As it happened, Puss had also been vying for Chalk’s attention, as I learned when I heard him grumble, “Argh. Puss, dear, this is no time to be havin’ a piss.” Considering all that had recently transpired, my sympathies were wholly with Puss in the matter.
As I returned to the ground, I examined the surrounding regolith, but could see no sign of the dreaded but much-coveted knife. That was because, while everyone else stood stunned, and I floated in the aether, Perkins had run in and scooped up the prize. An instant later he stood poised before the two hostiles, the tip of the weapon pointing first at one man then the other, sniffing the vacuum for fresh blood like it was Lucifer’s own divining rod.
“Now, you two ugly boogers,” Perkins barked, “go back in the tunnel with the others and stay there, else I’ll carve you up like a pair of prize hogs.” There was something unmistakable in his tone that promised he was telling the truth.
“What you done with Bob?” said one of the miscreants, with what I considered stunning irrelevance.
Nevertheless Perkins answered him. “After I busted his lamp, he run away, the sorry booger. I expect he’s got himself good and lost by now.” He took a step forward. “Now get moving or I’ll have no choice but to kill you both.” I raised the shovel in solidarity.
The two men stood there in silence, each holding up a hand to shield his faceplate and considering Perkins’s proposition. At last convinced of his veracity, they turned and began to shuffle toward the mine. Then a moment later one of them said, “Well, Bob, there you be. Good a you ta join us.”
Perkins, whose back was to the mine, laughed, saying, “Nice try, boys, but—”
“No!” I hollered, but my warning came too late, and Bob, who had launched himself from the tunnel in a low but rapid trajectory, fell on Perkins from behind—quite literally fell on top of him in fact—and held fast to the twin air cylinders on Perkins’s back.
Perkins spun around—a largely useless gesture when your opponent is riding you piggy-back, as I had discovered for myself whilst aboard Black Johnny. I saw the two men who had been retreating toward the mine’s entrance turn, place hands over faceplates, and contemplate a return to the arena. I stepped toward them and raised the shovel in order to hold them at bay. Then, grasping the nature of his predicament, Perkins reached behind him with the awful knife and tried to slash at his rider. The knife struck hard against the man’s helmet, spun out of Perkins’s glove, and flew on into the shadow cast by a mountain of tailings. I repeat, it’s best to go light on the gusto when involved in hand-to-hand combat on the Moon.
Chalk, who had recovered somewhat from the repeated blows to his helmet, if not Puss’s ministrations, ran to retrieve the wicked blade.
Meanwhile, Perkins continued to flail about, trying to dislodge his rider by the time-honored method of bucking him off, a trick that has worked more than once on me, generally through the offices of a genuine Mexican plug. But despite Perkins’s best efforts, the man stayed in the saddle, although honestly I’m not at all sure what he was trying to accomplish. It had done me little good against Black Johnny.
Then Chalk returned, holding the knife out in front of him, acting like he wished to give it to Perkins, who already had his hands full wrestling with his jockey.
“Chalk!” shouted Perkins, “cut his air hose!”
Presumably to this end, Chalk then hopped up and attached himself to Perkins’s rider’s back. This is beginning to resemble a circus act, I thought, or perhaps a cannibal bride’s three-tiered wedding cake. Just how many men in full pressure regalia could Perkins hold, I wondered, and nearly considered climbing aboard myself in order to find out.
The question was soon answered without me, however, when, as Chalk tried to aim the knife while riding two bucking haggises, Perkins lost his balance and began to pitch forward, falling in slow motion. Naturally, both the rider and the rider’s rider came along to fall on top of him. I heard a scream, and simultaneously was witness to a horrible sight, as a huge geyser of air erupted from somewhere within the pile of pressure-suited men. The dreaded knife had done its work, and one of the men in that fateful scrum was now on a swift passage to perdition. But which was it? Since Chalk had held the knife when the tower fell—hadn’t he?—the odds said that Perkins’s attacker was the victim, but as often happens when I dare to gamble, the odds were wrong. Just as the toast invariably falls butter side down, it was Perkins, not his attacker, who was spouting a geyser of air.
“All right,” came a voice I knew well, but somehow didn’t expect to hear, “that’s about enough of that. Sam, can you get Perkins into the airlock?” The voice was that of Calvin Bemis.
“Which airlock?” I said, grabbing Perkins and hoisting him off the ground. His haggis was hopelessly flaccid, all the air having escaped through a terrible rent in its side. Then, as I glanced toward the mine’s entrance to see what had become of the other men, I saw the elongated shadow of a set of monstrous jaws reach ahead of me across the ground.
“Get out of the way, Sam,” shouted Bemis, and I knew then what was happening. Calvin had summoned the Beast, if not to its rightful work, then in service to a righteous cause. The shadow advanced on the attackers and, as I dragged Perkins’s limp haggis aside, I saw the great digging leviathan roll inexorably past, pursuing the three men, its huge digging claw outstretched and its spiked jaws open wide.
One of the foe made the mistake of turning to see exactly what sort of nightmare was pursuing him. He was immediately blinded by the Sun, of course, and stood with his gloves over his faceplate as Bemis scooped him up in the Beast’s claw like a sinner raised up by the hand of God—or perhaps the hand of the other fellow. Then Calvin swung the claw and tossed the man away into the vacuum, where he sailed majestically over all seven hills of tailings and beyond. I expect he did come down, eventually, somewhere over the eastern horizon.
Epilogue
Well, Calvin and I didn’t die in the Deirdre either, although it was not for lack of trying. Instead, we took the expanded Clemens-Bemis Expedition into the Vallis Alpes, where, as you might imagine, some additional trouble occurred. To find out just what sort of trouble, you will need to read Mark Twain on the Moon Book Three, available soon wherever fine books are sold.
* * *
Thank you for reading Mark Twain on the Moon: The Deirdre. If you enjoyed it, please take a moment to leave a review at your favorite retailer.
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Discover other books in the Mark Twain on the Moon series
Mark Twain on the Moon Book 1: Prospectors!
Mark Twain on the Moon Book 2: The Deirdre
Mark Twain on the Moon Book 3: Home
. . . and more to come!
Other books by Michael Schulkins
Up A Tree: A Jobs and Plunkitt Galactic Adventure
Sting Suite
Mother Lode
Beltway
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Michael Schulkins
The Deirdre Page 18