"When the herd of people get together in anger to hand out justice, you can be certain it's not justice for all."

  -Earl Westman, former drunk-fellow and current marshal of Stagna

  Night ride to Fenmark

  Two hours after leaving the trembling Seamus holding the bag, Earl and Rascal were riding south out of town.

  When he came back to Bern's, he'd found the sweat drenched gobshite looking at Rascal's unblinking stare. The dog had just been sitting there, calmly drooling all over the bag.

  They followed the trail along the Zanja river that was overgrown with lazy trees. It would take them straight to Fenmark. Earl knew Rascal would follow the saddlebag with its precious rock to the ends of Huom. But the dog also tended to stay as close as possible, something Earl's horse had found unnerving. Hoof-hearted had kicked the dog a few times in the beginning. But the powerful thuds that would've floored even the largest man had no effect on Rascal. Since the dog never retaliated, or moved out of the way, the mare had kind of adapted her gait to make room.

  After a while, the sun went down on Earl, and he found himself enjoying the cooling air. Riding off into the sunset might look grand, but it was a terrible idea. You'd only get stuck sleeping on the ground when you could be in a comfy bed. Still, with a full moon and bright summer night, they could keep going. The sounds of crickets and the slow to river made for a pleasant ride.

  "We should be there by morning," he said patting the brown mare's golden mane.

  Although he couldn't be sure. Most transport was done by river and a little beyond the town proper there wasn't much in the way of roads, just trails snaking from farm to farm. He'd determined Fenmark was where the next theft would take place. Except for the area's sheep and hemp farms, there wasn't much else around. Not if you were looking for a sneaky midnight harvest.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  After a few hours, they crossed the wood bridge to the east side of the Ganja, and entered the top part of Fenmark. Earl started to hum softly, a habit he picked up over the years spent alone on the road. It made the time pass quicker. He liked to sing, but the thought of doing it where anyone but animals could hear gave him the shivers. That was the one thing he'd liked about Rascal from the start. Even with moss growing in its fur, he wasn't bothered about what others thought he should be. To the dog, shame was something that only applied to others.

  They flowed along, Earl humming and half asleep in the saddle, until Hoof-hearted stopped and started stomping, acting like there was something out there. It took him a minute to calm her, but he wasn't worried. Over the years, he'd begun to suspect he infected his horses with his suspicious nature. This wasn't the first time one'd reacted to something that wasn't there.

  "Or do you hate my singing?" he asked scratching the animal between the ears. "Maybe it's too common for your high-riding tastes?"

  In the end, the night ride took longer than expected. It was close to noon before they saw the outline of the Merrywither farm, which left less time to get the local farmers together and tell them about the plan. But perhaps that was for the best. It would give them less time to get ideas.

  "I still wish I didn't have to involve them," he said to Rascal. "Shared duty is no duty at all."

  "But you did good with Seamus, even if you were only following your instincts."

  Staying in character, Rascal showed no trace of caring about his opinion.

  If the farmers ruined his plan somehow and the thief snatched his foot out of the trap, for whatever reason, Earl would get saddled with the blame. Then he could expect a visit from the self-proclaimed leaders of Stagna. Muke was always more than happy to lead the search for a scapegoat.

  Earl wouldn't have cared, but they so often wanted the impossible. Sometimes, it seemed they were on a never-ending quest to find something to complain about. They acted like they wanted fresh ideas, but at the same time nothing was allowed to change, and no one could question their pig-headed opinions. Marshal law in Agalaland really meant that people were in charge.

  "Which is as it should be," he mumbled, "I only wish they were a bit smarter about it."

  For one thing there was for some reason a great difference between crimes committed by someone you knew, a local stranger, or at worst a foreigner.

  "And if it's just one of the good ol' boys they could burn down the town and chalk it up to a harmless prank."