Page 113 of New Storm Rising
Blast. We’re in deep doodoo.
As if he were a returning war hero on parade, Mr Rikkard Ambrose strode out into the street. Little details like the deputy pointing a gun at him from behind were utterly ignored. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see people peek at us from various windows and alleys. Not a single one of them were throwing rocks or vegetables. How disappointing for my first lynching. Plus, I wasreallystarting to notice that I hadn’t had breakfast yet.
“Turn left here!” the deputy ordered.
Mr Ambrose turned the corner, making it seem as if he were merely interested in seeing what lay that way, and wasn’t in the least concerned about the rifle pointing at his back. Dang! I had to learn that trick!
Didn’t seem as if I would have the time, though.
Up ahead, I could already see the courthouse, a large crowd gathered in front of it. This crowd was much more up to my expectations: rough, raucous, and willing to pelt us with projectiles at a moment’s notice.
“Hang sem! Hang sem!”
“No! Slice sem, shoot sem,senhang sem!”
“Bastardos!Why bother with se trial? Get rid of sem!”
“Why,” I enquired, leaning over towards Mr Ambrose, “do I get the feeling that the jury won’t be particularly objective, Mr Ambrose?”
“Because you have brain cells, Mrs Ambrose?”
“Silence!” One of the Spanish thugs bellowed, pushing open the door and shoving us inside. “You’ve kept se judge waiting long enough. Time is money!”
I blinked, leaning over to my husband. “Are yousurethey don’t secretly work for you?”
“Be quiet!” the thug barked. “Move!”
The two of us were forcibly led down a long corridor. In here, there was nobody shouting, nobody throwing things. Yet strangely, for some reason, the atmosphere seemed ten times as deadly. Soon, we came to a stop in front of a set of double-doors, which opened a moment later.
“Inside, you two!” With a growl, the thug—oh, excuse me,bailiff—shoved Mr Ambrose and me into the courtroom. We were led right in front of the judge’s bench. It wasn’t long before the door behind the bench opened and the clerk pounded the table with his fist. “All rise! All rise for his Honour, Justice of the Peace Hironimus Muggeridge!”
“Justice of the peace?” I blinked. “They want to put us on trial using a justice of the peace?”
“Why not?” Mr Ambrose cocked his head. “They want us in pieces, do they not?”
I elbowed him in the ribs. “Yes, but…a justice of the peace? What are they going to convict us for? Parking a horse beside a fire hydrant?”[23]
“Silence!” the thug behind us, who seemed to be rather fond of that word, hollered.
Turning, I glanced around at him. “Are yousureyou’re not secretly working for my husband?”
“Silence!”
“Ah. I thought so.”
Thud!
The judge’s gavel hit the desk, a moment after his fat bottom hit the chair. I’ll give you three guesses which made the louder noise.
“Hm. Well, let’s see…we’re here to…” Reaching into his desk, he pulled out a stack of notes and started leafing through them. “Ah, yes! That’s it! We’re here to execute some assholes and then put them on trial! Or was it the other way around?”
I had to admit, the Wild West justice system was truly amazing.
“Now, the counsel for the prosecution, step forward! Counsel for the defence, get the hell out of here!”
Amazing didn’t even cover it.
What followed was pretty much predictable. My dear husband and I were swiftly convicted of blackmail of the mayor, grievous bodily harm, illegal occupation of state-owned land and disturbance of the peace. Oh, and horse theft.
