New Storm Rising

14. Do not Touch what's Mine. Especially the Mine.

The cowering man stiffened and raised his hands. Slowly, he straightened.

And straightened.

And straightened.

He had a lot of straightening to do.

"What. Did. You. Say?"

The sheriff swallowed. Then he slowly readjusted the barrel of his revolver upwards, so at least it was pointed at the other man's chest instead of his shins. That didn't seem to make him feel any more confident about his chances, though. Throwing pebbles at a mountain was never a particularly successful strategy.

"S-step towards the light! Show your face!"

The tall figure did so—only to reveal a weathered, dark, undoubtedly Indian face. And not the kind you might reasonably expect to encounter in the Wild West.

"So," Mr Ambrose enquired, casting a questioning look towards the lawman. "Was he one of the people who escaped from your prison?"

"No!" Gallagher ground out.

"So, that means...?"

"That you're gonna get out of my way!" Shoving Mr Ambrose and Karim both aside, the sheriff rushed further down the tunnel, until—

"Ha! Found you!"

Hastening after the man, the crowd right behind me, I arrived just in time to see Gallagher approach around a dozen figures huddled on the ground. He advanced on them, revolver raised.

"Get up! Hands in the air!"

There was no reaction. The men in tattered miners' clothes continued to cower on the floor, unmoving.

"What are you waiting for? By my authority as an officer of the law, I order you to get to your feet!"

Still, nobody moved. They truly had to be terrified.

Either that, or something was going on. Hm...considering this was Mr Rikkard Ambrose's place, which was more likely, I wondered?

I grinned.

"You refuse? Very well!" The sheriff cocked his revolver. "You have till the count of three to move! One...two...three!"

Bam!

A bullet slammed into one of the men's legs. It jerked—then lay still.

As did all the rest of them.

Nothing moved.

Not even the drops of blood one might reasonably expect to dribble out of the hole in the trousers.

"What the hell...! Move, I said!"

Bam! Bam!

Not a single twitch in response. By now, even the marvellous intelligence of the pitchfork mob was sufficient to realize there was something off. A realization that also dawned on Gallagher. Leaping forward, he grabbed one of the figures on the floor by the shoulder and turned it around, only to be faced with—

"Goddammit! What the—?!" Leaping back, he stabbed a finger at the straw and twig monstrosity on the ground, glaring at my hubby. "What the hell is this?"

"This?" Mr Ambrose cocked his head. "Ah, of course, someone not involved in agriculture might not recognize it. This called a scarecrow, a farming tool commonly used to scare away—"

"I know what a freaking scarecrow is! What I want to know is what they are doing here!"

"Why, is that not obvious? I always pay attention to local developments. Seeing how much Señor Navarra has recently invested in local agriculture, helping local people to get their hands on so much farmland, I felt I had to do my part. So, I obtained these," he gestured towards the scarecrows, "and thought I would distribute them to the new farmers. After all, one should always be helpful to one's neighbours."