerie silence of the street followed him into the lobby, the door settling back into its frame with a soft bump of wood against wood. Even the children shuttling supplies to the sickroom did it without a murmur, scurrying around him in a way that reminded him sharply of his too-quiet grandson.

The sickroom held just one bed now, its headboard washed and its linens changed. Buck Wilmington lay in its center, his skin gray against the white sheet pulled up over his chest. His wounded leg lay outside the sheets, elevated on a towel-draped pillow. A fresh, pungent poultice had been bandaged against his wound, the aroma of freshly cut onions combining with the smell of burning rosemary. It made Travis think of Evie's Sunday roast, provoking his stomach into a quietly rumbled complaint. He hadn't had an appetite for breakfast, and dinnertime^[i] had passed by unnoticed in the eternity of the livery.

The sickroom was soundless, too, held in the grip of the same shock as the rest of the town. Chris sat unmoving in a chair at the foot of Wilmington's bed, where he could watch the shallow rise and fall of his friend's chest. J.D. hovered uncertainly near the door to the second room of the suite, staying out of the way of Mary and Mrs. Heidegger who flitted back and forth between the rooms like stone-faced ghosts as they finished their tidying.

The presence of Travis gave J.D. something to do at last, and he fetched a chair from beside the clothes press to bring it to the older man. Nodding his thanks, the judge positioned it near the head of the sickbed, where he could see the doors to both rooms while he studied Chris's weary face. Larabee looked like a man with a 12-foot stare in a ten-foot room, and Travis was willing to bet he was counting every breath Wilmington took.

He counted with him for a while, until the women found their hands empty and came to stand together at the head of the sickbed. He cleared his throat, tapping the silence to crack it before he broke it entirely.

"What the hell happened?"

"It's my fault."

Dunne's whispered assertion caught them all by surprise, making even Chris look at him in confusion.

"He got my guns," J.D. said, looking at the floor. "I knew he was off his head – "

"We all knew he was off his head," Chris interrupted sharply. "And we were all wearing our guns around him. It could have happened to any one of us."

J.D. raised his head, his whole body radiating the misery expressed on his battered face. "I was trying to make Buck stay in bed, and I think – When Ezra woke up, I think he heard me threaten to shoot Buck if he didn't. Stay in bed, I mean."

Chris winced under twin glares from Mary and Mrs. Heidegger that brought the throbbing ache in his backside to his attention. "Trust me, kid," he sighed, "it don't work. Hell, it ain't ever worked."

"I shoulda known better," J.D. went on, as if Larabee hadn't said a word. "I did know better."

"J.D. – " Chris began, only to have Dunne round on him angrily.

"I told ya what was gonna happen when you started this! I knew he'd come after our boots, if we gave him a reason. Reckon I did."

Without a word, Chris stood up, towering blackly over the teenager. J.D. held his ground, ready to take the consequences of his mistakes like a man. Larabee held his gaze for a long moment, then turned away in a silent dismissal that took the air out of J.D.'s lungs. Ignoring the angry gazes of the women, Chris strode into the back room of the suite. When he reappeared in the doorway, he was carrying the almost full chamber pot where his Colt still lay.

"I – I'll take care of it," J.D. agreed, recognizing his penance. A raised eyebrow and a Larabee frown stopped him in mid-reach, and Chris walked out of the room, his angry stride severely cramped by the slosh factor.

"Have a seat," Travis kindly advised Dunne after a moment's silence

J.D. shook his head, overwhelmed by the enormity of Larabee's displeasure. If Chris wouldn't even let him clean the gun, his time in Four Corners had come to an end.

Exchanging a glance of perfect accord regarding the foolishness of men with Mrs. Heidegger, Mary went to J.D., putting her arm around his shoulders and guiding him to Larabee's vacant chair.

"Keep an eye on Buck," she instructed, though she was fairly confident that Wilmington wouldn't be going anywhere soon. Between exhaustion, a rising fever, and the slug of laudanum administered to him from the discreet supply she kept for bad monthly turns^[ii], Wilmington was in bed to stay a while.

After an eternity of ten minutes, J.D. looked up at the judge. "What do we do now?"

"We wait."

They didn't wait long. Five minutes later, Larabee walked back into the room, the chamber pot replaced by a pair of spurred boots that it took J.D. a moment and a blink or two to recognize as Josiah's. When he was sure he had the kid's attention, Chris tossed them to him with an unholy smirk.

J.D. stared open-mouthed at the boots in his lap, then up at Larabee, whose smirk grew into a diabolical grin. After a moment, Dunne grinned back.

J.D.'s visible relaxation earned Chris a smile from Mary, one she tried hard to repress. Primming down her dress with the palm of her hand, she turned to Mrs. Heidegger. "I'm going to see if Gloria needs a hand."

Mrs. Heidegger nodded in approval.

"Give her a hand, J.D.," Chris ordered, jerking his head toward the corridor exit. The kid didn't need to be told twice. Travis followed his progress, then looked to Chris an unspoken question. Larabee inclined his head, letting the judge know that he had the watch here.

Rising from his chair, Travis tipped his hat to Mrs. Heidegger. "I'll be back," he said, following his daughter in law and his one true sheriff out of the room.

Chris and Mrs. Heidegger regarded one another for a few moments, until she raised her firm chin and asked, "Are you hungry, Herr Chris?"

With a shock, Larabee realized that he was. "Yes, ma'am."

With another affirmative nod, she swept from the room. What Larabee wanted to eat was not her concern; he would get what he needed to eat.

Quite suddenly, Chris found himself alone with Buck. The sound of Wilmington's breathing grew loud in the room as Mrs. Heidegger's footsteps disappeared into the distance. It was a harsh sound, coming from his open mouth and whiffling the long hairs of his mustache at the edge of his upper lip. He looked old, and tired, and old and tired could kill a man where a bullet wouldn't. Leaning forward, Chris grasped Buck's good foot through the covers, squeezing it lightly.

"Hang on, Big Dog," he pleaded quietly. "Just – hang on."

End of Act Six Part Three

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] In the 19th century, a typical schedule for a man like Travis was breakfast in the morning, usually around ten after the first round of chores, with the big meal of the day being at 3pm for dinner, followed by a usually lighter supper later in the evening. This fit in with the heat of the day, and the early rising of the household, where the time required for making breakfast was a tad bit longer than is usual for today. (No instant hot cereals back then!) A cup of coffee or cider or beer and cold leftovers was sometimes grabbed before the bigger breakfast. Again, this is typical to the situation Travis is in, and certainly doesn't reflect the schedules and means of a large portion of the population. The factory worker, for instance, would follow a different schedule. But, since the hottest part of the day usually stretches between 3 and 5 pm in the South, it's the perfect time to eat, regroup, and then finish the day's work/chores in the cooler evening.
^[ii] I did not make this up. There is an American Civil War era advertisement in a Maryland paper for a patent medicine boasting its efficacy for "ladies monthly turns". As euphemisms go, I've never heard better.

since 14th August 2004