Right Side of Justice
Prologue

"I amar prestar aen, han mathon ne nen, han mathon ne chae a han moston ned 'wilith."

"The World is changed; I can feel it in the water, I can feel it in the earth, I can smell it in the air."

Galadriel's words remained true. Her wisdom rang clear and untainted through rock and age. She had spoken of a different period of change, but now the wheel rolled ponderously again. The world was changed and with it its peoples, lands, and waters. Even those that remembered the goings on of the old world were changed with the turning of tides and rising of mountains. Dagor Dagorath had been the epilogue of Middle-earth's long and colorful tale, but had been only the prologue of a new and equally colorful age that was the dawn of Man's time.

But as it were, some of the Firstborn did not remain in what eternal land was offered as harbor to them at the end of their world; and with the coming of the new, some wished to greet it, to nurture it - or were simply called by a higher purpose to sail for a different life as friend and family departed to an equally unknown, but anticipated shore.

Or were they, those that stayed upon the new soil that was still damp from creation, the ones that stepped forward?

History would weave itself as it always did for age upon age, but this time the Elves would nare be mentioned in its making - though they were very much involved...

Right Side of Justice
Chapter 1 - Reasons to Act

It was an untamed land where only the hardy of muscle and will could find any life worth mentioning. Men were stronger then, not so given to physical pleasures and niceties, as they simply could not be found in such a country. From the outside looking in, one might wonder what dysfunctional thinking prompted men to leave well founded towns with all the latest modern effects to head away from the east across a land so flat that water droplets would bead where they dropped.

Land, they said, land was what they yearned for. But it was more than territory. Something beyond the crowded streets and the bustle of population that called to the heart and soul of the free man. From the inside looking about themselves, these leathered pioneers saw something more precious than comfortable housing or stage plays - land and a place to sink their roots and start something new and unspoiled. Not all was so flat and arid as it seemed on first glimpse, for beyond the horizon of tumbleweeds and the bleached bones of monsterous cacti that had fallen from wind or age, there was green and wild.

But the call of the unspoiled did not beckon to the race of Men alone.

---

The peak of high summer had flooded over the easterly side of the great state of Texas in all its scorching glory. The humidity rose with it and added a nearly insufferable height of discomfort, but only nearly so. One never could quite acclimate to the oppressive heat no matter how long one resided in this region. Still, Man, beast and plant continued to tick through life.

Amidst the heat and humidity, one went on with his labor. He was of no remarkable stature or build, slighter than most in fact, but with strong shoulders and hands accustomed to the rough sinews of rope sliding through their grip. A hat, worn and shaped to comfort, was tipped far over his eyes, shadowing his features as he kept his head tilted downward and slightly to the side, his attention obviously centered.

The horse was a fine animal. From looking at its deep russet coat and well defined muscles, the clean lines of his legs, it was impossible to tell that at one point in the creature’s lifetime it had been nothing but loose skin and bones with a fiery temper to boot. Now it moved flawlessly, tucking his head and giving to the slightest bump of the reins, showing willing submission in his every move. Indeed, there was really no need for bit, nor saddle.

"Done it again, I see. Gone and turned an old nag to a piece of stock worth his weight in gold." The Mexican that stood at the outer edge of the round pen shook his head with a smile that cracked across dry, scraggly features like a gorge in a desert of thorns.

The rider shifted his weight back, settling into the saddle with a subtle movement. The bay horse halted, the reins slack against his neck, never having been touched. Leaning forward on the pommel of the saddle and head still tipped downward with eyes hidden beneath his hat, the rider spoke softly. "None of these creatures are simply pieces of stock, Benito," it was said with a slight tone of reproval. His head slipped up, the shadow over his eyes lessening to reveal guardingly a youthful face whose lips twitched into a small smile, "I'd keep every one of them if I could."

The old man slipped the loop of rope over the protruding top of the gatepost and pulled it open. "Ah, Mateo, they're only horses! I still do not see what appeals to you so when all they do is eat our food and then expel it again for us - or more accurately, me - to clean up!"

Mateo dismounted outside the gate, running a hand down the length of the horse's neck. "Only?" he repeated, throwing a wry glance over his shoulder at Benito. He looked back to the horse, placing a hand under its chin. "Did you hear that friend? He just demeaned you!" The horse bobbed his head and gave a whicker that ended in an affronted snort. "You see, you've hurt his feelings." The bay stomped a hoof ill-temperedly. "You had better apologize."

Benito for all his years in the company of Mateo, was by now used to his friend's eclectic way of personifying the creatures. Yet sometimes when he observed the horseman from afar, it seemed nigh impossible to deny that the man dealt with the beasts in a way in which no other was capable. Mateo was as strange as his ways and even after all these years, Benito had come to the conclusion that what his eyes saw was either a mirage of old age and too many years on his feet in the hot sun, or, Mateo was gifted in a supernatural way. Benito opted for the former.

"My apologies, flea bitten beast." Pulling his bandanna from his neck, he tossed it at Mateo. "Wipe up; you smell like them."

The rider laughed softly, doffing his hat.

---

Legolas watched Benito wander back to the shelter of the shade under the eave of the house, some ways away. He was limping again, Legolas noticed. Bad heat waves and severe cold usually accentuated it. Putting to use the bandanna, he dipped it into the trough of water that the horse was currently taking advantage of. Legolas looked down at the sopping cloth, and then to the cool - if not a little murky - water, then to the horse.

With abandon, Legolas threw propriety to the wind and dropped to his knees, submersing his head up to his shoulders. He stayed that way for as long as he dared, then came back up, scrubbing his hands over his face. The refreshing liquid streamed down his back and chest, cooling and revitalizing everywhere it touched. A second time he plunged his head under, this time taking in mouthfuls. He figured that if it was good enough for the horses to drink, it was good enough for him. A lifetime of hard physical work out here in these lands and time had tempered that old proclivity for fastidiousness. Oh, he was still set on an orderly life style, but the little things were not so important to him anymore.

Ai, if only his father could see him now, covered with grime and dirt, hair plastered to the sides of his face and working free of the leather tie... Indeed, the son of King Thranduil a rancher and a drifter for some thousand years since the shores changed and history had faded from Man's recollection of the old ways and their true past.

He shook his head as he resurfaced, wondering what his father's reaction would truly be if he found out just where life had swept him off to. Perhaps he didn't want to know.

His reverie was broken by Benito's warning cry from the porch. He had risen to his feet from where he sat beating leather into shape and was pointing east. Riders, was his call.

Legolas swept the rogue hair back from his face and narrowed his eyes against the glare of the sun. Benito was right. Riders, silhouetted against the horizon were drawing nearer, a sizable cloud of dust following in their wake as hooves churned the dry ground. A frown furrowed his smooth brow as he donned his hat once more. They were from town judging by their attire, well off as well and certainly not dropping by for pleasent afternoon tea.

The impending situation did not bode well. So rare was it that any soul happened by his homestead for any reason, it simply did not happen - especially a posse. A suited posse, no less. But then, his visits to the town were few and far between as well. None really knew him, except by word of mouth spun in the form of tales and rumors. By Benito's recitations of these gossips, Legolas was either a dangerous criminal, a gunman running from the law, or some other ghostly personage. It had given him many laughs to listen to the Mexican's stories, even though they weren't his so much as the townsfolk. Still, he regretted that they used his name as a way to scare little children into submission.

The mind was an odd thing, he concluded. His visits to the town were few and far between, and hardly anything worth mentioning. Yet, whenever he happened by, for days afterwards he would be the talk of the town. He had done nothing to provoke the myths spread about him, but, he wondered, perhaps that was why those stories were weaved. Nothing, gave a mighty lot of room for speculation. 

As the riders drew up their horses, Legolas was already striding towards them, his hat pushed down over his eyes. "Good afternoon to you, sir," greeted one whom Legolas did not recognize from the settlement. He was of average height and weight, though his features were sharp. A pencil thin mustache was trimmed to a point, and no stitch of his suit was out of place. Legolas gave no word, but nodded cordially. "Fine day, is it not?"

Benito came up beside him, hands still working to soften the new strip of leather made for reins. "Depends, Mister, on if you're inside with a lady fanning your face or outside doing useful things."

He scathed Benito with a sharp look. "What may I do for you?"

The man gave a smile, one that did not sit well with Legolas' foreboding feelings. It was far too preditorial for his liking. "Ah, now that is the question, my good man." He thrust out a hand, "The name is Marshall Godard, we're from the town and have come par the suggestion of some accomplices."

Legolas took the proffered hand guardingly, eyeing Godard from under the shadow cast over his eyes. He offered back no name. "What was this referral for, might I ask?"

Godard's smile sharpened. "That you may! You see," he laid a hand out, "I'm in the market for some horses."

Immediately, Legolas withdrew his hand, folding his arms across his chest. His eyes flitted briefly over the posse’s horses. They were lathered with sweat, wild-eyed, and stiff-mouthed. Not one could stand an uplifted hand without dancing away. No horse of his would be passed to any men that treated their animals such.

"What if I told you this referral was inaccurate?"

Godard's smile never wavered. "I'd say that from the looks of that herd over there, you're being too modest." He nodded in the direction of the grazing herd beyond the rough fencing. They were a fine lot, the finest in the region, some said in the whole of Texas.

"They aren't for sale," Legolas stated, his arms unfolding and dropping to his sides.

Feet shifted ever so slightly as Godard laughed a demeaning laugh. "You don't seem to understand." He stepped closer, a bit too close for Legolas' liking, but he made not move to relinquish his ground. "I'm willing to pay a handsome price for your stock, more than you could if you tried to sell them yourself."

"I have no need for your money, Mr. Godard. I'm quite well off as it is."

His fellow riders shifted behind him. Legolas noted the tension in their arms, and did not miss that more than one of them let their hands slid toward their hip. Godard and his cronies obviously were not used to being turned down. Placating smile in place without falter, Marshall Godard patted Legolas on the shoulder. Steeling himself, Legolas refused to move away from the unwanted comradely gesture. "Perhaps you don't, but," his smile turned almost sinister, "perhaps there's other things you'd barter with."

He had had enough of this badgering. "I said, no Mr. Godard. Good day." Legolas gave no tip of his hat.

"You're making a mistake, Wrangler, "the intruder admonished, his smile tightening and the lines about his eyes narrowing. "I sincerely hope you have a change of mind."

But Legolas' back was already turned, though his hand stayed ready for action lest it was needed.

Benito eyed the riders, his face, mapped with innumerable creases and gullies, nearly disappeared as he frowned. "Away with you buzzards! There's no meat for you here."

Benito missed the look that passed over Godard's face. It could be likened to that of a serpent having successfully lured its prey into its jaws.

---

"Should have shot them when you had the chance," Benito grumbled across that night's meal.

Legolas shot him a look as he spooned the cooling stew into his mouth. It was far too hot to eat anything warm on a day like this. "Maybe I should have, but I didn't."

The old mexican gnawed on a particularly tough chunk of meat in the stew. He had been far from amiable company since the departure of Marshall Godard. He made it clear that he thought no good would come of it, and reluctantly, Legolas had to agree that that was his gut feeling too. "So that's that? No more gunslinging? No more murdering the evil in their sleep?"

"Señor Benito, have you been down at the saloon recently?"

Benito set his utensils down on his plate, leaning back with hands on his thighs. "No, no. But perhaps some such action would be appropriate at this time?"

He leveled Benito with a stern gaze. "Did you not have enough killing in the war?"

Benito turned sullen at this mention. His eyes turning as fiery as his spirit, no matter his age. That was where their friendship had been forged. On opposing sides, fate had brought them together. Benito resolutely decided not to go into the sentimentalities at this time when he was trying to be assertive.  "But it was one worth fighting," he retorted, "Like slaying those suit-toters." He paused, stabbing his fork at a carrot. "Why you were involved I still don't know, and I refuse to believe it was because you agreed with their agenda."

"Benito, I refuse to get into this argument again," Legolas warned.

"Oh-no, I was not the one that brought that can of beans out!" The old man leaned over the table and poked Legolas in the chest. "Don't go blaming old Benito for what he didn't do."

Legolas set his elbows on the table and returned the gesture. "Then don't go calling old Mateo a gunslinger."

"But you are! I've seen you with my own eyes. But old? You talking about yourself, you whippersnapper?" Benito gave a barking scoff. "I don't see any age lines or cares creasing your brow."

Outwardly, Legolas smiled wryly. Inwardly though, it was another matter. Oh, they're there, mellon. They are simply hidden inside. Benito's years did not come to count a second in Legolas' lifetime.

"Clean those plates for me, hijo. These joints won't take the abuse you put them - "

The explosion that rent the heavy night air, sent shockwaves through the house, shaking sidings loose and causing the ground to heave beneath their feet.

Benito cursed fluently in his native language and caught himself on the table once the short, but sharp upheavals had ceased. "Bloody beetles, what was that?"

Legolas gave only a moment's pause before his shocked brain put two and two together. Two words slipped from his mouth before he flung his body into instinctive action.

"The horses."

Benito had only to blink once, and when he reopened his eyes, Legolas was gone.

---

Fire leapt from the dying remains of the barn he and Benito had worked so hard to build. But the building was the least of his concerns.

There had been six horses stabled in that barn. The explosion had nearly leveled the building.

Rage boiled in his veins, sending pulsing shots of hot blood coursing through his body to every nerve ending. Tearing himself away from the terrible scene, he scanned the horizon. There it was, accompanied by the sound of hooves; seven men in black and on horseback galloping through the gate that lead into the main pasture land. They carried whips. In that instant he knew their next target.

Lifting his fingers to his lips, he let ring a shrill whistle. He needn’t wait long before from out of the gathered gloom, an overo of mostly dark coloring burst from somewhere to his right. This was his horse, the free ranger that would come to no other.
 
The horse did not slow his pace as with great loping strides he ate up the distance between him and the Elf. Rolling back on his heels and slipping the shotgun into its place in the harness on his back, he timed his leap, catching the horse's mane as he tore past without pause. The fact that he bore no saddle or bridle was of no matter to either.

Leaning low over the horse's neck, Legolas whispered into his ear, "Speed Toril, follow the ones who have hands stained with innocent blood."

By the time Benito emerged from the cabin, Toril had faded from sight. The rustlers had a fair head-start on them, but Legolas had the advantage of knowing where the horses would be and the aid of his keener senses and sight for navigation.

 They were gaining steadily, Toril's legs churning beneath him like that of a steam engine. Then came the first report of a colt and a moment later he heard the hiss of the bullet, far from its target. Legolas waited to draw his weapon, staying low and light on the horse's back.

A second report, the shot went wide. These men obviously could not shoot, ride, and herd at the same time. The shrill bugle of a mare notified him that they had found the herd before he could reach them by some terrible fate. Toril's lungs heaved as a great cry blasted forth in answer to the distressed screams of the herd.

Then they were on them. Toril acted on instinct, twisting to move the herd away like cattle. Legolas’ rifle scraped from its harness at his back. With eyes narrowed, the muzzle swung 'round as Legolas straightened. He sighted along the barrel in the darkness, compensating for the sudden turns of Toril. Finger tightening on the trigger, the first rider fell between his sights. His finger slipped back.

The man fell into the flying hooves of the herd, swept away to meet his just end.

Toril took a sharp roll-back, ears pivoting with his legs as he moved to head off a terrified creature straying from the herd. Legolas had to catch hold of the horse's mane at the unexpected maneuver. To his left, he saw another rider racing them to the beast. Suddenly, he reined his horse harshly to a halt. Legolas caught sight of the empty brass casing too late as it spun a taunting serpentine in a glint of moonlight.

The stray horse screamed, and fell.

A mad yell of rage boiled from Legolas' soul as the rider also cried a command to the five remaining riders.  Their whips dropped. There would be no stopping what came next. The herd began to fall, one by one as the bullets brought them down. He brought the rifle to bear, but it was a futile cause.

The horses, mad with fear as bullets hissed into their midst, stampeded without a care. Toril was forced to swing away, lest they be taken down in their frenzied flight. Easy targets and mindless in their plight, the horses stood no chance. Toril took a hit to the shoulder, but three more riders fell before the deed was done. Legolas could not push Toril to make chase to reap vengeance, though in all likelyhood, the horse would have gladly done so until he ran himself into the ground.

The moon rose and a silver-blue light bathed the vale. Legolas slid from Toril's back, his mind numb with hatred and grief as he looked on the slaughtering ground of twenty-one horses.

---

"You were right, I should have killed the cowards when I had the chance."

Benito watched while wringing his sweaty palms as Mateo slipped one round after another into the rings on his belt. His eyes were flinty and his movements deliberate. "Mateo," Benito grasped him by the shoulders, his thumbs pressing hard to make sure he had the other's attention. "You must be rational, as hard as it is."

Mateo wrenched back, "I am being rational! This is justice and they shall get their just rights."

"Think, Mateo! Those were lawmen, men with power behind them! Did you not see their attire? Who else here would wear such idiotic clothing?"

"Their law is not mine if it justifies these atrocities. Is it not clearly stated that it is usually an offence to blow up a peaceful rancher's barn? Don't even mind about the animals then!" The fire flared brighter in his infuriated eyes, a growing, righteous anger that festered first in his heart. "Hiding behind the name of the law - all the while perverting the very thing called authority - will do them no good if they cannot wield a weapon." Twin colts slipped soundlessly into their place, nestled low and at easy access.

Benito was left slightly lacking for words to follow up Mateo's brief, but heart conceived speech. "And besides," he continued lamely from his first excuse, “Maybe I, we, were wrong. There are plenty of fresh faced idiots in this dirt basin. Perhaps they had all won a collective gamble, bought themselves a new livery, drunk one to many drinks – prompting their idiotic behavior.” Benito threw up his hands. “But that’s besides the point.”

”What is your point?”

"You have no sure evidence to conclude that they were even involved."

"I need none."

He opened his mouth to protest, but shut it upon further noting the flinty expression. His hands went back to working themselves nervously. This was doomed, he felt it! No matter how skilled Mateo was, good could not come of such a strike.  That was saying a lot as he had witnessed first hand the lad's prowess with all manner of firearms, and it was not limited to firearms, oh no.

Mateo was dangerous, candiedly put, not simply all brawn and speedy reflexes. Mateo was cunning, his mind worked constantly it seemed, even when no expression showed on his face. In the war, where they had met at gunpoint at the Battle of Bexar, Benito had been privy to the extent of Mateo's abilities. He later admitted freely to Mateo's face that that had been one of the most terrifying experiences of his life. Nothing had come to compare since then.

No doubt was in his mind that Mateo could bring down each and every one of the perpetrators in a night. But he would be hounded for the rest of his life, never able to live for long in one place. Benito, however, didn’t know that Mateo could not do so even now.

The other contingency was still the unsure conclusion that Marshall Godard was involved by some means. Though it was the most probable theory, there was still that to consider. Mateo had a good heart, never one to kill without need. If he reaped vengeance on the innocent, he knew Mateo could never live with that blood forever staining his hands. It was as he tried to conceive a better way, that enlightenment struck Benito in the form of a simple notion, one passed down from generation to generation.

"I have a very sound idea to which that I think you may want to hearken."

TBC...

A/N: For sake of space, I've decided to cut out the lengthy explanations (aka. Excuses) I had in originally. If there's confusion, I'd be glad to answer what I can - or the future chapters will hopefully smooth things out. :)

Right Side of Justice
Chapter 2 - Many Musings

It was nigh impossible to liken the upstart town of Harris to anything seen in the days of the Elves - from architecture, to the denizens. The times had certainly changed, and with it, the people.

Benito knew little of this change, however. In his mind, he had seen the turning of one too many winters to the sweltering heat of summer. He had seen people come and go from Harris, of the majority he had only met their backs as the freshly shoed hooves of their horses kicked up the dry, Texas earth. But he had no bone to pick with those that decided to pass on to meeker territory.

It was a hard life, one of sweat and blood that often was spilt from the cracked fissures in hands torn by hoe or shovel. Some regretted their change of profession, from the life behind a bar or the of working soft, tilled soil - though not all. Many remained, stubborn pride and determination driving them on to break the hard dust and mold it to something worth more than gold. Something in their blood ran with fiery vigor, spurring an ancient spirit alive.

Benito, on the other hand, had lived this lifestyle from baby peach fuzz to hoary beard. His hands were toughened to leathery texture long before he reached his full height and laboring in the heat with a cloth tied about his head to delay, but not deter, the sweat from dripping into his eyes and blurring vision. From youthful adventures to war as a man seasoned by years, Benito had thought he had met every character of folk possible - until he had stared down the barrel of a rifle into the strange, shadowed face of one was to become his greatest comrade.

It would be another story altogether to tell of that meeting and the events that surrounded it, one that will not be told at this time. It is enough to know that fate was at hand that day and that by circumstance or what some deemed luck, Mateo stayed his hand - and that was to both parties a great fortune.

From that time, Benito had a companion in his work after the war. It was different work now than he was brought up with, wrangling horses and preforming the duties associated with Mateo's trade.

 Trade? Was that really what one could call his practice? Benito had rocked on the groaning back legs of the porch chair many a time and observed the strange young man's work with a discerning and curious eye. From before the dawn, until the fading twilight diffused to full night, Mateo spent no amount of time far from the company of the animals that he seemed to truly love so dearly. Rarely breaking for any mid-day meal, he toiled - though Mateo would never call his work a burden - tirelessly, taking his joy in the living things. Soft of speech and quiet in touch, the horses returned every degree of his affection in turn.

He was undoubtedly, Benito had concluded, the most peculiar cowboy he had yet to encounter.

These were all the ruminations of a slightly bored mind at odd hours of day or night. At the moment, it was mid-morning, and the setting: the town of Harris, seated in a particularly seedy but highly occupied saloon. With no clean countertop to speak of, Benito searched out the least sticky square foot to heft his elbows, but seeing that about every vicinity was equally caked with squandered liqour and various grime, he saw no reason to be particular. Anyway, it wasn't as if he already didn't carry a stench. The Star of Harris was indeed misnamed by the cavaliering owner of the questionable establishment. There were actually two saloons in Harris, and The Star was certainly not the cleanest, nor the friendliest. But it was the cheapest, and that, after all, was what mattered to the shallow pockets of the townsfolk.

The piano player diddling away an overly jaunty tune in the corner was not even that good, missing more flats than he did the dirty white keys. If asked why he did so, he would not answer with the defense - and truth - that he was simply not that talented, but would straight-faced tell you with a quiver to his lip that "...I always liked the black keys more."

"Benito, the old man from the cactus comes to visit us!" A shot glass clicked down in front of him, top down. Running his eyes up the full sleeved arm, Benito already knew the view. Howard Teller was a lanky fellow, the bartender of The Star for more years than could be counted one and a half hands - if you could count that high - and took great pride in stating that fact to any newcomer that happened through his door. Even the regulars were reminded of this anomaly weekly, but none were about to complain since it was usually followed by a celebratory round on the house.

"Bah," Benito grunted, flipping the glass up and accepting the proffered drink. "Cactus is the least of my concerns out on the plains." He would waste no time in putting his scheme to work. There was yet the nagging concern that upon his return, Mateo would be gone if he tarried too long here.

The man beside him, a swarthy faced character with a long, hawk like nose that tipped downward sadly, nudged him in the arm with his elbow. "Yeah, I guess not if you're bunking with that ghostly friend of yours." It was an obvious prod for Benito to spill the beans about the curious, and grossly rumored about man of the outside lands.

Benito pursed his bristled upper lip in the man's direction. "No, no, Señor," he tipped the glass upwards and tried not to blanch at the horrible quality of the liquor. It was an effort not to curse the maker for his ignorance on the finer points of the distillary skill. Settling his weight on his arms, he leaned forward on the bar. "We - " he stopped himself,  "I, have only to worry about murdering horse thieves who burn an honest rancher's barn and kill his herd."

A momentary silence lulled the loud caterwauling crowd of those near by able to overhear. Card games were paused momentarily as gamblers and observers alike centered their attentions on the Mexican. So much for subtlety.

"Horse thieves, you say?" Howard ventured quietly, much subdued, the gaiety having left his face. Benito nodded, prompting the bartender with a hand to continue. Howard Teller looked quite nervous, glancing about at the faces of the crowd that were being drawn to the silence. He was looking for someone, and was clearly relieved when his search turned up null. "You're not the only one, old man, Anders came in the other day and said that his stock - you know, the two bays, the roan mare and the team he was so proud of? Well, he came in and said that three nights ago, he woke up to the sound of hooves. By the time he made it to the barn, his team and the three others were gone without nary a trace."

Anders, as Benito could recall, did consider those stolen his claim to fame. Fine they were, and well boned and muscled.  He hated to think the rampage Anders must have gone on after finding them gone. Good horses they were, but so had been Mateo's herd.

"Did Anders by chance happen to mention a visit from some officious looking characters?" he ventured, looking for the missing link to the suspicions.

Howard tipped back his head, tapping a finger on his protruding jaw. "Hmm, now that you mention it, I believe he did. From that new government firm that set up shop here some weeks back..." He frowned, finger continuing to twitch as he delved back into his memory for something further. "What was it that he said was their business?"

"Government firm?" Claxons blared in Benito's thought. "What government firm?"

"Why don't you know?" said the man to his right. "They came in late afternoon in a big stagecoach with a contingent of cavalry men behind it. Quite a scene they made, no doubt about that." A few others nodded in agreement.

"What kind of firm?"

Howard shook his head and gave a bark of laughter. "Blessed if I know! When asked, those government tweeds just said it was for some kind of new law act of some sort that was just passed up in one of those fancy states, in a room full of top hats!" He nodded eyebrows out of cadence with his nods. "You know how they are, all secretive and la-de-da."

Benito danced the shot glass on its rim. "Indeed I do."

There was a pregnant pause in which all looked to his neighbor, then back to the Mexican. It was the bartender who voiced the universal question. "Ye think they're involved?"

Benito tread lightly, this was dangerous territory both in speech and for his physical neck. So he shrugged, the usual sign of a lack of opinion - or at least the unwillingness to share one, as it was in his case. "All I know," he tipped back his chair, "is that I definitely don't want to be the one behind all this if your phantom decides to extract his justice."

Inwardly he chuckled. Referring to Mateo as a phantom was sure to give the town another week of speculation.

---

"What did I tell you?"

Legolas gave Benito a bemused look. "Was it not you who was counseling me this very morning not to rush to any unfounded conclusions?"

Shifting from foot to foot, as he tended to do when antsy, the Mexican pulled his bags off the saddle horn. "I still told you didn't I?"

Legolas knew a pointless debate when he saw one - and this was most certainly one such debate. "So, oh wise counselor, what would you have me do now?"

The Mexican gave him a droll, unabashedly "What else?" look. "You ride into town, find the cowards, and send them to the hell they deserve." He stated it as if a two-year-old should have known such elementary.

But Legolas’ morning vigor and zealousness for vengeance had shed itself to make room for the habitual cautiousness he lived by - and had lived by for uncounted years and had kept him very much in that breathing state. The 'coincidence' of the visitation to Anders' ranch farm was almost too coincidental to have connection. It wasn't even as if this firm (if they were truly the ones behind it) was trying to hide it. He could form a dozen scenarios counting against their guilt. This made him more than a little uneasy.

The ages had taught him one thing at least: some things were deeper and darker than at first they might appear.

Legolas twisted the reins in his hand, contemplating the horse in front of him while his mind was really elsewhere. She was a bit thin in the barrel, but her eye was soft. "This is a good horse, Benito." The old man stared agape at him; Legolas didn't seem to notice. "Who loaned her to you?"

Benito shrugged, still eyeing him quizzically. "Bought her, actually, that Howard Teller seemed eager to get rid of her and I figured, well, knowing you..."

"...I'd be able to turn her into something decent?" Legolas finished for him. Benito nodded in turn. "No need for that; Teller obviously doesn't know much about horses."

"You're trying to change the subject, aren't you?"

"No," he replied, drawing it out ponderously.

Benito threw up his hands, muttered some indistinguishable curse, and left with stomping steps. At that moment, he reminded Legolas very much of a pouting toddler, or at least a hobbit whom had lost his dinner.

This thought of that odd and simple race called hobbits brought him to reminiscence, as thoughts of those olden days usually evoked. He missed those days; oh, there had been dreadful times perverted with carnage, destruction and the awful stench of evilness, but it was the golden days of light and unguarded friendship that gave him pause to remember. He never wanted to forget them, not the days, nor the people, nor land.

The land had been indeed changed. The dales and the woods he used to wander were provinces unwelcoming to him, the trees strange in their speech as even they had changed with time and forgetfulness. Some had grown so treeish that they had sunk so far into their sleep that there was no hope of drawing them back to their old roots.

Oh yes, and the men had changed. A very different people they were now, and seemingly more forgetful than even their predecessors had been. How many times had he had to remind Aragorn where he had put his whetting stone in Bill the pony's packs on the trek from Imladris to the threshold of Caradhras?

He smiled at the memory, along with many others that happened by as he allowed himself for once to sink into the longing of the past. Looking at his life as the night sky stretching from his birth on the left horizon, to the present, on the right horizon, all the stars which signified friendships were clumped in a bright blaze of silver at the left horizon. They thinned as the eye tracked right and eventually, only one here, one there shining like lonely jewels on an ebony sheet of a weaver's cloth.

It must be understood that the void of companionship was not for lack of desire or aloofness of station in the ladder of nobility - for that had no meaning in a territory such as this without means to prove it. Nay, many lonely years he had spent, moving from place to place, town to town, never connection, never reaching out - save anonymously - because he simply could not. Suspicions, more than already were lumped on him, would be roused when from year to year, as a son turned to a grandfather and his grandchildren became grandfathers Legolas remained untouched by the withering pinch of age.

But life is not worth living when no confidence can be shared, no love extended. So it was to those that did not ask questions, nor prod for answers did he go for solace in the deafening silence of loneliness. The horse, a creature that needed a herd and a family as much as any child. Any elf for that matter. He brought them in off the range, tending their hurts, growing the grass needed to take the bite of hunger in the summer months when the grass shrank from the heat, offering the shelter of a solid roof better than any rock in the winter months.

Here, on the far outskirts of Harris, had been his longest roost in decades. For a reason unknown to him, he liked it here. The people perhaps, Benito for one, and well, there was just a feeling that he needed to stay. Something seemed to lurk in the back of his conscience, nagging at him and hinting at some purpose yet in store; and the feeling was getting stronger.

Legolas loosed the horse into the round pen that stood alone near the smoldering skeleton of the barn. The creature stopped in the middle, pivoted ears and head from one side to the other while testing the air with flared nostrils. Then giving Legolas one more regarding consideration, dipped her neck to the ground and began nosing the dry earth. He stood there for some time, watching and observing her moves as she searched out and eventually found the parched grass hedging the perimeter of the rails.

He was roused from pondering for the second time in the course of two days by Benito's shout. "It's a rider again, Señor, he looks like he's alone." The Mexican trotted to his side, eyes squinted, peering through the dimness of dusk. "Should I fetch your rifle?"

He shook his head, patting his hip where slung low at easy reach nestled a colt. If there was any small trouble, he'd probably opt for the knife in his boot - boots worn to supple conditioning since even after all these years he chaffed at their restriction. The gun was an after-thought really. "Let him come, and please," he looked pointedly at his shorter companion, "do not threaten to dissect his innards if he looks at as what you would deem as uncharitably. "

Benito frowned, stuck his hands in his pockets and stumped back to his work.

The approaching rider slowed his horse to a trot as he passed through the gate. As he dismounted and slung a rein loosely over the hitching rail, Legolas regarded him closely, taking appreciative note of the unloaded weapons. Still, Legolas was not about to disarm himself. The rider was a young man, perhaps in his late-twenties at best - an adult to the standards of Men, but a mere seedling in the shadow of Legolas’ own age. Of lanky build, but of no mentionable height, he walked his way with a purposeful stride. Even in the bad light of dusk, Legolas could see that this visitor was not here out of curiosity. Business was the name of the game.

"Howdy," Legolas winced as the man spoke. How he hated that word. He didn't know why, but it was just so, what was the term these men used? Ah, it was just so, corny. Putting this aside, Legolas nodded, acknowledging the man.

"What can I do for you?" No reason in not being polite.

The man looked down at his hands for a moment, seeming to weigh his words carefully before speaking them. An admirable trait and rare to be found in these men who were so impulsive. "I think you probably already know what I'm here about. You don't get strangers much riding into your ranch here," he gave a cursory nod to the surroundings. 

"You're right." Legolas shouldered the bridle. "So I take it your here about the horses."

The stranger nodded. "Yup, and I'm guessing your hand over there told you about Anders' misfortune as well."

Again, Legolas bobbed his head.

"But he probably didn't tell you that Jamison, Westers, and Gregson all sold a number of horses to those government chaps in the past few days since they set up shop in Harris. They got the same offer as Anders and probably yourself did. Except they agreed, whereas yourself and Anders both declined."

Legolas accepted this information warily, careful to keep an impassive mask in place. If this was accurate, then there was little left to doubt. But were yet a few matters left to clear. "So why are you telling me all this? Surely it's not out of neighborly concern."

The man tapped the brim of his dusty hat, it was certainly not a decorative item. "To tell you the truth mister, I'm probably not one you'd want for a neighbor," he said with a wry, but honest grin that Legolas took a liking to immediately. "But to answer your question, it's because I, like those high-upities, have a proposal for you." He gave Legolas a moment to object on the spot, but Legolas didn't. "To put it simply, I'm fed up with these far too clean folks telling me what to do and busting my profit if I don't agree. A man comes out here to get away from that rot." He paused, giving Legolas yet another chance to intervene. "It's more than just a personal grudge though, other towns have had the same persecution and far worse. I say we put a stop to it."

Legolas regarded and listened to him quietly from under the shadow of his hat. His arms crossed loosely over his chest, he showed no expression of distaste or approval. "That still doesn't explain why you've come all this way to tell me of your personal agenda."

"Don't give me that enigmatic jargon, stranger. You're smart, real smart, everyone knows it."

"And how would they know that? Not one of the towns folk even know my name if I recall correctly."

"Gah, you know what I mean," he huffed, brushing aside Legolas’ remark. "But besides being a brain, you're dangerous. And besides that, what else do you need to be a good fighter? Or what's more, what else do you need to be a good outlaw?"

Legolas’ head tilted up, an eyebrow raising at this last remark. Outlaw, eh? Hmm, well that was one thing he hadn't been yet - and was not entirely sure he wanted to try that side of the law out for size. "I think you've listened to one too many bar rumors, friend," he said with a light laugh. "What's your name?"

"Tyne," he thrust out a hand, "Scott Tyne. And who might you be, besides the Phantom of Harris?"

Legolas took it with a firm hand. The eyebrow arched higher, "I'm a ghost now, am I?"

Scott's lips crooked upward in a lopsided grin that slanted diagonally across his face. "Yeah, you've been a lot of things. Ghost, cursed spirit, murderer, wizard, and so on. Some not so human things as well."

"The things they come up with," Legolas chuckled, letting go the hand. "I go by the name Mateo, call me what you will though, be it monster, ghost or wizard." This last one gave Legolas quite a mental laugh. Ai, what would Mithrandir think? What a scandal.

Scott held his gaze, not willing to let him off the hook yet. "So what do you say? Get your revenge, blast some bad guys, be a hero, at least get free drinks on the house?"

"Three out of four of those I have already had, and once is all I need." He re-folded his arms, bouncing the bridle back into place. "And revenge must be carefully selected."

Tyne was beginning to show signs of annoyance. Little twitches, shifting feet, breaths puffing out from a bristled, but shaved lip. "They killed your horses, a whole herd of 'em! Isn't that enough to be a little mad over?"

"Of course," Legolas nodded, fingering the smooth bit. "But not at the wrong party."

"What will convince you?" Scott questioned. "Do you have to have it in writing?"

A strange smile ghosted his lips. Legolas tipped his hat to the young man, coyness giving a glint to his eye. "Why, that would be mighty nice of you Mr. Tyne. I look forward to seeing the proof."

Never one to leave his guests at ease, or any bit clearer in the head, Legolas gave a farewell and stalked off in search of his horse. He needed to do some thinking, and he certainly could not think without interruption here.

---

It was a pool few knew about that was spread out here under a rogue copes of trees, struggling with root and branch to grow tall and fruitfull of shade. It lay between two hills - if you called two mounds of dirt not seven feet high hills - and was the most unexpected surprised for one coming over one of those hills. Hidden from view and out of the way of normal travel, only the birds and wild beasts knew of it with the exception of Legolas.

The pool was not a pretty thing, but still it was here he came whenever the life he tread now became too much. The drooping trees, the water, the green grass rising about the pool like an admiring public, was a comfort in light of this dry and dusty land. What had brought him out here? The sea was many days ride from here and woods were scarce. There was little to no aspect that should draw one such as himself. But still, by call he came and tried his best not to grouse the whole long trek across barren plains, forsaken of water or life.

Toril bowed his head, taking in noisy slurps of water as any true mustang of the brush would do when happening upon such a source of life. A leaf drifted past his nose, taken on the slight current created from the almost unnoticable spring bubbling from where a group of rocks were piled at the end of the pool. It didn't look natural how when one scanned the horizon, no rocks their size could be found and yet here four looked as if they had been placed there. Legolas had wondered about this pool before, pondering its creation as he doubted it was simply some geographic feature of hapenstance.

Kneeling by the water at the soggy edge, he took a hint from creation and lapped up his own fill of the cool liquid. It had a good, earthy taste. But then again, it could be the mud being displaced by Toril's front hooves he noted with a glare at the horse. Toril bobbed his head, flicking up a miniature wave of water with his upper lip. Cheeky little horse he was.

The sun was beginning to set in the west, huge and orange as it reluctantly began to dip down into the horizon. Heat waves wreathed it in a shimmering auora, seeming to warp the brush and make the very earth dance a deceptivly watery dance. It made everything look so unstable, wavering, dipping and twisting bonelessly to and fro. A strange beauty, cruel, yet beautiful. The pool turned gold, the last rays of the sun slanting between the two hills to color the water and cause it to reflect sky and all those things above its brilliant surface.

From out of the water in the amber light, Legolas’ own face stared up at him. He regarded the timeless countenance, looking for any sign of age. All that had changed was a slight furrowing of the brows.

He did look different though. For one, his hair was shorter; tied back now for convenience sake and he had had to decline from the fine, thin braids that would often weave back from his hair line to disappear strangely into other knottings. The dusty old hat was a change of style as well that had multiple advantages. From discression, to taking the glare off the huge sun that seemed particularly vexed at Texas. And speaking of dusty...

His lips turned upward in a wane smile as he took in the grubby complexion he sported from simply a days hard work. So much for the myths of dirt repellency. Elves, unlike some tales, were just as capable of griminess as any man. Rolling in the mud would have the same affect on either race. One may just do it with more dignity than the other.

His watery self stared up at him from beneath the surface, wondering at the solid him. His eyes were the telling factors of his years, carrying more depth now than in his earlier days. They seemed to ask of him the question: What now? He was faced with a decision to step out of his isolated bubble back into civilization, back into the world of men; and it was a daunting prospect.

A breeze blew up suddenly, brushing past him and rippling the pool's surface, distorting his image into bizzare curves. Then as abruptly as it had come, it left, leaving the water to settle. But his reflection did not return. Legolas peered closer, brows furrowing as not his own image but anothers slowly arranged after the disturbed surface began to smooth. Ripples evened out and Legolas saw.

It was Aragorn, in the days of the Third Age, full of vigor with a light in his eyes. He looked up from the pool, as his own reflection had done. Legolas remained still, wondering at this vision and daring not move lest it be disrupted. But what will be, will be, and what he was to see, he would see. But the image of the man's face did not change, continuing to gaze from the waters up into Legolas’ face with knowing eyes that answered his concerns in the quiet of his mind.

As the breeze built again, whisking Aragorn's visage away, the turmoil was snatched from his heart, leaving him very much at peace with no questions left to be answered.

TBC...