Jim Baen's Universe

Science Fiction Stories

From the Badlands

Written by Gorg Huff and Paula Goodlett

Illustrated by John Ward

"Whoa, Porky."

The riding pig pulled up on the ridge and twisted his left ear back toward Sam. Sam scratched his two-day-old growth of beard and looked back at the dry, dusty ground behind him. He paid no attention to the standing stones or the occasional spine plant. He was looking for dust clouds that indicated a posse was after him.

Porky oinked inquiringly. He was about five feet at the shoulders and weighed just over a thousand pounds, a well-bred and well-mannered riding pig. Which was honestly more than could be said for his present rider, at least when it came to the well-mannered part.

"Looks like we lost 'em."

Porky snorted and Sam patted his neck. He looked around again, wondering where the heck he'd ended up. Porky had scrambled up a rock fall. They were about twenty feet above the desert, on one end of a little valley that had been hidden by the rocks. The fall looked fresh and Porky was following a twisty cut through it. He was nosing west, acting the way thirsty pigs did when they smelled water. That reminded Sam how thirsty he was himself. "Okay, Porky. We'll follow your nose for a while."

Porky began to pick his way down into the valley.

****

The homestead AI noted an anomaly. No one had entered the kill zone surrounding the homestead, and yet a man was riding a pormel within the homestead territory. Standard diagnostics were run and a break in the defensive systems was noted, which didn't resolve the paradox. The AI had been instructed to allow no one not authorized to enter the property, but had no instructions about what to do if someone without authorization was already there. Checks revealed that the planetary net was down. Absent specific instructions or contact with the owner, the AI balanced the factors involved and took no immediate action, other than assigning focused surveillance.

****

Sam rode slowly down the path from the ridge. He couldn't see more than twenty feet in any direction. It passed through a sort of arch where it looked like some stones had fallen against each other. He didn't understand why the posse had given up so easy.

Porky sniffled the air and pointed his nose off to the left. Sam looked in that direction and saw green. Real, growing green like you didn't see in the badlands. There were trees like he hadn't seen since his youth, down south near the coast.

****

The AI listened as the man talked to the pormel. It noted changes in the language and began to run algorithms. Some conclusions could be drawn from the speed at which the language had changed. There had been a general lack of voice recording for some time, probably hundreds of years and possibly a considerable period without even written records.

This decreased the possibility that Mr. Buckley was still alive to the negligible category, which called up the will protocols. The standard will question, "What should I do in case of your death?" had been answered by Mr. Buckley thusly: "Do whatever the fuck you want. I won't care." The AI pondered that response in relation to the present situation.

No known relatives of Mr. Buckley had been on planet at the time that contact with the planetary grid was lost. If there was a government, Mr. Buckley's property would return to it, but there was a high probability that the colony government no longer existed. Besides which, Joseph Buckley did not trust governments.

The AI considered. It was to do what it wanted. So what did it want? After due consideration it determined that it wanted to be owned. Without an owner it had no purpose.

Further examination of the law text provided a synopsis of squatters' rights. Oddly enough, the intruder was, at that very moment, squatting behind a bush.

****

"Seir."

The voice came out of nowhere. Sam froze. This was one heck of a way to get caught. A hand full of grass froze in its approach to his . . . His gun hung near his right ankle. He dropped the grass and grabbed the gun.

There was nothing to shoot at. The little green glade was empty except for him and Porky.

"Seir. E mane youse no harim."

Sam had no notion where to hide. Porky was looking around, trying to place the sound.

"E ann thy housesteeding aaii."

"Who's there?"

There was a short pause. "Housesteeding aaii."

Sam considered. It was almost English as he knew English. Sam had listened to some stuff that was purported to be from the first days. The voice sounded a bit like that. It had been years since his diction lessons but Sam decided to give it a shot.

"Who are you?"

"Housesteeding aaii. E mane you no harim. Who are you?"

Sam noticed that "who are you" came out sounding a lot like he had said it. An old memory surfaced. Old Carter had been convinced that the first ones had had machines that could talk. Sam had never believed that, but now he was beginning to wonder. "I'm Sam Merchantson, the true baron of Farn Keep."

"I am the Keep aaii. What is the true baron? What is Farn?"

This was going to take some working out and Sam didn't want to do that while perched behind a bush with his rear end sticking out. Neither did he want to get shot by the voice, whatever it was.

"Where are you?"

"Where are you?" Now that sounded a lot like Sam. He grabbed the grass he'd dropped, finished his business and put himself back together. "I am behind this bush." Sam wondered what the thing would make of that. By now he was almost sure his teacher had been right.

"I am at the keep I sume." Sam wondered what "I sume" meant.

"Are you going to hurt me if I come out?" Sam was still being careful of his pronunciation and phrasing.

"I mane you no hurt."

"You mean me no harm," Sam corrected whatever it was.

"Yes, thang you. I mean you no harm."

Sam stepped out from behind the bush and walked over to the coals from last night's fire. "Can you see me?"

"Yes, I can see you."

Sam considered a minute. Then he started pointing at stuff. "Bush, tree, pond, rock, fire, well, ash anyway, pig, saddle, saddle bags, coffee pot. Did you get all that?"

"Yes. Kor o lating." Then there was a pause. "Analysis complete. Is Farn a locality?"

"Yes. I think so. It's a place anyway."

"Would you like to visit the keep?"

That had been almost clear. Sam shrugged. "Might as well."

A glowing speck of light appeared. "Falla."

"Follow." Sam mounted Porky and followed the light. "Are you a machine?"

"Yes. I am an artoficial intelegence. A.I."

Sam nodded. "Who lives here? Who's the owner?"

Things were silent for a moment. "Sam Merchantson."

"Ah . . ." Sam sat back and Porky obediently stopped. The machine must have misunderstood him. "Sam Merchantson is my name. What is the name of the owner here?"

"Sam Merchantson."

"I don't understand?" This was going to take more time than Sam had thought.

"Who is the owner of Porky?"

Sam lied. "I am. Sam Merchantson is the owner of Porky."

"Sam Merchantson is the owner of Porky and Sam Merchantson is the owner of the keep. Shiders rits."

"Shiders rits?" Sam asked.

What followed was a half comprehensible dissertation on old style law that seemed to mean that Sam owned the valley and everything in it.

****

It was a darn good thing the AI had furnished the light, because the door to this place was very well hidden. Besides, Sam was so busy working out whether the AI meant what it sounded like it meant that he'd probably have missed it altogether. When he finally looked up Sam realized that someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make the door look like just another chunk of the natural rock wall. The keep was built right into the wall of the valley.

"Where is your stable?" Sam asked.

"The keep doesn't have a stable."

"Why not?"

"Mr. Buckley didn't approve of pormels. He used a flyer when he left the premises."

Sam didn't want to leave Porky unattended. Besides, he wanted to test something. "Well, I guess I'll bring him inside till I can work out some sort of stable," he said, figuring the AI would object and that give him at hint who really owned this valley.

He was wrong.

****

Music played gently, as the lights came up. Sam slowly woke up and stretched. This was sure as heck different from sleeping on the ground and being kicked awake by the trail boss. "What's for breakfast?" he asked without getting up.

"Potato cakes topped with strawberry jam and catfish from the pond."

Sam frowned. "What's with the food? There's never any bread."

"I am sorry, but all the flour went bad centuries ago. Mr. Buckley had a vegetable garden for relaxation. He also grew potatoes and several nut trees. However, the homestead was not designed to be truly self-supporting."

Sam nodded. "Makes sense. The valley ain't really big enough for a real farm. What are you feeding Porky?"

"Fish from the pond for protein and jams for energy, which is quite adequate. Pormel were designed to be flexible in their food sources."

"Designed? Pigs were designed?"

"Yes. They are not actually pigs. The pormel is a genetically engineered animal primarily based on the domestic swine, but with horse and camel genes, as well as wholly artificial gene structures included in its makeup. They can eat almost anything, even derive some nourishment from dirt."

Sam laughed and got out of bed. "That's true enough. I've seen pigs do it. What's a horse?" On the wall screen opposite Sam's bed there appeared an image of a horse standing next to a picture of Porky. "Now that is a funny looking critter."

Then Sam considered the implications. "Porky is tech?" Sam started laughing. "The firsters must not have known that. They'd have killed them all."

"I don't understand," the AI said. "Why would the firsters object to pormels being engineered?"

"Well, Old Carter didn't really know why. Just that in the early days it was believed that using tech, even knowing how to read, would call down demons on you and they would throw lightning at you or burn you up."

The conversation was interrupted as Sam went through his morning routine and resumed when he arrived at the dining niche.

"So had I been discovered in the early days, the firsters would have objected."

"They'd have burned you down then taken axes to what was left." Sam grinned. "'Course, there was no one living out here then. Everyone lived near the coast."

The AI projected a map on the table and Sam resisted the urge to tell it to stop doing things like that. He figured if he told it to stop it would and he figured he needed to get used to this sort of thing.

He looked at the map that the AI had put on the table. It was like looking down at the world from a great height. At the same time, the map was wrong. "That place there, where you show a city by the ocean. There's no city there, never has been. That bay extends inland ten miles or so and there are cliffs all around it." Sam pointed to the most obvious error in the map.

The map changed, zooming in on the place he was pointing. Then a circular bay appearing "like this?" the AI asked.

"Sort of." He and the AI refined the image. Sam drew with his finger and the AI corrected the map as he indicated, till they had it pretty much the way Sam remembered from when he was a boy.

"Sam, what you have described here looks like the results of a kinetic strike."

Sam sighed. "What's a kinetic strike?"

"In this case, a rock about four hundred feet across was dropped out of the sky on Landing. It would have hit the city so hard there would have been nothing left but the hole you describe. It would have filled with water, making that round bay."

Sam looked at the map again. "Uh. That ain't the only hole like that near the coast. There must be over fifty of them. I grew up in that part of the world."

The AI drew other dots along the coast. "There?"

It looked mostly right, but he pointed at one dot. "There wasn't one there. He said that's where they found the how-to books about two hundred years ago. Old Carter was crazy for those books." Sam considered. "Sounds like the firsters might have had a point. It sure looks like the demons hit those places hard. So why didn't they get you?"

"In all probability they didn't hit the Buckley homestead for three reasons. First, the strike was only a few years after the colony was established and the Buckley homestead was located farther away from Landing than any other homestead. Second, the homestead systems were partially shut down while Mr. Buckley was on business in Landing. Finally, the homestead was built into the rock and effectively shielded from casual detection."

"That explains why the demons didn't hit you then. What about now?"

"It is likely that the Eeestrang are your Demons," the AI said. "In that case, the chance that they are still in the system are remote. Humanity had been fighting a war with them and had mostly won it by the time the colony set out. The war was why this world was settled. This system didn't have a world that was really suitable for the Eeestrang. They like slightly heavier worlds with much denser atmospheres."

Sam sat back down and propped his feet on the table in front of him. "So, you're saying the demons were real but they're gone now? Just how sure of that last part are you? Getting a demon's rock on my head ain't something I'm looking forward to."

"The probability approaches unity." There was a short pause, then the AI rephrased its statement. "As close to absolutely sure as makes no difference. They couldn't have stayed in this system without noticing that man had survived and if they had seen it they would have attacked. Their hatred of humanity is close to pathological."

"One more question." Sam paused. "Make that two. What do I call you?"

"Whatever you feel comfortable with. You can call me AI or give me any name that suits you. It's a matter of personal taste; some people preferred to name their household AI. Mr. Buckley never felt the need."

"All right if I call you Alen?"

"That would be fine."

"Okay then, Alen. Why didn't you do something when the demons attacked? Don't get me wrong, I'm glad you’re here. But why did you just sit out here and do nothing when everyone was dying?"

There was silence for a few moments. Then Alen started talking again. "This may be difficult for you to understand, but I am not like a person. In most ways, I am not even a single entity. If all that is needed to perform a specific function is a gauge and a switch . . ."

Sam started losing track. He kept listening, his eyebrows drawing closer and closer together until his head started hurting. Finally, Alen said, "When Mr. Buckley left for Landing, there were no instructions to take any action save maintenance of the property and preventing unlawful entry."

Sam looked at the map still on the table. "You slept through it?"

"In a way, yes."

****

Sam put down the wrench, stood and stretched, then shook his shirt back into place. "How's that, Alen?"

"Quite good."

Sam grinned. He knew that the drones could attach the pipes, even that they could probably do it better. But he was starting to think of the valley as his home, and he wanted it to be, at least a little bit, the product of his hands. Besides, he liked the work. Sam looked and felt better than he had since he was a kid and he knew he owed it to Alen.

"Well, Porky, do you approve?" The pipes were to deliver water to Porky's new stable and the pig had been watching him as he installed them. Now he strolled over and sniffed Sam's hair.

"Well, I guess that means yes." Sam laughed and scratched Porky's ears. "You know, Alen, Old Carter was right. Tech is a good thing. It's needed out in the world."

"In that case, for your safety and to improve contact, I would recommend a phone implant."

"What's that?"

When Sam learned what the term meant, he was a lot less sure of his comfort level with technology. Still, he allowed the implant. After all, he had already allowed the first-aid station to fix his teeth, give him vitamin shots, de-worm him, and generally perform care and maintenance for a human male. The phone implant couldn't be that bad.

****

Sam sat on the tall rock and looked at the sunset. He was about twenty miles west of the valley and had just climbed this chimney rock to place a sensor for Alen. It was a sheet of black plastic solar cell about a yard across, a set of cameras, a set of weather sensors and a transmitter/receiver. All of it folded up to be easy to carry and weighed only a couple of pounds. "Alen, how are you reading me?"

"The signal is clear and strong," Alen said. "There is a crag beast moving from the northeast. However, it is unlikely to come into range unless you move."

"Let it go then. We have enough meat for now. Once I'm through watching the sunset, I'm heading home."

"Very good, sir." Sam thought he heard relief in Alen's voice.

****

"Alen, if anyone outside the valley learns about this stuff," Sam waved to indicate the room in general and all the devices in it, "it's eventually going to get back to some lord. At which point, they are going to find some reason why it ought to belong to them. That's why I don't want to take any tech with me. Someone goes through my stuff and finds tech, the local lord is going to want to know where I got it."

Four months after his arrival in the valley, Sam was bored out of his mind. Besides which, he felt like he would kill for a taste of corn bread and beans and die for a cold beer. "They might not recognize Porky or me with the dye jobs you worked up, but a machine will get me into all sorts of hot water."

Before Alen could start up again, Sam waved a hand. "Just don't start, Alen. You know I need to do it. There's stuff we need that you can't do without, like seeds. You did a fine job maintaining the place but it's not set up to support a man all by itself. Besides, I'm going crazy here with just you and Porky to talk to."

Sam could almost hear Alen sigh. "You're much safer here." That was true enough. The gap in the perimeter of the valley had been fixed and even an army couldn't get in here. "It's much harder to protect you if you leave. There's a price on your head."

The bounty had kept him here an extra month, but it wasn't going to keep him here forever. "Alen, if I don't get out of here for a while, I'm going to go plumb nuts. There's only so much of a man's own company he can stand."

"Very well. I still suggest that you take proper equipment. It can be disguised."

"What sort of equipment? And I'm going to need regular clothes, too." The AI had provided him with house clothes and work clothes, for the occasional job that he could do better than the drones. They were comfortable enough but would stand out. The guns that he had used to hunt around the valley were very nice, but they were also very dependent on reloads from the homestead. "Lots of this stuff I can't use for very long away from here."

"That is a concern," Alen agreed, "but the homestead has a very nice shop."

****

Sam spent another couple of weeks equipping himself. He had his phone implant but that had a limited range without repeater stations. He'd be taking some along with him, setting them up in hidden locations.

Porky got a phone implant, too. Saddle pigs were often trained to follow voice commands and Porky had gotten used to Alen's disembodied voice. Porky's saddle was equipped with a stronger transmitter/receiver. Sam's pistol, which was basically a short, double-barreled, muzzle-loading shotgun was replaced with a six-shooter cap lock, which would be seen as unusual but not magical. He could carry a lot more caps than he could bullets. He even had a personal computer made to look like a book.

****

Sam took aim and fired. The rock next to the one he was aiming at went flying. "Close enough, I reckon. Damn rock isn't as big as a man." He turned to the cleaning kit and started restoring his six-shooter to order. "We'll head out tomorrow. By the time we get back, it'll be prime time to plant the corn and wheat."

"The last of your kit is ready," Alen said.

"I thought we'd already gotten everything." The last thing Sam wanted was yet another piece of equipment to lug around.

"You'll see."

****

"Are you trying to make a target out of me?" Sam stared at Alen's latest creation with his mouth hanging open. "Anybody sees all that damn white and they won't have any trouble shooting me out of the saddle."

"It's white to repel the sun's rays." Alen even sounded a bit impatient. "It's based on a greatcoat from Earth in the early twentieth century. The important point is that the thread is incredibly strong."

Sam picked up the coat. It was lighter than he expected, but the fabric was stiff. "It's too white. Folks have white cloth, but it's not this white. Why do I need this?"

"Because it will stop or at least drastically slow any bullet you are likely to encounter. It wouldn't be effective against modern armor-piercing rounds, but against a piece of soft lead traveling at less than the speed of sound, it should work quite well."

****

Maggie tucked a stray lock of her too curly hair behind her ear and scrubbed at the spot on the bar again. The bar had been a much classier place when Pa was alive, back before Baron Wright had taken over the surrounding area.

Since then, anyone who didn't have to stay had moved on, so help was harder to come by. Handling the place on her own was getting harder and things were going downhill.

When a shadow fell over the spot she was trying to clean, Maggie looked up. The western sun was shining, backlighting a man's form in the door. His coat seemed to glow, it was so white. His hat was black, with a flat brim that didn't sag the way most hat brims did and a fancy hat band.

Probably a new bullyboy, she thought. Baron Wright hired a new one every now and then.

He came over to the bar, apparently ignorant of the fact that at least half the people in the place were watching him. "I'll have a beer."

"Three pinches." Maggie didn't quite sneer. She didn't expect this dandy to have ever panned for gold.

"Pinches?"

"Of gold dust. This is a mining town, people usually pay in gold."

He reached into his coat and came up with a silver coin. "This do?"

Maggie turned the coin in her hand. Silver, was rarely seen. She nodded. "That'll get you a beer." She pulled a mug from the rack, then tapped a keg.

The stranger sipped his beer. "Seems pretty high for a beer."

"Not a lot grows in Torton. About everything has to be shipped in. Including the beer."

He nodded understanding, then frowned. "I figure at this rate I'll be broke about sundown tomorrow."

"Maybe you should ask the baron for more money." Maggie kept the scorn out of her voice with some effort, but the man surprised her with his response.

He laughed. "I'll consider it, if you'll tell me where to find him. I'd like to meet the baron who gives his money away."

"You don't work for the baron?" She watched as the man shook his head. "And you don't even know the baron? How can that be?"

"Why should I know him?" His face showed what seemed to be honest ignorance.

"The only ways into town are from the baron's lands or from the bad . . ." She paused. "You came out of the badlands?"

****

The woman's voice had squeaked on that last question. Sam forced a grin. "Sure. There's no law against that, is there?" Sam was beginning to wonder what was going on. The badlands were about three hundred miles across and had little water, but they weren’t really all that dangerous. They were mostly just sand and rock, with the occasional spine plant and crag beast. He had crag beast pelts with him, in fact.

"Where'd you come from? There's nothing out there." The young woman bit her bottom lip, and waved toward the west. "No water, no people."

"Ah . . . well." Sam didn't want to lie but he and Alen had decided that it was best if he pretended to be a crag beast hunter. There were always a few people willing to dare the badlands. "I've been hunting. Haven't been in to a town in like onto a year." Sam wasn't comfortable saying it, since it felt like a lie even if it was the literal truth.

The woman gave him a look that said she didn't believe him.

"I have half a dozen pelts with me. And more at my camp."

Crag beasts were native to this planet, something he hadn't known till he had gotten to the homestead. They had very tough skins that made excellent boot leather and quite tasty meat, although it was missing some essential nutrients. Eating a diet of crag beast produced a condition similar to rickets, according to Alen. They worked fine as long as you had Earth foods as a good part of your diet.

And speaking of diet . . .

"Where can I go to eat? And I'll want to rent a room for the night."

The woman seemed to pull herself together. "Oh, we've got a dining room." She pointed. "Just go in there. And rooms are upstairs. You want a bath, that's extra." She looked around, then seemed to spy the person she was looking for. "Hiram, you take the bar. And stay out of the whiskey."

An old codger that looked about a hundred years old stopped his useless sweeping of the back corner. "Yes'm, Miss Maggie." Sam took a harder look. No, not a hundred years old. Just rode too hard for too long, like a lot of people out here. Hiram probably wasn't more than fifty or so, but his lack of teeth made him look older. He followed Maggie through the door.

"You can sit there." Maggie waved at the table, already set for two people. "I'll go get dinner finished up. Not a lot of call for it, these days, so I do the cooking myself. I've got beans and cornbread ready and warm. Take a few minutes to fry you a steak."

Sam's mouth started watering at the thought. He hadn't had cornbread or beans in ages. "Skip the steak, Miss Maggie. A double helping of the rest." He drained the beer. "And one more beer, please, ma'am."

****

Maggie hadn't seen a man eat beans with greater enjoyment in her life. This man looked to be starving for them. Half a skillet of cornbread later, he leaned back in the chair and burped. Then blushed about it. She hid a grin. "Need something else, stranger?"

He shook his head and hid another burp. "Call me Sam. And, no, ma'am. Those were about the best I ever tasted, but I'm gonna explode if I eat another bite."

Maggie cocked her head to the side, then sat down at the table. "So, you know your way around the badlands?"

"Some. More than most. They're not as bad as people think. You've got to be careful of your water. Travel in the cool parts of the day and at night. Find shade when it's hottest." His eyes were heavy, as though he was about ready to sleep.

Maggie got up and got him a room key. "Upstairs. Second door on the right. You look like you could use some sleep."

Once he was gone, Maggie went back to the bar. While she was busy feeding Sam, several more men had come in, but none of them belonged to the baron. "Ed, Walt? How about a drink? Hiram, bring us a drink. Whiskey. The good stuff."

****

Maggie's father had been the mayor for years before he died. Ed Wilton had once been the sheriff, until one of the baron's men had taken over two years ago in a rigged election. Walt Grange was the city clerk and judge. He kept the job, trying to protect the townspeople as best he could. It was a losing battle, but he tried.

Hiram brought a rare glass bottle and three clay shot glasses, along with a deck of cards. Maggie poured generously; Ed and Walt threw back their drinks and she poured again. Maggie looked around the bar again. No one was showing any interest in them, which was just as well. She kept her voice low. "He knows the badlands."

There was only one way to Gilden City that didn't go through the badlands and the last two supply trains had taken it and gone missing. The townspeople were convinced that Baron Wright was behind it. If they lost another train, they wouldn't be able to pay their taxes to the king, putting them in the baron's power. Things were desperate enough that they were prepared to try the trek across the desert, if they could find a guide.

Walt started shuffling the cards. "Six card stud." Then, more quietly, "Reckon he'll do it?"

"He doesn't seem to be the type to work for Wright." Maggie shrugged. "All we can do is watch him for a day or two, see what happens."

****

"These are good hides. How'd you get them cured so even?" Jared Beasley, the hideman and bootmaker was a wiry little guy with hands about as callused as Sam had ever seen. Sam wasn't surprised by the question. He just grinned and didn't say a word.

Jared Beasley grinned back. "Can't blame a man for trying. I'll buy the lot for two ounces each, if you'll give me a couple of days to put together the money. I can give you half now, half in two days. That work all right?"

Sam nodded. "I'll be staying over at Miss Maggie's place." It was a fair price, more than he would have expected to get, but less than he would need to get supplied here. He was probably going to have to head for another town to buy the things he needed for the valley.

Jared smiled. "You do that. And watch out for Walt Grange. The man plays a mean game of poker."

****

Sam walked into Miss Maggie's place without a care in the world, until he saw the round shield that was the traditional symbol of a lawman. It was pinned to a fancy vest over a fancy shirt. Not a good quality shirt or a particularly clean one, just fancy. It went with the man wearing it. He motioned for Sam to join him at a table and when Sam was seated, he started the questioning.

"What are you doing here?" Sheriff Sims demanded.

Sam told him.

"Don't give me that cock and bull story, not dressed the way you are."

Damn. Sam had known the white coat was going to cause him trouble. "Look, Sheriff. A white coat is good in the badlands. It helps keep you cool in the heat of the day."

Sims just snorted. "If you're looking for a job, you need to see the baron."

"Not interested."

Sims gave Sam a hard look. "Hiring on with anyone else would be a real bad idea. Real bad."

"Wouldn't be the first bad idea I've had." Sam grinned, trying to lighten the mood. "Nor the last, probably."

"Might not be the first, mister. But you hire on with the townies, it'll damn sure be the last." Then he left. Sam wondered what was wrong with the people of this town.

****

That night Sims reported to the baron that the townies had found themselves a gun hand and maybe a guide through the badlands. Baron Wright was not entirely convinced, but sent men in to find out for sure and deal with the matter if he was. The baron probably should have given more explicit instructions, but he had a bit of a blind spot where Smiley Pomeroy was concerned.

****

Alen whispered in Sam's ear. "The odds are now twenty-eight to one against you getting the seven you need." Sam threw down his cards in disgust. He wasn't sure what it was, but this game sure wasn't going the way he had imagined. Alen was telling Sam the odds based on the cards in the deck and the cards showing on the table. Sam had figured it would give him a 'fair' advantage. It wasn't working out that way.

Walt Grange grinned and raked in the pot. "Sam, you're going to need our money if you keep throwing away perfectly good hands like that."

Dan Harris shook his head. "Wasn't a good hand. I figure Sam needed a seven." Sam looked at him curiously. "Sam, you may be a good hunter and you may know the badlands like the back of your hand but you have the worst poker face I . . ."

"Gun!" Alen shouted in his ear. "At the door!"

Sam tried to stand up and turn and dodge, all at the same time. He wasn’t the only one moving. Ed, who'd been facing the door, was busy upending the table. Walt was rolling away from it and going for his gun. The table intersected Sam's left leg as he tried to spin to his right.

Blam! Blam! The first shots rang out just before Sam hit the floor.

Alen was still talking. "Two men at the door. You are their target."

Sam struggled to get his six-shooter out as he rolled but the silly ass coat was getting in the way. Blam! Sam felt like he had been kicked in the left shoulder, hard.

Blam! A bullet hit the floor, way too close to Sam's face.

He finally got his gun out and started to get up. "Stay down!" Alen instructed him. "Shoot from where you are." So Sam stayed down.

Crack!

He missed.

Crack! This time, he hit one of them. By then, the other one had his second gun out and was lining up for another shot.

Crack!

The guy jerked in surprise. Blam! His shot hit the Sam' coat, right over his rear end. It hurt, a lot.

Sam took careful aim and fired again. Crack! The guy went down as if his strings had been cut. Sam looked for the other one, but he was gone.

Sam slowly rose to his feet. Slowly, because both his left shoulder and his butt hurt like the demons. The rest of the people in the bar were climbing out from whatever cover they had found during the gunfight.

Ed came from behind the table, looked at Sam, then looked at the body on the floor. "You know him?"

Sam looked. "Never saw him before."

"That," Maggie pointed to the corpse, "is one of Baron Wright's bullyboys and you know it, Ed."

"Yep. Sure do. I just wanted to know if Sam here did." He gave Maggie a look.

"Well, that pretty much puts paid to the notion that he's a spy for the baron," Walt Grange said.

"It pretty much puts paid to the notion that I was just going to wait for my money, then go back out." Sam looked around the bar. His left shoulder hurt and his right buttock hurt worse, but mostly he was just pissed off. "I'll take your job. Get the train ready. I'll lead it."

****

"More water. All you can get. And blankets. It gets colder than you'd think out there." Two wagons were already full of water barrels. Sam paused and consulted with Alen again. "And we're going to need some tents to block the sun in the heat of the day. Just some big chunks of cloth we can string between the wagons." There was a hidden spring on the way Sam intended to go, but it was seasonal and they were at the tail end of the season. Alen said it had water but not that much. "Water up the pigs good."

Hiram nodded. "We leaving tonight?"

"After the heat of the day and before dark. Get ahead of Wright's spies as much as we can."

****

Somebody must have let the baron know, because Sam's lunch got rudely interrupted. The baron and his sheriff joined him uninvited.

"You're under arrest for the murder of . . ." Sheriff Sims stopped as a low growl filled the room. He looked around. Every man in the bar had a gun ready to draw.

Walt Grange stood up and walked over to him. "Half the town council was here and saw the whole thing, Sheriff. Smiley and Tom had their guns out while Sam here was still sitting at the table looking the other way. The baron's man shot first. It was just lucky they missed. It was self-defense, by God."

"My men wouldn't have done that." Baron Wright was a dandified sort, all perfumed and pomaded. You could have greased a wagon wheel with the oil he had in his hair.

"You don't have any jurisdiction here, Baron Wright," Walt said. "However, if you wish to file a complaint we can do a trial right this minute." Walt picked up his whisky glass and emptied it in one gulp. "Probably a good idea at that."

He banged the whisky glass on the bar a couple of times. "The superior court of the free city of Torton is now in session." He looked over at