the Red Indians he had been shooting at than any of the White-eyes with him.
“I’m all right. This lady needs help—”
One of the others turned the bodies over with his toe.
“These two ain’t dead, Hank.”
The leader, the one with the silver star, said: “See to Mrs. Story, Jess.” He eyed me meanly. “Reckon I don’t know you, mister.”
Carefully, I placed the axe down. The men stared into the room, seeing the lax forms of the Indians, the mess, the sobbing woman — and seeing me, scowling, black-browed, looking more mean and savage than any painted Indian busted loose they’d ever run across.
“I’m Dray Prescot,” I said, and although I tried to make my harsh voice easy, I knew my words spat out like the slugs from their guns. “This lady appeared in need of help.”
“You did fer them injuns?” The men looked perplexed. The woman, Mrs. Story, was assisted to her feet. The men talked about ‘gitting her to the doc’ and so I felt she was now safe. If the Star Lords had commanded me to rescue her and her baby, then I had done that. But there was no easy way now of my returning to Valka or Strombor. I was once more marooned on Earth, stranded and desolate on the planet of my birth.
My appearance was easily enough explained — I’d been raked out of bed by the fighting and had run to Mrs. Story’s assistance. But the posse eyed me askance for a space, until the easy open-handed way of the West, and question and counter-question, plus the convincing results of my handiwork plain to be seen sprawled on the floor, assured them of my bona fides. I managed to keep track of the situation and not betray an almost impossible to explain away ignorance of local conditions. The Indians had broken out, as they were wont to do, for down here the main fighting had been finished up a few years back.
Down around South Fork things erupted only now and then, and the main action had transferred north, where great disasters had shaken the nation. The local people were still jumpy. All the talk was of the frightful events of the 25th June last. The newspapers carried a leaked confidential report severely critical of Custer and his handling of the tactical situation at the Little Big Horn. I remembered the braves who had tried to do for me and was forced to wonder if not only the tactical but the strategical handling was amiss. They were men, like me, even if their skin was a coppery color. They were not Fristles or Rapas or Chuliks, and they also are men, if not like me.
Around that time a considerable amount of English money was being invested in the West. Having to face the catastrophic fact that the Star Lords had not pitched me into another part of Kregen but had dispatched me back to Earth, the world of my birth, I was still in no frame of mind to settle down. I had the opportunity of going partners more than once in a fine ranch; but I turned them all down. I took a swing through the Staked Plains and checked out Charles Goodnight’s JA Ranch, a spread he ran with John Adair’s money. They were just beginning their fabulous build up. Then I drifted west through El Paso and had me a rip-roaring time in Tombstone.
This was a couple of years before Wyatt Earp showed up with his kinfolk and Doc Holliday. Rather to my surprise I discovered that men would shoot whole magazines of Winchester ammunition away, or the full six shots from their Colts, and still not hit anything. I could draw reasonably fast; but did not make a habit of it. As to accuracy, given a gun I knew, I could hit what I aimed at. So I stayed out of trouble and drifted north. The 2nd August had witnessed the shooting of Hickok, in Carl Mann’s Saloon in Deadwood. Already, men wouldn’t play a hand of cards consisting of aces and eights.
So I drifted around the frontier, not doing much of anything. As I have said before, it is not my purpose to tell you of my life here on this Earth. Certainly I got myself into a few scrapes and tight
“I’m all right. This lady needs help—”
One of the others turned the bodies over with his toe.
“These two ain’t dead, Hank.”
The leader, the one with the silver star, said: “See to Mrs. Story, Jess.” He eyed me meanly. “Reckon I don’t know you, mister.”
Carefully, I placed the axe down. The men stared into the room, seeing the lax forms of the Indians, the mess, the sobbing woman — and seeing me, scowling, black-browed, looking more mean and savage than any painted Indian busted loose they’d ever run across.
“I’m Dray Prescot,” I said, and although I tried to make my harsh voice easy, I knew my words spat out like the slugs from their guns. “This lady appeared in need of help.”
“You did fer them injuns?” The men looked perplexed. The woman, Mrs. Story, was assisted to her feet. The men talked about ‘gitting her to the doc’ and so I felt she was now safe. If the Star Lords had commanded me to rescue her and her baby, then I had done that. But there was no easy way now of my returning to Valka or Strombor. I was once more marooned on Earth, stranded and desolate on the planet of my birth.
My appearance was easily enough explained — I’d been raked out of bed by the fighting and had run to Mrs. Story’s assistance. But the posse eyed me askance for a space, until the easy open-handed way of the West, and question and counter-question, plus the convincing results of my handiwork plain to be seen sprawled on the floor, assured them of my bona fides. I managed to keep track of the situation and not betray an almost impossible to explain away ignorance of local conditions. The Indians had broken out, as they were wont to do, for down here the main fighting had been finished up a few years back.
Down around South Fork things erupted only now and then, and the main action had transferred north, where great disasters had shaken the nation. The local people were still jumpy. All the talk was of the frightful events of the 25th June last. The newspapers carried a leaked confidential report severely critical of Custer and his handling of the tactical situation at the Little Big Horn. I remembered the braves who had tried to do for me and was forced to wonder if not only the tactical but the strategical handling was amiss. They were men, like me, even if their skin was a coppery color. They were not Fristles or Rapas or Chuliks, and they also are men, if not like me.
Around that time a considerable amount of English money was being invested in the West. Having to face the catastrophic fact that the Star Lords had not pitched me into another part of Kregen but had dispatched me back to Earth, the world of my birth, I was still in no frame of mind to settle down. I had the opportunity of going partners more than once in a fine ranch; but I turned them all down. I took a swing through the Staked Plains and checked out Charles Goodnight’s JA Ranch, a spread he ran with John Adair’s money. They were just beginning their fabulous build up. Then I drifted west through El Paso and had me a rip-roaring time in Tombstone.
This was a couple of years before Wyatt Earp showed up with his kinfolk and Doc Holliday. Rather to my surprise I discovered that men would shoot whole magazines of Winchester ammunition away, or the full six shots from their Colts, and still not hit anything. I could draw reasonably fast; but did not make a habit of it. As to accuracy, given a gun I knew, I could hit what I aimed at. So I stayed out of trouble and drifted north. The 2nd August had witnessed the shooting of Hickok, in Carl Mann’s Saloon in Deadwood. Already, men wouldn’t play a hand of cards consisting of aces and eights.
So I drifted around the frontier, not doing much of anything. As I have said before, it is not my purpose to tell you of my life here on this Earth. Certainly I got myself into a few scrapes and tight
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