Mackiedockie's Retreat

Title: Tale of the Scorpion (3/9)

Authors: For LJ adabsolutely.livejournal.com (for LJ mirror posts, with different photos!)
Authors: For DW adabsolutely and mackiedockie
Characters/Pairings: Duncan MacLeod, Methos, Joe Dawson, El Alacrán, various OCs. D/M and other pairings.
Rating: Mostly M, with occasional spikes into R+ territory.

Warnings, greyed for light spoilers: This is Highlander--there are occasional acts of violence, not limited to Immortals, with blood, and some incidents occur quite suddenly. Those with insect-related phobias or other concerns, please take note of the title, check the Zero Post, or email either author. Both het and slash encounters occur in this story, but there is more action than 'action', if you want to drift over the slippery parts parts.

Authors' Notes: We owe huge thanks to many hardworking betas who contributed significantly to the construction of this story! More details reside in the Zero Post. All errors, mistakes and gaffs, however, lie on our own consciences. This is a work of transformative fiction, and no money is made in it's production or distribution. Note: one of the OCs is a crossover character from a relatively rare fandom. No, not the horse.





Tale of the Scorpion

Part 1
Part 2





Joe sighed, and ground his cane into the earth, steadying himself. He met Montoya's eyes squarely, and said with perfect honesty, "I am very sorry to hear that James...killed your son." Joe paused, hunting for words. Now was not the time to point out Immortals didn't have offspring. Family was family. "James became the very abomination that he feared. I admit he committed many crimes, against mortals and Immortals alike. But I did not know he brought his insanity here."

"Someone knew. Someone who sends spy after spy, all with the trefoil tattoo. Just like yours. And each one I catch tells me a little bit more. Like the names of James Horton's relatives and colleagues in the International Asset Corporation." Taut and erect, El Alacrán kept his anger tightly controlled. His chin rose in challenge, and the lanterns backlit his profile. His hooked, aristocratic nose rivaled Methos' in bony length and artistic hauteur. "Your name, for instance."

"Yes. Someone knew," Joe agreed, dismayed but not surprised. Someone did know ‒ someone who had sent him deliberately into the Scorpion's den. He met his gaze. "Is that why you sent the rider on the beach? To run me down and make it look like an accident?"

"Hah! Amateur. The smallest niño on the rancho, who has only five years, could outride that incompetent. I saw the embarrassment by camera phone. No. When I decide to kill you, there will be no innocent witnesses, and no inconvenient body on my own doorstep."

Joe believed him. "When you decide to kill me, I will try to remember to thank you for keeping it neat."

"I am a reasonable man. Perhaps you will convince me such incivility is unnecessary," Montoya shrugged. "Now, come. Food and music first, business later. My private stage has hosted musicians and masters from a hundred countries. Tonight, it will be your turn. I trust you will play as if your life depended upon it?" Montoya flashed a blinding smile.

"How can I refuse such a generous invitation from the Lion of Sonora?" Joe answered with a fierce grin of his own.

Montoya's smile flickered out. "The lion is dead. Only El Alacrán remains."

There was a thump behind Joe, and he turned to see his bag settled on the dusty cobblestone. He was more perturbed to see Methos' bag appear next to it. "Careful with my guitar," he reminded sternly, as he slipped his hand into his pocket and opened his cell phone, keying by feel the combination that would erase all the contact numbers in the memory chip. Methos. MacLeod. His niece and his daughter. A quick-witted guard heard the subtle chime as he deactivated the phone, and grabbed his arm.

"What, don't I get one phone call?" he asked mildly, offering up the phone to his host. He endured a hasty search patiently, and soon his wallet, passport and Swiss army knife joined the bags and computer.

"Who would you call, Señor Dawson?" Montoya asked curiously. "Your young friend who so bravely defended you from a charging horse? Or your company, to ask for more helicopters and automatic weapons?"

Joe shook his head. Horton and his helicopters. James never got past the tactics he used in Cambodia. "This is a private matter. If you figure I inherit Horton's sins, well, that's a matter of honor between the two of us. Leave my friend out of it."

"I will not tolerate spies. Your friend must leave himself out of it, as you say." Montoya reached down into a bag and pulled out a battered journal. Methos' journal. He paged through it curiously.

"He's an archivist," Joe said quickly. "A jumped-up librarian. We both collect books."

"I have quite a fine library. Perhaps, in time, I will convince him to share his knowledge."

"Adam has nothing to do with Horton," Joe insisted. "And Horton's dead. He's been dead for years."

"Yet the spies keep coming," Montoya stopped at a page, his eyes narrowing. Waving his hand imperiously, his full attention now on the book, he ordered the guards to move the baggage to the library. "Put the musician on the stage."

Joe was firmly escorted into the hacienda with a bit more care than the baggage, and placed on the center of a stage in a small, but acoustically superb auditorium. A short, fussy functionary asked him politely how he would like to be lit.

"Paris, by way of Chicago," Joe answered cryptically, but the man seemed pleased with the answer and happily experimented with some smoky blue filters and warm amber spots. Joe forgot the guards in the wings, and ignored the lights, and tuned his guitar carefully. He didn't ask anyone what kind of music El Alacrán preferred. If this was going to be his last concert, Joe was going to play whatever the hell he damn pleased.

*****
Montoya picked through the remains of Joe Dawson's belongings, and toyed with the pictures of three women he found in a secret compartment of his wallet, which now lay shredded and empty on the library reading table. One was Horton's daughter, of course, and one was surmised to be Dawson's dead lover. The third was not mentioned in the extensive file that his private investigators had compiled. He wondered if she were even alive‒his very private investigator's reports also mentioned that people died with distressing frequency around the blues musician.

Yet, Dawson had entered his home unarmed without making a single protest or threat. He had silently accepted the accusations laid against Horton without defending his own honor. Indeed, he put more effort into defending his mysterious young friend. Perhaps they were lovers as well? Montoya dismissed the possibility as dissonant with his own assessment of the man. Moreover, his investigator's files also included pictures of the handsome young Mr. Pierson taking leave of Duncan MacLeod on his barge, and there had been no mistaking the Highlander's possessive expression.

The Highlander presented a serious problem. Though they had parted company as friends, Montoya had heard through Grace Chantal that both MacLeod's student Richard and his teacher Connor had died at his hands. That was reprehensible. And inexplicable. The Highlander he knew would have taken his own head before committing such sins against his Immortal family. It was just as well the remaining Highlander was reported to be half a world away. But his associates were here. And he had long worried MacLeod had fallen in with bad company. Bad company, indeed, to twist the Highlander to such evil.

Montoya pushed Dawson's small pile of possessions away, and leafed through the leatherbound book. A phrase, a scene, caught his eye. Quickening. Lightning ripping a black hole in a clear blue sky. "What have you here, Señor Dawson? A memoir? Just what kind of archivists collect tales of the Immortals? A librarian and a musician? Or a spy and an assassin?"

*****
Joe stretched his sore thighs, hungry and thirsty and somewhat annoyed at being kept waiting under the lights. Finally, a candle flared in the center of a single table in the dark before the stage. His audience of one had arrived. Joe spoke no words of introduction. He just stroked his guitar with one of the first riffs he learned on the streets of Chicago as a footloose and fatherless teen. He built on the melody, flowing into the classic blues songs he learned in his undisciplined youth, infusing them with the optimistic innocence of his college years. Reworking some Hendrix rhythms, he slid into the dark undercurrent of the Vietnam War, building to a painful crescendo, and a longer, more painful, silence.

Then the riff from his youth began again, no longer innocent, no longer optimistic, but leaner and stronger. It grew more complex, the darker chords always brooding beneath the bright melodies of his post-war years as a journeyman. Joe did not spare his audience his failures, and he did not dwell on his triumphs. They were transitory, and he was mortal, and that was the way of life, to move on, searching for the next song.

Joe paused to wipe down and retune the guitar, and automatically reached for a bottle of beer that wasn't there. There was a soft request in the darkened gallery, and a sound of protest, then the thump of a chair. His host wasn't alone, then. Footsteps echoed on the cooling tiles, and out of the darkness materialized the woman he had last seen in the bar.

Wordlessly, she pushed a bucket of ice containing bottles of both mineral water and Coronitas. It would get him through. "Gracias, Señora," he said softly, with the hint of a question. Her eyes were still hard, and hot, and unforgiving. She melted back into the darkness before he could find the words to ask her why.

"Forgive my manners, Señor. My daughter-in-law, Mary," his host intoned softly. "Doctora María Calle Álvarez de Montoya. Married to my adopted son and first student, Timoteo. Your people were responsible for her husband's death. My son was shot down from a helicopter while riding fence on the far side of rancho. He was beheaded before help could arrive." Montoya's voice was gentle. But his eyes were not.

"I am sorry, Doctora. Señor. I did not know." There were no words to offer, no excuses. He found a song. And another. And another. So many questions, so many angry misunderstandings, since his destiny crossed with Immortals. The strings of his guitar jangled with the regrets of the past. They yearned for a sense of peace just beyond his reach.

Only once again did he stop to address his invisible audience. "This song, I wrote after I shot James Horton."

There was the hiss of an indrawn breath. "You killed him?" Montoya asked sharply.

Joe shook his head. "I shot him. MacLeod finished the job," he confessed, closing his eyes. No one else had ever heard this particular song. Joe hoped no one else ever would. Not all confessions were healing.

Joe played until beyond sunrise, at the peak of his craft, and the end of his story. Then he put down his guitar, and waited for judgement.

*****
The sun was rising as MacLeod pulled into the bus station in Guaymas (despite Methos’ absurd order that he stay in Paris.) He had taken the overnight Ejecutivo bus from Phoenix to San Carlos, because waiting for the daily small plane would have wasted 12 hours. As he stretched in the early dawn light, he had to admit the big, roomy Tufesa buses were far more comfortable than the tiny Dash 8 prop jet would have been. Air travel had gone downhill since the days of the Flying Clippers.

The twin peaks of Tetakawi still towered over the town. Resort developments had grown like mold on the boat harbors, but there were still long stretches of uninhabited beach scoured clean by hurricanes and uninhabitable mountains with no water and fewer roads surrounding the town. It was almost unchanged since the time MacLeod had roamed revolution-wracked Mexico, side-stepping both the Mexican army and Pancho Villa's vaqueros, trying to right wrongs with the new Lion of Sonora.

MacLeod stretched again, his face to the warm Sonoran sun, and suddenly grinned. "Viva Zapata!" It was good to be back.

MacLeod didn't linger in the memories ‒ he felt an urgency to find Joe and Methos without delay. Separately, the two men managed to keep low profiles, quietly going about their businesses. Both, for very different reasons, tended to watch life from the sidelines, recording their observations for posterity. But together! Together they not only attracted trouble, but a surprising amount of mayhem followed their passage.

*****
The bay gelding was an impressive seventeen hands tall, giving his rider a clear view of the hillside, even while they were funneled up the high chaparral lined path. Methos and the rent-a-horse had bonded quickly over the issue of fools. Big Brown did not suffer fools. And Methos not only was nobody's fool, but would undoubtably eat a foolish horse. Big Brown agreed to a distant second in command of this adventure, unlike his usual arrangement with tourist riders. This one certainly was guiding them outside the safety zone since starting their journey shortly before dawn.

Methos’ backside was an hour nicely broken-in when his cell phone began to clang. The clashing swords ring tone had been programmed into the phone by MacLeod as a joke, which proved entertaining enough to leave put.

“Pierson.”

“I’m here.” Speak of the devil. “Where are you?”

“Mac! You’re supposed to be in Paris waiting for the auction.”

“There are other old books in the world. But only one of you – thank goodness. Where are you?”

Methos sighed. It certainly wasn't like the old days when you could get on your horse and ride away from your problems.

“I’m taking up the old ways, Highlander.”

"Adam!"

Methos sighed again and added a few Latin curses. “I’m riding to a location where I can over look Manolito Montoya’s hacienda to take pictures, and worry about Joe. Which would possibly be a better plan if I had the map. Though the path I’m on seems like a nice path – especially for the middle of nowhere. Still...”

“You’re lost.”

Methos remained silent, not about to debate the matter. He certainly wasn't going to ask for directions.

Apparently not feeling compelled to offer any, MacLeod continued, “Manolito Montoya? Many years ago I rode with an Immortal in these parts that went by that name, though some of the locals called him the Lion of Sonora.”

“They call him El Alacrán now-a-days. The Scorpion. And Watchers and Immortals disappear when they get too close.”

“Well then, I guess it’s a good thing you’re lost.”

“I travelled to Chin by camel navigating only by the stars, MacLeod.”

“Too bad it's ten hours 'til sundown. Come back and meet me. I’ve rented a Jeep. We’ll drive in the front way. Haven’t had a chance to talk with Mano for nearly a century. It will be nice to catch up.”

"Nice! MacLeod! Rumor has it that people are never seen again after entering Montoya's domain."

"Mano always liked his privacy. And you know a good rumor is better than a good fence. Of course, the last time I saw him he was running tequila to Tucson during Prohibition. Good Bacanora, too, I'll have to ask if he's still making it."

"So you think just driving in uninvited and cadging a drink is a good plan? Mac, how have you managed..."

"I studied under the master. You."

As he argued with MacLeod on his cell phone Methos continued riding up the arid hillside. Finally, he and Big Brown reached the crest of the hill. “Whoa, Boy.” There below was the ranch, a well-watered compound with many outbuildings and strong walls and fencing. Contented horses grazed in a paddock. Big Brown nickered quietly, and pricked up his ears. “Well I guess I’m not lost after all. El Rancho de Montoya.”

"If you're playing at Watcher, and Mano is down there innocently being Watched, where did you stash Joe? Why are you worried about him? I can't believe you talked him into staying behind."

"Because that worked so well for us both in the past?" Methos returned tartly. "Joe's not behind. He's way, way ahead of me. Somehow he finessed an invitation into El Alacrán's lair to play a private concert without ever speaking to the man, or leaving my side. Sight. Well, okay, I blinked."

"Joe's a musician. He does concerts. You've never followed him halfway across the world to eavesdrop on his assignments before. Even if it involved an Immortal. Especially if it involved an Immortal. Joe's cover is sound, so what's the real problem?" MacLeod asked, in an unreasonably reasonable tone.

Methos patted Brown's shoulder as he dismounted and loosened the cinch, tucking the cell phone into the crook of his neck. "The problem is, when they took Joe, they took his gear. And mine, too. With two of my journals. An old one, that only Joe can really appreciate in all it's splendor. That one we can fob off as science fiction. But there's also the current one, with many lively accounts of our wacky escapades together. Me. You. And Joe."

"If they read it, his cover is blown."

"His cover is blown so sky high, the Martian Rover can't find it. If they read it. But so far, we don't know that Montoya has any other interests than music on his mind."

"Don’t go in there by yourself. Wait for me."

“Never fear, MacLeod. It’s more likely I’ll sprout wings and fly. I’m just going to sit here with my camera phone and wait for the Scorpion to pose. Hopefully, Joe is comfortably dazzling your friend with his blues. Or his sunny disposition. My bet is on the guitar.”

*****
MacLeod did not take the time to check into the hotel, notice the beautiful beach, or even grab a bite to eat. Instead he headed his Jeep toward his old friend’s fortress. Montoya was loyal to his friends, but wary of strangers and could be unmerciful to his enemies. Which camp did Mano think Joe slept in? He worried as he headed north and then east at highest possible speed. As luck and local roadbuilders would have it, the trail might have meandered around a few new cacti and arroyos since the days of the revolution, but Tetakawi still made an infallible landmark.

Torn between relief and anxiety that Montoya was the Immortal Joe had successfully stalked, MacLeod kept the accelerator punched and the gears shifting, touching the tires to the ground only as often as physics required as he sped up the dirt road.

*****
Pouring the last of the water from his canteen into his new Stetson, Methos offered it to Big Brown. Nobodies fool, the horse drank all on offer, licking up every ounce from the crown. "So much for that 'new hat' smell," Methos laughed, perching it on the saddle horn to let the horse spit dry.

Leaving the bay secured to the chaparral, Methos crept back to the overlook and sat cross-legged, watching the ranch through binoculars. He reset the phone, cradled in his lap, ready for photo action, just like a Real Live Watcher. Joe would have laughed his arse off if he could see him now.

Time passed slowly when on Watch, Methos rediscovered.

*****
Joe blinked at the sunlight as a table was set for two on the patio. Running his fingers along his guitar case before putting it down at his feet and easing into the chair, Joe admitted to himself that the audition seemed to have gone well. El Alacrán, the last of the Montoyas, had risen to his feet to give a solitary, but heartfelt, standing ovation. Joe felt an unrealistic regret and slight stab to his vanity that Mary had not joined him. Still, he did not expect Montoya's honestly warm words. "You have the blood of Bards in your veins," he said in grave compliment. "It would be a crime to bring an end to such talent."

Drained and too tired to muster a more polite response, Joe just shook his head. "Just another guitar player," he protested automatically, his voice roughened by lack of sleep and heavy use.

"I have been remiss in my duties as host. Please, drink. Food will arrive soon." Montoya himself poured two shots of a very fine bottle of blue añejo, which Joe shared after making careful eye contact with his host. But before they could safely break bread and put the ancient diplomacies behind them, one of the guards interrupted. Joe had picked up enough Spanish to figure out that surveillance cameras had caught a trespasser. A familiar trespasser. Montoya's smile grew sharper, more feral. "Shall we invite your friend to join us?"

*****
When finally his first photo opportunity materialized from the adobe ranch house, Methos clicked off a few pictures in rapid succession, but was soon disturbed to see Joe and Montoya rise from a peaceful repast and walk to the front gate to face his direction on the hillside. He knew he was far from sensing range of another Immortal, and couldn’t believe he could be seen by the unaided eye. But Montoya was pointing directly at him.

Then in a decidedly worrisome move, Montoya made a beckoning motion to Methos while patting Joe on the shoulder. Montoya wasn't visibly armed, but his well-tailored jacket had the potential to hide a wide variety of sharp objects. Moreover, two guards posted on the walls converged on the open gate behind Joe and Montoya, and their firepower bespoke Montoya's intentions far more clearly than his gleaming smile. Even as he watched, they were joined by a woman carrying a lever action Remington with a scope. Sun glinted off the lens as she raised it and aimed at his position.

Methos suddenly felt very cold, and his head started to hurt again. He ducked behind a rock and hit the first number on his speed dial. “Hello, Mac? You know what I said before, well I’m about to do something incredibly stupid.”

“Let me remind you, you promised you’d stay put, and that it was more likely you’d learn to fly than go down there. Don’t tell me you’ve sprouted wings.”

“ ‘Fraid not. Just me and Big Brown riding down the hill.”

“Methos! Give me fifteen minutes!”

“Sorry Mac, it will take me five, at the most, to get down there.” Methos disconnected MacLeod and punched in Amy's number and downloaded the last pictures of Joe to her email, then he deleted the pictures and his cell phone’s contact list.

He stood up and waved boldly to the figures below. Fetching the bay, he did his best not to transmit his nervousness to the horse. He stuffed the binoculars into the saddlebag and slid his cell phone back into his pocket. He contemplated leaving his sword tied to his saddle, but found that that was beyond his ability, and took the time to loop his belt through the scabbard. No point in pretending he was just a Watcher. As he rode slowly down into the canyon, he went over in his mind all that was written in the journals Montoya had taken.

On the plus side there was a mountain of information indicating he was friend to MacLeod. Stories Mac had told him. Stories from Mac’s past and testimony to the pain of his last decade. Hell, one would think that the newer journal was Duncan MacLeod’s journal instead of his own. Where was he in that 'diary'? Just a guy in the background. A really stupid guy. But the other journal, the older one he'd lent to Joe. Now that was Methos.

Standing behind the gate, the woman with the rifle followed his slow progress all the way down with her scope, until he was masked by some thorn bushes. He could bolt from here around the shoulder of the hill, meet up with MacLeod. Keep him from walking into the trap. Start a new plan. Through the screen of vegetation, he watched as she lost her target, and lowered her rifle.

To point it right at Joe.

*****
MacLeod slammed on the brakes, draping his car with a cloud of dust, barely missing the closed heavy metal gate across the road. An electronic keypad blinked at him balefully, completely out of place attached to a barbed wire fence. MacLeod remembered this country better by horseback ‒ roads were easier to block than stock trails. Just beyond the fence the terrain would rise up and then drop into a natural bowl, where the ranch was sheltered from the wind and the well-water was sweet.

He got out of the Jeep, fastened his sword to his back, and vaulted the fence. Methos would be descending from the western notch above the ranch. Joe...MacLeod gritted his teeth. Joe had a hell of a lot of explaining to do about how he got himself and Methos in this mess in the first place.

*****
"He won't come down. He can't come down." Joe swore to himself as he watched Methos let his horse pick his way down the steep slope. Just what the hell was he thinking? Where was the master strategist? The brilliant tactician? Apparently he'd been replaced by a sunstruck drugstore cowboy in a Walmarto Stetson. Two guards still lined the outer wall, and more now mounted all terrain vehicles behind the stable. Even Montoya's daughter in law, Mary, carried a Remington, with every indication that she knew very well how to use it. As soon as Methos came down off the escarpment, he'd be flanked and surrounded.

"If he were an honorable friend, he must come down and join us, no?" Montoya laughed. Then his whole body tensed, and Montoya balanced on his toes, his hand instinctively reaching inside his formal coat. His eyes blazed, lit with the prospect of combat.

Joe had seen the same light in MacLeod's eye. He'd seen it too many times. "It's not what you think!"

"You did not mention that you traveled with an Immortal. Did it slip your mind?"

"I try not to notice," Joe admitted. "It's not like he acts his age," he added in his own defense.

Again, Montoya patted his arm in a too-familiar manner, and waved at the approaching rider. "He is a horseman?"

"You have no idea," Joe muttered. This was it. He wasn't going to hang here in the gate like bait, while yet another friend walked into danger. Not again. Never again. "Sorry about this," he warned, with genuine feeling. "Really. I am. But this has gone on long enough." Then, gripping his cane below the handle, he swung the solid metal head around in a short arc, connecting with the side of Montoya's head. The stunned Immortal fell like a sack of oats.

Joe's one slim advantage of surprise gave him a few steps on the gate guards. They had placed all their concentration on the approaching visitor, and nearly all the observers from the rancho missed the blow.

One hadn't. "Papá!" Joe heard as he stumped through the opened gate and across the road into cover in a gap in the thorn bushes and organ barrels. Feeling like a heel, Joe nearly stopped and turned, until a rifle shot burned the breeze over his head. He ducked sideways and bounced off a mesquite before hauling himself toward the oncoming sound of hooves.

"Adam, you idiot!" he thundered, as he heard a confused exchange of orders and counter-orders in Spanish, and the ATVs roar into life behind him. "Get the hell out of here!"

"Joe!" He heard Methos shout, as he gathered the big bay for a sprint. "Oh, good goddess and her handmaiden, what the fuck, Joe!"

Then the arm of a cactus exploded next to Joe's head, and pelted him with pulp. He heard bullets ricochet off the rocks near Methos. He could freeze, and watch, still hostage, or continue forward, and draw fire away from the approaching Immortal.

"We're both too old for this shit," Joe muttered. If he couldn't keep Methos away, he'd better join him. At least that way, if they were both toasted, neither of them would have to explain it to MacLeod. He shifted his concentration to gauging the distance and speed of the approaching disaster.

Methos leaned over the horse's neck and nudged the bay into a gallop as he hit the flats, aiming straight toward him, again shouting “Joe! Get out of the open!”

Giving into Methos' madness, Joe held out his right arm, extending his thumb, and shouted back, "Give a guy a lift?"

Methos pointed. "Edge of the bank!" he ordered before ducking around an impassable patch of thorny brush.

Intent on making what speed he could, Joe nearly took a header into a sandy wash that meandered off the ridge. Feeling his shoulderblades itch in the expectation of a bullet at any time, he turned and followed the edge, trying to keep an eye on Methos as he pelted through the brush. When his friend hit the bottom of the arroyo and Joe got a clear view of the approaching avalanche of mount and rider, he muttered, "Jesus, that is one big horse. Now...how did they hitch a ride in Bonanza?"

Methos' horse locked up in a sliding stop that put ABS brakes to shame. The height of the bank raised Joe to eye-level with both Methos and his horse. Both drew breath at once while scanning each other for bulletholes.

"Idiot!" Physically, Methos had younger lungs, but Joe had better voice control, allowing the mutual insult to echo off the hill and down the arroyo in a harmonic draw.

Taking a deep breath, Joe leaned on Methos with one hand and swung his leg over the rump of the horse with the other, almost going over the other side before Methos righted them both. Methos took a couple of precious seconds to tuck Joe's dangling legs under his own, then clamped down and muttered, "Cheetchwa!"

"I take it that means 'Hang on'?" Joe asked with a certain belated caution, and then they were off.

*****
Mary lowered her rifle momentarily and worked the lever, chambering another round. Then she felt a hand push the barrel down, gently but firmly. "I can take them both, Papá!" she protested.

"No need to be inhospitable, chica," Montoya warned with disturbing amusement. "You may put down your rifle. While I appreciate your sentiments, we Montoyas do not shoot even outlaws in the back. Besides, how far do you think our new amigos will get?"

"Far enough to make a fool of you. We should hang them both for the turkey buzzards to feast upon," Mary grumbled, but she did as he asked. "And my Yoeme ancestors were ambushing yori invaders long before the Montoyas acquired manners."

Montoya reached around and rubbed an itch behind his ribs. "I remember very well. The sad fact is, I did promise our guest that I wouldn't leave a messy body on my doorstep. It would be rude of us to break our word. We will surround them, and take them in. Quite peaceably."

*****
Joe and Methos both nearly went off the back of the the big horse as he put on the afterburners. Joe bared his teeth in a fierce grin as they balanced and he caught the rhythm of the hoofbeats. They both leaned into the slope as they started climbing. The hill was too steep for the ATVs, and the boulders were big enough to highcenter even the monster truck. His deathgrip on Methos probably only cracked a couple of ribs before they slowed, cresting the hill out of gunshot range, and began descending the other side with only a little more caution.

"Still have all your parts and pieces, including the dangly bits, Joe?" Methos inquired brightly, without the tiniest hint of annoyance.

"Apparently," Joe admitted, surreptiously checking said bits, not fooled by the tone but too exhilarated to care. Horses weren't Harleys, and they lacked some of the padding in key areas. "Nice legs. The horse, I mean," he complimented. He felt absurdly pleased with himself for not falling off. Yet.

"Big Brown has a lot of heart for a cynical tourist horse," Methos allowed as they scrambled down the hill, shifting his weight in the saddle. "Most wouldn't make that climb with the weight of two men." By the time they had descended the south side of the ridge top, Methos disentangled himself from Joe's clutches and dismounted to check the cinch and walk the bay. "You're lucky you didn't land on your arse on a cholla. Or get yourself shot to pieces. Again. And where are my journals?" he grumbled loudly.

Grinning, Joe transferred his deathgrip to the saddle cantle and the reins when Methos dismounted, rebalancing on the vastly more comfortable worn leather saddle. "That was better than a Harley, man. And don't worry about the journals, okay? I had things under control. Once we get you to a safe spot, I'll head back. I have to get my guitar anyway."

Methos fussed with a flapping leg, trying to secure it to a stirrup. He spared Joe a single, swift murderous look, then grabbed the reins and started walking southwest. "Not on my Watch, you don't," he said with careful clarity.

Joe grabbed the saddle horn to steady himself. Maybe they'd have that conversation about Boy Scout Cavalry charges a little bit later. Methos seemed a bit tetchy.

"That oasis down there will give us good cover. We can follow the streambed to the sea." Methos led them into the high chaparral, keeping them hidden, as they made their way toward the plain. A third of the way down Methos stopped short, and drew his sword.

Joe was only starting to get the hang of the big bay's sloping walk when Methos froze, and he scrabbled for a handhold again, annoyed, until he heard Methos say "MacLeod?" in an oddly winsome voice.

Joe scanned the hill, perplexed. "MacLeod?" Then he pointed. "Montoya. There. Damn. He's good." Montoya crested the hill just a few dozen yards behind them, bareback on a grey roan mare that nickered and danced. Joe made out the glint of Toledo steel lashed to his back. "So that's what he had under his coat. Better get back on the horse, Adam." When his friend didn't appear to hear him, he added quietly, "Methos. Time to go."

Methos just looked up at Joe, 2000 years of civilization evaporating from his eyes. "No, Brother, this one is mine." He pointed the bay back toward the sea, and whispered the language of corn and carrot and good green hay. "Give him his head, Joe, and you'll be back at the corrals before noon. I'll buy you a beer at the beach." Then he slapped the bay's rump, and sent the horse flying.

*****
El Alacrán shook his head in disappointment, and delicately guided his lightfooted mare down to Methos. He shook out his blade, and landed softly next to his horse. "My name is Manolito Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die."

" 'Prepare to die'? " Methos repeated in disbelief. "I've never even met your father!" He altered his stance, and twirled his own blade up in a deceptively loose grip. "Besides, only five fingers, here. And no six-fingered blade," he waggled his off hand in proof, gauging the focus of his opponent.

"I've always wanted to use that line," Montoya grinned. He whipped his blade into the en garde. "It is true, you didn't kill my father. But it made him very, very sad when you and Butch Cassidy stole his gold shipment in Empalme. That was impolite."

That gave Methos pause. Was he ever in Empalme? Maybe. Probably. But it didn't matter. This was supposed to be a challenge. "Well, you absconded with my friend, and that makes me very, very angry.”

He gripped his sword and attacked, driving Montoya back with momentum and ferocity. The rough ground was no place to pretend you were anything other than an efficient killer. His broadsword slammed against Montoya’s lighter rapier. The small part of him that was still Adam had seen Montoya’s grin and heard the humor offered – along with his blade – but Methos’ feral soul had custody at the moment and refused Adam’s counsel. A flurry of slaps and parries followed as they danced amongst the cacti and chaparral.

The swords were matched in length, but not in weight. Methos had the advantage in a longer arm reach and heavier blade, not to mention an uncivilized attitude and thousands of years more experience. But the swing weight of the blade would work against him in an extended skirmish. He backed off when he decided Montoya was retreating too easily, trying to draw him into over-extending his reach.

"Why do you work for this man...this...'Watcher'?” Montoya asked.

So much for hoping the journals had remained unread. A fragment of Adam the once-and-future Watcher laughed and gained mind space. “I suppose that’s meant to be a taunt.” He resumed attacking, pushing the much younger man away from his horse this time.

"Or maybe it is he that works for you?” Counter attack.

Parry. Montoya's quick slash slid off his guard. “No and no. He’s just a friend. Who harbors a dangerous sense of duty. In a way, he was working for you.” Attack. Beat the lighter blade aside, keep him on his heels.

Parry. Montoya used the terrain well. “Me? An honorable man does not spy on people.” Montoya insisted. Counter attack. Methos felt a cholla spine stab his calf. He ripped free.

Parry. “It depends on your notion of honor. His kind have kept our secret for thousands of years.”

And thrust! Montoya’s sword arm was pierced through, nerve and sinew. The rapier fell from numb fingers to the ground.

Methos shoved Montoya off his feet and snatched up the young Immortal’s sword, crossing the blades at his throat. Montoya held himself proudly, waiting for Methos to strike. 'This is MacLeod’s friend.' Methos backed off.

"I didn’t come for your head. I came for Joe.”

“Mr. Dawson and I had not yet concluded our business. In fact, you interrupted our breakfast.”

"You should be sure your opponent has a sense of humor before you offer him cheek from the losing side of a challenge," Methos twitched Montoya's own swordpoint to his sideburn and away so quickly the blade blurred.

"Perhaps I've watched too many movies," Montoya acknowledged ruefully, carefully feeling his cheekbone. There was no blood, just the featherlight touch. "However, I must point out that it was you who invaded my property, and incited my guest."

“Joe can be abrupt, but his table manners don't usually include sucker punching his host."

"I am relieved to hear it."

"I admit to being somewhat concussed yesterday, so maybe my judgment is off regarding your intention. Still, he is mortal. A good man. And if you had harmed him, MacLeod would have kicked my backside back to Europe, right after he took your head. Friend or no friend.”

"MacLeod?"

Methos' grin was a fearful thing. "Don't be coy, I'm sure you've been enjoying my journal. MacLeod heard you were having a party without him. 'Fraid I let it slip, accidentally."

*****
MacLeod made good time up a long, low ridge, dodging cacti and holes in the steep terrain. He heard the clash of swords long before he felt the buzz of Immortals. He swore vehemently in Gaelic, and picked up his speed. Suddenly a movement in the arroyo leading away to his right caught his eye, and he slowed – of all the things he didn’t expect to see – Joe on horseback! And apparently in loud debate with a tall bay.

MacLeod paused, torn between the sounds of combat and the sight of Joe tilting precariously as his willful horse wound through the thorn bushes with a sprightly homeward-bound step. MacLeod realized the reins were dragging well beyond his reach ‒ Joe's only control over the horse lay in his threatening invective ‒ and MacLeod would wager the horse didn't speak Marine.

Go after Joe, or find Methos?

*****
The big bay slowed, ears flicked forward, and he arched his neck, peering from side to side in the thick gloom under a grove of palms. Buzzards and crows lined the upper fronds of the tall trees, eyeing them with detached interest and eery silence.

Joe peered from side to side, too, seeing only another barbed wire fence and scattered vegetation. "What, you lost?" Joe hitched forward, trying yet again to reach the dangling reins. As he ducked, a gunshot wrecked the quiet, and a rifle round cut through the air over his head. Buzzards and ravens burst into the air like black fireworks, wheeling and cawing.

The big bay shied away from the noise, levitating four feet sideways and well out from under his unsecured rider, sides heaving and eyes rolling. Joe hung in the air for a long second, contemplating his sins, before he plummeted straight down into a pile of sand, dried palm fronds and rusty fence wire. Hoof beats! Big Brown exiting while another approached.

Joe's first instinct was to find a foxhole, but the barbed wire was tangling up his right arm. His next impulse was to find a weapon, but the only objects within reach were stiff brown fronds and a few pebbles in the sand. He broke off a frond and used it to cover three or four of the largest rocks. A tall man dismounted a familiar white horse and walked toward where Joe was trapped.

"Give it up, Dawson. It's past time, old man," said his ambusher, as he kicked the pebbles away. The white horse's rider had appeared nondescript at a distance on the beach the day before, average in many respects; now close-up, Joe could see fine scars lining one side of his face and cold blue eyes, devoid of mercy.

Joe gripped the frond angrily, cracking it in half in his hand. "You shoot me, they'll track you down."

"Who? The Watchers? Who do you think sent me? At least a concerned few." The hard young man with the hammerheaded white horse laughed. "Your Adam? El Alacrán will leave that upstart a head shorter. Montoya loathes spies. And your precious MacLeod? When we're done here, he'll think Montoya did it. Either way, two out of three abominations will be eliminated."

Joe yanked against the wire, succeeding only in wrapping it tighter, exposing his wrist, raked with thin lines of blood. "MacLeod isn't a fool."

"Fool enough to protect you for years. But that protection is gone now, isn't it?" The rider taunted as he pulled out an odd-looking pistol from his saddlebag. "This is a tranquilizer gun. Except I've replaced the tranquilizer with something else. Care to guess?"

And with a certain professional satisfaction, the rider aimed and fired. A dart sunk almost dead center into the Watcher tattoo on Joe's right wrist. "Concentrated scorpion venom. Jugo de El Alacrán."

Swearing, Joe reached for the dart and pulled it free. "Are you crazy?" he hissed.

"No. But my clients were insistent that you not die quickly. I'm afraid they are quite unstable absinthe sippers. But they pay well. And I'm afraid there are others bearing grudges against you. Hard to believe, what they'll pay to take out one weak old man."

Joe slowly stopped fighting the wire, and bit by bit folded in on himself. The flechette rolled free from his left hand and dropped in the dirt. His arm flopped bonelessly on the pile of fronds.

"I'll need the evidence, I'm afraid," the rider bent down to pick up the dart.

He staggered back, eyes wide in mortal surprise, the broken edges of a palm frond sticking out of his throat.











Go on to part 4