Buck Johnson: Drive's End Read online

  Buck Johnson: Drive’s End

  Wyatt McLaren

  This is a work of fiction. The characters are nothing more than inventions of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, places, or institutions on Earth is purely coincidental.

  Buck Johnson: Drive’s End

  Skeeter Evans leaned back against his saddle, obviously comfortable and in a better mood than usual, with his too-long legs, still in chaps, stretched out in the Terullian dust in front of him. He held a tinny-looking cup of lukewarm ersatz coffee between his hands and expounded—at length—on his plans for his share of the money when they sold the dragon herd. These plans were, as always with Skeeter, uncomplicated and involved throughout a strong and often stated longing for some liquid refreshment. Buck Johnson and Snort Jones gave him only half an ear while staring into the illusory hologram-created fire. They had other things on their minds at the moment.

  Besides, Buck and Snort had heard it all, over and over again, every day throughout the whole length of this tiresome and troublesome drive, more times than they cared to remember. And news they had received earlier that day was beginning to cause them more than a little anxiety. But, still, only one night now lay between them and, they hoped, full pockets and a little well earned fun.

  Skeeter nevertheless pressed doggedly on, without heeding their unheeding. “And I’ll tell you boys another thing. When I git me some money in my pockets, the first thing I’m gonna do—well, not the first thing, I reckon, but right up there—is to git off this sorry-ass planet. Then I’m gonna git me some tobacco and some whiskey and a woman, and I’m gonna have me a little vacation. And then I’m gonna find me a job that’s a helluva lot easier than herdin’ dragons across this rock. And then I might just open me up a little tavern . . . with dancin’ girls and everything. And then I’ll just live the good life.” At this Skeeter smiled, and his eyes went all distant. “And then, boys, I’m really gonna—”

  Snort, who had been whittling meditatively on the only chunk of anything resembling wood he was able to find amid the dust, rock, and boulders of this part of Terul, finally deigned to attend to Skeeter’s droning and answer him. He had finally had enough. “Skeet, you know how many times you told us this crap already? It’s the same thing over and over. Don’t you ever git tired of it?”

  “Well, Snort, no . . . I don’t. And I’m gonna do exactly what I been sayin’, too. I’m gonna—”

  “Skeet, can it. I don’t want to hear any more about what you’re gonna do. You sound like a broken record. You do remember records, don’t you?”

  Yanked out of his pleasant ruminations, Skeeter was growing pettish. “Records? What the hell’s that?”

  “Didn’t you ever go to a museum when you was a kid? They’re vinyl disks with grooves so that—. Aw, hell, forget it, Skeet. You’re too damn dumb.” With that Snort went back to his whittling.

  Now offended, Skeeter began the awkward process of raising himself to a standing position. Eventually achieving it, he threw the remaining “coffee” on the “fire,” giving it a startled look when there was no hiss, just as he had done every morning and every evening on this drive. He then carefully rolled up his sleeves, crammed his hat tight on his head, and took a very deliberate long-shanked stride toward Snort. Then, with hands on hips and chin jutting, Skeeter glared down at him. At this, Snort scrambled to his feet as well.

  At that point Buck cut in: “Skeet, sit your ass down. There ain’t no way in hell you can whip Snort. Besides, you ain’t never won a fight in your life.”

  “Well, Buck, he insulted me. I don’t have to take that, do I?”

  “No, Skeet, you don’t have to take it. Snort, you need to apologize.”

  Looking just as crestfallen and pissed as Skeeter, Snort rebelled as much as he thought was safe with Buck: “I ain’t gonna do it. He’s a dumbass.” He hooked his thumbs in his pockets and stared hard at Skeeter, cautiously cutting his eyes around at Buck once or twice.

  Buck didn’t even bother to look at them. He just pressed his hands together, flexed his arms, which made his sleeves swell and grow tight, and made one trenchant observation. “Well, then I reckon you boys don’t really want to get paid, do you?” And this had its intended effect.

  Snort and Skeeter went back to their respective places, each slowly and lightly settling atop his korth saddle. They continued to glare at each other. But you could tell their anger was subsiding and their bruised feelings beginning to mend.

  “Go on now, Snort, apologize to Skeeter.”

  Looking at the ground, Snort cleared his throat, sighed, and spoke: “All right, Buck, if you say so. Skeet, ol’ buckaroo, I shouldn’t have jumped on you like that. Tell you what I’ll do. A little bird told me that Quincy Poindexter just might be heading out this way. If we run into ol’ Quince, I’ll buy you month’s supply of his bootleg tobacco. How’s that sound, Skeet?”

  “That sounds real good, Snort . . . real good. But I’ll tell ya, I’d rather have me some whiskey. And then maybe some smoke. But that’s real nice—”

  “Why, you ungrateful son of a bitch!” And they both started to their feet again.

  Buck had now had his fill too. “You two girls go to sleep! We got a big day tomorrow.”

  Before Terul’s first sun was all the way up early the next morning, while Snort and Skeeter were still snoring in their bedrolls, Buck had already saddled all three of their korths. He was just then tying off the latigo on his own saddle. He yanked the tail tight, ran his fingers under the latigo and pulled to test its tightness one last time, and then dropped the stirrup. He was also thinking—thinking about the report his flank riders had brought him yesterday evening.

  They had held up the dragon herd in a wide depression, not really deep enough to be called a valley—and there weren’t any real rivers on Terul anyway—about five miles from Skrintax. Buck had sent his two dragon-mounted flank riders ahead to scout out the easiest route on in. Skrintax was more outpost-cum-trading post than it was town and so, in this remote part of Terul, was situated against sheer cliffs with reddish, sharply upthrusting hills ringing the remaining sides. And because more than a few of the dragons in the herd were edging close to the age of flight, Buck wanted to take a path that would encourage them to stay on the ground. Karlok and Xerlax, the flank riders, native Terullians and brothers, had been hard put most of the previous day roping and returning to the herd dragons that had tried to fly off. They couldn’t fly far or fast yet, but it was a grueling job nevertheless. Time was critical now.

  When Karlok and Xerlax had returned, they unsaddled their bellowing dragons without saying a word. Buck was the only other one who could handle the two-hundred-pound-plus dragon saddles as easily as they could. They respected Buck for his abilities, but were still as insolent as all Terullians. Although they had the natural spurs on their heels that all Terullians do, they were slightly less reptilian than some. But they were good hands at dragon wrangling, so Buck put up with them. But he was beyond impatient now.

  “Well, what’d you two lizard bellies find out?”

  Karlok: “Oh . . . we see much, Buck.” Then silence while Buck stared at them and waited. The nictitating membranes on their eyes flicked down and up a couple of times. Buck always found this disconcerting.

  “Okay, what the hell did you see?”

  Xerlax this time: “Many dragons.”

  “If you lizard bastards wanna git paid, you’d better open up.” And so it went until Buck had finally dragged the whole story and full report out of them.

  What they had found out in flying over and around Skrintax was a town was full of dragons. Almost every holding pen on the edge of town was full, and everyone moving about, both T
erullians and foreigners, appeared to be dragon mounted. The upshot, it seemed, was that there was an unexpected and profit-killing glut of dragons in Skrintax. It might turn out, then, that they had trailed these two hundred dragons for two months for nothing. Buck and Snort had good reason to be anxious.

  So Buck gave Snort and Skeeter an ungentle nudge with the toe of his boot. “Mount up, boys. Let’s ride.”

  Grumbling only a little, Snort got up and relieved himself. Then he pressed the button on the side of his bedroll that caused it to contract into a one-square-inch packet, which he neatly stowed in his saddle bag. Then, with only slightly feigned cheerfulness, he climbed aboard the black korth he was so proud and grinned at Buck. (He was also inordinately proud of the silver, ruby-studded conchos on his korth saddle. He had brought these from earth when he left just ahead of the “troubles.”) “All right, then, let’s ride.”

  Skeeter had just grunted and rolled over, so Buck gave him an unignorable kick this time. “Skeet, git your ass up. We’re takin’ the herd in.”

  “Come on, Buck, ain’t we gonna have no breakfast . . . at least a little coffee. You know I don’t like to ride on an empty stomach.”

  “You’re just gonna have to. Soon’s you get mounted up, ride over there and tell Ned and Johnny to bring the korth remuda in behind us. And tell ’em to take it nice and easy. I don’t want ’em all blowin’ and lathered up ’cause we’re gonna try to sell them too. Now git.” Skeeter then began the process of untangling himself from his bedroll.

  Just before mid-day, before Terul’s double suns had reached their brazen zenith, they took the dragon herd through the last pass leading to Skrintax. Buck was riding point, Skeeter and Snort were with the drags, and Karlok and Xerlax were flying low over the herd on either side—all of them tired and hot and ready to bring this drive to its conclusion. As they exited the pass and came out onto the flat ground where Skrintax squatted, Buck spurred up his korth a little and loped ahead. He was looking for a place to pen up these dragons till they could find buyers. They had set out on this drive after hearing rumors of a huge dragon demand in this part of Terul. But it was all looking pretty shaky now.

  Buck approached the east side of Skrintax and turned south. Every holding pen he came across appeared to be crammed full of bellowing dragons milling around and lashing at one another with their tails. He finally found two big pens south of Skrintax that would accommodate all the dragons. So he got on his saddle-horn imbedded telcom and called up Snort and Skeeter. “Snort, Skeet, there’s a couple of pens on the south end that’ll hold ’em all. You take the point, Snort. And tell them two lizard boys to keep ’em on the ground.” Then he cut his korth around and spurred him into a run, headed toward the rear of the herd. He would bring the korth remuda in himself. He didn’t trust Ned and Johnny—the two loafers Snort had hired to handle the remuda—to do it.

  Buck pulled up hard, leaning back in his saddle to keep his seat, and addressed Ned and Johnny: “You two ride on up there and help Snort and Skeeter push those dragons into the pens.” Slouching in their saddles, they just stared at him slack jawed. Buck’s mood had been growing blacker by the minute, so he kicked his korth up again and grabbed his quirt off the saddle horn. As reached Ned, Buck slashed the korth wickedly across the rump. And Ned’s korth almost jumped out from under him. He lost a stirrup and almost dropped the reins, but he kept his seat, just barely. Then Buck turned his korth toward Johnny, who saw what was happening and took off of his own accord. Buck then added, unnecessarily, “Go on now. Git!”

  When they finally got all the dragons in the pens and the korths in a nearby corral, Buck dismounted while the others blocked the openings. Buck then strode purposely from one to the other flipping the switches that turned on the laser gates, which hummed on and made the dragons shy away. Then he did the same for the fly guards on the dragon pens, and a humming net of lasers arced over each to keep the dragons from flying out during the night. Buck then surveyed it all with an inscrutable pensiveness in his face: “Well, boys, we made it.”

  Always one to need direction for the next step, Skeeter spoke up: “That’s real good, Buck. But now what? This town’s lousy with dragons. How we gonna sell ’em?”

  Buck had just opened his mouth to reply, when Snort diverted their attention. “Well—I’ll—be—damned. Would you just look at that?”

  Buck and Skeeter in unison: “What? What is it?”

  Snort was gazing farther southward into the rippling heat waves. Then he pointed. “That. That sky truck. Don’t you think it looks mighty familiar?” Snort had always had the keenest eyesight of them all—of which he was proud and often reminded them.

  Buck: “Snort, I can’t see a damn thing. Maybe just a reflection.” Skeeter shaded his eyes with his right and looked hard. Then a slow-spreading smile split his face.

  “Come on, buckaroos. You’ll see.” Snort spurred his korth and whipped his rump with the reins and galloped off. And the other two followed, Skeeter eagerly and Buck resignedly.

  After a half-miles’ dusty gallop, they all reined in. Snort spoke first: “Lookee there, Buck. You see that?”

  Buck didn’t say anything, but his jaw muscles twitched a little. Skeeter, though, replied with the obvious pleasure of seeing the comfortably familiar in an alien land. “Well . . . I’ll be . . . it’s ol’ Quice. Boy am I glad to see him.” And Buck sighed. He knew what was coming.

  What Snort had spotted was a sky truck—a huge one, almost the size of an inter-galactic ship. Painted in big blocky letters on the side of it was this: “Quincy Poindexter’s Galaxy-Wide Emporium.” And under that in slightly smaller lettering: “Sundries, Dry Goods, Tack, Medicine. You Need It—We Got It.”

  Now, Quincy really did operate a traveling store, just as the sign indicated. But his chief trade was in bootleg tobacco, which was proscribed anywhere and everywhere the earth-based World Federation had any influence. He also conducted a much lower-volume, but far more lucrative, trade in alcohol—which had been banned in most places and was painfully quantity controlled in the few places where it was legal. On Terul alcohol was illegal for religious reasons.

  So Buck and Snort and Skeeter trotted up to the awning shading the open door of the sky truck. They found Quincy sprawled in a chair, chin on chest, snoring. Skeeter dismounted first. He strolled over to Quincy, squatted down, gingerly raised the brim of Quincy’s hat, and peered at his face. If Quincy hadn’t been twenty years older, they could have easily passed for twins. “Quince, wake up, you mossy ol’ bastard.”

  Quincy jumped up, losing his hat and knocking his chair backward. Wild eyed, he started swinging at nothing in particular. “Hey, what the hell! I’m gonna kick yore asses!” Eventually, recognition crept in, and he subsided.

  “Been samplin’ your wares again, ain’t ya, Quince?” Buck asked with only a touch of disdain. Buck was of the opinion that if a man didn’t sweat for his money, he didn’t get it honorably—though this opinion was growing harder to defend lately.

  “Jest for my rheumatiz, boys, jest for my rheumatiz.” Quincy made his blood-hot eyes focus and grinned at them. Buck and Snort dismounted, and hands were shaken and backs slapped all around. “You, boys, put them korths in the cargo hold back there—there’s plenty of feed—and then come on in here. I got a little somethin’ to show ya.” Quincy winked when he said this. And Snort smiled while Skeeter grinned a toothy grin.

  They clambered up inside the sky truck, and, after furtive glances in every direction, Quincy pulled the door ramp shut behind them. “Come on back here.” He led them to a sound-proof , ventilated compartment furnished with a long table down the middle and korth-hide couches on either side. “Sit down. Make yerselves to home.” Then he unlocked a hatch in the floor and disappeared through it.

  After several suspenseful minutes—minutes filled with knocks and rattling and inventive curses—Quincy emerged with his arms full. He spread his treasures on the table before them. It almost brought tears to Skee
ter’s eyes. “Lord, Quince, I shore am glad we run into you.”

  On the table lay a bulging tobacco pouch, a packet of rolling papers, two dusty square-ish bottles, and three shot glasses. Quincy shoved the pouch and papers at Buck and held a bottle high. He then blew off the dust, cracked the seal, and started pouring. Skeeter licked his lips and reached for the first full shot glass.

  They smoked and sipped—well, Snort and Buck sipped; Skeeter was on his third shot—in appreciative silence for a while. Reluctantly returning to business, Buck exhaled a stream of blue-grey smoke and asked, “Quince, what’s the story on all these dragons in town?”

  “You won’t like it Buck. It’s Karposh. Ever since you got him hung up on that green-broke drac and cut his leg off to get him loose, he’s been gunnin’ for you. And I reckon he’ll spend every Terul credit he’s got to get back at ya.”

  Snort choked on the sip of whiskey he was just then swallowing. “Karposh! Is that fat sack of lizard shit here?” But Skeeter just propped his feet on the table and watched the smoke collect above his head.

  Buck threw back the rest of his shot and set the glass down firmly. “Go on, Quince.”