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A Man of Honour, However Misguided.
6th April 2004, 8.50pm

Without a horse it was unlikely he would make the distance, but Lance kept moving until sunset. Blister-heeled and dehydrated he sat under the spreading branches of an ancient gum and considered his lot as the sun dipped behind the mountain range. He had three cartridges left for his revolver, an egg-sized lump on the back of his head, half a canteen of water, a broad-bladed serrated knife tucked into his left boot, and the evidence that he needed to prove that Stewart, Spicer and Cameron were headed for the Chinese camp that lay another twenty miles to the north.

He sat at the base of the gum and reached behind his head to untie the mask which hid the top half of his face. His fingers trembled and fumbled with the knot, unable to unpick it. Eventually he gave up, hissing breath through his teeth in frustration, and slid the mask down so that it hung like a neckerchief around his throat. He rubbed his forehead and eyes with the palm of his hand, feeling the dusk breeze cooling and drying the sweat that had pooled there during the day.

Lance grunted and leaned forward to remove his boots. He winced as he pulled them from his feet. In the fading light he couldn't see the blisters, but from the way they stung he could tell that they were bad. He removed the knife and cut strips from his shirtsleeves, soaked them in some of the water and bound his feet. He swore under his breath and looked around to see if he could see any plants that might be of help in this situation, but there was little sunlight left and he knew that even if there was something useful out there, he was in no shape to go and fetch it. His best bet was to get some sleep and save his strength for the coming day. Ten miles on badly blistered feet. He'd done it before, and he had no doubt that he could do it again, but the task was never something to look forward to.

His dreams were troubled that night, but he was too tired to be woken by them. He saw once again the carnage, heard the clotted sounds coming from those they had left to die. He smelled the smoke from the burnt canvas tents mingling with the sweet aroma of opium. On the ground before him was a man's pigtail, ragged skin stuck to the roots where it had been ripped free. A torn banner with the word "out" blew past, snagging on a battered trumpet that had been trampled underfoot. He could hear the strains of "Rule Britannia" coming softly from its bell, slightly off-key. He whistled for Bess and she came as always, except that this time she was carrying a rider. He was a tall, thin man dressed in an immaculate dark-coloured suit. His skin was deathly pale and mottled like a toad's, and his eyes were large and impenetrably dark. They held his gaze as the rider dismounted and closed the few steps between them.

"Ah, Mr. Harwood," the pale, thin stranger said as he brushed dust from his suit's lapels. "Or do you prefer to be called Captain Justice? You are wearing your mask, so I shall presume the latter."

Lance tried to speak, but his throat was clogged by the smoke. He couldn't tear his eyes from those of the stranger.

The stranger held onto the horse's reins as he approached Lance. "I want you to listen carefully to me, Captain. It is imperative that you arrive at the Celestial camp before the others. I have a task for you, you see. In your present state you are hardly capable of covering the distance in a day, let alone the few hours that I can afford, so I have taken it upon myself to assist you. This is my favour to you, and since you are a man of honour,   however misguided, I know that you will return the favour when I ask it of you. When you wake you will know that this was more than a dream. We will speak in person soon."

The stranger turned and walked in the direction he had come from, patting Bess on the flank as he passed her. Lance watched him for a moment, then turned at the sound of hooves that came from behind him. Galloping towards him was Squint Malone and his gang. At the speed they were travelling they would run him down for sure. Malone was laughing that horrible laugh of his, the bullet-hole above his right eyebrow staring at Lance like a baleful third eye. Lance drew his guns and aimed at Malone with the intention of blinding that eye, but when he pulled the triggers all he heard was the impotent click of the hammers on empty chambers. He felt Bess's warm breath on the back of his neck. "Time to wake up," she said.

Lance woke groggy. His neck was stiff from resting his head on the gum's roots. The chill of evening clung to his clothing, and his feet were painfully cold. He unwrapped the makeshift bandages to assess the damage in the morning light. He grunted with surprise and wiggled his toes. There was no sign of any blisters at all. He lifted his foot onto the opposite knee in the "lotus position" that Indra had taught him and peered closely. The skin on the soles of his feet, his toes and his heels, was totally unblemished. He wiggled his toes again. Apart from the cold, there was no pain at all. He scratched the back of his head with confusion, and noticed as he did so that the lump where Cameron had landed the butt of his whip only two days ago was also gone.

He climbed to his feet and pulled on his boots. As he did so he heard a sound that made him look up. Coming towards him was a Chinaman wearing a checked shirt, moleskins and a wide-brimmed hat that cast shadow almost to his chin. The man was leading a chestnut mare behind him. Lance stood with one boot on and one boot off as the Chinaman approached. Without a word he offered the reins to Lance, bowing politely as he did so. Lance pulled his boot on and accepted the reins. The man reached into his coat and removed an envelope, which he passed to Lance with another bow.

Dear Captain,

I trust you are feeling well. I will explain my methodology when I see you this morning. This horse should facilitate your prompt arrival.

Yours

Dr. Nikola.

As Lance read the note, which was written in a generously looped copperplate using lavender ink on cream-coloured heavyweight paper, his dream began to come back to him. He'd been at the site of the riot again, still too late to prevent it from happening. Bess had been there with him. He'd met someone there, a strange man who'd asked - no, who had demanded - his help. And now here he was, confronted by a Chinaman from nowhere with a   fresh, healthy horse, and on top of that his injuries had all mysteriously healed overnight. Though it seemed ridiculous to even contemplate, it seemed to Lance that this Doctor Nikola was the same man from his dream, and furthermore that he had somehow been responsible for healing Lance's injuries.

Whatever strangeness had taken place, the fact of the matter   was that Lance was now in good health and in possession of a horse, which meant that he would be able to get to the encampment with plenty of time to spare. He pocketed the note and mounted the horse, noting the excellent quality of the saddle, and spurred his mount in the direction of the camp. If Doctor Nikola was waiting at the camp, as the dream seemed to suggest, then Lance would have more than a few pertinent questions to put to him. Nudging the mare into a gallop, Lance leaned forward and urged the miles to pass swiftly under them both.

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