Jostice led a group of twenty deputies northward, while the day brought the morning light, and the wind brought the waking chill.
It'd been cold the last few days, a cold that caused the skin to dry and flake like hot biscuits, yet he preferred it over the sweat draining heat; one could always get warm in the frigid cool, but trying to get cool in the scalding heat took an abundance of effort.
The men looked to the eastern horizon, where the Prairie Hum and the Yurks grazed on their horses; the Merkoits of the swamp fished off their shores; and the Moolu chanted and banged on their drums, singing a song for water to fall amongst their plainlands.
Boris, the largest deputy in the group, whose weight began to take a toll on his brownish horse, spoke somberly. "There will be blood on this night … the sky tells us so."
Jostice spat.
Shinoons were folk from across the eastward ocean. And they believed in messages in the clouds and heard whispers in the wind. Boris kin boarded a ship and traveled across the vast blue long ago, and yet born here, he still held onto their odd traditions.
"We don't speak so hasty … you'll scare the men."
"But it's true." He said, waving a finger across the reddened horizon; like blood pouring over a black canvas. He grimaced, "the sky paints the picture…"
"If you keep talking like that you may be right." Jostice said, touching the revolver at his hip. "And yours will spill first." The mans small, oval eyes stretch wide while his lips narrowed. He pulled on his reins, falling back into line. That shut him up, Jostice thought, allowing himself to marvel at the sights.
They rode an hour longer and Jostice legs screamed and back ached like he tumbled down the side of a mountain. That's what happens after many years behind a cell, the body losses it's riders strength ... and he'd lost his.
Jostice squinted, eyeing two oddly-shaped blurs that slowly faded into view, growing closer with each planted hooves. Ten paces away the outlines of two dark horses and two men, one much larger than the other.
"Howdy," Jostice said, tilting the brim of his hat, immediately eyeing the bowgun on the short mans back, and the rifle stock protruding from the scabbard on the large mans horse. "You passing by here?" The men eyed his badge as quickly as he'd eyed their guns. He slowed his horse to a stop.
Krix pulled his reins and nodded his head, a cigar pressed between his lips like he'd been celebrating. "nice morning for a ride," He looked to the reddened horizon, "though a bloody evening may just ruin the day."
Not him too, Jostice shook his head. Not fond of anybody's superstitions. "You come from Ghostbound?"
Krix nodded. "Stayed there a night, as most do when riding south for the tournament."
"Contestants or customers?"
Krix shifted in his saddle, uneased by the question. He slipped the two golden tickets from an inner pocket, then smirked.
"I see," Jostice nodded, rubbing his chin. "You hadn't happen to see a ranch on your way down, had you? The O'donovan ranch."
Both men corked their heads, something about the name caught their ears. Krix puffed his cigar, "If I do recall, I owe a carriage boy some coin … goes by the name O'donovan, though I doubt he'd be the same one you're looking for." He peered over his shoulder, "didn't see no ranch, though … why you ask?"
Boris blurted, "we've been sent to apprehend the Yurks that attacked the Mayors train."
Jostice glared Boris, "thank you deputy," then tilted his hat at the men on horseback. "Appreciate the help—"
"Yurks?" Krix hissed, looking at Brugar whose eyes had grown to moons. "These are likely the same Yurks who stole our purse," he told Brugar. He pondered for a moment. "Could you and your deputies use two more guns? We'd like to collect what's ours..."
Jostice face twisted, mirroring Brugars, both surprised by Krix's words. "These are not some cheap bounties … these are Yurkmen—"
"Have you heard of Strawthorn and Clout?" Brugars voice boomed. The deputies turned towards to one another, hushed whispers amongst them. "Ya … you've heard of us—"
Krix slapped the large man's chest. "When I asks for you to speak my lines, I'll let you know."
"I've heard but you're nothing like the tales: Clout, the man who picked up three outlaws at once, lifted them above his head, and heaved them over a mountainside … and Strawthorn, had the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a dog; could shoot a man dead with a bowgun while blindfolded.
Brugar lips twisted awkwardly, "they say that about us?"
"That and much more," Jostice laughed, "though you wouldn't like it none."
Krix wasn't a man who'd speak about his past. The pain too great for any single man to bear. After a puff he pinched his cigar and flicked it to the wind. There was new interest in eyes, gazing upon the Jostice liked he'd uncovered a gem. Few men looked at him that way … and if they had, they never lived to talk about it.
"The Iron Ace, Jostice Beatpost …" The man heckled. "Funny. Your tales all seem to fit you. Is it true you were responsible for your brothers death—"
Jostice moved quicker when angered; His revolver spun as he raised it from his holster, catching it with the barrel pointed at the mans head. He cocked the hammer, eager to fill Krix with holes, and make him drain like a colander.
"Don't speak of things you no nothing about…"
The nightmares that sleep at the back of his head awakened, creeping towards the front, filling his mind with distant memories of blood and dirt.
Scarlett hair … Olive skin … and the smell of the prairie. Jostice thought, to keep the nightmare at bay. It did the trick. "You can join us…"