Refugium

Chapter Two: Masquerade

A heavy, dirty, almost icy wind had slowly made its way into an uncaring town. Creeping beneath aged floorboards as the sun would rise from the mountains, sprinkling bits of debris over vendor's handmade goods by noon, and smearing a cold burn over children's pale faces when nightfall began to settle in. Morning to midday, midday to darkness, night to morning. Day after day without a shred of notice.

No. No, something as minor as this natural happening was the least of the local's worries and fears. A much more physical embodiment had risen from their whispers, their dazed mourning, and their untamed nightmares. A bloodthirsty killer riding far into the outstretched landscape or perhaps lurking in a dark cavern near by. Butch Cavendish and his gang.

How long had they been on the run? Twenty years? Two months? A week? A day? An hour? Did it matter anymore? No. To the peaceful town of Colby it didn't and wouldn't until the group of criminals were hanged in the village. Hogtied and dragged behind the majestic horses of the Texas Rangers. Seven brave souls who had immediately begun their journey upon discovering the killer and his crew's devious escape. Riding off against the sunrise the morning after it had occurred and hadn't been back in almost two days. Seven of the bravest men the Texans had ever seen.

And one newly recruited young man who had certainly made a name for himself after latching on to his Indian prisoner's leg.

The Ranger leader's little brother and temporarily deputized lawman. A fresh out of law school district attorney who had more of a destructive entrance than the townsfolk had ever witnessed. John Reid, Texas Ranger, lawyer, and to one lone soul a "stupid white man".

'Very, very stupid.'

That same snowy breeze suddenly raced through the previously calm afternoon. Easily making its way from the dusty village, over the empty plains, through the cracked tumbleweeds, and into the painted canyon. Streaming past the haunted screams that whistled in the ridges and slapping long inky tresses into the native's face. The same chilled gust the white man ignored was all too familiar to the dark male. For, unlike those out-of-touch with nature, he knew this bitterness as a sign from the recently severed spirits. Seven strangers he had found strength to return to the earth after watching their untimely demise. Death had six and for two death had failed.

"Can not question this."

Long midnight shaded hair was brushed back from its wearer's eyes. Glazed over hues that slowly glanced up at a newly acquainted horse. A beautiful, colorless, pure, Spirit Horse. A beast he had worshiped for exposing its power to him and yet wondered if the animal had suffered some sort of dehydration. Perhaps exhaustion from traveling such a long distance? He wasn't sure how or even why the creature had chosen his prior chain mate as a Spirit Walker, but could only remind himself that the Father had his reasons.

"Eat."

A dirt and clay covered hand exposed a small amount of berries to the large beast only to be pulled back after said beast snorted in protest. A grunt the human returned before returning to his previous project. Molding and shaping a bullet from unneeded Texas Ranger badges. Unneeded and no longer useable by the departed.

'Departed.'

Once lethargic orbs now narrowed at the thought of this memory. The hectic and unrealistic happenings of the days preceding. His foe at arms length torn away by a traitor who spoke of himself as a "loyal" companion to Dan Reid and the other lawmen. A horrid drunk who had escaped with the rest of Butch's army. Army? More like frightened fools who would have easily forgotten him if it hadn't been for him retreating on horseback. The remaining hijackers had scattered like mice after Dan's brigade had forced them out of the train. Had they stopped to worry about their hideous leader? No.

"Left to die."

Silent words fell from dry lips as the Indian examined his finished bullet. His eyes and mind not syncing as he slipped back into those fresh memories. His lifelong enemy getting away, the strange suited man who had been chained to his limp wrist, the cart of innocent passengers being unhinged, the rangers, the jumping, all of it. Everything he thought of as a foggy blur and everything so significant. The brave heroes who managed to unlock the speeding steel vehicle, their attempts to assist the two who were momentarily trapped atop the train, and their aid upon catching both himself and the white man near the tipped heap. All a hazy thought.

Well, excluding the unusually important details, mostly concerning his sleeping accomplice. The man's fitted suit, his eyes full of fear and determination, the way he insisted upon bringing the Indian to justice despite any excuse, the way he carefully placed him in a cell but "unknowingly" tossed the keys on a nearby desk, and the way he tried to save his brother even though he could have freed himself.

'Maybe horse not so stupid.'

"Wh-Why am I covered in dirt?"

Dreaming pools suddenly blinked back the haunting past as to look to their awoken comrade. Hair askew, clothing torn, barefoot, and choking out bits of dirt. This was his "brave" and "noble" warrior who would help him.

"Buried you...Should have stayed that way."

"Th-then why am I alive?"

Azure coloration merely blinked at the tan male who, for some unknown reason, looked to the monotone horse for an answer. Human and animal having an odd sense of a silent agreement before the Indian shrugged. Was he tired or imagining things? Both?

"Don't ask the horse, please."

"He returned you, Spirit Walker. Chose you. Would have preferred someone else."


With the unsettling wind lost somewhere in the vast mesas and unexplored desert, a sensation of warmth filled the night air. Replacing the chills, fear, and regret with the comfort of a lone campfire. Wood scraps and rocks burning at the foundation while a hunted rabbit was carefully roasted above. Heated and turned, crisped and turned.

Perhaps to a man dying of starvation this was a feast fit for a king, but to the pale man who dared to not look away from the dancing flames, his stomach knotted at the thought. Not due to the rabbit his partner had snared, shaved, and proceeded to cook, but rather the visions he remembered so vividly. Even a grotesque looking corpse could not compare to those horrors. His brother honoring him as a ranger only to be taken away by a soulless evil, the betrayal of a man he had grown up alongside, the angry thought of what would become of his brother's widow and child, and the unbelievable tale the Indian told of him being "one who has been to the other side and returned".

"It's like a bad dream."

Dust coated hands were run through recently wetted hair. Their controller wiping away a layer of cold sweat from his brow before being smeared on his tattered pants. How could it be possible? Any of it? He had honestly witnessed true evil in this world. He had to accept that fact after his flesh and blood's heart was literally eaten out of his chest. It was pure craziness but true.

But how? How had he died and been brought back by a horse, a chant, some paint, and a rickety tower? He couldn't bring himself to understand that and the more Tonto had explained it the more confusing it became.

"Nightmare you can not wake up."

John finally looked away from the orange and red performers after his opposite spoke. Their tired, almost somber eyes meeting for a brief second before the native ended the stare down. His muddy eyes searching for one of his completed pieces before taking a small handful of items from his satchel.

"Man who killed your brother. Wendigo. You can kill with this."

Sky stained eyes widened as the male moved closer. His knees bending him down beside the sitting white man to show his latest craft. An expertly molded silver round with minimal imperfections. A bullet John recognized as being new after taking the still hot piece in his palm. Rolling and turning the artwork before pressing it back into the shorter man's hand.

"I don't believe in the "Wind Dingo" or taking a life with my own hands. I vow to bring him to justice and he'll be sentenced in a court of law."

A heavy sigh fell from Tonto's painted mouth before the bullet was dropped back into his leather pouch. Another groan following soon after when he readjusted his posture to sit before his pale friend.

"Man who betray you. Men who kill your brother. Believe you are dead." Calloused fingers were carefully skimmed through the remaining collection the Indian carried. His eyes quickly spotting the item he sought. "Best keep it that way."

And as though the spirits truly did exist and their was some cosmic power in life, a heavy cloud shadowed the full moon when Tonto lifted a leather mask. Bullet holes making out the shape of one's eyes along with two thick straps.

"Made from clothes. Best keep it that way."

"You want me to wear a mask?"

Hesitantly, the lone ranger took hold of the piece. Examining the dried bits of blood stained along the inner sides. His blood, his brother's, his comrade's. The brave imperfect men he once looked up to who could no longer take a stand. Their deaths and his.

And so, if for nothing or noone else's honor, he tied the leather around his head. Sharp blue eyes looking out from this ridiculous disguise in time to see his fellow man retrieve a familiar white hat. The faithful native gently pressing the garment atop its owner's head.

"If we ride we do it for justice."

An unsure and weary smile found a way across John's unshaved features. His new persona making a small attempt at giving some kind of confidence and hope. A strange sense of pride that he understood as being false was slowly shifting from being a mere ruse. No. His wanting to convince himself that he was more than words was being eased into an honest transformation when Tonto carefully pressed their foreheads together. Brown and blue eyes fusing rather than clashing. Both not feeling the need to explain his actions.

Instead the duo could just sit in silence and recognize that John was a trustworthy man and at the very least capable of handling their quest. Naturally, Tonto's buried concerns would remain, but for the sake of his friend he would try to encourage this newfound assurance. After all he knew they had been brought together for a reason.

"Justice is what I seek, Kemosahbee."

A/N: Hope you enjoyed this chapter. ^^