Norton, Andre - Anthology (36 page)

 
          
 
"Come on, let's git goin'!" cried
Slick impatiently. He was astraddle a beast, which still bucked and reared, but
he hardly seemed to notice.

 
          
 
Alex shuddered, closed his eyes, wondered what
he had done to deserve this, and wobbled over to the pony. Several Hokas had
joined to saddle it for him. He climbed aboard. The Hokas released the animal.
There was a personality conflict.

 
          
 
Alex had a sudden feeling of rising and
spinning on a meteor that twisted beneath him. He grabbed for the saddle horn.
The front feet came down with a ten-gee
thump,
and he
lost his stirrups. Something on the order of a nuclear shell seemed to explode
in his vicinity.

 
          
 
Though it came up and hit him with unnecessary
hardness, he had never known anything
so
friendly as
the ground just then.

 
          
 
"Oof!" said Alex, and lay still.

 
          
 
A shocked, unbelieving silence fell on the
Hokas. The human hadn't been able to use a rope—now he had set a new record for
the shortest time in a saddle— what sort of human was this, anyway?

 
          
 
Alex sat up and looked into a ring of shocked
fuzzy faces. He gave them a weak smile. "I'm not a horseman either,"
he said.

 
          
 
"What the hell are yo', then?"
stormed Monty. "Yo' cain't rope, yo' cain't ride, yo' cain't talk right,
yo' cain't shoot—"

 
          
 
"Now hold on!" Alex climbed to
somewhat unsteady feet. "I admit I'm not used to a lot of things here,
because we do it differently on Earth. But I can outshoot any man . . . er, any
Hoka of you any day in the week and twice on Sundays!"

 
          
 
Some of the natives looked happy again, but
Monty only sneered.
"Yeah?"

 
          
 
"Yeah.
I'll prove
it." Alex looked about for a suitable target. For a change, he had no
worries. He was one of the best ray-thrower marksmen in the Fleet. "Throw
up a coin. I'll plug it through the middle."

           
 
The Hokas began looking awed. Alex gathered
that they weren't very good shots by any standards but their own. Slick beamed,
took a silver dollar from his pocket, and spun it into the air. Alex drew and
fired.

 
          
 
Unfortunately, raythrowers don't have recoil.
Revolvers do.

 
          
 
Alex went over on his back. The bullet broke a
window in the Last Chance Bar & Grill.

 
          
 
The Hokas began to laugh. It was a bitter kind
of merriment.

 
          
 
"Buck!" cried Slick. "Buck . .
. yo' thar, sheriff . . . c'mere!"

 
          
 
"Yes, sir, Mister
Slick, sir?"

 
          
 
"I don't think we need yo' for sheriff no
longer, Buck. I think we just found ourselves another one.
Gimme
yore badge!"

 
          
 
When Alex regained his feet, the star gleamed
on his tunic. And, of course, his proposed counter-attack had been forgotten.

 
          
 
He mooched glumly into Pizen's Saloon. During
the past few hours, the town had slowly drained itself of refugees as the
Injuns came horribly closer; but there were still a few delaying for one more
drink. Alex was looking for such company.

 
          
 
Being official buffoon wasn't too bad in
itself. The Hokas weren't cruel to those whom the gods had afflicted. But—
well—he had just ruined human prestige on this continent. The Service wouldn't
appreciate that.

 
          
 
Not that he would be seeing much of the
Service in the near future. He couldn't possibly reach the Draco now before she
left—without passing through territory held by the same Injuns whose army was
advancing on Canyon Gulch. It might be years till another expedition landed. He
might even be marooned here for life. Though come to think of it, that wouldn't
be a lot worse than the disgrace which would attend his return.

 
          
 
Gloom.

 
          
 
"Here, sheriff, let me buy yo' a
drink," said a voice at his elbow.

 
          
 
"Thanks," said Alex. The Hokas did
have the pleasant rule that the sheriff was always treated when he entered a
saloon. He had been taking heavy advantage of the custom, though it didn't seem
to lighten his depression much.

 
          
 
The Hoka beside him was a very aged specimen,
toothless and creaky. "I'm from Childish way," he introduced himself.
"They call me the Childish Kid.
Howdy, sheriff."

 
          
 
Alex shook hands, dully.

 
          
 
They elbowed their way to the bar. Alex had to
stoop under Hoka ceilings, but otherwise the rococco fittings were earnestly
faithful to their fictional prototypes—including a small stage where three
scantily clad Hoka females were going through a song-and-dance number while a
bespectacled male pounded a rickety piano.

 
          
 
The Childish Kid leered. "I know those
gals," he sighed.
"Some fillies, hey?
Stacked, don't yo' think?"

 
          
 
"Uh . . . yes," agreed Alex. Hoka
females had four mam-maries apiece. "Quite."

 
          
 
"Zunami an' Goda an' Torigi, that's their
names. If I warn't so danged old—"

 
          
 
"How come they have, er, non-English
names?" inquired Alex.

 
          
 
"We had to keep the old Hoka names for
our wimmim," said the Childish Kid. He scratched his balding head.
"It's bad enough with the men, havin' a hundred Hopalongs in the same
county . . . but how the hell can yo' tell yore wimmim apart when they're all
named Jane?"

 
          
 
"We have some named 'Hey, you' as
well," said Alex grimly. "And a lot more called 'Yes, dear.' "

 
          
 
His head was beginning to spin. This Hoka brew
was potent stuff.

 
          
 
Nearby stood two cowboys, arguing
with alcoholic loudness.
They were typical Hokas, which meant that to
Alex their tubby forms were scarcely to be distinguished from each other.
"I know them two, they're from my old outfit," said the Childish Kid.
"That one's
Slim,
an' t'other's Shorty."

 
          
 
"Oh," said Alex.

 
          
 
Brooding over his glass, he listened to the
quarrel for lack of anything better to do. It had degenerated to the
name-calling stage. "Careful what yo' say, Slim," said Shorty, trying
to narrow his round little eyes. "I'm a powerful dangerous hombre."

 
          
 
"Yo' ain't no powerful dangerous
hombre," sneered Slim.

 
          
 
"I am so too a powerful dangerous
hombre!" squeaked Shorty.

 
          
 
"Yo're a fathead what ought to be kicked
by a jackass," said Slim, "an' I'm just the one what can do it."

 
          
 
"When yo' call me that," said
Shorty, "smile!"

 
          
 
"I said yo're a fathead what ought to be
kicked by a jackass," repeated Slim, and smiled.

 
          
 
Suddenly the saloon was full of the roar of
pistols. Sheer reflex threw Alex to the floor. A ricocheting slug whanged
nastily by his ear. The thunder barked again and again. He hugged the floor and
prayed.

 
          
 
Silence came. Reeking smoke swirled through
the air. Hokas crept from behind tables and the bar and resumed drinking,
casually. Alex looked for the corpses. He saw only Slim and Shorty, putting
away their emptied guns.

 
          
 
"Wa'l, that's that," said Shorty.
"I'll buy this round."

 
          
 
"Thanks, pardner," said Slim.
"I'll get the next one."

 
          
 
Alex bugged his eyes at the Childish Kid.
"Nobody was hurt!" he chattered hysterically.

           
 
"O' course not," said the ancient
Hoka. "Slim an' Shorty is old pals." He spread his hands. "Kind
o' a funny human custom, that. It
don't
make much
sense that every man should sling lead at every other man once a month. But I
reckon maybe it makes 'em braver, huh?"

 
          
 
"Uh-huh," said Alex.

 
          
 
Others drifted over to talk with him. Opinion
seemed about equally divided over whether he wasn't a human at all or whether
humankind simply wasn't what the legends had cracked it up to be. But in spite
of their disappointment, they bore him no ill will and stood him drinks. Alex
accepted thirstily. He couldn't think of anything else to do.

 
          
 
It might have been an hour later, or two hours
or
ten, that
Slick came into the saloon. His voice
rose over the hubbub: "A scout just brung me the latest word, gents. The
Injuns ain't
no
more'n five miles away an' comin'
fast. We'll all have to git a move on."

 
          
 
The cowboys swallowed their drinks, smashed
their glasses, and boiled from the building in a wave of excitement.
"Gotta calm the boys down," muttered the Childish Kid, "or we
could git a riot." With great presence of mind, he shot out the lights.

 
          
 
"Yo' fool!" bellowed Slick.
"It's broad daylight outside!"

 
          
 
Alex lingered aimlessly by the saloon, until
the gambler tugged at his sleeve. "We're short o' cowhands an' we got a
big herd to move," ordered Slick. "Git yoreself a gentle pony an' see
if yo' can help."

 
          
 
"Okay," hiccoughed Alex. It would be
good to know he was doing something useful, however little. Maybe he would be
defeated at the next election.

 
          
 
He traced a wavering course to the corral.
Someone led forth a shambling wreck of a mount, too old to be anything but
docile. Alex groped after the stirrup. It evaded him. "C'mere," he
said sharply.
"C'mere, shtirrup.
Ten-shunl For'ard marsh!"

 
          
 
"Here yo' are." A Hoka who flickered
around the edges . . . ghost Hoka? Hoka Superior?
the
Hoka after Hoka? . . .
assisted
him into the saddle.
"By Pecos Bill, yo're drunk as a skunk!"

 
          
 
"No," said Alex. "I am shober.
It's all Toka whish ish drunk.
So only drunks on Toka ish
shober.
Tha's right.
Y'unnershtan'?
Only shober
men on Toka ish uh drunks—"

 
          
 
His pony floated through a pink mist in some
or other direction. "I'm a lo-o-o-one cowboy!" sang Alex. "I'm
thuh loneliesh lone cowboy in these here parts."