Fic: Night of the (Ir)Reconcilable Differences
Title: Night of the (Ir)Reconcilable Differences
Author: Ivybramble
Fandom: Justice Riders Elseworld
Rating: PG
Summary: There’s trouble in Star City. The new rail line is being delayed…by the cold blooded murder of the men labouring to build it, five each day. When the blame falls on the neighbouring Cheyenne, Special Secret Service Agents James T. Jesse and Hartley Rathaway are dispatched to investigate. Their assignment is to get the railroad back on schedule…and avoid losing their scalps in the process.
Author's Additional Summary: The one that took far too damn long to finish...
Disclaimer: I own nothing and make no money.
Mayor Oliver Queen may have been born into High Society, with access to all of the luxuries and vices associated with the pedigree, however, it took very little time in the man's presence to be thoroughly disabused of the notion that he was soft. "Look Mr. Jesse, I realize that the Government is concerned about the delays with the railroad. But I have an obligation to protect the people of this town and the last thing we need right now is a pair of Government Agents poking around in Cheyenne Territory and provoking them into further hostility!"
"Assuming that the Cheyenne are responsible..."
"The bodies come back with Cheyenne arrows in them. I have been dealing firsthand with Katar Johnson and his lot for years, which is more than I can say for the Government, and while I sympathize with the plight of his people, believe me there is absolutely nothing the man isn't capable of if he gets it into his head that it will buy them some kind of advantage!"
"Even murder?"
"Even that Mr. Jesse. Look you seem that you've got your head on fairly straight for a Government boy. Suppose I have my men escourt you and your partner to the end of the track, then you can make your assessment, go back to Washington and write your report there. Leave the people most directly concerned with the incident to deal with it. Sound fair? And where is your partner anyway?"
"As to the first half of your question it doesn't seem like I have much of a choice. And as to the second...I'm sure Hartley's around here...somewhere." Queen's eyes narrowed.
"Hartley? Hartley Rathaway? As in Senator Osgood Rathaway's boy?" There was a tone to the way he said the name that the Trickster didn't care for. Not one bit. He could feel his own eyes mirroring Queen's expression.
"Is that a prob..."
"James? It is you! My dear boy how delightful to see you again. What in God's name brings you to this miserable backwater? Ah...Afternoon, Mayor Queen." James Jesse goggled at the immaculately dressed interloper.
"Craddock. You two know each other?" If he'd thought Mayor Queen had tone before his voice was submerged in it now.
"Goodness yes, James and I have known each other for ages."
"Lovely. I have a crisis on my hands and what does the Government send me? Someone who openly consorts with criminals. Track starts at the edge of town Jesse. Take your look see and then get out of it." Oliver Queen stormed off down the street muttering under his breath.
“Oh dear. I do hope I haven’t inconvenienced you dear boy.” The monocle wasn’t nearly as effective as glasses would have been, there was a hint of something altogether too pleased to Craddock’s expression to sit well with him. The Trickster chose not to call the other man to account for it…yet.
“Not that I’m aware of. What on earth is a man like you doing in a town like this? Doesn’t seem in keeping with the habits of the Gentleman Jim Craddock I remember.” This time the hint was anger.
“Yes well…things became rather…complicated for me amongst the upper echelons since last we met. In order to avoid any…unpleasantness I’ve had to make adjustments. But I assure you, I will reclaim the style of life to which I was accustomed.”
“Certainly wish you the best of luck.” And he’d certainly be mighty interested in what exactly ‘complicated’ entailed.
“Thank you dear boy. You simply must make time to have a drink with me before you vacate this sorry little town for civilization. For old times sake.”
“I’ll do that.” A tip of his hat and the Trickster was on his way to the edge of town.
The workers are milling around the handcarts, but there isn’t a man among them willing to risk going to the end of the track…not with the promise of five men dying for each day the ransom remains unpaid hanging over their heads. James’ two escourts pushed their way impatiently through the crowd to prep the cart.
“Dinnae tell me ye mean ta go tae the end o’ the tracks!” The man’s clothes are faded, his hair graying at the temples.
“Any particular reason I shouldn’t Old Timer?” James produced a flask from his hip pocket, took a sip and then offered it to the other man.
“Why none a ‘tall…if ye fancy dyin’.” Nobody was paying any attention to either of them. “As it happens I don’t particularly fancy the idea of you waltzing into hostile territory alone,” Piper added in an undertone as he passed the flask back to James.
“You don’t mean to tell me you think the Cheyenne…”
“No. But being blamed hasn’t done much for their tolerance of strangers in their territory…especially pale complexioned ones.”
“Can’t be helped. Someone needs to keep an eye on things here, and since I ran into my ‘old pal’ Jim Craddock in town I haven’t exactly endeared myself to Mayor Queen.” James could see in the other man’s eyes that he’d won…but it was just as plain that Hartley didn’t like it.
“Just you be careful.”
“You too Hart. His Mayorlyness, unfortunately, is clearly familiar with your father. He developed a tone when your name came up…and didn’t stick around long enough to give me a clear idea of whether it’s because he thinks you are a chip off the old block and disapproves or thinks you should be and disapproves.”
“Wonderful. I’d best play it safe…and stupid.” The men on the handcart gestured impatiently at James.
“Be back before you have time to miss me.” The Trickster flashed his trademark grin. Hartley Rathaway watched the handcart until it moved out of sight down the track.
“Just come back in one piece James,” the Piper whispered before heading briskly into town.
There’s a certain advantage to being grossly underestimated. And it’s simple enough to fall into the role of being his father’s son, all he has to do is suppress everything that he is and believes in, and replace it with it’s polar opposite. The accent comes back on its own the moment he stops consciously suppressing it. The first regiment he’d ever worked with during the war had been only too pleased to show him precisely the sort of hospitality a man with even a hint of southern drawl could look forward to.
“Well he certainly didn’t mention this little…sightseeing tour to me.” Oliver Queen looked exasperated. Hartley hated to push the man considering how much he already has on his mind…but he’d be more effective unsupervised and the only way to achieve that with a man like Queen is to convince him that he’s not worth watching.
“I thought you two always worked together on your cases.”
“Oh we do always work together. Separately.” Condescending.
“Look son, I don’t have time to play courier between you and Jesse.”
“I am not your son.” Frost coated disdain that would have made Osgood proud. “And I certainly do not require your help to do my job. I’ll simply have to amuse myself on the train until James decides to grace it with his presence and an explanation for this boorish behaviour. Good. Day.” Storm off in a huff and head right for the nearest saloon to review the local gossip.
“Well howdy stranger!” Men like the ones in this saloon are only friendly to men dressed the way he’s dressed for two reasons. Either they’re genuinely kind people or…”Care to pass the time with a friendly game of pool?” Because they think they can take advantage. Time to see what he can stir up.
“Pool? While I’ll agree it takes judgment and skill to score in a balk line game, sir, anyone can shove a ball in a pocket. Pool. Ha!”
“You play Billiards? My dear boy you are a Godsend.” Hartley caught himself before he could start too visibly. But while he was by no means an easy person to sneak up on…the immaculately attired man who has appeared at his elbow made about as much noise as a ghost.
“It’s always been my understanding that all gentlemen, if they have any breeding worthy of note, play Billiards.”
“Too true. But unfortunately for myself one doesn’t often encounter gentlemen of breeding in this…rustic local. Jim Craddock, honoured to make your acquaintance.” So…this was the man whose company had set James at odds with the Mayor.
“Hartley Rathaway. Delighted to make yours.”
At the end of the track there’s a tree bearing…strange fruit. Four bodies sway gently, terribly in the breeze. The men on either side of James avert their eyes, one muttering a prayer under his breath. The habitual smile falls away from his face to reveal something dangerous beneath, the Trickster is cold when he’s angry. Whoever is responsible for this is going to pay. “Cut them down. Now,” he ordered sharply. The men had barely begun to apply knife to rope when a flight of arrows burried themselves in the tree, the hanging bodies and the handcart beyond. James snarled a curse under his breath as he dove for cover. Unfortunately there wasn’t much cover to be had. Five men on horseback dressed in the manner of the Cheyenne were coming directly at them. He managed to knock the two front runners off their horses. And then something odd happened. Instead of charging again, the remaining men grabbed the bodies of their fallen comrades and turned tail. His escourt was running for the handcart, but the Trickster had no intention of letting the murderers off so lightly. A brief sprint and he swung himself up into the saddle of one of the now riderless horses and took off in hot pursuit. The chase didn’t last long. All four riders suddenly found themselves surrounded by what appeared to be the rest of the Cheyenne Nation. And before James could do a thing to stop it, the three braves he’d been pursing were turned into pincushions. An imposingly built man in an elaborate headdress and pair of wings that made him look like nothing so much as a hunting hawk urged his own horse forward even as the men who followed restrung their bows and shifted the aim in James' direction. He’d never be able to dodge them all.
“I am Katar Johnson. Shaman of these people. Who. Are. You?”
“James Jesses. Government Agent.” He’s careful to keep both his hands as far from his gunbelt as possible even after he’d slowly tipped his hat in the other man’s direction.
“You are the one they call the Trickster. Is that not so?”
“Not rightly sure whom you mean by ‘they’ but I’ve been known to go by that. Yes.”
“And you’re here about the railroad.” It was a statement and not a question. James answered it regardless.
“No. I’m here about the murders of the men building the railroad.”
“And you think the Cheyenne are responsible for these murders.”
“No. I’ve been told that the Cheyenne are responsible for these murders. My job is to discover whether there’s any truth to that rumour and see to it the guilty parties get their just desserts.”
“And what, precisely, would be the just desserts for such men?”
“A dance. Of the variety a man does best with a rope wrapped around his neck.”
“In that case…” the man leaned down in the saddle and ripped the…wig, off one of the bodies, “May I offer you a cheap scalp?” The bodies on the ground were not Cheyenne.
“Might have been useful to have a talk with the gentlemen before you dispatched them.”
“You will help us prove the innocence of the Cheyenne in this matter!”
“Course.” The ease of his answer stamped an odd look on Johnson’s face. The man seemed almost…embarrassed.
“You shame me James Jesse. My people did not believe that a person such as yourself would aid us willingly. That have demanded…that you be tortured so that we will be able to trust your word.” It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep the smile in place. The first thing he was going to do when he got back to Washington was demand a salary increase.
“Brilliant.” The Hawk Shaman made a sharp gesture and the circle parted to reveal a slim woman with startlingly red hair and sporting a similar headdress. “You must be the tribal torturer. Angel of Death is it?” The Trickster inquired in his oiliest tones.
“It’s Shayera. Now move.”
“Can’t blame a fella for trying to be friendly,” the Trickster returned as he slowly dismounted, allowed his weapons to be confiscated and his hands bound tightly behind him, before he fell into step in front of the mace wielding tribeswoman.
“Don’t be so sure.” She gestured curtly at the nearest lean to and James obligingly nudged the flap open with his shoulder and slipped inside.
“Do your people allow the condemned man a last request?”
“If the condemned's last request is a kiss than the answer is no.”
"Shucks. But no that wasn’t actually the first thing that sprang to mind.”
“What then?”
“If we could avoid serious maiming of the facial features I'd appreciate it."
"Afraid it will impede your efforts to charm women?" He does not react the way she’d anticipated. For the first time since the conversation had begun, James Jesse appeared to actually be serious.
"Well...that too. Fact of the matter is that my partner is the emotional sort. And he's got a bit of a complex. To the tune of 'I wasn't there to watch your back...this is all my fault.' I'd like to avoid providing fuel for that particular fire if I could." He means it. No ulterior motive, no bide for sympathy hidden behind the altruistic sounding words…just genuine, honest concern. Which completely ruined any possibility of the usual satisfaction from torturing the man. “There was one other thing…”
“Which was?” She could feel an ache building up behind her temples.
“This wouldn’t be one of those big, elaborate, ritual tortures where the entire band lurks outside in anticipation of hearing me break would it? Because I’m not really the screaming, crying and begging type. Too spiteful, you see? Not sure I’d be able to fake it convincingly.” Shayera resisted the temptation to bash the mace against her own forehead. Barely.
Hartley Rathaway cast an unusually longing filled look at the drink resting at his elbow before lining up and then deliberately missing another shot. It was a standard strategy, self-important people tended to be more careless of their conversation topics when they believed themselves to hold the advantage, any advantage would do. What he hadn’t reckoned on was Gentleman Jim Craddock being more fond of the sound of his own voice than any felon he’d ever encountered. That Craddock’s political views were directly in line with the sort that would have normally had him cheerfully belting the other man in the mouth, consequences be damned, wasn’t helping.
“I empathize with the Mayor, truly I do. The Government ought to have dealt with those ignorant savages long before now. The continued leniency only encourages them to attempt to push for farther advantages.”
“I was under the impression that the Cheyenne, Johnson is particular, were simply trying to preserve their traditional way of life.” Limiting his expression to the careless, relaxed lines of a spoiled socialite whose greatest concern was winning this Billiards match was becoming increasingly difficult.
“That, dear boy, is precisely what those savages would like cultured and well placed individuals such as yourself to believe. It provides them with a sympathetic ear that, coincidentally, has the ear of the Government. And as for the Hawk Shaman, I can personally assure you that man finds nothing more pleasurable than inflicting wreck and ruin on others. Particularly those individuals who are his social and intellectual superiors.” There it was. A man like Jim Craddock would never have set up shop in a place like Star City willingly, he considered it beneath him…settling a personal score on the other hand…The red flighted arrow buried itself directly in the middle of the table.
“Pardon the interruption gentleman. Mayor’d like to see Mister Rathaway. Now.”
“There are times when I absolutely despair of the younger generations. My door has a bell Harper, the theatrics were unnecessary.”
“Bell didn’t seem to be workin’ Craddock. And it’s important.”
“I’m afraid we’ll have to finish the game some other time sir. Duty calls.”
Oliver Queen was becoming increasing sure that he’d been duped. The moment the ill fated escourt he’d sent down the tracks with James Jesse managed to stop stuttering and spit out exactly what had occurred before their cowardice had led them to fleeing the area, the bored, haughty Southern Senator’s son had abruptly transformed into an efficient, determined and downright furious Secret Service Agent.
“Perhaps you do things differently here than we do in Washington sir, but generally an escourt consists of individuals who are actually capable of protecting the person they are intended to be ecourting. Now, where exactly did this little fracas take place?” He’d be mighty interested in knowing how exactly the young man managed to make his spectacles do that. The unearthly green glow seemed to have put the fear of God into both the men he was interrogating, in spite of the fact that they dwarfed him in weight and height.
“Already told you, end of the tracks…”
“What you haven’t told me is precisely which direction my partner was headed at the time you were engaged in running away.” The man coloured and his eyes dropped to the floorboards.
“Headin’ east, into Cheyenne Territory proper.”
“Much obliged.” Hartley Rathaway was out the door and halfway into his saddle before the Mayor of Star City realized the full implications of that particular piece of information.
“Hold your horses son! There is no way that I’m letting you go tromping off into Cheyenne Territory with things standing…”
“Are you willing to shoot me?”
“What?” There’s not a trace of the man he’s had the extreme displeasure of making one of his all too frequent acquaintances in the Washington political circles in the boy’s face now. Osgood Rathaway wasn’t capable of that level of resolve. Not on someone else’s behalf. The boy does remind him of someone though…
“Are. You. Willing. To Shoot Me? Because I can guarantee that’s the only way you or anyone else in this town is going to prevent me from doing everything in my power to ensure my partner’s continued existence and well being.” Hal. He reminds him of Hal. Specifically, the way Hal used to get whenever Barry was in trouble. Which meant that a man would have an easier time persuading the sun not to rise in the morning than talking Rathaway out of going after his partner.
“Alright son…you win. But I’m going with you.” The appraising look is the longest he’s ever been subjected to in his life. Oliver Queen didn’t flinch. The smile it earned him was the most genuine expression he’s seen on the boy’s face since they’d been introduced.
“Suit yourself sir.”
“No sooner have I finished dealing with the latest moronic lackey that’s been posted on guard duty than I hear an almighty, wake the dead racket coming from the floor below me. “
“And?”
“And I think to myself ‘James…that bloody Eastern tenderfoot partner of yours has landed himself in a heap of trouble and you’d best go save him directly.’ I charge pell-mell down the stairs, kick open the door…and find Piper lounging, cool as a cucumber, on the kitchen counter with at least seven unconscious gunsels sprawled out around him. And while I’m standing there with my jaw hanging halfway to the floor he just smiles and shrugs, completely nonchalant, and proceeds to inform me ‘I cheated…I used force.’ Anyone ever told you that you have an enchanting laugh?” The Hawkwoman paused a moment to wipe away the tears streaming down her face.
“You’d be the first. There…hasn’t been much to laugh about for my people of late.”
“I’m sorry Shayera.”
“Don’t be.” The faint rustle at the entrance way had them both shifting from a relaxed sprawl to fighting stance, only to discover…
“Piper?”
“James.” From the expression on his partner’s face it was clear that he hadn’t yet decided whether to be amused or annoyed. “Terribly sorry to interrupt...but the Shaman seemed to be under the impression that you were recovering in here. From being tortured.”
“So you’re the partner I’ve been hearing so much about.”
“Always believed it’s a mistake to believe what hasn’t been heard from the horse’s mouth myself.”
“He claimed you would be upset if I damaged his face.” The Hawkwoman ran her fingers down the length of his lapel, and skewed his collar just enough for the highest of the bite marks to be plainly visible.
“Ah. That is true. Government didn’t provide much else for a body to look at during those long rail trips.” It seemed that Piper had decided to be amused…for the moment. James didn’t doubt for an instant he would be catching Hell for the almost scare the next time they were alone.
“Not intending to sound as if I’m not pleased to see you Hart, almost always am, but I was under the impression you were keeping an eye on things in town.”
“And so I was James m’boy, until your escourt came back without you and unable to clarify whether you were still amongst the living.” The tone was amiable enough, but coupled with the Over-the-Glasses Glare … assuredly going to be catching Hell.
“Ah.”
“Besides which, turned out to be not much useful information available for gathering in town, other than the fact that, whatever the angle is, Gentleman Jim Craddock is into it up to his neck. But I suspect you’d already figured that out for yourself.”
“Craddock? That’s not possible! We watched him hang!!!” James Jesse and Hartley Rathaway both turned to stare at the distraught tribeswoman, just as the first wisps of pinkish smoke began to filter under the hide door of the lean to. Two Secret Service Agents and one Cheyenne Tribal Torturer collapsed to the ground in an unconscious heap a moment later.
When Special Secret Service Agent James Jesse came to, his attention was immediately split between two separate sensory experiences. The first was an awareness that his clothing is hanging lighter in places that it shouldn’t be…which meant that the majority, if not all, of his more useful tricks had been removed. The second was the sound of a familiar voice…with an unfamiliar accent.
“Do you have any idea who my father is? I demand that you release me this instant!” James managed to force his eyes open just in time to start seeing red as his partner swung a punch that he was obviously telegraphing and got his ears boxed. Piper landed in a heap at the feet of a particularly unsavory looking thug. James didn’t give the man an opportunity to land a second swing. The men holding his arms pinioned were unprepared for the sudden surge. In the time it took them to blink, the Trickster had the rope tying his hands together wrapped around the man’s throat from behind.
"Didn't your mother ever tell you? It is extremely bad manners to hit a man with glasses!" James snarled into the larger man’s ear as he tightened the noose. The familiar, sharp sound of pistols cocking did nothing to deter him. It wasn’t until Craddock brought the end of a cane into a collision course with the side of his head that his grip slackened enough for his original minders to pry him off their companion. When the stars faded from his vision, Craddock was staring at him with disgust.
“You have changed. Attachment is a weakness, dear boy, and weaknesses are meant to be exploited. I’d have thought you, of all people, would know that. How very disappointing.” The Trickster grinned.
“You’re the one I feel sorry for Craddock. Your inability to care about anything beyond yourself is what kept you from joining the Rogues as opposed to occasionally running with them. One day you’re going to discover you’ve put your head in a noose that manages to do the job properly. And there won’t be a solitary soul who cares to mourn or remember you.” The hit goes home. For a moment, all the polish and pretense of high society gentility went out of Craddock’s expression to reveal the base, animal rage lurking underneath. James Jesse tried to brace himself, but this time the cane knocked the breath out of his lungs before delivering a vicious follow up blow to the head that sent him falling back into the black of unconsciousness.
When James Jesse came to for the second time, it was to an awareness that the majority of his weight was being taken by the person tied back to back with him. Shifting to try and alleviate the additional pressure supporting his weight must have been causing proved to be a mistake. Nausea threatened and James found himself unable to completely bite back his groan of discomfort.
“Welcome back James m’boy. How’s the head?” Piper’s voice was pitched low but the concern in it is, as usual, blatantly obvious.
“’s been better. And since when are you from Georgia?”
“Born, bred and raised there, as it happens,” his partner replied, this time without a trace of the accent.
“And you fought for the Union?”
“That would be the last of the five major reasons that my father and I no longer speak. Anything else I can clarify for you?”
“There was one other thing as it happened. Does reverting to that accent by any chance also regress your fighting skills back to what they’d have been if you’d done your father proud instead of your conscience? Honestly Hartley you know damn well that your jaw’s made of glass, what in blazes were you trying to accomplish with that stunt?” He could hear a smirk that smacked of his influence in Piper’s reply.
“Merely looking after the well being of my fellow man James m’boy. The gentlemen was engaging in the highly unsafe practice of storing an unsheathed knife in his boot. I removed it for him.” The Trickster cut his chuckle short due to the pain in his head as he felt the familiar, rhythmic motion of a knife sawing through his bonds.
“You, Mr. Rathaway, are in very real danger of becoming a first class manipulative bastard. I approve.”
“High praise indeed coming from you.”
“Stop, you’re making me blush.” The last of the knots gave way and James Jesse slowly brought his arms around in front of him and began to massage his wrists in an effort to restore the circulation. “Where’d everyone else get to?”
“Craddock and his boys dragged the Hawks and the Mayor over that next rise there. From what I overheard I gather he’s going to have them all killed and then go riding back into town and tell the people of Star City their Mayor was murdered by the Cheyenne while attempting to negotiate for the safety of the railway workers.”
“Which’ll leave the Government no choice but to send in the Army.” Once he could feel his fingers again, the Trickster cautiously leaned down to start working on the ropes around his ankles.
“Meaning that anyone with ties to the business of producing munitions would stand to make a considerable profit.”
“I smell a ra..rotten pole cat…” Having noted the way his partner’s back stiffened against his own, James Jesse rapidly substituted one normally undesirable animal for another. “And his name’s Lex Luthor.” The Trickster slowly pushed himself to his feet. For a moment the dizziness threatened to overwhelm him, but a series of deep breaths and the added support of his partners arms wrapping around his waist kept him vertical.
“Maybe you ought to sit this one out.” Raising his head far enough off of Piper’s shoulder to glare at him took an effort but he managed it. “It was only a suggestion.” The exact same suggestion he’d be making if their positions were reversed…but he’d be damned if he was going to admit that at this particular moment.
“No, it was a stupid suggestion. What we need is a plan…what’re our obstacles?” He slowly eased himself out of the grip his partner had on his waist. His legs seem to have decided to cooperate for the moment.
“Our gear’s been confiscated, they’ve got hostages and we’re outnumbered.”
“And our assets?”
“One borrowed medium sharp knife…and the fact we’re both too pretty to die.” He extended the blade toward James handle first. “You see if you can get the hostages loose, I’ll distract Craddock and his men.”
“Don’t much fancy the idea of you waltzing in there unarmed Hart.”
“Don’t reckon you have any choice James m’boy. Craddock knows you, which means it’s more than likely he also knows what an incredibly bad idea it is to underestimate you, even with a head injury. However, he still thinks I’m a soft, simpleton of a Southern Senator’s son.” Blue met blue and James knew he’d lost.
“You be careful.” James Jesse had always made a point of only offering to shake hands when he meant it. If he were to total up all of the individuals hands he’d shaken in his entire life…it still wouldn’t equal the number of times he’d shaken hands with Hartley.
“Always am James m’boy.”
“You know gentlemen, I’m actually deeply indebted to both of you. Oh you can scoff, Mayor Queen, but it’s true. You see, my associate, who by his own request shall remain anonymous, was very keen on the notion of taking advantage to the pre-existing hostilities between the Government and your bunch of savages Hawkman. The difficulty was, of course, choosing a spark point where neither of the duped parties, townspeople or Cheyenne, would be willing to consult or share information with the other. And thanks to the personal enmity between you gentlemen, Star City has served us marvelously.” It wasn’t very often that Gentleman Jim Craddock was treated to such an attentive audience. True the individuals in question were only silent because of their substantial gags and only still because they were bound hand, foot and wing, but that was no reason not to take advantage and savour the opportunity.
“Lord above Craddock I know you said you intended to kill them but I had no idea you were going to accomplish it by boring them to death. And incidentally is this yours?” Gentleman Jim Craddock had only a moment to gawk at inconceivably unbound Senatorial spawn brandishing his cane before the first bolt of magenta hued energy sent both he and his men diving for cover. Cover, they were to discover, was in short supply as two melee weapon wielding Hawks, one ranged weapon wielding Political Official and a yo-yo wielding Secret Service Agent joined the fray. Gentleman Jim Craddock and his men never stood a chance.
“A grass whistle?” Two melee weapon carrying Hawks and one ranged weapon carrying Political Official watched with interest as Special Secret Service Agents James T. Jesse and Hartley Rathaway debriefed some of the finer points of their strategy.
“Worked didn’t it?” A hint of exasperation had begun to work its way into Rathaway’s previously bemused tone.
“You wagered your life on the chance you’d be able to pull off a ‘Don’t Notice Me’ tune on a grass whistle?” The man who called himself the Trickster had stopped smiling altogether.
“I just know that you are not about to lecture me for having been forced to improvise.” Two pairs of blue eyes locked and held.
“Out of sheer curiosity, anyone ever tell you two boys that you quarrel like an old married couple?” James Jesse and Hartley Rathaway simultaneously broke away from their staring match to gawk at the Mayor.
“I fail to recall either of the gentlemen requesting your opinion Oliver.”
“Sometimes a man has a duty to step in before things have a chance to get ugly Katar, requested or not.”
“Ah yes, typical White Man’s logic, if you do not understand the manner in which things are done, than clearly the other party is not doing them correctly.”
“Don’t presume to put words in my mouth Medicine Man.” Oliver Queen jabbed a finger into the tribal insignia at the centre of the Hawk Shaman’s chest.
“Sometime a man has a duty to step in, requested or not.” Katar Johnson smirked.
“Listen Hawkman…”
“Oh darlin’ say you forgive me! Ah simply couldn’t bear it if we were tah end up forever parted and barely speakin’ like these two poor gentahlemen.” James Jesse, his trademark grin recovered, was down on one knee, his partner’s hand clasped firmly between his own.
“Don’t you fret none sugar plum, you know I could never stay vexed with you.” Hartley Rathaway, Georgian accent once more bleeding through, hauled his partner to his feet and flung a chummy arm around his shoulder as both Agents turned to regard the two men still locked in a stare-down.
“Well? Aren’t you two going to follow the example these two fine young gentlemen have just set?” Shayera thumped the end of her mace into the palm of her hand. Oliver Queen looked down at the mace and then back up at the Hawk Shaman.
“Sorry Katar.” Katar Johnson opened his mouth, took a long look at Shayera…and thought better of it.
“My apologies Oliver.”
“Excellent. Now, shake hands.” The last two words were each accompanied by their own thump of the mace.
“Well, all’s well that ends well I suppose. Come along James, we’d best see about getting these villains properly incarcerated and informing our President that the Cheyenne are innocent.” Hartley Rathaway turned to suit actions to words, only to discover that his momentum was being impeded by the immobile form he still had his arm slung around.
“I meant it, you know. I hate it when we fight. It’s just…sometimes it seems like you don’t really give a damn about what happens to you as long as no one else gets hurt and I…you’re my partner Hart. That means something to me and when you do things like that it feels like maybe…it doesn’t mean as much to you.” Not the slightest hint of a smile anywhere in those cornflower blue eyes. Hartley Rathaway swallowed hard.
“It’s not that your opinion isn’t important to me James it’s just…well it’s not what I’m used to. Be patient with me?”
“Suppose I’ll have to be if I want to avoid giving you another complex,” the arm that wound around his shoulders and delivered a gentle squeeze undermined the deliberate lightness of the tone. Then the Trickster’s grin resurfaced, “I will bet you five dollars that before the train pulls out of Star City that those two are at each others throats. Again,” he jerked his head towards the Mayor and the Shaman.
“James m’boy…that is what is known as a suckers bet. And I make a point of never accepting suckers bets.”
Shoulder to shoulder James Jesse and Hartley Rathaway began to wend their way back to Star City.
Author: Ivybramble
Fandom: Justice Riders Elseworld
Rating: PG
Summary: There’s trouble in Star City. The new rail line is being delayed…by the cold blooded murder of the men labouring to build it, five each day. When the blame falls on the neighbouring Cheyenne, Special Secret Service Agents James T. Jesse and Hartley Rathaway are dispatched to investigate. Their assignment is to get the railroad back on schedule…and avoid losing their scalps in the process.
Author's Additional Summary: The one that took far too damn long to finish...
Disclaimer: I own nothing and make no money.
Mayor Oliver Queen may have been born into High Society, with access to all of the luxuries and vices associated with the pedigree, however, it took very little time in the man's presence to be thoroughly disabused of the notion that he was soft. "Look Mr. Jesse, I realize that the Government is concerned about the delays with the railroad. But I have an obligation to protect the people of this town and the last thing we need right now is a pair of Government Agents poking around in Cheyenne Territory and provoking them into further hostility!"
"Assuming that the Cheyenne are responsible..."
"The bodies come back with Cheyenne arrows in them. I have been dealing firsthand with Katar Johnson and his lot for years, which is more than I can say for the Government, and while I sympathize with the plight of his people, believe me there is absolutely nothing the man isn't capable of if he gets it into his head that it will buy them some kind of advantage!"
"Even murder?"
"Even that Mr. Jesse. Look you seem that you've got your head on fairly straight for a Government boy. Suppose I have my men escourt you and your partner to the end of the track, then you can make your assessment, go back to Washington and write your report there. Leave the people most directly concerned with the incident to deal with it. Sound fair? And where is your partner anyway?"
"As to the first half of your question it doesn't seem like I have much of a choice. And as to the second...I'm sure Hartley's around here...somewhere." Queen's eyes narrowed.
"Hartley? Hartley Rathaway? As in Senator Osgood Rathaway's boy?" There was a tone to the way he said the name that the Trickster didn't care for. Not one bit. He could feel his own eyes mirroring Queen's expression.
"Is that a prob..."
"James? It is you! My dear boy how delightful to see you again. What in God's name brings you to this miserable backwater? Ah...Afternoon, Mayor Queen." James Jesse goggled at the immaculately dressed interloper.
"Craddock. You two know each other?" If he'd thought Mayor Queen had tone before his voice was submerged in it now.
"Goodness yes, James and I have known each other for ages."
"Lovely. I have a crisis on my hands and what does the Government send me? Someone who openly consorts with criminals. Track starts at the edge of town Jesse. Take your look see and then get out of it." Oliver Queen stormed off down the street muttering under his breath.
“Oh dear. I do hope I haven’t inconvenienced you dear boy.” The monocle wasn’t nearly as effective as glasses would have been, there was a hint of something altogether too pleased to Craddock’s expression to sit well with him. The Trickster chose not to call the other man to account for it…yet.
“Not that I’m aware of. What on earth is a man like you doing in a town like this? Doesn’t seem in keeping with the habits of the Gentleman Jim Craddock I remember.” This time the hint was anger.
“Yes well…things became rather…complicated for me amongst the upper echelons since last we met. In order to avoid any…unpleasantness I’ve had to make adjustments. But I assure you, I will reclaim the style of life to which I was accustomed.”
“Certainly wish you the best of luck.” And he’d certainly be mighty interested in what exactly ‘complicated’ entailed.
“Thank you dear boy. You simply must make time to have a drink with me before you vacate this sorry little town for civilization. For old times sake.”
“I’ll do that.” A tip of his hat and the Trickster was on his way to the edge of town.
The workers are milling around the handcarts, but there isn’t a man among them willing to risk going to the end of the track…not with the promise of five men dying for each day the ransom remains unpaid hanging over their heads. James’ two escourts pushed their way impatiently through the crowd to prep the cart.
“Dinnae tell me ye mean ta go tae the end o’ the tracks!” The man’s clothes are faded, his hair graying at the temples.
“Any particular reason I shouldn’t Old Timer?” James produced a flask from his hip pocket, took a sip and then offered it to the other man.
“Why none a ‘tall…if ye fancy dyin’.” Nobody was paying any attention to either of them. “As it happens I don’t particularly fancy the idea of you waltzing into hostile territory alone,” Piper added in an undertone as he passed the flask back to James.
“You don’t mean to tell me you think the Cheyenne…”
“No. But being blamed hasn’t done much for their tolerance of strangers in their territory…especially pale complexioned ones.”
“Can’t be helped. Someone needs to keep an eye on things here, and since I ran into my ‘old pal’ Jim Craddock in town I haven’t exactly endeared myself to Mayor Queen.” James could see in the other man’s eyes that he’d won…but it was just as plain that Hartley didn’t like it.
“Just you be careful.”
“You too Hart. His Mayorlyness, unfortunately, is clearly familiar with your father. He developed a tone when your name came up…and didn’t stick around long enough to give me a clear idea of whether it’s because he thinks you are a chip off the old block and disapproves or thinks you should be and disapproves.”
“Wonderful. I’d best play it safe…and stupid.” The men on the handcart gestured impatiently at James.
“Be back before you have time to miss me.” The Trickster flashed his trademark grin. Hartley Rathaway watched the handcart until it moved out of sight down the track.
“Just come back in one piece James,” the Piper whispered before heading briskly into town.
There’s a certain advantage to being grossly underestimated. And it’s simple enough to fall into the role of being his father’s son, all he has to do is suppress everything that he is and believes in, and replace it with it’s polar opposite. The accent comes back on its own the moment he stops consciously suppressing it. The first regiment he’d ever worked with during the war had been only too pleased to show him precisely the sort of hospitality a man with even a hint of southern drawl could look forward to.
“Well he certainly didn’t mention this little…sightseeing tour to me.” Oliver Queen looked exasperated. Hartley hated to push the man considering how much he already has on his mind…but he’d be more effective unsupervised and the only way to achieve that with a man like Queen is to convince him that he’s not worth watching.
“I thought you two always worked together on your cases.”
“Oh we do always work together. Separately.” Condescending.
“Look son, I don’t have time to play courier between you and Jesse.”
“I am not your son.” Frost coated disdain that would have made Osgood proud. “And I certainly do not require your help to do my job. I’ll simply have to amuse myself on the train until James decides to grace it with his presence and an explanation for this boorish behaviour. Good. Day.” Storm off in a huff and head right for the nearest saloon to review the local gossip.
“Well howdy stranger!” Men like the ones in this saloon are only friendly to men dressed the way he’s dressed for two reasons. Either they’re genuinely kind people or…”Care to pass the time with a friendly game of pool?” Because they think they can take advantage. Time to see what he can stir up.
“Pool? While I’ll agree it takes judgment and skill to score in a balk line game, sir, anyone can shove a ball in a pocket. Pool. Ha!”
“You play Billiards? My dear boy you are a Godsend.” Hartley caught himself before he could start too visibly. But while he was by no means an easy person to sneak up on…the immaculately attired man who has appeared at his elbow made about as much noise as a ghost.
“It’s always been my understanding that all gentlemen, if they have any breeding worthy of note, play Billiards.”
“Too true. But unfortunately for myself one doesn’t often encounter gentlemen of breeding in this…rustic local. Jim Craddock, honoured to make your acquaintance.” So…this was the man whose company had set James at odds with the Mayor.
“Hartley Rathaway. Delighted to make yours.”
At the end of the track there’s a tree bearing…strange fruit. Four bodies sway gently, terribly in the breeze. The men on either side of James avert their eyes, one muttering a prayer under his breath. The habitual smile falls away from his face to reveal something dangerous beneath, the Trickster is cold when he’s angry. Whoever is responsible for this is going to pay. “Cut them down. Now,” he ordered sharply. The men had barely begun to apply knife to rope when a flight of arrows burried themselves in the tree, the hanging bodies and the handcart beyond. James snarled a curse under his breath as he dove for cover. Unfortunately there wasn’t much cover to be had. Five men on horseback dressed in the manner of the Cheyenne were coming directly at them. He managed to knock the two front runners off their horses. And then something odd happened. Instead of charging again, the remaining men grabbed the bodies of their fallen comrades and turned tail. His escourt was running for the handcart, but the Trickster had no intention of letting the murderers off so lightly. A brief sprint and he swung himself up into the saddle of one of the now riderless horses and took off in hot pursuit. The chase didn’t last long. All four riders suddenly found themselves surrounded by what appeared to be the rest of the Cheyenne Nation. And before James could do a thing to stop it, the three braves he’d been pursing were turned into pincushions. An imposingly built man in an elaborate headdress and pair of wings that made him look like nothing so much as a hunting hawk urged his own horse forward even as the men who followed restrung their bows and shifted the aim in James' direction. He’d never be able to dodge them all.
“I am Katar Johnson. Shaman of these people. Who. Are. You?”
“James Jesses. Government Agent.” He’s careful to keep both his hands as far from his gunbelt as possible even after he’d slowly tipped his hat in the other man’s direction.
“You are the one they call the Trickster. Is that not so?”
“Not rightly sure whom you mean by ‘they’ but I’ve been known to go by that. Yes.”
“And you’re here about the railroad.” It was a statement and not a question. James answered it regardless.
“No. I’m here about the murders of the men building the railroad.”
“And you think the Cheyenne are responsible for these murders.”
“No. I’ve been told that the Cheyenne are responsible for these murders. My job is to discover whether there’s any truth to that rumour and see to it the guilty parties get their just desserts.”
“And what, precisely, would be the just desserts for such men?”
“A dance. Of the variety a man does best with a rope wrapped around his neck.”
“In that case…” the man leaned down in the saddle and ripped the…wig, off one of the bodies, “May I offer you a cheap scalp?” The bodies on the ground were not Cheyenne.
“Might have been useful to have a talk with the gentlemen before you dispatched them.”
“You will help us prove the innocence of the Cheyenne in this matter!”
“Course.” The ease of his answer stamped an odd look on Johnson’s face. The man seemed almost…embarrassed.
“You shame me James Jesse. My people did not believe that a person such as yourself would aid us willingly. That have demanded…that you be tortured so that we will be able to trust your word.” It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep the smile in place. The first thing he was going to do when he got back to Washington was demand a salary increase.
“Brilliant.” The Hawk Shaman made a sharp gesture and the circle parted to reveal a slim woman with startlingly red hair and sporting a similar headdress. “You must be the tribal torturer. Angel of Death is it?” The Trickster inquired in his oiliest tones.
“It’s Shayera. Now move.”
“Can’t blame a fella for trying to be friendly,” the Trickster returned as he slowly dismounted, allowed his weapons to be confiscated and his hands bound tightly behind him, before he fell into step in front of the mace wielding tribeswoman.
“Don’t be so sure.” She gestured curtly at the nearest lean to and James obligingly nudged the flap open with his shoulder and slipped inside.
“Do your people allow the condemned man a last request?”
“If the condemned's last request is a kiss than the answer is no.”
"Shucks. But no that wasn’t actually the first thing that sprang to mind.”
“What then?”
“If we could avoid serious maiming of the facial features I'd appreciate it."
"Afraid it will impede your efforts to charm women?" He does not react the way she’d anticipated. For the first time since the conversation had begun, James Jesse appeared to actually be serious.
"Well...that too. Fact of the matter is that my partner is the emotional sort. And he's got a bit of a complex. To the tune of 'I wasn't there to watch your back...this is all my fault.' I'd like to avoid providing fuel for that particular fire if I could." He means it. No ulterior motive, no bide for sympathy hidden behind the altruistic sounding words…just genuine, honest concern. Which completely ruined any possibility of the usual satisfaction from torturing the man. “There was one other thing…”
“Which was?” She could feel an ache building up behind her temples.
“This wouldn’t be one of those big, elaborate, ritual tortures where the entire band lurks outside in anticipation of hearing me break would it? Because I’m not really the screaming, crying and begging type. Too spiteful, you see? Not sure I’d be able to fake it convincingly.” Shayera resisted the temptation to bash the mace against her own forehead. Barely.
Hartley Rathaway cast an unusually longing filled look at the drink resting at his elbow before lining up and then deliberately missing another shot. It was a standard strategy, self-important people tended to be more careless of their conversation topics when they believed themselves to hold the advantage, any advantage would do. What he hadn’t reckoned on was Gentleman Jim Craddock being more fond of the sound of his own voice than any felon he’d ever encountered. That Craddock’s political views were directly in line with the sort that would have normally had him cheerfully belting the other man in the mouth, consequences be damned, wasn’t helping.
“I empathize with the Mayor, truly I do. The Government ought to have dealt with those ignorant savages long before now. The continued leniency only encourages them to attempt to push for farther advantages.”
“I was under the impression that the Cheyenne, Johnson is particular, were simply trying to preserve their traditional way of life.” Limiting his expression to the careless, relaxed lines of a spoiled socialite whose greatest concern was winning this Billiards match was becoming increasingly difficult.
“That, dear boy, is precisely what those savages would like cultured and well placed individuals such as yourself to believe. It provides them with a sympathetic ear that, coincidentally, has the ear of the Government. And as for the Hawk Shaman, I can personally assure you that man finds nothing more pleasurable than inflicting wreck and ruin on others. Particularly those individuals who are his social and intellectual superiors.” There it was. A man like Jim Craddock would never have set up shop in a place like Star City willingly, he considered it beneath him…settling a personal score on the other hand…The red flighted arrow buried itself directly in the middle of the table.
“Pardon the interruption gentleman. Mayor’d like to see Mister Rathaway. Now.”
“There are times when I absolutely despair of the younger generations. My door has a bell Harper, the theatrics were unnecessary.”
“Bell didn’t seem to be workin’ Craddock. And it’s important.”
“I’m afraid we’ll have to finish the game some other time sir. Duty calls.”
Oliver Queen was becoming increasing sure that he’d been duped. The moment the ill fated escourt he’d sent down the tracks with James Jesse managed to stop stuttering and spit out exactly what had occurred before their cowardice had led them to fleeing the area, the bored, haughty Southern Senator’s son had abruptly transformed into an efficient, determined and downright furious Secret Service Agent.
“Perhaps you do things differently here than we do in Washington sir, but generally an escourt consists of individuals who are actually capable of protecting the person they are intended to be ecourting. Now, where exactly did this little fracas take place?” He’d be mighty interested in knowing how exactly the young man managed to make his spectacles do that. The unearthly green glow seemed to have put the fear of God into both the men he was interrogating, in spite of the fact that they dwarfed him in weight and height.
“Already told you, end of the tracks…”
“What you haven’t told me is precisely which direction my partner was headed at the time you were engaged in running away.” The man coloured and his eyes dropped to the floorboards.
“Headin’ east, into Cheyenne Territory proper.”
“Much obliged.” Hartley Rathaway was out the door and halfway into his saddle before the Mayor of Star City realized the full implications of that particular piece of information.
“Hold your horses son! There is no way that I’m letting you go tromping off into Cheyenne Territory with things standing…”
“Are you willing to shoot me?”
“What?” There’s not a trace of the man he’s had the extreme displeasure of making one of his all too frequent acquaintances in the Washington political circles in the boy’s face now. Osgood Rathaway wasn’t capable of that level of resolve. Not on someone else’s behalf. The boy does remind him of someone though…
“Are. You. Willing. To Shoot Me? Because I can guarantee that’s the only way you or anyone else in this town is going to prevent me from doing everything in my power to ensure my partner’s continued existence and well being.” Hal. He reminds him of Hal. Specifically, the way Hal used to get whenever Barry was in trouble. Which meant that a man would have an easier time persuading the sun not to rise in the morning than talking Rathaway out of going after his partner.
“Alright son…you win. But I’m going with you.” The appraising look is the longest he’s ever been subjected to in his life. Oliver Queen didn’t flinch. The smile it earned him was the most genuine expression he’s seen on the boy’s face since they’d been introduced.
“Suit yourself sir.”
“No sooner have I finished dealing with the latest moronic lackey that’s been posted on guard duty than I hear an almighty, wake the dead racket coming from the floor below me. “
“And?”
“And I think to myself ‘James…that bloody Eastern tenderfoot partner of yours has landed himself in a heap of trouble and you’d best go save him directly.’ I charge pell-mell down the stairs, kick open the door…and find Piper lounging, cool as a cucumber, on the kitchen counter with at least seven unconscious gunsels sprawled out around him. And while I’m standing there with my jaw hanging halfway to the floor he just smiles and shrugs, completely nonchalant, and proceeds to inform me ‘I cheated…I used force.’ Anyone ever told you that you have an enchanting laugh?” The Hawkwoman paused a moment to wipe away the tears streaming down her face.
“You’d be the first. There…hasn’t been much to laugh about for my people of late.”
“I’m sorry Shayera.”
“Don’t be.” The faint rustle at the entrance way had them both shifting from a relaxed sprawl to fighting stance, only to discover…
“Piper?”
“James.” From the expression on his partner’s face it was clear that he hadn’t yet decided whether to be amused or annoyed. “Terribly sorry to interrupt...but the Shaman seemed to be under the impression that you were recovering in here. From being tortured.”
“So you’re the partner I’ve been hearing so much about.”
“Always believed it’s a mistake to believe what hasn’t been heard from the horse’s mouth myself.”
“He claimed you would be upset if I damaged his face.” The Hawkwoman ran her fingers down the length of his lapel, and skewed his collar just enough for the highest of the bite marks to be plainly visible.
“Ah. That is true. Government didn’t provide much else for a body to look at during those long rail trips.” It seemed that Piper had decided to be amused…for the moment. James didn’t doubt for an instant he would be catching Hell for the almost scare the next time they were alone.
“Not intending to sound as if I’m not pleased to see you Hart, almost always am, but I was under the impression you were keeping an eye on things in town.”
“And so I was James m’boy, until your escourt came back without you and unable to clarify whether you were still amongst the living.” The tone was amiable enough, but coupled with the Over-the-Glasses Glare … assuredly going to be catching Hell.
“Ah.”
“Besides which, turned out to be not much useful information available for gathering in town, other than the fact that, whatever the angle is, Gentleman Jim Craddock is into it up to his neck. But I suspect you’d already figured that out for yourself.”
“Craddock? That’s not possible! We watched him hang!!!” James Jesse and Hartley Rathaway both turned to stare at the distraught tribeswoman, just as the first wisps of pinkish smoke began to filter under the hide door of the lean to. Two Secret Service Agents and one Cheyenne Tribal Torturer collapsed to the ground in an unconscious heap a moment later.
When Special Secret Service Agent James Jesse came to, his attention was immediately split between two separate sensory experiences. The first was an awareness that his clothing is hanging lighter in places that it shouldn’t be…which meant that the majority, if not all, of his more useful tricks had been removed. The second was the sound of a familiar voice…with an unfamiliar accent.
“Do you have any idea who my father is? I demand that you release me this instant!” James managed to force his eyes open just in time to start seeing red as his partner swung a punch that he was obviously telegraphing and got his ears boxed. Piper landed in a heap at the feet of a particularly unsavory looking thug. James didn’t give the man an opportunity to land a second swing. The men holding his arms pinioned were unprepared for the sudden surge. In the time it took them to blink, the Trickster had the rope tying his hands together wrapped around the man’s throat from behind.
"Didn't your mother ever tell you? It is extremely bad manners to hit a man with glasses!" James snarled into the larger man’s ear as he tightened the noose. The familiar, sharp sound of pistols cocking did nothing to deter him. It wasn’t until Craddock brought the end of a cane into a collision course with the side of his head that his grip slackened enough for his original minders to pry him off their companion. When the stars faded from his vision, Craddock was staring at him with disgust.
“You have changed. Attachment is a weakness, dear boy, and weaknesses are meant to be exploited. I’d have thought you, of all people, would know that. How very disappointing.” The Trickster grinned.
“You’re the one I feel sorry for Craddock. Your inability to care about anything beyond yourself is what kept you from joining the Rogues as opposed to occasionally running with them. One day you’re going to discover you’ve put your head in a noose that manages to do the job properly. And there won’t be a solitary soul who cares to mourn or remember you.” The hit goes home. For a moment, all the polish and pretense of high society gentility went out of Craddock’s expression to reveal the base, animal rage lurking underneath. James Jesse tried to brace himself, but this time the cane knocked the breath out of his lungs before delivering a vicious follow up blow to the head that sent him falling back into the black of unconsciousness.
When James Jesse came to for the second time, it was to an awareness that the majority of his weight was being taken by the person tied back to back with him. Shifting to try and alleviate the additional pressure supporting his weight must have been causing proved to be a mistake. Nausea threatened and James found himself unable to completely bite back his groan of discomfort.
“Welcome back James m’boy. How’s the head?” Piper’s voice was pitched low but the concern in it is, as usual, blatantly obvious.
“’s been better. And since when are you from Georgia?”
“Born, bred and raised there, as it happens,” his partner replied, this time without a trace of the accent.
“And you fought for the Union?”
“That would be the last of the five major reasons that my father and I no longer speak. Anything else I can clarify for you?”
“There was one other thing as it happened. Does reverting to that accent by any chance also regress your fighting skills back to what they’d have been if you’d done your father proud instead of your conscience? Honestly Hartley you know damn well that your jaw’s made of glass, what in blazes were you trying to accomplish with that stunt?” He could hear a smirk that smacked of his influence in Piper’s reply.
“Merely looking after the well being of my fellow man James m’boy. The gentlemen was engaging in the highly unsafe practice of storing an unsheathed knife in his boot. I removed it for him.” The Trickster cut his chuckle short due to the pain in his head as he felt the familiar, rhythmic motion of a knife sawing through his bonds.
“You, Mr. Rathaway, are in very real danger of becoming a first class manipulative bastard. I approve.”
“High praise indeed coming from you.”
“Stop, you’re making me blush.” The last of the knots gave way and James Jesse slowly brought his arms around in front of him and began to massage his wrists in an effort to restore the circulation. “Where’d everyone else get to?”
“Craddock and his boys dragged the Hawks and the Mayor over that next rise there. From what I overheard I gather he’s going to have them all killed and then go riding back into town and tell the people of Star City their Mayor was murdered by the Cheyenne while attempting to negotiate for the safety of the railway workers.”
“Which’ll leave the Government no choice but to send in the Army.” Once he could feel his fingers again, the Trickster cautiously leaned down to start working on the ropes around his ankles.
“Meaning that anyone with ties to the business of producing munitions would stand to make a considerable profit.”
“I smell a ra..rotten pole cat…” Having noted the way his partner’s back stiffened against his own, James Jesse rapidly substituted one normally undesirable animal for another. “And his name’s Lex Luthor.” The Trickster slowly pushed himself to his feet. For a moment the dizziness threatened to overwhelm him, but a series of deep breaths and the added support of his partners arms wrapping around his waist kept him vertical.
“Maybe you ought to sit this one out.” Raising his head far enough off of Piper’s shoulder to glare at him took an effort but he managed it. “It was only a suggestion.” The exact same suggestion he’d be making if their positions were reversed…but he’d be damned if he was going to admit that at this particular moment.
“No, it was a stupid suggestion. What we need is a plan…what’re our obstacles?” He slowly eased himself out of the grip his partner had on his waist. His legs seem to have decided to cooperate for the moment.
“Our gear’s been confiscated, they’ve got hostages and we’re outnumbered.”
“And our assets?”
“One borrowed medium sharp knife…and the fact we’re both too pretty to die.” He extended the blade toward James handle first. “You see if you can get the hostages loose, I’ll distract Craddock and his men.”
“Don’t much fancy the idea of you waltzing in there unarmed Hart.”
“Don’t reckon you have any choice James m’boy. Craddock knows you, which means it’s more than likely he also knows what an incredibly bad idea it is to underestimate you, even with a head injury. However, he still thinks I’m a soft, simpleton of a Southern Senator’s son.” Blue met blue and James knew he’d lost.
“You be careful.” James Jesse had always made a point of only offering to shake hands when he meant it. If he were to total up all of the individuals hands he’d shaken in his entire life…it still wouldn’t equal the number of times he’d shaken hands with Hartley.
“Always am James m’boy.”
“You know gentlemen, I’m actually deeply indebted to both of you. Oh you can scoff, Mayor Queen, but it’s true. You see, my associate, who by his own request shall remain anonymous, was very keen on the notion of taking advantage to the pre-existing hostilities between the Government and your bunch of savages Hawkman. The difficulty was, of course, choosing a spark point where neither of the duped parties, townspeople or Cheyenne, would be willing to consult or share information with the other. And thanks to the personal enmity between you gentlemen, Star City has served us marvelously.” It wasn’t very often that Gentleman Jim Craddock was treated to such an attentive audience. True the individuals in question were only silent because of their substantial gags and only still because they were bound hand, foot and wing, but that was no reason not to take advantage and savour the opportunity.
“Lord above Craddock I know you said you intended to kill them but I had no idea you were going to accomplish it by boring them to death. And incidentally is this yours?” Gentleman Jim Craddock had only a moment to gawk at inconceivably unbound Senatorial spawn brandishing his cane before the first bolt of magenta hued energy sent both he and his men diving for cover. Cover, they were to discover, was in short supply as two melee weapon wielding Hawks, one ranged weapon wielding Political Official and a yo-yo wielding Secret Service Agent joined the fray. Gentleman Jim Craddock and his men never stood a chance.
“A grass whistle?” Two melee weapon carrying Hawks and one ranged weapon carrying Political Official watched with interest as Special Secret Service Agents James T. Jesse and Hartley Rathaway debriefed some of the finer points of their strategy.
“Worked didn’t it?” A hint of exasperation had begun to work its way into Rathaway’s previously bemused tone.
“You wagered your life on the chance you’d be able to pull off a ‘Don’t Notice Me’ tune on a grass whistle?” The man who called himself the Trickster had stopped smiling altogether.
“I just know that you are not about to lecture me for having been forced to improvise.” Two pairs of blue eyes locked and held.
“Out of sheer curiosity, anyone ever tell you two boys that you quarrel like an old married couple?” James Jesse and Hartley Rathaway simultaneously broke away from their staring match to gawk at the Mayor.
“I fail to recall either of the gentlemen requesting your opinion Oliver.”
“Sometimes a man has a duty to step in before things have a chance to get ugly Katar, requested or not.”
“Ah yes, typical White Man’s logic, if you do not understand the manner in which things are done, than clearly the other party is not doing them correctly.”
“Don’t presume to put words in my mouth Medicine Man.” Oliver Queen jabbed a finger into the tribal insignia at the centre of the Hawk Shaman’s chest.
“Sometime a man has a duty to step in, requested or not.” Katar Johnson smirked.
“Listen Hawkman…”
“Oh darlin’ say you forgive me! Ah simply couldn’t bear it if we were tah end up forever parted and barely speakin’ like these two poor gentahlemen.” James Jesse, his trademark grin recovered, was down on one knee, his partner’s hand clasped firmly between his own.
“Don’t you fret none sugar plum, you know I could never stay vexed with you.” Hartley Rathaway, Georgian accent once more bleeding through, hauled his partner to his feet and flung a chummy arm around his shoulder as both Agents turned to regard the two men still locked in a stare-down.
“Well? Aren’t you two going to follow the example these two fine young gentlemen have just set?” Shayera thumped the end of her mace into the palm of her hand. Oliver Queen looked down at the mace and then back up at the Hawk Shaman.
“Sorry Katar.” Katar Johnson opened his mouth, took a long look at Shayera…and thought better of it.
“My apologies Oliver.”
“Excellent. Now, shake hands.” The last two words were each accompanied by their own thump of the mace.
“Well, all’s well that ends well I suppose. Come along James, we’d best see about getting these villains properly incarcerated and informing our President that the Cheyenne are innocent.” Hartley Rathaway turned to suit actions to words, only to discover that his momentum was being impeded by the immobile form he still had his arm slung around.
“I meant it, you know. I hate it when we fight. It’s just…sometimes it seems like you don’t really give a damn about what happens to you as long as no one else gets hurt and I…you’re my partner Hart. That means something to me and when you do things like that it feels like maybe…it doesn’t mean as much to you.” Not the slightest hint of a smile anywhere in those cornflower blue eyes. Hartley Rathaway swallowed hard.
“It’s not that your opinion isn’t important to me James it’s just…well it’s not what I’m used to. Be patient with me?”
“Suppose I’ll have to be if I want to avoid giving you another complex,” the arm that wound around his shoulders and delivered a gentle squeeze undermined the deliberate lightness of the tone. Then the Trickster’s grin resurfaced, “I will bet you five dollars that before the train pulls out of Star City that those two are at each others throats. Again,” he jerked his head towards the Mayor and the Shaman.
“James m’boy…that is what is known as a suckers bet. And I make a point of never accepting suckers bets.”
Shoulder to shoulder James Jesse and Hartley Rathaway began to wend their way back to Star City.