Right Side of Justice
Chapter 4 –Burning Bridges
The first shot was fired by the Elf, thudding into its target without
error.
"That's your ride Scott!" Legolas cried, head whipping around as
another whinny bugled to his left, distinguishable as unique only by him.
Scott hardly noticed his agile companion's cry as, with feline grace, Mateo
swung onto the bare horse's back. The horses came on terrifyingly fast, every
lunging pace drilling Scott's adrenaline higher. The riderless horse followed
her head, with neck stretched low and eyes wide. Beat, beat - his heart pumped
in time with her hooves. His mind was nearly made up - but not quite – when she
was upon him.
By grace, more than luck, his hands reached out and caught the pommel of the
saddle, fingers latching with a death grip under the swell. His feet were
instantly swept off the solid ground as the horse plunged headlong, giving only
crow's hop in an attempt to rid herself of the hitchhiker. The speed of the
horse pulled him along, feet dashing against the hard earth. He scrambled to
get just one flat-footed moment in order to gain momentum upwards, but it
seemed a hopeless venture.
It was an ill-fated mistake that while he held on with a white-knuckled grip,
his wide eyes caught a clear glimpse of the churning hooves of the driven
horses. They meant death to any that were caught beneath them. Fear suddenly
overrode adrenaline. His fingers were becoming slick with sweat. Life, or what
was left of it, looked rather dismal.
Then a rider fell into pace beside him, pinning him in with no room to swerve
his horse, even if he managed to secure a seat in the saddle. He dared not look
at the rider's face, although a rebellious streak told him to at least glare or
acknowledge the face of his killer before the blow struck. But no hand fell to
shove him away, in fact it was quite the opposite; instead it grabbed him by
the scruff of his neck, hefting him with a mighty jerk. It was just enough of a
boost to set Scott in a very good place - the seat of the saddle. He glanced
left, this time not at all surprised to see the masked face of that strange
Mateo riding along side him. He had pulled his bandana into place, but one
could hardly forget those odd, glittering eyes.
All this takes quite a lot of saying, but happened in little
more than a few minutes - enough time in which to utterly confuse the
dim-witted riders by weaving in and around them. Mateo had flung himself onto
Toril's back and dodged in amongst the herd, like a gnat, heard, but not seen, impossible
to be rid of no matter how much one swatted.
The riders, dense as they were, could not be befuddled much longer. Mateo
jerked his head back, making a motion with his hands as if he were pulling back
on invisible reins, though as Scott realized, he rode with no harnessing. He
repeated this motion, gesturing to Scott's mount. Shouting was a useless effort
over the thunder of the horses' progress. Realization dawned.
Scott leaned his weight back in the saddle, reining the horse in from her
uncontrollable flight. The mare tossed her head, fighting against the bit and
trying at all costs to unset her rider. Scott didn't back down, using all his
weight to bring the horse under control.
Despite her unwillingness, the deceleration was dramatic as the rest of the
herd drove forward, only just beginning to realize that their prey was dropping
behind them. Sparing no moment to give the horse time to register her
defeat, Scott spun the beast around, prodding her flanks. The energy she
harbored could not be contained and she sprang out after Toril, who with
Legolas, was already flying over the plain.
The unwieldy horses of the posse fought as a body, unwilling to go a step
slower as the riders tugged at the reins in a vital attempt to make chase after
the duo, who were even now becoming specks in the distance. When their horses
finally stopped, angry and ill tempered, both horse and man looked back at
their lost prey.
Insult was added to injury when over the settling air came laughing voices and
a bright, free whinny.
---
Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three.
From one wall to the other Benito paced with hands clenching before him,
kneading the palms - and for variety - drumming his fingers on his forearms. He
was all too aware that the sky that had given to night what seemed an age ago and
was now lightening again in the east. Grey was the horizon and the stars had
winked from sight. Still there was no sign of Mateo's return.
Thirty-one.
The situation was growing out of hand. Mateo seemed confident in what action to
take, but what was Benito supposed to do while he was out and about doing great
deeds? There were no horses to tend to, no corrals to muck, not even troughs to
fill. If there was one thing that drove him to distraction, it was the idleness
of his hands.
Thirty-two.
What should he do then? Rob a bank perhaps? Bah!
Oh, how he hated feeling so useless. For all he knew, Harris could be up in
flames by now and the big city Austin following suit. This was, after all,
Mateo. Nothing was quite without possibility where he was concerned.
Thirty-three.
Benito stopped at the window. The sky was even brighter now, the land turning
an eerie, muted grey, lying in limbo between waking and sleeping. From the
window he watched the mare's head sway slightly as she dozed on her feet, eyes
half-lidded and one hock bent. Then he saw the saddle, still set on its horn
with the blanket draped across the skirt.
His lips pursed, a hand coming up to stroke a corner of his over-grown
mustache, eyes roving from tack to horse. There was that option of
course. He liked that option.
Within ten minutes, he was passing through the gate, leaving the vacant ranch
behind. Mateo wasn't going far without him. Alas, who would feed the boy?
---
Godard had lost them; it was a humiliation he did not take lightly. No one
dared broach the subject while he was within the vicinity if they placed any
value upon their hide. Yet Godard spent no time pampering his damaged pride.
That was not in his nature. If he failed - which did not happen often - he
attacked again with more ferocity than before. This was his strength and
partially the reason he had risen from a position of no acclaim to where he
stood now. A regime of straight collared discipline with an iron fist was his
driving scourge that flailed the backs of his subordinates. Not entirely
dishonorable traits in themselves, only when abused to a shameable end. Though
he did not see it as such.
In the traditional way of every memorable antagonist, he would waste no time in
hunting the rebels out, then literally smoke them from their holes. Depending
on the sagacity of his quarry, the length of this process was an unknown element
in his deviations. Still, it was entirely necessary. The more speed the better.
They were yet two, Godard thought, and two could both be easy to squash beneath
his thumb, or a terrible biting nuisance that darted in beneath his nose to
strike stinging blows not easily foiled. He feared the latter if yesterday's
demonstration was any indication of the future.
Putting this from his mind and setting his task firmly as his forethought, the
following morning he was mounted again in the saddle. From the town he and six
others rode, drawing many curious glances from the shop windows and boardwalks.
They were riding back the way they had come but a few bygone mornings. The way
was still fresh in his mind and the mental image of the humble ranch was
engrained hatefully in his memory. Godard loathed it; it stood for a failure on
his behalf. He detested failure.
All would be burned, burning away his failure as he came one step closer to
finishing this little side trip.
---
"We won't be able to do this alone, that's for certain." Scott picked
at his teeth with a thumbnail. He remained in his reclined position by what he
deemed his rock, while Legolas moved from horse to horse, running a hand over a
leg there, picking up a hoof here, making a last minute check of Scott's tack.
"He'll be coming after us one of these days."
"Oh," Legolas tapped Toril's withers thoughtfully, "I think
they'll be coming a lot sooner than that."
Scott shrugged, at this point in his relationship with the strange Mateo, he
felt rather invincible after the feats his new friend had demonstrated. "I
suppose though, now that we've actually had a breather, you'll want to take a
look at the evidence you were hankering after." There was a smirk on his
face, one that spoke plainly of his self-assurance and cocky bravado.
Legolas straightened from Toril's right side, setting the hoof back to the
ground. Reaching over the horse's withers, he took the rather worn and
bedraggled sheet from Scott.
He tore it up. He never even looked at it.
Scott was in a state of severe shock, left gaping and stuttering indistinct
grunts of disbelief. Legolas smiled slightly, reaching for his hat hooked on
the horn of Scott's saddle. "Oh," he said nonchalantly for the second
time, "don't worry about it. I think I have my evidence." The hat
came to settle in its appropriate place with a tug to the brim.
Of all the injustices, this had to be the worst yet in Scott's befuddled mind.
He had risked life and limb for the horrid scrap and what does the fool do?
Shred it with a humorous air.
Legolas on the other hand saw it as a lesson that must be taught. Whether Scott
realized it or not he could not say, but the lesson remained the same. Tyne was
a man that took great pride in his accomplishments and in turn expected others
to take the same appreciation. Arrogance would do neither of them any good. It
was the stumbling block for many of these men of the West and it caused more harm
than simply damaged pride. Blood was oft' the selfish redemption of their own
folly.
Swinging up onto Toril, Legolas tossed the mare's reins to Scott. "You are
not doing any good just standing there, mount up and let us keep moving."
It would be best not to give Scott any time to contemplate the recent events.
Dumbly, Scott followed Legolas' example.
---
Despite Scott's great protestations, they were traveling in a backward arc;
retracing their steps in a roundabout way towards the bluff they had holed
themselves up in previously. It was Legolas' thinking that for a brief
re-gathering of their senses, the safest place would be right under the nose of
their antagonist. This was a well-known tactic, but he was laying his life on
the hope that Godard was the sort far too clever for his own good – and knew
it, therefore overestimating his own cleverness. All very convoluted, he knew,
so he gave no effort to fully explain his thought to Scott.
Unfortunately, once they made it to their destination, Legolas had no clear
idea what would be the next order of business. It wasn't as if they could
storm a keep, rescue a hostage, or simply take the old fashioned way of
eliminating the enemy. No, times had brought with it something such as
"government" – an unpleasant, but necessary evil. True, even in the golden
years of Legolas' life there had been such a thing, though called by a
different name, but Men have since changed their ways - perhaps because they
now lacked the respect for a higher authority. The old saying goes: "Power
corrupts", but authoritative evil was about as bad as it could get.
So what were they to do? He still had no answer as they dismounted and led
their horses around the back of the slope, out of sight.
"So my brilliant companion, where will we strike our terror next?"
"I have no idea." Honesty after all, had never prompted deceit.
Scott stopped in his tracks; the mare – now dubbed Demonia for lack of
creativity and affection on the man's part – jerked her head up, avoiding
collision. "'Scuse me? My ears must really be clogged up with sand from that
tumble down the hill the other day." He began to laugh nervously. "For a moment
there I thought you said you had no idea." Laughter turned uproarious – though
no less forced. "How silly of me."
"While I am not going to dispute the sand, it did not hinder you from hearing
truthfully."
Vacancy took up residence in Scott's eyes.
Legolas brushed a hand across his sleeve, an act of substitution for the lack
of action or 'doing-ness'. "This does give you a chance to show your mettle and
the ingenuity that you have been so keen of reminding me you possess." He
couldn't help adding this jibe. After all, he had only spent the past twenty-four
hours, at least, listening to Scott's incessant marathon mouth. During these
times, Legolas had practiced the infamous art of "mind-melting" that Aragorn
schooled him through in the days subsequent to the War of the Ring. It was a
practice that the Ranger had adopted after finding that with enough little
concentration, he could quite efficiently tune out the droning speeches of the
dignitaries when his patience wore to the point of obliteration. This saved him
both hair and dignity.
This technique would normally be named "day-dreaming", but "mind-melting" had
been coined by Aragorn's young son when his beloved and adored father
"mind-melted" right in the middle of a lecture from his wife on the very
subject. Eldarion, his son, had tugged at Arwen's maroon skirts and informed
her that "Father is doing it again."
"Doing what?" she had asked, directing her attention to her offspring.
Eldarion had stuck a thumb between his teeth (a very naughty habit they were
trying to break) and pointed with his free hand. Speaking around the digit he
had said, "Father's mind melted again."
Thus, the name had been adopted.
Now Legolas was sure he had perfected mind-melting.
Scott spluttered for a count, saying nothing at all worth repeating. Eventually
he managed, "Those are stories! Don't you know that every outlaw is suppose
tell stories like that?" This was his first cognizant collection of words.
An eyebrow twitched. "Really, now? So your daring escapade through a jungle in
South Africa was all a figment of your imagination?"
More spluttering. "Well, I didn't say that exactly."
"Then it is true?"
"Well, no."
"Then it isn't?"
"I didn't say that either!"
"You just did." Legolas tapped his chin, "Either they are true, or they are
not. An expansion on the truth is still a lie."
"Oh, why must you be such a monk, Mateo?" Scott cried in frustration. "Why
don't you just shave the top of your head and find yourself a halo. I'm sure I
can find you some very nice monasteries in one state or another."
"Scott, you're wandering off topic."
"I am not getting off topic," Scott insisted adamantly, gesturing wildly. "But
if I am, why don't we get back on topic by busting through some bar doors in
usual outlaw fashion and blasting holes in the roof for effect. At least we'd
be doing something."
They were trudging angularly up the slope - Scott sweating profusely and
Legolas not at all - when the latter stopped and clamped a hand over his
toiling companion's mouth. Scott obediently froze, eyes panning in his head.
Eyes fixed but staring at nothing, the Elf stood stock-still. "Fire. There is
smoke on the air."
Pushing the hand aside, Scott visibly sniffed the air. He smelled nothing,
except his own not-so-pleasant essence. Then again, his olfactory had never
been quite up to par.
Legolas started off again at a good clip up the gradually loosening footing.
There was no visibility at their current position, if he could only reach the
ridge…
Then he was there and saw quite plainly from where the smoke arose. South-east,
a dark column brooded over the Texas landscape. It rose from well past Harris
and beyond the other small family ranches dotting the perimeter of easy
accessibility to the town. He and Benito were the only ones that lived in that
direction.
He really couldn't be surprised. Once he set foot into this conflict, he had
given up what semblance of security he had gathered around himself as a barrier
in these past years. To cross authority meant blacklisting one's name. One was
thereafter named an outlaw.
Legolas cared not for his reputation; reputations were easily changed when one
led a nomadic and enigmatic life such as his. It was ironic really, the timing
of the current events. He had spent a good number of years here on the
outskirts of Harris, more than he had in any other location. Why? Well, it
certainly wasn't because he enjoyed the scenery. Nor was it connected to
sentimental value as his stay in the forests and dales of Europe had been. Was
it his one friendship? Perhaps. Or was it to be attributed to that nagging sense of a purpose yet to be fulfilled?
Whatever it was, he was certain that all would become clear at one point or
another.
There was a great wheezing beside him as Scott sidled up next to him. "Hmm,
shouldn't wonder if that's the work of another one of those cow-pie brained,
baby-toothed youngsters running loose when they should be back home being
swatted into obedience by their pa." That was his analysis upon seeing the
angry smoke.
Legolas gave no sign of amusement. He simply stood there, worrying not for his
property, but for another greater investment of mortality.
---
Harris was in the immediate distance, a lump of odd shaped roofs and men. The
sun was still rising behind Benito as he rode, climbing slowly up to her throne.
His and the horse's shadow were cast long before them, abstractly stretched. He
didn't notice these things though, as his
attention was focused only on the four men on horseback, waiting for him but a
few lopes away. No smile was on their sun-beaten faces.
As he drew nearer, Benito regretted his decision to cut his path closer to the
town than he had first intended for the sake of time. Foolish it had been of
him since he had no time constraint really. He was also beginning to regret the
absence of a gun on his person. But then again, the likeliness of his ability
to use it efficiently was close to null.
He hailed them when he came with spitting distance. "Morning to you lads." He
did not add the usual, "What can I do for you" as that was on normal circumstances
an indication that one would be glad to do what he could for the other. Benito
was a man of truth – on occasion – and hardly thought he'd want to help
these four grim faced men.
It was the man farthest to the right of the four that answered. His face was
neither smooth nor young; he seemed the sort of man that had been often lead
down the path to great despair, which had hardened his beliefs after the
immediate tribulation had past. "It depends."
Benito asked the obvious questions. "Depends on what?"
"On whether or not you'll cooperate."
He had but to cast one second glance at their faces to make up his mind. A
fervent nod, "Oh sí," he coughed, "not that I seem to have much of a choice in
the matter."
"Then lead us to the Phantom."
"Phantom…" Benito trailed off, trying to peg in his memory of just whom they
spoke. "Phantom," he repeated to himself.
"I know what I said old man, just take us to him," the hard faced man snapped.
A bell rang almost audibly in Benito's mind. Phantom! Of course he knew whom
they meant. Mateo was often being referred to through such ghostly names in
town gossip. When realization dawned, then came the warning claxons just as the
bell had. "What business might you have with him?"
"Business. That's all you need to know." Two of the man's companions moved to
flank him with their horses, penning him between them.
Cursing foully to himself, Benito didn't back off on his questions. "Business
you say? That's not very specific. I'd really rather know what you want with him.
I mean, fellows, it's obvious you already know this, but I am quite fond of
your "Phantom" and would rather not betray him to any that schemed to do him
wrong."
"Quit your blathering old man and get on. We never said anything about any
wrong doing, now did we?" The man paused, eyeing Benito sourly before
surprising him by saying: "If you must know, we're – the four of us – sick and
tired of Godard's swindling. Don't gape old man, that brash young fool Tyne
mentioned his plans to us, told us how to look for him if we changed our
minds." He scowled deeply, "Well I have, as all four of us have."
Benito gnawed a knuckle anxiously. "The serpent in the garden spoke just as
convincingly as you, but look where it landed Adam and us lot."
"It's your decision, but if you steer us wrong, you'll be no more to us than
one of Godard's fools – barely worthy of death."
"You certainly aren't the compromising sort," Benito muttered, just loud enough
for his flankers to hear. "Well then, let's be off," he said louder, prodding
his dozing mare. "But don't be too trigger happy if we wind up lost. I'm nearly
as bewildered as you when it comes to ol' "Phantom's location."
---
Ravenous flames consumed the humble abode as though it were no more than
brittle parchment. The stench of smoke wafted towards his nostrils, as blood to
a shark. He inhaled deeply, savoring the smell as if it were a fine wine. It
was the scent of control. Control came with assurance for Godard's conniving
mind.
Oh, he would find them. He would hound them until death came for their last
breaths.
He could afford no less.
---
A/N: So sorry for the delay. Christmas is coming, and I'm trying my best not to
get caught up in the headlong rush of it all. I feel even worse that it's such
a short, and rather pointless chapter. But again, things that needed to be
said, were said, and hopefully next time we'll be able to get onto more meaty
stuff – such as a plot perhaps?
Gack.
Kitty2228 – I'm much obliged to you, and I do hope that your fingers aren't too
raw from hanging on the somewhat shallow, but cliffhanger none the less. Maybe
this ending was more to your liking. Looking forward to see what you think
about this chapter!
Brat64 – Glad to hear you're enjoying Scott. I rather like him myself. I certainly
don't pride myself on OCs, and generally I would like to stray from them as
much as possible (not that you would know from my previous stories *eye roll*),
but as it usually happens, I couldn't get away without him. And don't worry
about the rambling, it's quite all right to ramble. Hope your arms are getting
a relief now!
YunaDax – Splendiferous…what is it about that word that sends me chuckling? Be
good, and don't read at work – but do leave feedback!
Tinnuial – Refreshing? Oh! How relieved I am. The last thing I want this to be
is old and over used. As for the cameo aspect, that has been brought up in
some conversations while brainstorming with random people. However, I'm not
exactly sure if that will work out in the aspect of things. Perhaps in later
pieces *Wink* I'll throw them in – though I will make it known that I'm quite
uncomfortable writing either of them. I suppose it's because I simply don't
have the confidence that I can portray them in the right manner. But then that
brings up Legolas and why I would ever dream that I can portray him correctly.
Sheesh, there goes my reasoning. Thanks for your kind comments.
Kay – Prequel: ack! I can hardly think of such things at the moment. I just
hope I can get through this one first! Hang on, there will be more action to
come.
JastaElf – Yes, happy indeed. I just wish someone else would take the idea and
run with it as I hardly think I can do it justice. I'm sweating over it every
time I think of it.
This hat thing will be the death of me. I should start a website or something
featuring Mateo's – er, I mean Legolas' – hat. Yeesh. Insanity. And don't even
bring up the Will Turner Musketeer hat, or just hand the barf bag right over.
Exactly the same, I tell you. I can't fathom it. How could a film with a none
too spindly budget re-use the exact (or nearly) same hat? It confounds me!
Inconceivable, in the words of one certain Sicilian.
Don't let me forget to congratulate you on your nomination while I'm at this!
Great job.
Daw the Minstrel – Yup, I pictured Legolas still quite refined and 'spiffy'
even as the years passed over him. Perhaps a bit more refined even than before,
but still the same hero.
I'm reluctant to say that unfortunately Scott is not a historical personage.
Entirely made up, though with characteristics pulled from various legendary
sorts of the American West.
Thanks for keeping up with this venture so positively.
Bill