Norton, Andre - Anthology (34 page)

 
          
 
"It's a long story," said Alex
absent-mindedly. His thoughts at the moment were chiefly about food. "The
Draco was out on Survey, mapping new planetary systems, and our course happened
to take us close to this star, your sun, which we
knew
had been visited once before. We thought we'd look in and check on conditions,
as well as resting ourselves on an Earth-type world. I was one of the several
who went out in scoutboats to skim over this continent. Something went wrong,
my engines failed, and I barely escaped with my life. I parachuted out, and as
bad luck would have it, my boat crashed in a river. So—well— due to various
other circumstances, I just had to start hiking back toward my ship."

 
          
 
"Won't yore pardners come after
yo'?"

 
          
 
"Sure, they'll search—but how likely are
they to find a shattered wreck on the bottom of a river, with half a continent
to investigate? I could, perhaps, have grubbed a big SOS in the soil and hoped
it would be seen from the air, but what with the necessity of hunting food and
all . . . well, I figured my best chance was to keep moving. But now I'm hungry
enough to eat a ... a buffalo."

 
          
 
"Ain't likely to have buffalo meat in
town," said the Hoka imperturbably. "But we got good T-bone
steaks."

 
          
 
"Oh," said Alex.

 
          
 
"Yo' wouldn't a lasted long, hoofin'
it," said Monty. "Ain't got
no
gun."

 
          
 
"No, thanks to—never mind!" said
Alex. "I thought I'd try to make a bow and some arrows."

 
          
 
"Bow an' arrers—say!" Monty squinted
suspiciously at him. "What yo' been doin' around the Injuns?"

 
          
 
"I ain't—I haven't been near any Injuns,
dammit!"

 
          
 
"Bows an' arrers
is
Injun weapons, stranger."

 
          
 
"I wish they
was
,"
mourned Tex. "We didn't have no trouble back when only Hokas had six-guns.
But now the Injuns got 'em too, it's all up with us." A tear trickled down
his button nose.

 
          
 
If the cowboys are teddy bears, thought Alex,
then who — or what— are the Indians?

 
          
 
"It's lucky for yo' me an' Tex happened
to pass by," said Monty. "We
was
out to see
if we couldn't round up a few more steers afore the Injuns get here. No such luck,
though. The greenskins done rustled 'em all."

 
          
 
Greenskins! Alex remembered a detail in the
report of the first expedition: two intelligent races, the mammalian Hokas and
the reptilian Slissii. And the Slissii, being stronger and more warlike, preyed
on the Hokas—

 
          
 
"Are the Injuns Slissii?" he asked.

 
          
 
"Wa'l, they're onery, at least,"
said Monty.

 
          
 
"I mean . . . well ... are they big tall
beings, bigger than I am, but walking sort of stooped over . . . tails and
fangs and green skins, and their talk is full of hissing noises?"

 
          
 
"Why, shore. What else?" Monty shook
his head, puzzled. "If yo're a human, how come yo' don't even know what
a
Injun is?"

           
 
They had been plop-plopping toward a large and
noisy dust cloud. As they neared, Alex saw the cause, a giant herd of—uh—

 
          
 
"Longhorn steers," explained Monty.

 
          
 
Well . . . yes . . . one long horn apiece, on
the snout. But at least the red-haired, short-legged, barrel-bodied
"cattle" were mammals. Alex made out brands on the flanks of some.
The entire herd was being urged along by fast-riding Hoka cowboys.

 
          
 
"That's the X Bar X outfit," said
Tex. "The Lone Rider decided to try an' drive 'em ahead o' the Injuns. But
I'm afeerd the greenskins'll catch up with him purty soon."

 
          
 
"
He
cain't do
much else," answered Monty. "All the ranchers, just about, are
drivin' their stock off the range. There just ain't any place short o' the
Devil's Nose whar we can make a stand. /
shore
don't
intend tryin' to stay in town an' hold off the Injuns, an' I don't think nobody
else does either, in spite o' Slick an' the Lone Rider wantin' us to."

 
          
 
"Hey," objected Alex, "I
thought you said the, er, Lone Rider was fleeing. Now you say he wants to
fight. Which is it?"

 
          
 
"Oh, the Lone Rider what owns the X Bar X
is runnin', but the Lone Rider o' the Lazy T wants to stay. So do the Lone
Rider o' Buffalo Stomp, the Really Lone Rider, an' the Loneliest Rider, but
I'll bet they
changes
their minds when the Injuns gets
as close to them as the varmints is to us right now."

 
          
 
Alex clutched his head to keep it from flying
off his shoulders. "How many Lone Riders are there, anyway?" he
shouted.

 
          
 
"How should I know?" shrugged Monty.
"I
knows
at least ten myself. I gotta say,"
he
added exasperatedly, "that English shore ain't got
as many names as the old Hoka did. It gets gosh-awful tiresome to have a
hundred other Montys around or yell for
Tex
an' be asked which one."

 
          
 
They passed the bawling herd at a jog trot and
topped a low rise. Beyond it
lay
a village, perhaps a
dozen small frame houses and a single rutted street lined with square-built,
false-fronted structures. The place was jammed with Hokas—on foot, mounted, in
covered wagons and buggies —refugees from the approaching Injuns, Alex decided.
As he was carried down the hill, he saw a clumsily lettered sign.

 
          
 
WELCOME TO CANYON GULCH

 
          
 
Pop. Weekdays 212 Saturdays 1000

 
          
 
"We'll take yo' to Slick," said
Monty above the hubbub. "He'll know what to do with yo'."

 
          
 
They forced their ponies slowly through the
swirling, pressing, jabbering throng. The Hokas seemed to be a highly excitable
race, given to arm-waving and shouting at the top of their lungs. There was no
organization whatsoever to the evacuation, which proceeded slowly with its
traffic tie-ups, arguments, gossip exchange, and exuberant pistol shooting into
the air. Quite a few ponies and wagons stood deserted before the saloons, which
formed an almost solid double row along the street.

 
          
 
Alex tried to remember what there had been in
the report of the first expedition. It was a brief
report,
the ship had only been on Toka for a couple of months. But—yes—the Hokas were
described as friendly, merry, amazingly quick to learn . . . and hopelessly
inefficient. Only their walled sea-coast towns, in a state of bronze-age technology,
had been able to stand off the Slissii; otherwise the reptiles were slowly but
steadily conquering the scattered ursinoid tribes. A Hoka fought bravely when
he was attacked, but shoved all thought of the enemy out of his cheerful mind
whenever the danger was not immediately visible. It never occurred to the Hokas
to band together in a massed offensive against the Slissii; such a race of
individualists could never have formed an army anyway.

 
          
 
A nice, but rather
ineffectual little people.
Alex felt somewhat smug about his own height,
his dashing spaceman's uniform, and the fighting, slugging, persevering human
spirit which had carried man out to the stars. He felt like an elder brother.

 
          
 
He'd have to do something about this
situation, give these comic-opera creatures a hand. Which might also involve a
promotion for Alexander Braithwaite Jones, since Earth wanted a plentiful
supply of planets with friendly dominant species, and the first report on the
Injuns—Slissii, blast it!
—made it unlikely that they could
ever get along with mankind.

 
          
 
A .
Jones, hero.
Maybe then Tanni and I can —

 
          
 
He grew aware that a fat, elderly Hoka was
gaping at him, together with the rest of Canyon Gulch. This particular one wore
a large metal star pinned to his vest.

 
          
 
"Howdy, sheriff," said Tex, and
snickered.

 
          
 
"Howdy, Tex, old
pal
,"
said the sheriff obsequiously.
"An' my good old sidekick
Monty too.
Howdy, howdy, gents. Who's this hyar stranger—not a
human?"

 
          
 
"Yep, that's what he says.
Whar's Slick?"

 
          
 
"Which Slick?"

 
          
 
"The Slick, yo'—yo'
sheriff!"

 
          
 
The fat Hoka winced. "I think he's in the
back room o' the Paradise Saloon," he said. And humbly: "Uh, Tex . .
. Monty . . . yo'll remember yore old pal come ee-lection day, won't yo'?"

 
          
 
"Reckon we might," said Tex
genially. "Yo' been sheriff long enough."

 
          
 
"Oh, thank yo', boys, thank yo'! If only
the others will have yore kind hearts—" The eddying crowd swept the
sheriff away.

 
          
 
"What off Earth?" exclaimed
Alex.
"What the hell was he trying to get you to
do?"

 
          
 
"Vote ag'in him come the next ee-lection,
o' course," said Monty.

 
          
 
"Against him?
But the sheriff ... he runs the town . . . maybe?"

 
          
 
Tex and Monty looked bewildered. "Now I
really wonder if yo're human after all," said Tex. "Why, the humans
themselves taught us the sheriff is the dumbest man in town. Only we don't
think
it's
fair a man should have to be called that
all his life, so we chooses him once a y'ar."

 
          
 
"Buck there has been elected sheriff
three times runnin'," said Monty. "He's really dumb!"

 
          
 
"But who is this Slick?" cried Alex
a trifle wildly.

 
          
 
"The town gambler,
o" course."

 
          
 
"What have I got to do with a town
gambler?"

 
          
 
Tex and Monty exchanged glances. "Look,
now," said Monty with strained patience, "we done allowed for a lot
with yo'. But when yo' don't even know what the officer is what runs a town,
that's goin' just a little too far."

 
          
 
"Oh," said Alex.
"A
kind of city manager, then."

 
          
 
"Yo're plumb loco," said Monty
firmly. "Ever body knows a town is run by a town gambler!"

 
          
 
Slick wore the uniform of his office: tight
pants, a black coat, a checked vest, a white shirt with wing collar and string
tie, a diamond stickpin, a Derringer in one pocket, and a pack of cards in the
other. He looked tired and harried; he must have been under a tremendous strain
in the last few days, but he welcomed Alex with eager volubility and led him
into an office furnished in vaguely 19th-century style. Tex and Monty came
along, barring the door against the trailing, chattering crowds.