Norton, Andre - Anthology (35 page)

 
          
 
"We'll rustle up some sandwiches for yo
beamed Slick. He offered Alex a vile purple cigar of some local weed, lit one
himself, and sat down behind the rolltop desk. "Now," he said,
"when can we get help from yore human friends?"

 
          
 
"Not soon, I'm afraid," said Alex.
"The Draco crew doesn't know about this. They'll be spending all their
time flying around in search of me. Unless they chance to find me here, which
isn't likely, they won't even learn about the Injun war."

 
          
 
"How long they figger to be here?"

 
          
 
"Oh, they'll wait at least a month before
giving me up for dead and leaving the planet."

 
          
 
"We can get yo' to the seacoast in that
time, by hard ridin', but it'd mean takin' a short cut through some territory,
which the Injuns is between us and it." Slick paused courteously while
Alex untangled that one. "Yo'd hardly have a chance to sneak through. So,
it looks like the only way we can get yo' to yore friends is to beat the
Injuns. Only we can't beat the Injuns without help from yore friends."

 
          
 
Gloom.

 
          
 
To change the subject, Alex tried to learn
some Hoka history. He succeeded beyond expectations, Slick proving surprisingly
intelligent and well-informed.

 
          
 
The first expedition had landed thirty-odd
years ago. At the time, its report had drawn little Earthly interest; there
were so many new planets in the vastness of the galaxy. Only now, with the
Draco as a forerunner, was the League making any attempt to organize this
frontier section of space.

 
          
 
The first Earthmen had been met with eager
admiration by the Hoka tribe near whose village they landed. The autochthones
were linguistic adepts and between their natural abilities and modern
psychography had learned English in a matter of days. To them, the humans were
almost gods, though like most primitives they were willing to frolic with their
deities.

 
          
 
Came the fatal evening.
The expedition had set up an outdoor stereoscreen to entertain itself with
films. Hitherto the Hokas had been interested but rather puzzled spectators.
Now, tonight, at First Officer Wesley's insistence, an old film was reshown. It
was a Western.

 
          
 
Most spacemen develop hobbies on their long
voyages. Wesley's was the old American West. But he looked at it through
romantic lenses; he had a huge stack of novels and magazines but very little
factual material.

 
          
 
The Hokas saw the film and went wild.

 
          
 
The captain finally decided that their
delirious, ecstatic reaction was due to this being something they could
understand. Drawing-room comedies and interplanetary adventures meant little to
them in terms of their own experience, but here was a country like their own,
heroes who fought savage enemies, great herds of animals, gaudy costumes—

 
          
 
And it occurred to the captain and to Wesley
that this race could find very practical use for certain elements of the old
Western culture. The Hokas had been farmers, scratching a meager living out of
prairie soil never meant to be plowed; they went about on foot, their tools
were bronze and stone—they could do much better for themselves, given some
help.

 
          
 
The ship's metallurgists had had no trouble
reconstructing the old guns, Colt and Derringer and carbine. The Hokas had to
be taught how to smelt iron, make steel and gunpowder, handle lathes and mills;
but here again, native quickness and psychographic instruction combined to make
them learn easily. Likewise they leaped at the concept of domesticating the
wild beasts they had hitherto hunted.

 
          
 
Before the ship left, Hokas were breaking
"ponies" to the saddle and rounding up "longhorns." They
were making treaties with the more civilized agricultural and maritime cities
of the coast, arranging to ship meat in exchange for wood, grain, and
manufactured goods. And they were gleefully slaughtering every Slissii war-band
that came against them.

 
          
 
As a final step, just before he left, Wesley
gave his collection of books and magazines to the Hokas.

 
          
 
None of this had been in the ponderous
official report Alex read: only the notation that the ursinoids had been shown
steel metallurgy, the use of chemical weapons, and the benefits of certain
economic forms. It had been hoped that with this aid they could subdue the
dangerous Slissi, so that if man finally started coming here regularly, he
wouldn't have a war on his hands.

 
          
 
Alex could fill in the rest. Hoka enthusiasm
had run wild. The new way of life was, after all, very practical and well
adapted to the plains—so why not go all the way, be just like the human
godlings in every respect? Talk English with the stereofilm accent, adopt human
names, human dress, human mannerisms, dissolve the old tribal organizations and
replace them with ranches and towns—it followed very naturally. And it was so
much more fun.

 
          
 
The books and magazines couldn't circulate
far; most of the new gospel went by word of mouth. Thus certain
oversimplifications crept in.

 
          
 
Three decades passed. The Hokas matured
rapidly, a second generation which had been born to Western ways was already
prominent in the population. The past was all but forgotten. The Hokas spread
westward across the plains, driving the Slissii before them.

           
 
Until, of course, the Slissii learned how to
make firearms too. Then, with their greater military talent, they raised an
army of confederated tribes and proceeded to shove the Hokas back. This time
they would probably continue till they had sacked the very cities of the coast.
The bravery of individual Hokas was no match for superior numbers better
organized.

 
          
 
And one of the Injun armies was now roaring
down on Canyon Gulch. It could not be many kilometers away, and there was
nothing to stop it. The Hokas gathered their families and belongings from the
isolated ranch houses and fled. But with typical inefficiency, most of the
refugees fled no further than this town; then they stopped and discussed
whether to make a stand or hurry onward, and meanwhile they had just one more little
drink. . . .

 
          
 
"You mean you haven't even tried to
fight?" asked Alex.

 
          
 
"What could we do?" answered Slick.
"Half the folks 'ud be ag'in the idea an' wouldn't have nothin' to do with
it. Half o' those what did come would each have their own little scheme, an'
when we didn't follow it, they'd get mad an' walk off. That don't leave
none
too many."

 
          
 
"Couldn't you, as the leader, think of
some compromise —some plan, which would satisfy everybody?"

 
          
 
"O' course not," said Slick stiffly.
"My own plan is the only right one."

 
          
 
"Oh, Lord!" Alex bit savagely at the
sandwich in his hand. The food had restored his strength, and the fluid fire
the Hokas called whiskey had given him a warm, courageous glow.

 
          
 
"The basic trouble is, your people just
don't know how to arrange a battle," he said. "Humans do."

 
          
 
"Yo're a powerful fightin' outfit,"
agreed Slick. There was
an adoration
in his beady
eyes, which Alex had complacently noticed on most of the faces in town. He
decided he rather liked it. But a demi-god has his obligations.

 
          
 
"What you need is a leader whom everyone
will follow without question," he went on.
"Namely
me."

 
          
 
"Yo' mean—" Slick drew a sharp
breath.
"Yo'?"

 
          
 
Alex nodded briskly. "Am I right, that
the Injuns are all on foot? Yes? Good. Then I know, from Earth history, what to
do. There must be several thousand Hoka males around, and they all have some
kind of firearms. The Injuns won't be prepared for a fast, tight cavalry
charge. It'll split their army wide open."

 
          
 
"Wa'l, I'll be hornswoggled,"
murmured Slick. Even Tex and Monty looked properly awed.

 
          
 
Suddenly Slick began turning handsprings about
the office. "Yahoo!" he cried. "I'm a rootin', tootin' son of a
gun, I was born with a pistol in each hand an' I teethed on rattlesnakes!"
He did a series of cartwheels. "My daddy was a catamount and my mother was
a
alligator. I can run faster backward than anybody
else can run forrad, I can jump over the outermost moon with one hand tied
behind me, I can fill an inside straight every time I draw, an' if any
sidewinder here says it ain't so, I'll fill him so full o' lead they'll mine
him!"

 
          
 
"What the hell?" gasped Alex,
dodging.

 
          
 
"The old human war-cry," explained
Tex, who had apparently resigned himself to his hero's peculiar ignorances.

 
          
 
"Let's go!" whooped Slick, and threw
open the office door. A tumultuous crowd surged outside. The gambler filled his
lungs and roared squeakily:

 
          
 
"Saddle yore hosses, gents, an' load yore
six-guns! We got us a human, an' he's gonna lead us all out to wipe the Injuns
off the range!"

 
          
 
The Hokas cheered till the false fronts
quivered around them, danced, somersaulted, and fired their guns into the air.
Alex shook Slick and wailed: "No, no, you bloody fool, not now! We have to
study the situation, send out scouts,
make
a
plan—"

 
          
 
Too late.
His
impetuous admirers swept him out into the street. He couldn't be heard above
the falsetto din; he tried to keep his footing and was only vaguely aware of
anything else. Someone gave him a six-shooter; he strapped it on as if in a
dream. Someone else gave him a lasso, and he made out the voice: "Rope
yoreself a bronc, Earthman, an' let's go!"

 
          
 
"Rope—" Alex grew groggily aware
that there was a corral just behind the saloon. The half-wild reptile ponies
galloped about inside it, excited by the noise. Hokas were deftly whirling
their lariats forth to catch their personal mounts.

 
          
 
"Go ahead!" urged the voice.
"Ain't got
no
time to lose."

 
          
 
Alex studied the cowboy nearest him. Lassoing
didn't look so hard. You held the rope here and here,
then
you swung the noose around your head like this —

 
          
 
He pulled and came crashing to the ground.
Through whirling dust, he saw that he had lassoed himself.

 
          
 
Tex pulled him to his feet and dusted him off.
"I ... I don't ride herd at home," he mumbled. Tex made no reply.

 
          
 
"I got a bronc for yo'," cried
another Hoka, reeling in his lariat. "A real spirited mustang!"

 
          
 
Alex looked at the pony. It looked back. It
had an evilly glittering little eye. At the risk of making a snap judgment, he
decided he didn't like it very much. There might be personality conflicts
between him and it.