The 47th Golden Age of Science Fiction

by Chester S. Geier

  “Nobody talks about my friends!”

  Had Nate Goodrow been present, he would have told himself: This is it. This is the test. A man can learn everything there is to know about guns and gun fighting. But until he kills a man he’s not a killer.

  Cory stared at Thomas and thought: You’re inviting this. This is what you’ve been wanting ever since the liquor hit you cross-ways. You’ve got to kill somebody and you picked me. You want it this way.

  And there was a quick feeling of elation in Cory’s heart. And no fear. Fear was so far away that it did not penetrate his mind even as an abstract thought.

  Cory said: “I don’t want to kill you, man.” But he lied. He lied and he knew he was lying. He wanted nothing in the world so much as to test his skill against Deac Thomas.

  Thomas grew dark in the face. “Why you spindlin’ little maverick!”

  Cory watched him with the cold detachment of an iced mountain peak. With sure instinct he looked at Thomas with unfocused eyes—eyes that took in the whole of the man—no particular part of him. Thus the slightest movement of any part of Thomas’ body would register instantly.

  The killer’s stare.

  Thomas went for his gun and Cory cut him down in his tracks. He burned the man down to his belt before his gun was half out of its holster.

  Thomas never had a chance.

  Cory holstered his right hand gun, stepped over Thomas and picked up the beer schooner. He drained it, then turned and walked out of the saloon. He mounted his goff and rode slowly out of town.

  It was night and the darkness was comforting in that it matched the mood of Cory Balleau. The soft clop-clop of his mount was a restful rhythm.

  Coldly the youth searched his mind—examined his emotions, for any change, any newness born of an act he had never before indulged. There was no change whatever.

  He had just killed a man and it seemed the most natural thing in the world for him to do. It was as if he had been killing men all his life. He was neither elated nor depressed; there was within him only a desire for solitude—the solitude of the night. And, oddly, he was tired, as though he had just completed a full day’s work.

  He smiled grimly. Evidently killing a man was a job of work in itself.

  NATE GOODROW was sitting on bench by the back door when Cory rode up. The bowl of Nate’s pipe glowed cherry-red.

  Cory disposed of his goff and came across the back yard. He dropped down on the bench beside Nate.

  “The freight head finally got there,” he said.

  “You heard?”

  “Met a man. He heard.”

  “It’s sure a shame your uncle couldn’t—had to be—”

  “I know. It was a shame. This man’s name was Thomas. Know anything about him?”

  “Not much. Hasn’t got too good a record.”

  “He knew Mel Dorken.”

  “Dorken was one of them too. Nobody on Terra felt bad when Frake and Snead and Dorken came to Mars.”

  “Snead was killed.”

  “That so?”

  “Some, night riders took him out and hung him.”

  “He was a slippery little cuss. Ain’t at all surprised to hear he finished up at the end of a rope.”

  “They never caught the lynchers—or not before I left anyhow.”

  “Pretty hard to tie a kill on men like that.”

  There was a time of silence. Nate drew calmly on his pipe. Cory kicked at the dark earth with a boot-toe.

  “You’ve been awfully good to me,” Cory said. “I appreciate it.”

  Nate took his time before answering; “Ain’t no call to bring that up, son.”

  “I wanted you to know that I appreciate it.”

  “Any time. Any time, son.”

  An empty spot.

  “I’m heading north tomorrow.”

  “Thought you’d start getting restless. Better take that big black. He’s got the weight for long hauls and I ain’t seen anything faster for quite a spell.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No need to thank me.”

  Cory stood up, stretched himself, taking all the time needed to do it well.

  “Guess I’ll turn in.”

  “Good idea. You’ll need sleep.”

  “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, son. Guess I’ll sit a while.”

  THE SOUND of Cory’s boots diminished into the house. Then he turned, came back and stood by the bench.

  “Nate.”

  “Yeah?”

  “That man Thomas. I killed him.”

  “Kind of figured you did.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Oh, a hunch maybe. And the way you talked about him—in the past as though he wasn’t with us any more.”

  “I beat him on the draw.”

  “You better hit out before dawn. Travel fast and get out of the Canal country,”

  “But it was fair. He reached first.”

  “He may have been among friends. You can’t tell what they’ll say about it.”

  “That’s right.”

  Cory went to bed and lay open-eyed, staring at the ceiling. He was rested now. There wasn’t a bit of weariness in him. Sleep was miles away.

  But it came swiftly. Within three minutes his eyes were closed and he was breathing evenly.

  Ngania had become a boom town. With the coming of the big ships the place hitched up its tattered pants and let out a whoop-hooray that was heard far across the prairie.

  Lumber was now plentiful and the town expanded. Paint, plastic and cement became the order of the day, and land hungry Terrans flocked in, their eyes on the soil.

  Frank Bates had moved up several rungs toward the goal of his ambitions. He had come to think of himself as the biggest man in the community—had grown used to the idea—had become a little more hard-faced—and far more rapacious.

  He was hated and feared, now, but that made little difference to him. In fact the sense of power over his fellow-men had, for him, a heady taste. The black squares in his map stretched in all directions, and he spent a great deal of time brooding over the squares which still remained white.

  He had become the man to whom the people looked for leadership in spite of the fact that he was unpopular. Frank Bates’ opinion was solicited on all important matters and that opinion had a way of becoming the majority opinion.

  His relationship with Frake was a great deal more vague than anyone suspected; vague in the sense of a definite understanding. Frake, as Marshal of Ngania, ran the town, but he was careful to run it as Bates wished. And Frake was willing to ride along and bide his time. He drew his salary and accepted a certain amount of graft where it could be gotten, but he was careful not to overplay his hand. The man had an instinct for staying out of obvious trouble. Eventually he would make his killing and he was entirely willing to let events shape themselves without forcing them.

  Times were on the upsweep. He was content to watch.

  Cory Balleau rode into Ngania, paused at the lower end of town. He lounged there in the saddle, totally unaware of how close upon the heels of his destiny he was treading.

  It had grown. It wasn’t the same town he’d left—Ngania. There were more people. The main street was transformed. This was something to stare at—something to get used to.

  Cory touched the goff’s flank and moved on. There was the gunsmith’s shop. The window he’d smashed to steal the two guns was gone. A larger one had taken its place and there were more guns inside.

  There were more guns outside too. Almost every male right hip was sporting a gun. The town had changed.

  Well, I’ve changed too, Cory thought. That made it even.

  He dismounted in front of the Golden King and surveyed the new plastic front. There was a look of prosperity here. Cory climbed the three stairs to door-level and pushed the door.

  There wasn’t much change inside. Only a new and longer mirror behind the bar. There was also a new bar-keep, a fat, aproned man who came down the bar an
d stood in front of Cory and did not recognize him.

  Cory ordered beer. The schooners hadn’t diminished in size and Cory leaned against the bar feeling the beer run cold into his stomach.

  He was inspected covertly by the three or four other drinkers at the mahogany. They eyed his two guns and seemed to be trying to reconcile them with Cory’s entirely apparent youth.

  Rearward a poker game was going on at the old table. Cory had spotted Frake sitting in on this game; spotted him immediately upon entering. He watched Frake with a sense of disappointment. He had hoped to find someone else in the Golden King; someone who looked a great deal like the Marshal but who went under another name.

  Mel Dorken.

  BUT DORKEN was conspicuously among the absent. Cory finished his beer and set down the schooner. It was the sound of the glass hitting the bar that brought Frake’s head up. Frake glanced idly forward and his eyes drifted back to his cards.

  Then his head came up sharply. Cory Balleau. Why what the hell? John Balleau’s nephew was back. The kid had a cock-eyed crust if Frake ever saw one. Frake scowled and got to his feet.

  He moved forward with decisive strides, thumbs hooked in his pellet belt. He walked straight toward Cory. When he spoke his voice was hostile.

  “Kind of nervy, coming back to this town, ain’t you?”

  There was genuine surprise in Cory’s face: “Why? What’s nervy about coming back to my home town?”

  “Well, for one thing a couple of guns were stolen the night you left. Somebody smashed a window and pulled them right out of a store. They were just like the ones you’re wearing. That’s why I say you’ve got kind of a nerve.”

  Cory made no answer. He stepped casually away from the bar and faced Frake.

  Frake said: “I think you and I better walk over to my office and have a little talk about those guns.”

  “We don’t walk anywhere—together,” Cory said.

  “Now look here, son—”

  Frake was curious about the boy—that odd motion of his. Almost a girlish motion wherein Cory raised his left arm from the elbow held rather close against his side. The hand was open, flat—stiff—with the palm out. It was sort of a salute, that motion; or rather like a girl getting ready to give a playful slap.

  “If you take me anywhere, you take me with your gun, and I wouldn’t reach for that if I were you.”

  Surprise and indignation. A scowl, and Frake said, “Why you damned little—” He reached for his gun.

  Cory tharred him down.

  Cory holstered his right-hand gun and backed toward the door, his left hand up in the mock salute. No word was said. The witnesses could have been stone men. They stood frozen. They heard the pound of hooves from the street. The sounds faded.

  CORY BALLEAU rode out of Ngania, and the thought of pursuit was not foremost in his mind. Mainly, he considered the frustration of the incident in the Golden King. He had killed the wrong man, and the emotion engendered by so doing was one of irritation. Why couldn’t he have been more fortunate? He had come to Ngania with one purpose—to kill Mel Dorken. Now, because of an unfortunate accident, the difficulty of his enterprise would be multiplied. Now there would be a manhunt. Posses would scour the country. Cory Balleau was a marked man. Reaching Dorken, now, would be a problem.

  It was only at this point that Cory realized the direction in which he was traveling; a clear path, straight across-country toward the old place. This was pure foolishness. He should be heading west, into the rocky country where he could find sanctuary and get his bearings. This way, they would be on his heels in no time.

  But the nostalgia within him—the urge for just a fleeting look at the house and the pond and the clean fields—won out, and he kept on going. There was the creek, a bright green line on the prairie; off to the left, the grove where he’d lain in the grass and Kay’s golden hair—

  He thought of her for the first time in weeks. Even upon arriving in Ngania, his mind had found no time to give her even a moment. His grim face softened a trifle now. Had she forgotten him? Probably. She was young and, regardless of the previous attachment, she would forget quickly, he thought. He rambled thus, without the slightest realization that, at twenty-two, he had excluded himself from the category of youth. She was a nice girl. He granted this, wished momentarily, and vaguely, that things could have worked out differently, and then forgot her.

  There it was. He reined up and stared, straightening, standing erect in the stirrups.

  The place was deserted. Evidently Frank Bates had been too busy to give attention to his new property. Or perhaps there were technicalities created by the death of John Balleau.

  It occurred to Cory, that, even now, he himself could be there working the homestead, carrying on in his uncle’s place. He could have gotten the money from Nate Goodrow to pay off the loan. He thought of this not as an opportunity overlooked, but as merely a curious point. Curious in the sense that such a course had never entered his mind until this moment.

  He took in the scene before him, deserted, weed-grown, bleak even under the hot sun of an unclouded Martian sky.

  He nudged the goff and moved forward. Then, glancing back, he immediately pulled up.

  THEY WERE already on his trail; three riders a mile rearward, coming at a gallop directly toward him. Cory felt only a sense of irritation. He had expected them and it was no surprise, but couldn’t they have given him a few more minutes? He swung off-course, westward, and went into a dead run. He wasn’t greatly worried. He knew of a place among the rocks over in the ridges where he could stand a posse off all day. Only three men. He could no doubt get one of them, or even two. Then, in the darkness, he could slide out.

  The three riders pulled up as Cory started his westward run. They seemed to be in conference. Then they veered their own course and came on.

  Oddly, they made no attempt to cut him off. That might not have been possible, but it was certainly worth a try. Cory wondered. And only three of them. That was hardly a posse to send after a man who had just gunned down the marshal. Odd indeed. Cory traveled on, hugging the course of Cotter’s Creek, following it until twisted away to the south.

  The three men did likewise—holding their distance, even shortening it somewhat.

  Cory studied the situation. Then he pulled the goff into a slower gait and hauled a rifle out of its boot. The rifle was loaded and ready and it seemed worth while to risk a brush with the three riders. If they dared come close enough, there would speedily be only two of them. Two, Cory felt, was better than three. And possibly Dorken—

  The goff traveled at a canter now, and the three riders came on. Half a mile; a quarter. Cory pulled his mount to a walk. Closer now and he could see that Dorken was not one of the three. The goff came to a halt as Cory decided on a try at four hundred yards.

  He dismounted and went flat on the ground, cuddling the rifle stock against his cheek. The lead man came into his sights.

  But the men were acting strangely. They were all afoot now. As Cory watched, they unbuckled their side arms and threw them in a pile on the ground. Then one of them yelled something unintelligible and started walking forward. His hands were in the air.

  He came silently forward. At a hundred yards, Cory shunted the rifle barrel upward and called: “That’s far enough.”

  The man replied, “We want to talk, pardner! We ain’t after you. We’re friends.”

  “Hold your distance. I haven’t got any friends in these parts.”

  “If you’re the man that gunned Frake down, you got three of them, mister. We come to throw in with you.”

  Cory considered this. He had never seen any of these men before. This could be a trick, but if so, it was a far riskier one than the three realized. Cory bit at his lower lip, thoughtfully, then called: “All right. Walk up, but keep your hands high.”

  The man trudged forward. He was slight of build, hollow-cheeked. He had large blue eyes; eyes tending to bulge.

  HE STOPPED at twenty fe
et when Cory said: “Your friends back there. Tell them to face the other way. Then I won’t have to watch them so close.”

  The man grinned. He turned and began waving, making circular motions with his hands. Finally the two men got the drift and stood facing away. They lowered their arms and stood with thumbs hooked in their belts.

  “You wouldn’t be trying to hold me here would you?” Cory asked.

  “What for?”

  “A posse maybe—coming on behind.”

  “Nothing like that. You’re John Balleau’s youngster, ain’t you? Cory Balleau?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Knew your uncle. Knew him pretty well from meeting him in Ngania. Name’s Jim Kendall.”

  “I never went to town much.”

  “No. I never seen you there and I guess you never saw me. But you heard of something I had a hand in.”

  “What was that?”

  “Hanging Tip Snead.”

  “You—lynched Tip Snead?”

  “Not lynch, son. We executed him. We gave him the same as he gave Sam Bendorf.”

  “You and who else?”

  “There was five of us. We all lost our land to Frank Bates. Two pulled out—they had wives and kids, but I’m still here and that’s Mike Taber and Paul Thompson back there.”

  “Why did you follow me?”

  “To throw in with you. It was luck, mainly, that got us out of town before the posse. Thompson was in the drinking hall and saw you kill Frake. We was hanging around town and so we lit out after you.”

  Cory’s expression mirrored uncertainty. He studied the man. There were other things too. Did he want these men to side with him? Had he any need of allies?

  “Look, Balleau,” Kendall said. “You better make up your mind quick. We ain’t wishing you any harm and standing around out here could be a mite dangerous—for all of us maybe. They’re getting a posse together and it’s probably on its way now and you left a trail a blind man could follow. If you don’t want us, say the word and we’ll be on our way.”

  Cory made his decision with characteristic swiftness and certainty. Once made, it was done and finished. No backward glance.