After watching this movie I decided to extend the scene by the river after the Comanche battle it out with the U.S. army and lose. So this story is slight AU. Please enjoy! :D
Disclaimer: I do not own The Lone Ranger.
"Kemosabe…" A single name carried by the wind to the ears of the white man next to the one that might have spoken it, though his face could not be seen through a curtain of midnight tangled hair.
"You were – "
"Tonto…" John didn't know what to say to the one that should have been standing regally beside him, not kneeling in the squalor of his people so reminiscent of the story that he had heard from the now dead Comanche chief. Twice now he had seen his people die. Twice now he had failed at protecting. Twice now he was in need of redemption. What could he who only lost his brother say to the broken man in front of him that had lost everything twice?
"No…John…let me finish…"
"No! You let me finish! Don't start with this John business now." He was pleading, something that he had always done to get what he wanted. Weak…that was what he was. He had pleaded with his childish eyes to go to the city to become a lawyer. He had pleaded with Rebecca to understand that he couldn't be attached at such a critical moment. And he had pleaded with Dan to bring justice to Colby together. In the end nothing had been accomplished. He was just as broken as the man, no child before him because really that was what Tonto was. A child stuck in the past trying to make amends.
"Tonto, listen to me. I don't know much about Indian myths and stories. The Comanche chief said that you used the stories of the wendigo and spirit walker as reasons for what happened because you couldn't live with what you had done to your tribe. I don't care if they were lies or not. You recruiting me was to help you reach atonement but I couldn't do anything for your people. It wasn't your – "
"No. It my fault. I drag you into this John. I made big mess because I ran and could not face truth. Once again I fail my people. No right to call them my people. You were right about me."
"Stop. Stop it. I might have said those things about you and how you were just a coward and a little boy broken up about the tragedy but I had no right to say those things to you. Perhaps the wendigo and the spirit walker are real. You can still find justice."
"We are ghosts John. The dead cannot find justice."
Tonto cradled the dead wet crow in his hands. John paused and took a breath.
"The Comanche chief had stopped believing in his people. He said that you were all ghosts. But if someone still believes that the existence of the Comanche people will survive then justice will be found. So even if they are mere stories, they are stories of hope and faith, aren't they? Those stories led you here. This slaughter was not your fault. The chief could not be stopped. It doesn't matter what other people think or believe as long as we know. I can't say that I understand what you're going through but I can promise you that I will stick with you no matter what. We'll find justice together." John stuck out his hand. There was no tremor to it like the times he held a gun, its cold metallic weight mocking him.
Tonto felt the feathers of his crow, bloodied water trailing from his fingertips. He had been corrupted by a love for silver. Could a man painted in blood find justice? Perhaps with a man painted in white (the color of purity) at his side, he could. He reached up with a dirty hand, dark eyes staring into John's, no Kemosabe's eyes. John took it without hesitation, his grip firm and immovable. Tonto hadn't noticed when Kemosabe had truly become a man. It was time he became one too.
