Ezra couldn’t resist looking back again as they road on. He wanted to ignore all reason and ride past Wexler to go see Vincent for himself. Regardless of the consequences, but he knew that he’d already brought Wexler’s patience to its breaking point. The next time he tried something even slightly suspicious, he knew that Wexler would riddle him with bullets. Wexler was a hard man, but he wasn’t a cruel one.

Still, he was not a push over either. And he’d already shown more mercy than Ezra deserved. More than he ever could have hoped for. But at the end of the day, Wexler was a professional. And if Ezra caused the man any more trouble, he knew that keeping him alive just wouldn’t be worth Wexler’s time. “Keep your eyes on the road.” Wexler said. As if on cue. “No matter how many forlorn stares you cast back there, we aren’t turning around. If I see it one more time, I might just be tempted to do myself a favor and put a bullet in your back.”

Ezra met Wexler’s gaze before turning around. “Duly noted,” he said dryly. Facing forward. Wexler was probably right; Vincent was dead by now. But he that didn’t mean his death didn’t matter. He could at least see his friend and say goodbye. On the other hand, maybe it was best if he didn’t see. He remembered the fear he’d felt at potentially seeing Vincent’s horribly mangled corpse. He didn’t want that to be the final memory of the man he considered his brother. Could he live with that? He wasn’t sure. And to add to the struggle, Ezra still had the nagging thought that he could still be alive.

Vincent was one mean bulldog. He was born a fighter in more ways than one, and he had been through some pretty tough scrapes in the past. What if he was still alive? Ezra just couldn’t let go. But he would have to learn how. If he tried to pull a stunt now, he’d only get himself killed. What good would that do for either of them? None of course. And what about his family? He swore to them he’d return with their inheritance. And not only had he not secured it yet, but he had also taken massive risks that could have easily gotten him killed. And not just once, but several times.

At what point did loyalty to his own family outweigh the responsibility to his brother? As Ezra thought about it, he realized that he’d already passed that point. He was well beyond it. But for some reason, he couldn’t let it go. He didn’t want to admit it, but in the back of his mind, he knew that part of it was to prove a point. Vincent’s loyalty had been tested earlier and he placed his family first. The sense of betrayal had cut deep. Deeper than Ezra was willing to admit. But wasn’t he right? Didn’t he make the right choice? Maybe he did, but it still made Ezra angry. He wouldn’t be like Vincent. He wouldn’t betray his brother. Then he remembered how Vincent had turned back. How he’d risked his life to save him and most importantly, how that choice had cost his own life in return. In the end, Vincent did make the ultimate sacrifice to save Ezra. Was Ezra going to turn his back on him now? He decided that he had to. If only for a time.

###

As they moved along the road, Ezra spent the majority of his time trying to think of a way out of the mess he’d found himself in. He had a horse again and he was still pretty close to Vincent, so there was still time to come up with a plan. He noted that they were moving at a much more reasonable pace than they had been before. Mostly because they had no choice. The horses were tired, the dog was tired, and so were they.

As much as Wexler wanted to get the job over with, Ezra knew that he was patient enough not to make a rookie mistake. If he pushed the animals too hard, it would only create a problem for them later on. As he considered this, Ezra realized for the first time, that returning the foreman’s hound to him was probably part of the contract. Which meant that Wexler almost certainly had a vested interest in keeping Buster alive. Ezra kicked himself internally at the thought. “Ezra, you idiot. He was probably bluffing.” When Wexler threatened to kill Buster, it had given him the upper hand. Or at least, took one of Ezra’s greatest advantages off the board. If he’d considered this information earlier, things might have turned out very differently.

He imagined a number of scenarios and how things could have been. He could have sicced Buster on the hunter and used it as an opportunity to gain the advantage. Then he wouldn’t be in this mess and all the suffering he’d been through would actually carry some meaning. The more he dwelt on it, the angrier he became until he wanted to shout just to let off some steam. As much as he knew it would make him feel better, at this point, he was about eighty percent sure it had the potential to get him killed. Wexler was tired and high-strung as it was.

The last thing he wanted to do was set him off with something so stupid. After mulling it over a while longer, Ezra decided that he couldn’t be too hard on himself. He had been through a lot and he simply couldn’t account for everything. He had done a fine job, all things considered. In fact, he had gone above and beyond - and even pulled out some impressive wins against impossible odds. He was beginning to gain confidence now. If he’d done it before, he could do it again. And he’d just have to make sure to redeem himself this time around. He would have to make a point of using this newfound information to his advantage when the time came. Assuming the opportunity presented itself.

As timed pressed on, Ezra’s confidence slowly began to wane. The further they moved away from Ezra’s goal and toward Wexler’s, the more he realized that his confidence was in some ways a delusion of grandeur. Yes, he did overcome some incredible odds, but counting on that seemed foolish when his thoughts had become clear and sober. Or maybe he was just letting fear talk him out of it. He cycled back and forth through all the arguments in his head, but he kept on coming back to the fact that he was dealing with John Wexler. There was some reasoning behind his building confidence, but there was just as much sound reasoning for caution. The problem was, if he was too reckless, he would make a stupid mistake and get himself killed. If he was too cautious, it would rob him of the boldness and bravery required to execute a daring enough plan to actually work.

It was a dangerous game. As he contemplated his next steps, he felt more than he ever had experienced in all his years, the sense that he was straddling the edge of a knife. He held onto hope for a time, remaining vigilant, but eventually Ezra began to wonder if he should just give up. It was in that moment that his opportunity arrived. Wexler yawned again. This had been going on for some time, but it was increasing in frequency until it had become almost absurd. “Stop right over here.” Wexler said. “We’ll be camping for the night.”

It must have been embarrassing for a world class gunslinger like Wexler to be in a situation like this, but Ezra guessed that it was better to hunker down in a place where he could theoretically control some of the variables, instead of being caught out in the open unawares as he became too drowsy. A younger more brash man would almost certainly press on through the night out of pride. Rather than admit his need for rest. So, what had at first seemed foolish in Ezra’s eyes turned out to be wisdom in the end. There was a reason Wexler was still alive and working when countless others in his profession had perished long ago.

Wexler sat on his horse and watched patiently as Ezra did all the work. He laid out the bedrolls, collected firewood, and started the fire. When everything was all setup and cozy, Wexler pulled out a rope and instructed Ezra tie himself up. As before, Wexler was practical, but not cruel. Ezra wasn’t tied up against the trunk where he would freeze. Instead, after Ezra’s hands had been tied, Wexler tied the other end to a tree. Once that was secure, he allowed Ezra to lay down on his own bedroll before hog tying him. With his hands tied to his legs, there was little chance of him escaping during the night.

He also kept Ezra far enough away from the fire that he couldn’t cause trouble, but close enough that he received a small measure of its benefits. Ezra sorely wished he could be closer, but a little warmth was better than none. Ezra had known a few bounty hunters in his time, and he couldn’t think of one that would have offered the same kindness. As much as he hated his current predicament, he counted himself oddly fortunate. Especially since Callais was also under the foreman’s employ. If it had been Callais that caught him first, he’d already be dead. Or worse. He shivered at the prospect. More grateful than ever that it was Wexler who had captured him. His captor proved to be no amateur when it came to ropes and knots. He was firmly bound. Ezra found it disappointing, if not expected. “Why can’t things ever be easy?” One of these days something would turn out easy for him and then he wouldn’t know what to do with himself.

Maybe that was the problem with most people. They were so ready to endure pain and struggle that when something extraordinary did come along, they ignored it or outright rejected it as a fantasy. Too good to be true. Ezra almost found himself laughing at the absurdity of his mood and musings in contrast to his situation. “It’s crazy what strange thoughts will run through a man’s head when he’s tied up like some wild animal.” The irony was that the animals were less tied down than he was. The horses were hitched, but they had more freedom of movement. Buster on the other hand, was pretty much free to roam.

It was a sad day indeed, when a man came to envy the life of a dog. Buster hovered near him some of the time, but more often than not, he stayed closer to the fire. He seemed to be much more at ease now. Wexler was no stranger to Buster. Being the foreman’s dog, he was often nearby whenever Wexler came around about a contract. Despite this, he was more loyal to Ezra. He suspected it had something to do with the treats he usually brought Buster whenever he dropped by. Of course he had shown up empty handed last time, but that was only because he hadn’t eaten in several days and didn’t have a crumb to spare. If he thought was hungry then, he was starving now. Buster did seem disappointed at the time, but he liked to think there was more to their bond than that.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

There was a certain sense of genuine friendship between them. Ezra’s thoughts were interrupted by an unexpected yawn. It was true what they said. Yawns were contagious. He silently cursed Wexler for passing them on. A part of him wanted to relax and have a good night’s rest. He sure could use one. He could feel the fog of sleep start to creep up on him, but he shook himself awake. As alluring as the thought was, he made a point to remind himself that things would be far different for him the next day. He didn’t even want to consider what nightmare awaited him back at camp. He couldn’t allow himself to become complacent. Now was not the time for lullabies and sweet dreams. It was time for action. He had to think of a plan. If there was going to be any chance of escape, this would be it.

At sunrise, Wexler would be rested, and Ezra would have no choice but to travel directly in his sights during broad daylight. And he highly doubted that Wexler would let him out of his sight for even a single second. It was now or never. He just had to wait for Wexler to fall asleep and then he could strike. Wexler was sitting next to the fire, hungrily digging into a juicy haunch of meat. Ezra’s mouth watered at the smell and he’d held out hope that Wexler would share, but that hope had slowly died out. What seemed like hours had passed while he watch Wexler enjoying the savory meal and at this point he was nearly finished. Ezra wanted to hold it against him, but on the other hand; a captor’s magnanimity had to end at some point, right?

Now Ezra knew just how far Wexler’s kindness extended. And where it ended. As much as he wanted to hate the man who had blown a gaping hole in his hand, Ezra found that he actually admired him in some respects. Under better circumstances he might have called him a friend, but there was no room for that now. Wexler had made that abundantly clear. Still, he was impressed by Wexler’s professionalism and humanity, despite his rough exterior and seemingly cold demeanor. Ezra decided that if it came down to it, he would try not to kill the man. Unless of course, it was absolutely necessary. It was only fair. After all, the hunter would do the very same for him.

Wexler stretched out by the fire with a sigh of satisfaction, glancing over in Ezra’s direction. Once he finished stretching, he looked at the bone in his hand, inspecting the meat that remained. Then he looked toward Ezra again with an expression of pity. Ezra felt a sudden surge of hope. Hungrily eying the tender morsel. Wexler shrugged. “Here you go.” he said, pulling his arm back to toss the bone. Ezra leapt into action. Doing his best to move himself in the proper position to catch the tantalizing meal. It wasn’t easy, but Ezra was able to get his hands in a somewhat favorable position.

Then Wexler tossed it. Ezra tracked it in the air with intense anticipation, praying he would be able to catch it. As he watched it moved his heart sank. It wasn’t going to land anywhere near enough for him to catch it. Instead, it landed squarely in front of Buster. The dog hungrily snatched it up. Ezra stared in utter shock and agony. In response, Wexler burst out into a fit of laughter. It was a deep, belly laugh. The kind he’d never expected to hear from the emotionless bounty hunter in a thousand years. Ezra’s face flashed crimson with rage. He stared daggers at Wexler, attempting to seer him a look of betrayal and hatred.

“You low-down, dirty, scum bucket!” Ezra shouted. “I’ll strangle you do death in your sleep for that.” This only made Wexler laugh all the more. “I’d like to see you try.” He replied. Ezra tried to roll on his side to put Wexler out of his sight, but it proved to be harder than he’d imagined. His embarrassing struggle stretched on, serving only to provide further entertainment for his cruel captor. Thoroughly humiliated, Ezra ceased to squirm. Closing his eyes instead. He lay there for a moment, images of sweet revenge, flashing through his mind. He imagined getting loose and punching the dirtbag square in the face. After Wexler had spit out a couple of teeth as a result, Ezra imagined himself wrapping his battered hands eagerly around Wexler’s throat and wringing his filthy neck until he passed out.

Then he would ride off into the sunset. Or ride off into the night at least. The thought brought a reassuring smile to his lips. All that business earlier about doing his best to spare Wexler, seemed antiquated now. “Scratch all that, maybe I will kill him.” The thought was like a healing balm to his wounded pride. Or at least it provided a temporary sense of satisfaction. Ezra sighed, feeling his rage begin to subside. He opened his eyes, watching Buster hungrily gnaw on the bone. Buster happily picked up the bone and plodded to the hunter’s side, resting on his haunches. Wexler rested a hand on the dog, then scratched his ears. Buster happily wagged his tail in response. Then dropped the bone, so he could lick Wexler’s hand. The sting of betrayal struck him more deeply than he would have imagined. He shouldn’t have such strong feelings about a mangy mutt, but he couldn’t help himself. “Traitor.” Ezra grumbled.

His sudden outburst brought a smile to Wexler’s lips. Sensing his ire, Buster bowed his head in shame, whining softly. “Good dog.” Wexler said, petting him again. Buster perked up immediately. His temporary guilt forgotten as if it had never happened. Ezra was thoroughly sickened. Mostly by the fact that he was once again reduced to envying the life of a mangy dog. Denied even the scraps a stray would eat and on top of that, betrayed. “I’m feeling lower than dirt, right about now.” he thought bitterly. Ezra did his best to push the thoughts away, but they remained. He felt the need to voice his frustrations. Maybe then, he could find some peace.

“You know, it used to be that loyalty meant something. There was a time when a man could depend on an honest companion. And there used to be a special bond between a man and his dog. Now it seems, nothing is sacred. These days, they’ll sell themselves out to the highest bidder at the first sign of a snack.” He shook his head in disappointment. “This aint your dog though, is it?” Wexler asked. Ezra frowned. “That’s beside the point.” Wexler huffed skeptically. “Right.” he said, nodding condescendingly. Ezra shot him a look. “No one asked you anyway.” He said as he shifted, instinctively attempting to turn his back to Wexler. Then he recalled the last time he’d tried. He stopped, turning his head indignantly. Wexler smiled again. “Don’t be too bitter about the food Ezra. I’ll make sure to prepare a feast fit for a king when we get back. Tomorrow you’ll be able to eat to your hearts content. But I just couldn’t help pulling yer leg a little. Forgive an old dog his tricks. Every once in a while, a man needs a reason to laugh.”

Ezra scoffed. “Laugh all you want, but that isn’t my idea of a good joke. I haven’t eaten in days. The least you could do is offer me an old biscuit or something.” Wexler scratched his chin. “Well, now that you mention it, I think I have a biscuit in my satchel. It’s a few days old though. More of a ration than a meal.” Ezra perked up, looking hopeful again. “I’m so hungry right now, I’d eat that biscuit if it was ten days old.” Wexler shrugged. “All right. If you want a stale biscuit that’s fine by me. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He stood, shuffling leisurely to his satchel. He pulled it open, digging around in it for a moment. Then his expression changed. “Uhh… maybe I don’t have one.” Ezra lowered his head, looking deflated. “Ah, wait a minute. There it is.” he said, producing the biscuit with a twinkle in his eye.

He made his way toward Ezra and stopped short, crouching down. Then he looked toward Buster. “Here boy,” he said. Buster perked up and strolled toward them. Ezra shot him a glare. His face contorting in a look of disgust. Wexler chuckled. “I’m just joshing ya.” He pressed the biscuit into Ezra’s hand and called Buster over to him. Then opened up the satchel and offered Buster a handful of crumbs that had gathered in a pile at the bottom of the bag. Meanwhile, Ezra struggled to get the biscuit up to his mouth. “How am I supposed to eat it?” he asked in frustration. Wexler gave a slight shrug. “You’ll figure it out.” Ezra offered him a sour expression, but didn’t protest. With food so close, he set aside the thoughts of victimhood and discovered in himself, a new reservoir of determination. “I’m going to find a way to eat this biscuit no matter what.”

He struggled for several minutes but was eventually able to curl up enough to get his good hand close to his mouth. He must have looked ridiculous, like a chipmunk or some other furry little animal, chowing down on scraps they’d scavenged. Ezra thought about his awkward position and realized that he probably resembled a hedgehog at the moment, but he didn’t care. He dug into the biscuit and savored every bite. It was a little stale, as Wexler had warned, but in that moment, the old hunk of batter somehow transcended its meager status to become one of the best biscuits he’d ever eaten.

He consumed every last crumb. Then sighed with relief, grateful to have something in his belly. It took the stinging edge off his hunger, but he still had a long way to go to be satisfied. He opened his mouth to ask if Wexler had anything else to eat, some dried meat perhaps, but he found his mouth to be bone dry. His want for more food shifted suddenly to a strong desire for a drink. “That biscuit dried me out. Could I get something to drink?” Wexler glanced in his direction. “I don’t want you drinking before bed. I’m not getting up in the night for you to make water.” Ezra smacked his lips together, trying to wet his tongue enough to speak. “If I can’t hold it, I’ll just wet my drawers. Please, get me a drink.” Wexler considered it for a time. “All right.” He left to fetch his canteen. After a moment he called out. “Bad news, son. I’m fresh out. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow when I get a chance to fill up again.”

Ezra slumped in defeat. Then Wexler called out again. “Well, I guess I can spare you a spot of whiskey. How would that be?” “I’ll take anything I can get,” Ezra said with exasperation. Wexler approached Ezra and stopped short. Ezra held out his hands, but Wexler shook his head. “I’m not handing you the bottle. Mama didn’t raise no fool, son.” Ezra scoffed. “What do you want me to do then?” Wexler tilted his head back and motioned with the bottle over his open mouth. “Waterfall.” he said. Ezra huffed. “Fine, whatever.”

Ezra rocked back from a sitting position to lying face up. Then opened his mouth and tilted his head back. “Down the hatch.” Wexler said, as he poured a stream into Ezra’s gullet. The liquid hit Ezra’s tongue like a flash of fire, setting his mouth and throat ablaze. He managed to swallow some of it, but about half of it spurted out of his mouth as he plunged uncontrollably into a fit of coughing. “What was that!? Industrial sludge?” Ezra croaked; his eyes wide with horror. Wexler threw his head back and cackled with abandon. “Whewee! That’s the good stuff son. Homemade.” “Thanks a lot.” Ezra said, his voice a raspy whisper. “Don’t mention it.” Wexler responded, with a nod and smile.