Now that the Blackwell boys were captured and locked tight in a jail cell, the mysterious Ranger spurred his magnificent white steed through the outskirts of Red Oak and into the wilderness. Perched on the edge of a rocky bluff, bathed in the rusty sunset, the masked man smiled wistfully and turned to his dusky friend.
“Well, Tonto, it seems that our adventure has come to an end.”
“Yes-um,” said Tonto.
“And now, you must leave this place and return to your ancestral lands, while I must push on alone—utterly alone—in the crushingly solitary pursuit of justice.”
Tonto furrowed his brow in concern.
“Er,” the Indian replied. “You know, me happy to stick-um around a little bit. If it help.”
The masked man shook his head. “No, my friend. You see, this is the role that fate has thrust upon me, and I have no choice but to press on.”
Tonto shrugged. “So long, Kemosabe,” he said, and steered his chestnut mare toward the ridge.
“Unless—” yelped the Ranger, “I mean, unless your ancestral lands lie to the west. In which case, I suppose we could ride together. You know, just for a day or two.”
“Ancestral lands to north,” Tonto replied.
“Did I say west? I meant north,” stammered the Ranger. “I’m going north.”
The masked man urged Silver forward and rejoined the trail. And, although the Ranger tried to play it off, Tonto found his chuckling a bit too long and a bit too self-conscious to be altogether convincing.
I know where my ancestral lands are. My ancestral lands are right under my feet, here is Judea and Samaria.