Thump, thud, scrape, thump, thud, scrape.

"Boy! Keep your feet still," glowered Nettie Wells at the impervious little boy opposite her. "This stagecoach trip is bad enough without you driving us all crazy with that endless kicking."

Thump, thud, scrape. Stormy eyes glared from under a fringe of reddish brown hair. "I can do whatever I want."

"Is that right," Nettie countered, glowering. Moving her frown to the somberly, though richly dressed man beside the boy, "Sir, your son is…"

"Madame," the man interrupted, "this person is most definitely not my offspring. He stared with bored distaste at the defiant boy. "He is my employer," he added, brushing his coat sleeves ineffectively with thin, bony hands.

"Yes, Madame," the boy mimicked, "Jenkins here does what I say."

"Humph," Nettie snorted. "Well, Mr. ah Jenkins, aren’t you supposed to be looking after him?" Jenkins merely turned his disinterested gaze to the passing scenery.

"I am quite capable of looking after myself," stated the boy boldly. "I told you, nosy old biddy, Jenkins is here to do what I say."

"Boy, somebody needs to tan your britches!" Nettie had had enough of the boy’s impertinence.

"Like hell," the boy countered. "My parents would kill anybody that raises a hand to me."

"Is that so." Nettie was hoping that she never met whoever had raised this imp from hell. What a thoroughly spoiled brat; probably never had anyone ever tell him no in his whole life.

"Yes, that is so and don’t you forget it. My parents are so rich that they can do whatever they want and no old woman can tell me or them what to do," shouted the boy, with growing aggravation at the doubtful look on Nettie’s face. "You are going to regret this."

I already do, thought Nettie, as she sat back in the seat and regarded the angry child in front of her. She had to admit for such a miserable creature, he was a beautiful child. Crystalline sea blue eyes contrasted delightfully with his auburn hair, highlighted with golden touches here, and there. Of course, those smooth rosy cheeks hid dimples, no doubt. He was sturdy, though there was a somewhat vulnerable aura about him that contrasted strangely with his irate demeanor.

"What’s your name, boy?"

The sudden change in the conversation startled the child but he came back quickly. "None of your business."

"Oh, pardon me," the sarcasm was totally lost on the boy. "I thought I might have heard of your family, them being so rich and all."

Hiding a smile, as she read him right, the boy responded boastfully. " My name is Kit Baral. My father is a rancher. I am going to meet my mother then we are all going to go to live on our new ranch with my father. We are going to have a hundred horses and my father is going to teach me to break them and everything, and I am going to have a stallion all of my own."

She watched as the little boy’s face lit up with childish pleasure, and caught a glimpse of dimples. "Can’t rightly say I ever heard of no Baral’s."

"Goes to show you what you know!" the dimples were replaced with the stormy scowl. "Well soon everybody in this whole territory is going to know my family."

"Where is your father’s ranch?" Nettie couldn’t help asking.

"Ah, I don’t know exactly, but I’m meeting my mother in Four Corner’s, so it must be there." The explanation seemed a bit tentative. Nettie certainly hoped so; she really didn’t think the town was up to the likes of one Master Kit Baral.

Further conversation was halted, as the stage pulled into the town in question. "Four Corner’s" shouted the driver.

Kit watched Nettie gather her things. "You getting off here too?"

Nettie looked at the boy sharply, trying to decide if that was hopefulness that crept into his voice. "Yes, I have a ranch outside of town."

"Master Baral," Jenkins smoothly interjected, backing out of the door, "we need to get your things over to the hotel and see if there is word from your mother."

"Of course," the boy acknowledged. "Carry on then, Jenkins," he declared. Turning his head to glance back at Nettie, he seemed to want to say something, but was drawn away as Jenkins pushed a valise into his hand.

"What a pathetic backwater," Jenkins observed with aversion. "Come, young master, let’s secure our quarters."

Nettie shaded her eyes from the afternoon sun, looking after the strange pair. That boy was a hellion, no doubt, but for some reason she couldn’t put her finger on, that man Jenkins gave her the willies.

"Howdy, there Mrs. Wells," JD called, echoed by Casey’s greeting as the two came trotting over to the stage. "Welcome home." "

Nettie turned her attention on the two young people, and smiled at their enthusiastic welcome. "I am glad to be back. You two stay out of trouble?" she asked with mock sternness, swallowing a chuckle as she watched them bluster.

"Good as gold," rumbled a deep baritone, as Josiah strolled up and took pity on the pair. "JD, why don’t you get Mrs. Well’s things into the wagon."

The two older folks shared an amused glance as Casey and JD almost fell over each other to follow Josiah’s suggestion. "Why Mr. Sanchez, I am surprised to see you, I thought Mr. Wilmington had the corner on greeting the stage."

"Buck, Chris and Vin headed out to Bisbee day before yesterday, checking out a lead on that Gaines woman."

"Let’s hope they put an end to her nonsense. But that only leaves you three to watch out for troublemakers."

"Four," Josiah corrected gently.

"Fancy man’s more likely to cause trouble unless he’s watching his pocket."

JD looked up sharply at her comment, but swallowed his retort at a shake of the head from Josiah.

"Mrs. Wells who were those folks that came in on the stage with you?" Chris always made it a point to know who was in town, and JD reckoned that as sheriff he should too.

Nettie related the tale of her tiresome journey and warned JD and Josiah to keep an eye on the little imp because he was four foot of trouble, for sure. "Hopefully, they’ll meet up with the boy’s mother and ride far away from here," concluded Nettie as she and Casey pulled off for home.

*******

Ezra looked covertly at the latest player in the profitable game he was running. The four gamblers were burning midnight oil; Ezra methodically separating each from their money, especially the richly dressed toady. "Mr. Jenkins, I believe it’s your call."

Turning over another losing hand, the man finally conceded defeat. "I believe I will retire for this evening." His dark unpleasant eyes roved up and down Ezra. "I trust you will provide me with an opportunity to regain my lost fiduciary status." At Ezra’s brief nod, he continued, "Until tomorrow, then."

Taking their cue from the departing loser, the other two quickly made their escape before they too lost any more money. Ezra smiled curtly in dismissal, gathering his winnings. "Ah gentlemen, care to join me for a late evening libation?"

Nathan and Josiah sat down agreeably as Ezra poured each a shot. "I take it you had a good evening."

"Why yes, Mr. Sanchez. I must admit that Dame Fortune was particularly kind tonight."

"Fortune, hell, Ezra seems to me that Jenkins fellow was providing most of the funds. Got a good bit off him, did ya" At Ezra’s nod, Nathan continued. "Guess that Baral fellow pays pretty good wages."

"Mr. Baral?" asked Ezra, with a predatory gleam. If the employee had that kind of money, perhaps he should seek out the employer.

"New fellow in town, he is staying over at the hotel," Josiah off handedly remarked. "Got a ranch somewhere hereabouts, meeting up with his family, from what I hear."

"Fancy dresser too," Nathan added, "Wears fancier clothes than you. Must be loaded."

"Perhaps I should make the acquaintance of this gentleman. If he is a person of some sophistication he may wish to engage in an evening or two of profitable entertainment."

"He might at that," Josiah deadpanned, "Course better make it an early evening."

Nathan nearly choked on his chuckle, "Yeah, reckon he probably goes to bed about eight."

"Surely you gentlemen jest." Ezra knew they were playing him, but just couldn’t get a handle on how.

Josiah finally gave in to his full belly laugh. "And guess you better practice up on Go Fish or maybe Old Maids."

"I don’t know, Josiah," Nathan added "Maybe a gentleman of his sophistication plays Rummy."

"Could be, what are nine year olds playing nowadays?"

"Nine year olds?" Ezra sputtered. "You mean Mr. Baral is a child?"

"Quite a hellion from what we hear," said Josiah wiping his eyes. "Came in with that Jenkins fellow on the stage this afternoon. Mrs. Wells had a mouthful to say about him when JD asked. Called her a nosy old biddy for one thing."

"Yes, well." Ezra wisely chose to leave that comment alone. "Whatever is a child doing with that kind of money, Mr. Jenkins is his employee?" he clarified.

"I hear that his parents are high and mighty, rich as sin. Got some highfalutin horse ranch around here somewhere. Told Bill Roberts over at the hotel that he came out from Louisville with his butler. Been attending some fancy boarding school there. Gave Bill a fit about the room, changed it twice. Didn’t like the food too much either. Threw the entire plate across the room. Then followed it by everything else that was on the table. Guess that Jenkins fellow didn’t blink an eye, just told Roberts to put it on their tab. Don’t think I ever heard Bill Roberts use such colorful language before." Josiah shook his head. "Kid must be something else."

"Typical rich spoiled brat, ey Ezra?"

Ezra merely raised his eyebrow and let the implied insult slide. Little do you know Mr. Jackson he thought. Consulting his watch, he stood and tipped his hat. "Gentlemen, I believe I have a patrol to ride."

*******

"Hey boy! Is this the jail?"

JD jumped slightly looking up from the dime novel that he had been reading. Oh no, he thought, this must be the infamous Kit Baral. Who’s calling who boy? "Of course, it is" he replied with some asperity "and I am the sheriff."

"You have got to be kidding," came the response. "Where’s your badge?"

"You’re looking at it." JD tugged the star on his lapel towards the skeptical child.

"Looks like tinfoil."

"It’s the real thing. Now get out of here." JD put all the stern authority he could into his voice.

Instead, the intrepid boy plunked himself down beside JD. "You ever killed anybody?"

"Yeah."

"Wow. Did they bleed a lot and scream and spew their guts all over the place?"

"Good grief, boy, that’s no way to talk!"

Kit shrugged his shoulders, "Just never seen nobody get shot that’s all. You ever been shot?"

"Once."

"Did it hurt a lot?"

"Now see here boy, shooting somebody and getting shot is a terrible thing. You don’t ever want to know anything about it. Now, go on and get." JD picked up his book and began reading, trying to ignore Kit in hope that he would go away.

Undeterred, Kit grabbed the arm of the chair and started swinging himself back and forth. "What are you reading?"

"A book." JD was getting tired of the inquisition.

"Bat Masterson and the Great Train Robbery" Kit peered down at the cover, and then began reading over JD’s shoulder. "Two men lay dead on the train tracks…"

Snapping the book closed, JD stood up. "Do you mind?"

JD walked with determination into the jail and turned to close the door firmly behind him, only to find it blocked by the persistent nine-year-old.

"I’ve never seen the inside of a jail," Kit said looking around curiously. "Are those handcuffs? Can I see ‘em?" Without waiting for an answer Kit grabbed the handcuffs from the desk and ran over to the open cell. Jumping up on the thin mattress he shouted, "Hey look at me I’m a bad old train robber. Are these bars really iron?"

"Look here now," JD strode irritably over to the boy who was now hanging on the bars like a monkey in a cage. "Give me those."

What happened next was never quite clear to JD. One minute he had a hold of the back of the little imp’s jacket, the next he was handcuffed to the cot and locked in the cell watching in utter humiliation and aggravation the waving hand of the little scamp as he closed and locked the front door of the jail. Leaning his head tiredly against the mattress, JD knew if Buck found out he would never, ever live this down. How was he going to get out of this mess? He could try yelling. Somebody might hear. Yeah, there you go; idiot sheriff locked in his own jail. No, he’d just have to wait. Josiah was coming in, oh, about four more hours to relive him. Damn, damn, damn! That child was surely Satan’s spawn.

"JD."

"Josiah!" yelled JD grateful that his release was imminent then watched in frustration as the door handle was turned ineffectually.

"JD, open this door."

"Can’t, just go around back."

"How in the world?" Josiah’s incredulous look took in the sight of JD, handcuffs, and locked door.

"Just get me out of here. Please."

Josiah searched fruitlessly for the keys. "Um, JD where are the keys?"

"I’ll kill him. Going to string him up, wring his neck, gut shoot him" JD moaned.

Coughing slightly to cover the laughter that bubbled just behind his teeth, Josiah asked the obvious.

"That kid, that Kit Baral, that hellion, damn little brat."

Sudden shouts from the street drew Josiah’s attention. "Fire, fire at the mercantile!"

Josiah took off at a run, leaving a cursing and muttering sheriff still locked in his own jail.

Reaching the front of the store, he found a number of distraught townsfolk standing in an angry circle around a small, yet unconcerned figure. The smoldering remains of a rug lay near his feet.

"What happened?" Josiah asked the proprietor who had a death grip on the boy’s collar.

"This young whelp tried to burn down my store."

Wide, innocent eyes looked guilelessly up at Josiah. "I assure you, my dear sir, that it was an unfortunate accident. I just wanted to make sure that the merchandise I was about to purchase was in proper working order." Dropping the matches and digging into his pocket he pulled out a considerable sum of money, peeling off a bill, he handed to the man holding his collar. "Here now, my good man this should more than cover the cost of any damage. Keep the change for any inconvenience I may have caused."

"You little…" Josiah cleared his throat meaningfully, halting the man’s imminent tirade.

"I better never see you in my place again," said the storeowner grabbing the money from the boy and stomping back into the mercantile.

"Alright everyone, show’s over. Whoa, not you." Josiah snaked out his arm and grabbed Kit, as he was ready to slip away. "We have some other business to attend to." Scooping him up around his middle, Josiah hauled the mildly protesting child to the jail.

*******

Ezra sighed contentedly as he gathered a considerable sum of money from the center of the table for the third time in as many days. Lifting his glass slightly, he toasted the retreating back of one Mr. Jenkins. "My thanks, sir. And may you roast in hell," he spoke softly to himself.

That man was unquestionably a despicable human being. If he was human that is. Ezra shuddered slightly, he would play with just about any willing mark, but there was certainly something disturbing about that fellow. The gambler didn’t have any trouble taking Jenkins’ money, but he felt a certain relief of quitting the man’s company. Remembering the last conversation he had with his fellow peacemaker’s, Ezra frowned. What parent in their right mind would leave a child with the likes of Jenkins? He grimaced. Maude would have. Good lord. He broke off that train of thought. Let sleeping tigers lie. Suppressing the bitterness that came with memory, he looked around realizing that he had not seen his associates in some time.

"Ah, gentlemen," he began as the subjects of his search entered the saloon and made their way wearily to his table. "Boys, boys y’all look like something the cat drug in." His three fellow peacemakers’ were an assemblage of bruises, bandages, and bad tempers.

Josiah sighed as he poured three very generous shots of rotgut. Ezra looked askance at JD as he joined the other two in bolting down the whiskey and the next two shots as well. "Brother Standish, while you have been basking in the arms of lady luck, we have been fighting off baby Beelzebub."

"Somebody should have drowned that pup at birth," groused JD sourly.

Ezra’s look of consternation intensified. "My, my Mr. Dunne who is this scoundrel who has generated such vitriol in your normally benign nature? I was unaware that any such reprobates had been causing undue difficulty. My patrols have been unusually serene."

"Yeah, well Ezra, that’s just cause this devil walks around in daylight. I guess you just been sleeping through all the excitement."

"I would have been glad to assist had my services been requested." Ezra stated rather flatly.

JD heard the reproach behind the quietly stated words, and realized that Ezra had misconstrued his meaning. "Hell, Ezra, you’d have thought the three of us could handle one little kid."

"Excuse me?"

Nathan looked up from his fifth whiskey. "We have been trying to deal with Master Kit Baral. That kid is heading for Yuma before he turns ten. Somebody needs to set that boy straight. Needs an hour in the woodshed."

"Come now, gentlemen, you mean to tell me a small boy is responsible for all this. Surely, you exaggerate. "

"Brother Standish, you have no idea. That creature makes Eugene come across like a parent’s dream. He filled the sugar jars with salt at the café, threw buckeyes on the fire at the blacksmiths and sawed the rungs of my ladder," Josiah rubbed the bruise on his head gingerly. "I am afraid Kit Baral is an incorrigible youth."

Arching his eyebrow, Ezra began biting the sides of his tongue to keep from laughing.

Josiah continued since the card sharp was not convinced, "He wrecked the hotel dining room, twice, set fire to the mercantile and incarcerated JD here." The last remark earning him a venomous scowl from JD. "And on top of it all bit Nathan."

"He bit Mr. Jackson?" Ezra wondered what would happen if he…good grief, Larabee’d shoot him.

Nathan held up his bandaged finger, "Chomped right down on it when I stuck my finger down his throat to get him to throw-up the hair tonic he drank over at the barbershop – right after he shaved off half of Hiram Cole’s mustache." Nathan shook his head, "Never did get him to get rid of that hair tonic, must have a cast iron stomach."

Refilling everyone’s drinks, Ezra hoped he hadn’t drawn blood as he bit his tongue, but knew better than to give vent to the mirth arising from the escapades of the miniature mischief maker. "Pray tell…that sounded like a gunshot!" Interrupting himself, Ezra led the way as the four regulators ran out to the street, guns drawn.

"Came from the hotel."

"Just shoot me now," groaned JD as he exchanged looks with Josiah and Nathan.

"Perhaps it is a simple accidental misfire," began Ezra without conviction.

Bill Roberts came rushing out, gesturing to the four. "Damn fool kid done shot his butler. He’s up there in his room with some big old revolver and won’t let anybody in. Threatened to shoot anybody that comes near him."

"Boys lets not go rushing in like the seventh cavalry. A modicum of strategy would be in order - for fear that someone else is injured." Ezra blocked their passage with his outstretched arms. "Mr. Roberts, were you able to ascertain the extent of Mr. Jenkins injuries?"

"Yeah, He’s dead. Kid shot him right between the eyes."

"In that case, I believe we may take the time to defuse the situation without further injury being incurred. Mr. Jackson, perhaps you had best fetch the undertaker. Mr. Sanchez, would you please watch the back of the hotel, lest the perpetrator make his escape, Mr. Dunne, if you would accompany me, I will use my powers of persuasion to encourage the lad to disarm."

*******

Entering the hallway, Ezra muttered, "I abhor that odor." An unpleasant mix of gunpowder and the metallic tang of blood and body fluids filled the air, along with a stench that Ezra had long associated with that of death itself. Motioning quietly to JD to follow his lead, he knocked softly on the partially opened door. He could see the body of Jenkins sprawled at the foot of the bed, eyes glittering like mica while streaks of blood and brains dripped down his face like macabre tears. He was quite dead.

"Don’t come near me," hissed the nightshirt-clad figure pressed up against the headboard of the bed, an old army revolver clenched in bold defiance in front of him. "I’ll kill you too." He glared at them with eyes like glass, tone and body language confirming his intent.

Much to JD’s astonishment, Ezra calmly holstered his gun, and leaned nonchalantly against the doorframe. "Were you planning on spending the night with Mr. Jenkins’ corpse at the foot of your bed?"

The child’s eyes widened in horror and the barrel of the gun began to waver. He shook his head. "No,"

I just, I…" he trailed off uncertainly.

Ezra waited for a moment, watching as shadows of distress and deep sorrow drifted across Kit’s eyes. The thought crossed Ezra’s mind, as a dragonfly skirts the surface of a pond that he’d seen that look before; it seemed so familiar. "Would you like me to escort you from this room?" he asked the boy.

Relief battled with trepidation in the child’s face. Ezra pressed his point. "You can stay here, but I am afraid we won’t be able to get the blood out of the carpeting, and as for that smell." He cocked his head with meaning.

"Please," Kit whispered.

Raising his hand to keep JD back, Ezra moved slowly over to the boy kneeling on the bed. "We must dispense with the weapon," Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he held out his hand palm up, his eyes never leaving the boy’s. Icy cold fingers laid the gun gingerly into his hand. Ezra handed the gun back. JD moved quickly to relieve him of the weapon.

Looking intently into the face of the trembling child before him, Ezra softly said, "Come on son, its going to be alright. I won’t let anybody hurt you. You’ll be safe with me. I promise." Slowly reaching his hand up gently laid his palm on Kit’s cheek and caressed it lightly. "I’ll keep you safe, I promise,"

Kit came completely undone, and launched his sobbing slight form into Ezra’s waiting arms. Wrapping all four little limbs around the soft-spoken man, he buried his head into his neck crying hysterically. Without hesitation, Ezra clasped the little boy tightly to him and strode from the room. "JD, I’ll leave you to tend to this, we’ll be in my quarters."

Never breaking step, Ezra pushed his way through the knots of curious onlookers. "Mr. Jackson, I believe we may be in need of your assistance," he stated calmly as they passed Nathan and the undertaker, leaving the healer to follow. Paying no attention to the stir they caused, he toted the sobbing boy through the saloon and up to his room. Dropping his hat on the dresser, he snagged a quilt from the bed and settled the child on his lap in his rocking chair. Wrapping the quilt around the shivering boy, he began to gently rock while murmuring soothing assurances.

Nathan soon appeared, bag in hand. "He hurt," he asked, curtly peering at the boy.

"Yes." Ezra could feel Kit relaxing somewhat: his anguished cries subsiding to hitching sobs, though the death grip he had around Ezra’s neck had not lessened any. "Kit, we need to let Mr. Jackson here see to you."

"No, no, no! He’ll hurt me. He tried to choke me!" The chair tilted wildly as Kit tried to get further away from Nathan. Firmly, but lightly Ezra grabbed the sides of Kit’s face so that he could see his eyes. "Mr. Jackson is a healer, a fine and noble gentleman, he’s my friend, he will not hurt you. He didn’t intend to injure you, he was trying to keep you from getting sick."

Somewhat reassured, Kit turned to stare intently at Nathan. "But I bit him," he confessed softly.

Ezra hugged him lightly and smiled, "Mr. Jackson is a very forgiving person."

A knock at the door drew their attention to the arrival of JD and Josiah.

"Oh no," Kit moaned and threw his arms back around Ezra’s neck. "Don’t let them lock me up, please." He started sobbing again.

JD was disgusted and just out and out tired. What kind of act was this kid putting on? He just committed cold-blooded murder. Shot a man right between the eyes. And threatened others. All his talk the other day about blood and guts. Nathan was right the kid was headed to Yuma. "That’s what we do with criminals boy, lock them up. Of course, we hang murderers." JD was mortified to realize that he had spoken aloud.

The words flew like knives through the air and hit their target with unerring aim. Every muscle in Kit’s body became rigid, before he collapsed into a limp heap in Ezra’s arms.

 

HOME	On to Part 2

AUTHOR: Tess
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 TNN, CBS, MGM, Trilogy Entertainment Group, The Mirisch Corp. or any others involved with that production is intended. I promise to return them when I am done playing with them. Of course, if you really don't want 'em anymore, I'd be more than glad to take them off your hands.
RATINGS: PG-13
WARNINGS: Language/Violence/Adult themes. Spoilers too numerous to mention.
NOTES: I admit to an uncommon fondness for our resident confidence man.  Angst, h/c and smarm ahead. Names of horses come from various sources, I  believe Kristin originated Chaucer. Special thanks to SarahB for pointing me in this direction.  Generous thoughts, ideas, suggestions? Send those to the address below.
EMAIL: tlshaffer1@comcast.net
SUMMARY:  Seven men and one hellacious, precocious, adorable and woeful little boy. Four Corners will never be the same.  One man will find something he thought he lost and one man will find that even losing men can win.

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