The Last Philosopher

The moonlight trap

Six hours later the rain had stopped and the trap was set. Compared to the endless flat normal for Remington. Fenmark had a somewhat hilly landscape, criss-crossed with trails. Ideal for hiding.

"This'd better work," Earl said to himself. Rascal and Hoof-hearted were both asleep so he had no one to grumble to.

The dog was curled up against him. One scraggly paw on top of his stone, keeping guard. He had no way of knowing if the farmers had found their positions, but they knew the area a lot better than he ever would. So, they should be able to figure it out. Earl was stretched out on a blanket covering the wet grass, as close to the middle of Fenmark as he could reckon. Luckily, there were no goats in the field at present. They would've tried to eat his blanket, hat, shoes, or whatever else the could get their mouths on.

He enjoyed watching the foggy field welcome twilight, as he waited for the first stars to appear. He was trying to rest without actually falling asleep. Not so easy, since he'd ridden the whole previous night. Still, if the chase started he wasn't going to be groggy from waking up.

During his bounty hunter days, he'd had as much practice as anyone could need in waiting around. Eyes half open, drawing long breaths, time passed and he barely noticed. Until all of a sudden he sat up, calm and wide awake. Hours'd passed, but morning was still a ways off. The animals were dead to the world. But he thought he'd heard a short horn blast. So faint, it was only just within hearing.

"The timing fits." Rascal's head sagged to the ground as he got up on one knee.

Concentrating on listening, he leaned his hand on one knee while the other held his hat. His patience was rewarded with two louder blasts from the south. Earl stood and saddled Hoof-hearted in a quick but unrushed manner. Rascal was sniffing around for his rock. But he'd cautiously stowed it away while the dog slept. There wasn't time to now to trick the mutt into coming along. A less practised marshal might've taken off immediately, but he waited by the horse. It wasn't long before there came two louder blasts from the same general direction.

"Seems they got the idea," he said to the mare, getting into the saddle.

A moment later, they were galloping across the field as fast as he dared. By now, Fenmark would be closing in on their little midnight harvester. If memory served, there weren't many farms out this way. With decent speed, he'd catch up before the shitehawks got any ideas. After some hard riding, Earl stopped at a crossroad. He'd heard horses. As the riders got closer, he recognised them as Sam and Carl Merrywither. They were almost on top of him before they saw him.

"Sam, Carl." The boys were tense and excited. "When did you two last hear a horn?"

The younger Merrywither pointed along the southern trail. "We 'eard two 'orns blasts from 'round 'ere not too long ago."

Sam gave his brother a look that would've struck him dead, if looks worked that way. Earl felt that Carl was telling the truth, but also that there was some kind of extra reasoning going on.

"Yeah okay, we'll wait for another horn before we go any further."

Sam leaned to whisper something to his brother, but before he could say more than half a word, Earl interrupted, "Sam! We'll wait quietly."

The eldest Merrywither boy stopped talking, but gave him a resentful look. If there was something going on, he was pretty sure Sam would know what. The lad was one of the occasional adolescents who hadn't learnt to handle their drink. They accounted for most of Earl's business, but it seldom took more than a stern look for them to get the point. For those rare occasions when they wanted to resist, a crack in the air with his bull-whip was enough to send them running.

Earl was embarrassed that his accuracy with the whip had become a bit of a local legend in Stagna. It'd begun when Fannie talked him into putting on a bit of a show for one of the market weeks a few years back. The story claimed that he'd stopped a bumblebee in flight, without killing it, by breaking its knee at ten paces. In reality, he'd hit a bee at perhaps three paces. He'd been aiming at it, but the hit was mostly luck, he could never do it again. The legend had taken on a life of its own and grew more far-fetched every year. To the children of Stagna, it made Earl the bee's knees.

It wasn't long before two horn-blasts sounded, not too far away. "Tat's Dill, I showed 'im a good 'idin' spot up there," Carl said.

They soon came upon another Merrywither, this one up a tree. "Sam! I'm up 'ere!" All six of the younger brothers idolised Sam, the ne'er-do-well.

"Dill, you hear three signals? Where were they coming from?"

"Oh, I've 'eard it two tymes marshal, first tyme wus faint, but I reckon the second wus closer. Both comin' from somewhere 'round the Traaker farm."

"You two spread out a bit." He pointed at the older boys. "Then head as straight towards the Traaker farm as you can. I'll follow the trail around. Dill, you stay in the tree and keep your eyes open."

Leaving them looking bewildered, Earl rode off. By not explaining, he left them with little choice in how to continue. Sam's behaviour had turned his paranoia up from suspicious to certain. Someone'd been making add-ons to his plan.

Earl was riding hard when he heard a horn from behind him. Stopping, he realised it was the first of three shorts. And it was coming from where he left Dill. There was nothing to do except head straight back.

Coming up on the wee tree where Dill'd been hiding, Earl saw Carl's horse grazing by the trail. "Dill, you there?"

The dirty face of the younger boy popped out from behind a branch. At the same time Carl stepped out from behind the tree.

"Marshal! Ya have to 'urry! I didna keen they were gunna kill 'im!" The younger boy was upset.

"Shut up Dill, ya 'eard what Sam said," Carl hissed.

"What did Sam say?"

"Hmm? Oh, nuting marshal."

Earl turned back to Dill trying to sound reassuring, "I can help you know, which way did they go?"

Dill looked between him and Carl a few time before spilling his guts.

"They wus right behind 'im when I blew the 'orn." He pointed, holding back tears.

Earl took off, crossing a ditch into another field.

"Never underestimate the power of fools in large groups," he said. It'd been one of Arlene's favourite sayings.

At least the dark trail through the wet grass was easy to follow in the green moonlight.

Updated: 09.11.2023