For a long, long, moment, utter silence hung over the dessert. Only the wind whistling between the rocks was audible, carrying clouds of sand along with it.

Then a drip, drip noise sounded as sweat dropped from the trembling Spaniard's temple.

Nobody moved. Mr Ambrose just stood there, his revolver pointing at De Ravera's head, his eyes hard as frozen rocks as he held the head desperado's gaze. Neither of them spoke a word. The outlaw's fingers twitched towards his revolver—then froze as Mr Ambrose's own revolver pressed harder against De Ravera's temple.

"W-what now?" the Spaniard demanded, doing his best to sound defiant and utterly failing. "Do you just plan to estand here in a estandoff se rest of se day? You will not be able to move an inch from sis espot!"

"Once again," Mr Ambrose reiterated calmly, "I disagree."

Then he returned his cool eyes upon the desperados' leader. The message was clear. Your move.

The outlaw narrowed his eyes. "He's right. You don't seriously think you can stand there like that forever, do you?"

The Spaniard grinned.

"Besides," the desperado with the deceptively angelic face continued, "you should know I don't actually care about his life. I only care about his wallet. This won't deter me. If you shoot one of them, I shoot you, and the other one will still pay me for saving his hide."

The grin vanished abruptly.

"Oh, I don't need this to deter you." Not even blinking at the outlaw, Mr Ambrose gestured at the Spaniard. "I just needed to stop you long enough to make you listen."

"Listen?" The outlaw's eyes narrowed. He, too, did not blink once during the deadly staring duel they were engaging in. "You think you can convince me with words?"

"No." Reaching into his pocket with his free hand, Mr Ambrose pulled out his wallet. "I was thinking I could convince you with this. How much?"

This time, the outlaw did blink. "Huh?"

"I know as a colonial your intellect may be somewhat deficient, but you should be able to handle a two-word question. Obviously, these..." He glanced at the two Spaniards. "...individuals paid you for your services. How much?"

The leader's eyes narrowed even further. "Why do you want to know?"

"You have no idea who I am, do you?"

The desperado frowned. "Nah. Why?"

De Ravera paled. Apparently, he had just realized what was going to happen. "Don't listen to him, Creed! Don't listen to a word he say—"

"Because," Mr Rikkard Ambrose interrupted, ignoring the Spaniard completely, and pulling a thick bundle of bank notes from his wallet, "you're about to find out."

***

I had to hand it to Mr Rikkard Ambrose. And by "it", I meant my whole month's salary, because apparently he sure as hell wasn't paying the desperado's bribe all by himself. I didn't even think of protesting. I was far too busy gaping at Mr Rikkard Ambrose conducting a swift and simple business transaction with the men who had hunted and shot at us for the last few hundred miles.

In a blink, money changed hands, and the men were his to command.

"You bastardos corruptos y sucios! You won't get away with sis!"

"I'm not interested in your sister," I informed the Spaniard cheerfully. "I don't swing that way."

"You...puta malhablada! I will have you killed for sis! I will—"

Thud!

"—not insult my wife again," Mr Rikkard Ambrose finished icily for the now unconscious man. Then he glanced over at De La Fuente farther back in the carriage. "Do you have anything to add?"

"N-no. Nothing whatsoever."

"Adequate."

And, veering away from the carriage, he sped up his camel until he was riding beside me.

"Mrs Ambrose?"

"Yes, Mr Ambrose Sir?"

"Wipe that self-satisfied grin off your face."

"Yes, Mr Ambrose Sir!"

And I did indeed wipe it off my face—not off my heart, though. No matter how much of a feminist I might be, watching my husband punching an asshole for insulting me was a spiffing experience. Not quite as spiffing as punching said asshole myself, but still.

All too soon, however, my sweet daydreams of punching idiots in the face were interrupted by a familiar voice. Familiar, yet not at all happy.

"Mr Ambrose, I must disagree with this course of action!" Gesturing back at the desperados with disgust, Marshal Angus Angleton brought up his horse beside my husband. "Using these men to transport prisoners? Most of those individuals, probably all, have bounties on their heads themselves!"

"Oh, trust me," Mr Rikkard Ambrose said, patting his wallet. "I know."

I frowned. Something about his tone...

Leaning towards him, I made certain to speak out of the corner of my mouth. "What are you up to?"

"I?" Mr Ambrose sent me a cool gaze, his stony face expressionless. "Do I look as if I am up to anything?"

"No." I peered at his sculpted visage for a long moment. "Which in your case means you probably are."

"I shall take that as a compliment, Mrs Ambrose."

I sent him another suspicious look—but for now decided to let it rest. Because whatever devious plan Mr Rikkard Ambrose was cooking up in that head of his, I was very much looking forward to experiencing it.

Without bloodthirsty hounds constantly nipping at our heels, our progress through the desert was far speedier than before. It was only a few more days before the landscape around us began to change again, and soon we were racing through lush green hills, followed by foggy marshes. For someone from jolly old rainy England, the number of different landscapes in this place was really weird.

"It won't be long now," Mr Ambrose announced, glancing between the surroundings and the map. "We'll soon be reaching Pittsburgh."

"Oh, goodie!" Grinning, I rubbed my hands in anticipation—only to be severely disappointed a few minutes later.

"This is Pittsburgh?" I complained, gesturing down at the beautiful river valley bisected by a river with an island in the centre. "Oh, come on! With an awesome name like that, I was at least expecting some burning pits of hell."

"You, Mrs Ambrose, have an overactive imagination."

"And you, Sir, need to think a little more creatively. What are we going to do with the prisoners if we don't have burning pits?"

"We are going to wait until we reach New York, as originally planned. I am certain that the judge there can think of something."

"Something interesting?"

Silence.

I pouted. Pittsburgh was going to be really boring. Unless...

With renewed hope, I lifted my head. "Do you think there'll be mustard and ice cream in this town?"

***

Pittsburgh was spiffing! Stupendous! Marvellous! Happily, I bit down and munched on my mustard and ice cream sandwich. Unfortunately, we hadn't been able to stay for long. Just one night's rest, and we were on the road again. I wouldn't really have minded, since I was amply supplied with my newest favourite food, except...

"Blllaaaawwwk?"

"Oh, don't be sad." Reaching out, I patted Ambrose Junior's head, glaring at some ladies in a passing coach who were staring at my mount with plate-sized eyes, whispering in scandalized tones. "They just don't know how to appreciate something beautiful."

"Mrs Ambrose, you do realize we are heading into New York City which, while well known for its diversity, does not boast many camels on its streets, don't you? I suggest you dismount."

"And start puking all over the place again, Sir?"

A momentary pause.

"Never mind."

I grinned. "That's what I thought, Sir."

Thus we continued along the road towards the city. After some time, as I had suspected, my mount and I started to draw more and more admiring gazes from all around. Why, once we entered the outskirts of New York, some people were admiring Ambrose Junior so intensely that their admiration caused them to shriek and run away, or topple backwards into a roadside stall. I should ride through the streets on a camel more often. Hm...I wonder...would he fit on the ship we were going to take back to Great Britai—

"What are you thinking about, Mrs Ambrose?" a cool voice interrupted my thoughts from beside me.

Glancing over, I sent Mr Ambrose my most innocent smile. "Me? Nothing. Nothing at all."

Soon, tall buildings started rising all around us and the bustling city life engulfed us. Ambrose Junior looked around with curiosity, searching for appropriate spitting targets. Helpfully, I pointed at a few old biddies who turned their noses up at me.

"Pfffft!"

"Yeeeeek! Goodness Gracious! What was that...that cold, slimy...oh my!"

Yep, riding camels was awesome.

"So, where is this judge we're looking for?" I enquired, steering my mount closer to Mr Ambrose.

"At court, I would hope. But we're not going to visit the judge. I hardly think he would appreciate us dumping prisoners into his courtroom."

"So..." came a far-too-smooth voice from behind the two of us, "if we are not taking them to court, what do you want us to do with these flea-bitten dogs?"

I turned around, just in time to watch the head desperado—Creed was his name?—drag one of the Spaniards out of the carriage.

"Mmmmphg!" De Ravera protested—or at least tried his best through the gag stuffed into his mouth. "Gmmk ggnggg hmmmph!"

"Let's bring them to jail and entrust them to Mr Angleton's local colleague," Mr Ambrose ordered. "They can think over their mistakes behind solid steel bars."

Creed smiled. "Your wish is my command, boss..." His eyes became colder. "...as long as you fork out the pay check."

The threat sounded rather impressive. There was just one thing: no one, absolutely no one, could compare to Mr Rikkard Ambrose when it came to cold, intimidating stares.

One of which he was currently giving Creed. "Don't you worry. You'll get what you deserve."

Perhaps it was just my extensive experience with Mr Rikkard Ambrose, but that particular sentence sent a little shiver down my spine. Just in case, I moved my hand a little closer to my revolver.

"Hm...very well. I look forward to it."

It wasn't long before we reached the tall brick building that happened to be the local penitentiary. It was a large complex, with a low wall surrounding a front courtyard obviously designed for visitors, not inmates. Marching straight up to the front gate, Mr Ambrose reached up and knocked. After thirty seconds or so, footsteps approached from inside, and the gate opened.

A thin young man opened the door, doing his best to puff out his chest, on which a deputy star was pinned. "Yes, Sir? The zone around the prison is a restricted area. What, pray, are you doing here?"

"Here." Reaching back, Mr Ambrose grabbed hold of De Ravera and De La Fuente. "Take these two into custody."

The young man drew himself up a little more. "Who are you to order around an officer of the law, Sir?"

In answer, I plucked the marshal's star from Mr Angleton's chest and held it under the deputy's nose with a broad smile.

The deputy's face went pale. "Um...Yes, Sir, Ma'am! Right away! Let me get the boss, Sir, Ma'am!"

Wow! Wordless replies were so badass. No wonder Mr Rikkard Ambrose did it all the time.

"Pardon me?" One eyebrow lifted, Mr Angus Angleton took back his shiny star and sent a glare at me. "I am the marshal here."

"Oh, really?" My eyes widened in surprise. "And here I thought you were a salesman!"

He didn't seem inclined to say anything after that. Instead, he retreated to the back with reddened ears, grumbling about disrespect to officers of the law and no proper procedures. From then on, instead of glaring at me, he contented himself with glaring at the group of outlaws who had just helped deliver his prisoners to jail. It was clear he was not happy with the situation. But still, he held his tongue.

A moment later, the gate swung open again and the frazzled young deputy reappeared. "P-please, come inside, Sir, Ma'am. The Sheriff is waiting for you."

Giving a nod, Mr Ambrose strode inside. With a wink at the poor deputy, I followed.

The gate didn't lead directly into the building, but into a second, larger courtyard with high walls and barbed wire on the top. A big, heavy-set man was waiting for us in the centre of the yard, inspecting everyone as we all filed in.

"Howdy, folks. How can I help you?"

Gesturing to his new hirelings, Mr Ambrose had them bring the Spaniards forward. "These men have committed several egregious crimes and have a bounty on their heads. Take them into custody."

"Mmmph! Grrrmmph dmmph!" De Ravera protested, struggling in his bonds. "Grrrgmk! Dng!"

"Very well." Gesturing, the sheriff called forward several deputies who grabbed De Ravera and De La Fuente, and were about to drag them away.

"Oh, I think you misunderstood." Mr Ambrose's words stopped them dead in their tracks. "I was not talking about the two. I meant take them into custody."

With a flick of his wrist, he had drawn his revolver, pressing it into the desperado leader's back. Mr Ambrose's guards were hardly half a second behind, and before the other criminals could react, dozens of rifles and revolvers were pointed at them.

"I believe the bounties total five hundred fifty-seven thousand dollars and thirty cents," My totally badass, spiffing husband said. "I shall await the payment by the day after tomorrow at the latest."

"Really? How unfortunate." Creed commented, his voice cold as steel. Then I suddenly heard a metallic click from behind me and felt something hard press into my back. "I think you'll have to wait for your money a little longer."

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My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

Next chapter: Showdown!

And regarding the title of this chapter - a "mexican standoff" is apparently a situation no one can get out of without bloodshed or loss. I thought Mr Ambrose's version would make for a good title ;)

Yours Truly

Sir Rob

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GLOSSARY:

Bastardos corruptos y sucios—corrupt, dirty bastards.

Puta malhablada—foul-mouthed whore.