“Me, Trawl, Marshall, Sullivan, Fulk, and Wrens will take the Jackluns. You, Lane, Yarry, Clark, Johnson, and Murray have the Maclarens.” Luke tells Reefer, as they return to the boats. Dawson had grudgingly agreed to supply them with two carts and five horses, and they were to reconvene outside the main stable in twenty minutes.

“Fine, sure. Oy! Lumps! Come on out!”

“Five more minutes! Sullivan’s having his ass handed to him in Go Fish!”

Reefer rolls his eyes, but Luke’s ears may have very well actually physically perked up. “I haven’t played Go Fish in almost a week.” He muses, and Reefer wants to bash his head against a wall now, please.

“You can play cards after we catch the OLs.” Reefer yells.

Sighs all around, and they descend from Haast, Galligher lugging Herbert, and Yarry shuffling the cards.

“We have to drive into the farms, cause apparently this is the only landing site on the spread… Trawl, Fulk, Wrens, Marshall, and Sullivan are with me, the rest of you get Reefer here, lucky you. Sullivan, since you’re carrying Herbert, you’re riding in the cart. Can any of the rest of you drive?”

“I can.” Fulk says, and Luke grins.

“Good, it’s all you then. Trawl, you and I are on horseback.”

“Hey, hold up, who says you get three horses?” Reefer demands, hands on his hips.

“I do.”

“I’m older.”

“I’m smarter.”

“Hah, right, says the brat who plowed his last ship into a row of houses.”

“Least I didn’t—”

“For the love of god, are you five!?”

Luke and Reefer pause, glance at each other, shrug, and turn to look at Clark. He quails a bit under the weight of the captains’ glares, but stands firm, raising his eyebrows nearly into his bushy hair.

“Right then, Clark, you can run behind the cart.” Reefer says, and Clark isn’t sure if he’s joking or not. This is the man who threw a melon at his captain just a few days ago, so really, anything’s possible. “And if no one else has any comments, we had better head down to Mr. Dawson’s stable before he decides that the exercise would do us good and rescinds his offer of transportation.”

Luke smirks a bit, and turns on his heel, leading the way back, at a fairly brisk walk. He thinks maybe Atlas is trying to get his attention, but isn’t that just too bad for him. There’s a fair wind blowing, and fortunately it’s at their backs, helping them along. Luke takes a deep breath, savoring the crisp air, because once they arrive at the Jacklun’s farm, he’s probably not going to be breathing so much, having to try and teach some backwater farmers’ how to protect themselves. And then, lucky him, he gets to sleep in a hayloft. He’s sure its got its good points, but fresh, clean air is not one of them, and it’s a damn good thing he doesn’t have asthma on top of everything else, or this would make for a very miserable couple of days.

It’s not a long trek back to the stables, thank god, because if he has to listen to Galligher bitch about how heavy Herbert is for one more second, he won’t be responsible for his actions…

Not that Lawrence has a history of accepting that as an explanation.

Waiting for them in the muddy yard are two medium size carts, a horse hitched to each, and three others ground-tied. They’re fair good animals, all of them, and definitely much better company than the idiots he has to sail with. Unfortunately, it’s unlikely that Dawson will let him take one with him when they leave, even if they do manage to save his daughter from the phantoms.

Atlas looks a bit nervous as they approach, and isn’t that just something… The big tough lieutenant is afraid of horses. Luke thinks that probably life long ridicule won’t be appreciated, but Atlas should have thought of that before he decided to be a pansy.

Luke leaves the others behind to waffle, and approaches the dark bay sniffing around at a pile of what he thinks might be the bones of small rodents. Disturbing, yes, but Luke marches on through, ignoring the crack of the itty bitty ribs under his boot. He greets the, and here he ducks his head a bit, trying to be polite about it, gelding with an outstretched hand. The bay noses it a bit, whiskers tickling his palm, and Luke gives him a pat, returning the favor. “Nice to meet you too, mister.” He murmurs, and scratches the white snip edging up between his flaring nostrils.

“That’s Mud.” Dawson announces, stomping out of the stable doorway.

“Mud.” Luke echoes, eying the gelding, who apparently has decided that Luke’s jacket will make a good snack. “I guess that’s fitting. You are, well, brown…”

“That there is Poppy, Daisy, Oak, and Maple.”

“Those are… inspired names. Really.” Luke mutters, and Reefer tries not to snicker, really he does. Luke shakes his head and resumes trying to yank his jacket out from between Mud’s teeth. It’s a loosing battle, considering Mud weighs maybe twelve hundred pounds, and Luke maybe a tenth of that, after a large meal.

Trawl sidles up to Oak, and scratches the monstrously large light bay’s shoulders, as that’s just about all he can reach without using a ladder. Which leaves Reefer with Daisy. Wonderful.

Daisy is a mean looking flea-bitten grey, ears pinned as he watches Reefer approach hesitantly. He snaps, barring yellow stained teeth about the size of Reefer’s thumb when he extends a hand to try and make nice. Luke nearly chokes, and buries his face in Mud’s neck as he laughs. Reefer just scowls, and locks his hands behind his back, standing a safe distance away from Daisy’s head.

Galligher has hauled himself up into the back of the cart Poppy is hitched to, and settles himself into a corner, Herbert safe in his lap. Wrens follows him up, dumping their weapons pack beside the food bag Dawson had kindly provided. Of course, considering, they’re going to have to test it for poison before they eat it, but it was a nice gesture. Kind of. Fulk drops the bag with the rest of their supplies next to Galligher on his way over to greet Poppy, inciting a yelp from Galligher as his fingers a crushed.

Across the yard, Murray is scratching just behind Maple’s ears, smirking as he watches Reefer and Daisy stare each other down, and Clark, Johnson, and Atlas are settling themselves in for the long haul, Atlas eyeing Maple’s hindquarters distrustfully, even with half a cart between him and the gelding’s “business end.”

Dawson is watching all this with a look of disdain, but even he manages to chuckle a bit when Daisy takes a swipe at Reefer when he tries to pick his reins up off the ground.

“The Maclaren farm is down the right hand fork when you get to the split in the path, the Jackluns’ is to the left. The split is only about two miles from here, and then the Maclarens’ are ten miles down, and the Jackluns’ sixteen. Should only take you two and three, respectively. They know you’re on your way.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dawson.” Reefer says, one eye on Daisy, who appears to be subtly leaning towards him even as they speak. “You’ve been very helpful.”

“Hmph.”

“Right…”

Luke shakes his head, and flips Mud’s reins over his ears, and they land squarely on his withers. Reefer tries the same, and narrowly misses having his hand torn clean off.

Mounting easily, despite the fact that Mud’s got a few, okay, many, inches on him, Luke settles into the use-worn saddle, reins loosely in hand. Reefer… well… Reefer is a bit bruised. Turning slightly, one hand resting on the small of Mud’s back, Luke watches Reefer try to clamber onto Daisy without actually touching the grey.

Trawl has a little difficulty getting on Oak, but that’s only to be expected, considering the gelding closely resembles the tree he was named for, stature wise. Legs in stirrups, stretched as far as they can go, and he still looks like a flea perched on Oak’s back.

The light slap of leather against hide, and Poppy sets off at a rolling walk, Maple following closely behind, nose practically in Wrens’ lap. Fulk clucks softly, and Poppy picks up the pace a bit, walking briskly through the mud, Wrens waving as Maple drops behind a bit.

Dawson has already disappeared into the stable, and Reefer has finally managed to pull himself up onto Daisy. Luke squeezes his calves against Mud’s barrel, and the gelding perks up a bit, and off they go.

He sways in time with the bay’s rocking gait, and relishes in the flow of the forest air as they ease their way onto the spread path and off the Dawsons’ land. The tiniest bit more pressure, and Mud responds eagerly with a jaunty trot, quickly passing both carts to take the lead.

The sky is cloudy, dark, as is custom for the Range this time of day, and a stiff breeze brings the smell of crushed pine needles high into the air. Luke somehow ignores the temptation to drag a stronger wind in off the Curran, but it’s a near thing, and the pull to brew a storm high in the stratosphere is much stronger, and it’s a conscious effort not to give in.

He breathes deeply and loves every minute of it.

Previous: Scene 4-XIII

Scene 4-XIV

Next: Scene 4-XV