The 47th Golden Age of Science Fiction

by Chester S. Geier

  “What’s come over you, man? You act as though you don’t remember borrowing money from me. Don’t you feel well?”

  Balleau choked for words. His gaze moved helplessly to where Dorken had stepped casually away from the group. Dorken stood to one side. His legs were spread wide and his arms folded as he watched the farce through narrowed, lazy eyes.

  “But—but the only money I borrowed from you was on an eighteen Marsmonth basis. The term has hardly begun! I don’t understand.”

  Bates’ words came as cold as dripping ice pellets. “I don’t know what kind of a game you’re trying to play, but that will hardly wash. If you can read English you can check your copy of the document that you signed before a reliable witness. It clearly reads that the time limit was three months. As I remember it you wanted the money for machinery—a short-term loan—I took it for granted that you had a method of repaying.”

  There was an odd glaze over Balleau’s eyes. Like a man in a dream—stiff-legged—he walked toward the back door. He opened it and went inside.

  The document in question was in his bedroom, in a box with other documents. He’d taken it from his pocket that day, upon returning home, and he hadn’t even read it. Now, as panic edged into his mind, he realized that he should have read it. But there on the table in Bates’ office at the bank, he’d checked the important points. He’d seen the words ‘eighteen months from date’ very plainly.

  But like the tolling of a doom-bell was the knowledge within his mind that those words would not be on the document he now possessed.

  He took the box from his dresser drawer. The paper was upon the very top of the pile inside. He unfolded it carefully as though it were fine glass that would break at a touch. There they were—four words—“three Marsmonths from date.”

  THE WORLD of John Balleau went spinning out from under him and he was whirling over and over in space. The period of faintness passed. The man’s mind cleared again.

  Thievery! Sheer bald-faced thievery! The gypsy switch in a place where a man took integrity for granted. Cold-blooded, legal robbery.

  Something in John Balleau’s mind snapped.

  He flung open the closet door and reached inside. His hand came out holding a rifle. He threw down the lever. There were live pellets in the magazine. He slapped the lever back in place, his brain awhirl.

  They wouldn’t get away with it! There flashed before him a picture of the old place back on Terra—the desolation he’d seen from the hilltop when he’d returned to his last hope. He recalled the long trek skyward—a grave back on the Marsriver. The weary months and years.

  They wouldn’t get away with it! And he was standing in the doorway with the rifle flung up, covering the group.

  “You thieving blackguards! Get off my property! Get off before I blow you all to hell where you belong! You’ll take this land over my dead body and if I die you’ll all go with me! Get out!”

  Mel Dorken, standing away to the left, was outside the lethal arc of the gun. His hand slipped down to his hip and came up holding a pyro gun. Balleau’s eye caught the motion and the rifle swung around.

  Dorken fired from the hip as Balleau pressed the switch of the rifle and leaped backward into the shelter of the kitchen.

  The pellet hit and melted a rock at Dorken’s feet and whined off across the corral.

  Bates and the lawmen went into a quick and undignified retreat. They found shelter by using an angle of the house to cover their exodus and gathered in the partial shelter of a grove by the road.

  Immediately a corner of a front window-plastic was pushed out and the barrel of the rifle appeared.

  “Over my dead body you’ll take this land!” Balleau yelled. “Thieves! Thieves! Thieves!”

  “Did you hit him, Mel?” Frake asked, scowling.

  “I don’t think so,” the latter growled. “He moved too quick.”

  “I don’t like this,” Bates cut in. “I don’t like it at all. We can’t shoot the man down in cold blood.”

  Frake eyed the banker coldly. “Why not? He’s resisting officers of the law. He endangered our lives with a deadly weapon. Why can’t we shoot him?”

  “It’s too—too abrupt somehow. I just don’t like it.”

  “You mean that Tip Snead’s lynchers are still not captured and hung. You’re thinking they might catch you some dark night and string you to a tree. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  Bates reddened. “Nothing of the kind. But we didn’t come out here to kill this man—”

  “We came to steal his property.”

  “Quit putting words in my mouth. We’re going back to town and give him a chance to cool off. When we come back we’ll bring some impartial witnesses.”

  Frake shrugged. They remounted under the watchful eye of the rifle and hit the road for Ngania.

  CORY BALLEAU loped in from the east, trying to beat the sun. He felt guilty at being away so long. There were chores to be done and he was hardly carrying his share of the load. His uncle worked all day and should find a meal waiting when he returned to the house.

  Cory raced to the corral gate, stripped his goff, and slammed the gate behind it. He crossed the bridge at a run and pelted into the kitchen.

  He stopped—sharply alert. Something was wrong. The house was deathly quiet and a path of dark red stained the floor. It led toward the front of the house. Cory followed it on tip toe.

  The trail ended in a pool and the body of John Balleau lay in the center of the pool. The blood had coursed down from a wound in his neck where a blood vessel had been charred.

  John Balleau lay face downward, the fingers of one hand touching the butt of the rifle propped against the window sill. The corner of the plastic had been broken out and the barrel of the rifle protruded.

  Cory knelt in the blood and lifted his uncle, turned the limp body and cradled it in his arms. He held it there and looked down into the still face.

  No need for close investigation. There was too much blood on the floor. John Balleau’s body was empty of blood and therefore empty of life.

  After a while, Cory got up from the floor, took the rifle and went to the corral. He saddled his goff and rode off down the road toward town. He gripped the rifle so tightly that his fingers ached. And his jaw muscles, hard and corded, ached also.

  CORY BALLEAU rode up the main street of Ngania and dismounted in front of the marshal’s office. He entered and found Frake sitting with his chair tilted back and one booted foot on his desk. Frake lowered the foot, glanced at the rifle under Cory’s arm and then looked up at the youth’s face.

  “Somebody killed my uncle,” Cory said.

  At that instant the door opened and Frank Bates strode in. Bates asked: “What was that?”

  Cory turned. “I said somebody killed my uncle.”

  Bates’ shoulder jerked sharply as though from a sudden nervous disorder. He cursed inwardly. These accidents! These unforeseen occurences that were forever darkening his plans! He turned his eyes to Frake:

  “Then Dorken’s shot must have—” He stopped with some uncertainty.

  Frake scowled and said to Cory: “We didn’t know that, son. We went out to your uncle’s place to collect a claim against him—a legal claim. He resisted with a gun; that very gun you’re carrying. There was a shot fired but your uncle ran back into the house and we thought he was all right. Maybe after we left—”

  “It was Dorken then?” Cory’s voice held no emotion. It was a casual question made up of dully spoken words.

  “Well— Dorken fired a shot—to defend himself—but we—”

  Cory turned and went out of the office into the street. He had little doubt as to where he’d find Mel Dorken. He walked west toward the Golden King. He pushed in through the batwings and looked up and down the bar.

  Dorken was there, standing alone at the far end. There was a bottle and a glass in front of him. Cory walked up to him and Dorken turned. Cory poked the barrel of the rifle into his belly.

  “
I hear you killed my uncle,” Cory said.

  Genuine surprise on Dorken’s hairy face. “That’s a lie!”

  “Did you fire a shot at him this afternoon?”

  “I fired but—”

  “I’m going to kill you.”

  Dorken’s eyes flicked downward. The tenseness in his body faded as it had come. This thick-headed plow son! Holding a gun right close on a man with the switch locked. What could you expect of a squatter’s kid?

  Dorken pushed the gun aside and slammed his fist into Cory’s face. Cory’s body bent like a reed in the wind. His hands flew up and the gun fell to the floor. Cory reeled backward, struggling for balance.

  He went down and Dorken was waiting for him at the spot where he hit the floor. Dorken’s foot came back and swung out in a vicious arc squarely into Cory’s side. The boy screamed, rolled over and came to his knees, head hanging.

  Dorken reached down and lifted him by his shirt. Dorken swung him around and slammed the fist again. Cory skidded across the floor to stop against the wall.

  The rage of Dorken seemed to increase rather than diminish. He hurled a kick against the boy’s spine, bringing a groan.

  THEN THERE were men around Dorken; the barkeep and the poker dealer and a couple of hangerson:

  “That’s enough, Dorken! For God’s sake! You don’t want to kill him! He’s only a kid!”

  They were holding his arms and it was as though they wrestled with an enraged grizzly. He shook them off and moved toward Cory and they threw themselves between.

  “Get Frake,” the barkeep yelled. “Somebody get the marshal!”

  Dorken shook them off and picked Cory up and smashed a blow at his nose. But Dorken swung too low and the fist crashed against Cory’s throat. The youth dropped, gagging for breath.

  “Dorken! That’s enough! You kill the kid and it’s murder!”

  “I’ll blind him!”

  Dorken lunged as the batwings swung and Frake walked into the saloon.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Stop him,” the barkeep yelled. “We don’t want a killing in here!”

  Dorken was on his knees over Cory. Frake took three long steps, hooked his arm around Dorken’s neck and jerked him backward. Dorken rolled prone, his eyes ever seeking Cory.

  “Get him out of here,” Frake said. “Get the kid out. I’ll handle Dorken.”

  The barkeep and the poker dealer dragged Cory and lifted him. They moved him toward the door and Frake crashed into the now-erect Dorken. His low words were flung against the wild man’s ear: “You son of a bitch! You want to wreck everything? You want to get us lynched? Quiet down or I’ll blast the top of your head off!”

  The temperature of Dorken’s brain cooled swiftly. He pulled away from Frake and dragged a hand across his own mouth. He said: “The stinkin’ little tramp! Let’s get a drink.”

  FRANK BATES arrived at his home rather late that evening. He recounted the events of the day at dinner; recounted them sadly, as though such things disturbed him:

  “. . . I think Dorken would have killed the lad if Frake hadn’t gotten there in time. Good man, Frake.”

  Kay Bates was on her feet. “Where did Cory go?”

  Her father got up slowly. “Why, home I suppose. Where else would he go?”

  Kay ran to the stairs and up to the second floor. Her father left the dining room, genuinely mystified. He waited at the foot of the staircase.

  As Kay came pelting down, Frank Bates asked: “What in heaven’s name got into you? Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to find him. Leave me alone!”

  “But you don’t even know him.”

  Kay’s smile was a thing of light and triumph. “Oh, don’t I? You’d be surprised who I know and what I know. Get out of my way!”

  Bates flared. “Silence! You’re speaking to your father, young lady! I don’t know what this is all about, but I damn soon will know. Come into my study!”

  She quieted then, appeared to become more quiet inside, but she made no move to obey:

  “Dad—Dad! Why can’t we—oh—”

  “Come into my study!”

  She hardened again: “Get out of my way!”

  Frank Bates put his arms around her, snatched her roughly. Then he got the surprise of his life.

  He could as well have laid his hands on a she-cougar defending her young. Kay screamed, flung her body and pumped her arms in violent motions. Bates sprang back, his hands over his face. When he lowered them, his daughter was gone.

  He stood there with the blood running down his face from the deep furrows clawed there by slashing fingernails. Flesh hung at the bottoms of these furrows.

  Bates stared at the blood on his hands.

  Kay Bates rode the dark prairie in a straight line. The goff’s hooves pounded the night. Filled with energy, the animal hugged the ground and ate the distance with long, joyous strides. The pace created a wind that cooled Kay Bates’ lovely face and dealt roughly with her hair, brushing it loose and flinging it out behind her.

  When the goff sought to lessen her speed, Kay applied a quirt and the goff leaped forward with a surprised snort. There was no letup until Kay flung herself from the saddle in front of the dark Balleau house.

  Dead quiet. No life. Only a brooding silence; the silence of defeat. The house itself seemed to have taken on the hopeless mood of the vanquished.

  Kay entered the dark kitchen. She struck a match and found a quartz lamp to light. On the floor was the dark streak. Dried blood. She followed it through the house, carrying the lamp above her head. The streak ended in the black dry pool by the broken window.

  The girl carried the lamp out into the still night along the path that skirted the house.

  “Cory! Cory!”

  She crossed the foot-bridge and was in the corral. No sounds.

  “Cory!”

  Kay forgot the lamp and as her foot struck a clod, the lamp teetered and fell to the ground. Kay ran to the corral gate. It stood open.

  Then from off in the darkness came the rattle of a goff. Kay’s sorrel answered, and Kay called again:

  “Cory! Cory! Darling—it’s me! Kay!”

  The invisible goff snorted and Kay knew. The animal was wandering the prairie. The Balleau stock had been turned loose to shift for itself.

  That meant—

  But the girl refused to believe. He was there—somewhere out there hurt and bleeding. The thought drove her to panic.

  “Cory! Cory!”

  Up the creek maybe, at their old place. That’s where he would go. Her heart swelled in gratitude for the thought. She raced to the sorrel pounded westward along the creek. The miles rolled under the sorrel and Kay was there by the bend where the waters widened.

  He’s here somewhere—lying here hurt, waiting for me.

  “Cory!”

  The throngas murmured in sympathy, a vagrant breeze bringing their message. Kay flung herself to the sod. She knew now. She knew he was gone. She lay for a long time, her cheek pressed to the grass. Finally her sobbing became less intense. Her tears diminished as did the night and gray morning crept over the prairie.

  The rude cross stood out, then and the girl arose and walked to the fresh mound of soil nearby. The cross was of thronga—two yellow branches fastened with a strip of bark.

  Kay sank to her knees. There was no inscription, but she knew. Cory had been there before her. He had buried his dead and he was gone.

  “Cory—Cory—Cory.” But no longer a call.

  Only a cry and a prayer.

  NATE GOODROW’S place lay along the north bank of the fourth canal. A pleasant, rectangular stretch of country rich in farming possibilities. But he’d never gotten the place lined up to suit him. There was always something to be done; something he couldn’t entrust to anyone else. And later, with things running smoothly, he found, to his surprise, that the wanderlust had been drained from his blood. Oh, it was still there, but in such a mild degree that the trouble of get
ting started north didn’t seem worthwhile.

  He thought often of the people he’d known up above. He thought often of the Balleaus. They should be doing pretty well by now, he opined. That boy Cory, and odd one for fair, that lad. There was probably a freight head in Ngania by now. Nate was sure glad John Balleau had been able to wait out the bad times. He’d have to hit north one of these days and find out how the Balleaus were getting along. Damned if he wouldn’t. Maybe he could talk Cory into coming down to the place for a season. The boy stayed too close to home and that was certain. Get him out here and let him ride the country for a couple of months and mix with the boys and he’d come out of himself. He was like a turtle in a shell, that boy.

  Course he’d had some pretty rugged times. That fight back on the Marsport River for instance. No ten-year-old should ever see a thing like that. Then his mom dying the same night. Pretty rugged on a youngster. But John Balleau had done a good job raising the lad. A lot of young ones without parents drifted into lawlessness and that was the end of them. They were just gallows-bait then, set to die when a posse outguessed them.

  Yeah, John Balfeau had done a good job.

  It was morning and Nate had just roped a goff and was swinging the saddle up when he saw three riders approaching from the northeast. They were coming slowly and riding close together. Nate studied them, watching them grow larger. Then it appeared that two of them were his own boys. Jimmy Clare and Lew Sackey. That was all right. They were about due in, but who was the other one?

  Lean as a fence post he was, and riding a goff that was all bones and neck . . . Rode funny too; like he was sick or something. Kind of familiar though. Kind of—

  Nate Goodrow was in the saddle, pounding out to meet the trio. He jerked off his hat, started to wave it as a cry of welcome arose to his lips. But he put the hat back on his head and the yell was never uttered. Something wrong. The way that boy rode. The way he looked! What in all hell? Nate skidded his mount to a stop and spun the beast around on its hind legs:

  “Cory! As I live and breath it’s Cory Balleau. Welcome boy!”

  THE WAN face smiled and the smile could have been one of gratitude: “Hello Nate. I remembered that you invited me down here once. Glad it still holds.”