At eighty yards, they stopped until the vocal display ended and the destrex went back to eating. At seventy yards, it noticed them getting closer and resumed screeching.
“Let it quiet down again,” said Mark. “We only need to get a little clos— ”
CRACK!
The shot came from Mark’s left. He couldn’t see who it was, except it wasn’t Runold.
“Fuck!” yelled Mark. The destrex’s profile while eating turned into a head-on view as it charged. Mark didn’t know whether the first shot had hit, but it had no apparent effect.
Five more muskets fired a ragged volley. Mark knew his shot was good, hitting the destrex’s chest. It stumbled but only momentarily before continuing.
Panic ensued. One thing the riders and the horses agreed on was to be somewhere else—anywhere else. The problem was disagreement on which direction to take.
Mark had turned his horse after he fired, ready to run for it. When he looked over his shoulder, though, the destrex had a grip on the throat of a horse in the middle of their line. The rider was flung skyward. The creature’s flaying tail knocked a second man off his horse. By the force of the blow, Mark thought most of the man’s bones must be broken.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Mark intoned.
He knew he needed to flee.
He didn’t owe these men anything. Instead, he leaped off his horse and let it run off. He couldn’t reload his musket while saddled.
Pour powder into the barrel.
Grab a ball out of his belt pouch and drop it in the barrel, followed by a paper patch.
Pull the ramrod from under the barrel and ram the ball and patch down the barrel.
Sprinkle a small amount of powder in the flash pan.
Raise the musket, cock, aim, pull the trigger.
The hammer struck metal to ignite the pan, allowing the flash to travel through the tiny hole leading to the inside of the barrel.
CRACK!
Mark’s shot hit the creature’s side. It was less than forty yards away. Another musket fired from somewhere toward the other end of their line. He saw one man whipping his mount furiously as he fled. Another rider was thrown from his horse and ran after it.
Mark was an automaton. There was no time for thinking. Reload. The destrex could have torn him to shreds at any moment, but its brain wasn’t evolved enough to recognize that wounds could be caused by enemies not within biting distance.
CRACK! Mark fired again, this time hitting the side of the destrex’s neck. He had finished reloading for the third time when his remaining colleague fired. The creature whirled, hit on its other side.
Back and forth, it shook its head. A human leg hung from one side of its jaw. The destrex was obviously seriously wounded, but they need to finish it off. Mark held aim at the head and slowly walked forward. He caught a glimpse of the man on the other side staring incredulously at him.
At twenty yards away, the creature stopped moving and watched Mark, mouth open.
CRACK!
Mark shot at the open mouth and hit the back of the throat. He hurriedly reloaded.
CRACK came another shot. The other man was also nearer to the monster and had fired into the back of its head.
Mark finished reloading and was raising the musket to fire when the animal’s legs collapsed. Its head thudded to the ground. Both men froze, looked at each other, and then, as if by mutual, though unspoken, agreement, walked to within ten feet of the head and put two more musket balls into the brain.
Mark’s hands had been rock steady . . . until now. They trembled as he sat the musket stock on the ground. His mouth felt like it had last tasted water a month ago, his knees threatened to knock together, and his heart thudded in his chest.
The other man stared at him, at the destrex, at Mark again. The man’s mouth opened and closed several times before words came out.
“Thought the fucker would never die.”
Mark agreed, but what he said was, “Well . . . that was exciting.”
“Yeah, well, then I’ve had all the excitement I need for rest of my life.”
“Pardon, but I’m afraid Runold never told me your name, and we never spoke since we joined up.”
“Name’s Rokoldoranderanin. You’re Kaldwel, and yes, my name’s a mouthful. Parents never would tell me why they stuck me with it.”
“How about if I just call you ‘Rocky’? Assuming you’re not offended.”
“Hell, I’ve been called more things than I can remember, and most of them uncomplimentary. Rocky sounds fine.”
“I don’t think we have to check on the man whose leg is hanging out, but what about the other one?” Mark asked. “The way he went flying didn’t look good.”
“His neck is broke and likely most other bones. Well, that leaves just the two of us to split the hide.”
God! Don’t spend too much time grieving over your companions, thought Mark.
Rocky caught his expression. “Didn’t know any of you men until Runold started looking for partners. Too bad for these two. Fuck the two that ran away.”
“It’ll be a four-way split,” said Mark. “We don’t know what the two dead men would have done if they’d had time to react, but we can’t assume they would have run. We can give their share to their families.”
Rocky shrugged. “All right, and I suppose you want us to bury these two?”
“I’d want someone to bury me. Wouldn’t you?”
“No. I’d tell them to go get good and drunk and toast me with every stein.”
Mark couldn’t help himself. He laughed.
It took an hour of listening to Rocky complain for them to dig a grave big enough for one whole and one partial body. Fortunately, it was still before mid-day, so there was time to skin the destrex before dark. This wasn’t an easy task because once they finished one side, they had to use ropes and the horses to roll the carcass over to skin the other side. They dragged the hide to a nearby stream, made an effort to scrape off more flesh from the underside, then spread salt on the flesh side to stop putrefaction before whoever bought the hide tanned it. They let it dry in the sun, as they washed themselves of dirt and blood. Mark guarded their dearly paid-for prize while Rocky rode to retrieve the packhorses.
Before they left the carcass, Mark paced off a length estimate from tip of snout to end of tail. Twenty-three feet.
“I hope this is as big as they get,” said Mark, shaking his head.
“Well, let’s not find out if there are bigger ones,” said Rocky. “Let’s get this hide headed back north. We’ll need to find a place more inaccessible for the night to keep scavengers away, much less another destrex. I hear they’ll eat their own dead.”
“One packhorse will never be able to carry the hide,” said Mark. “I didn’t realize how heavy such hides were.”
“We’ll cut it in half and put it on both packhorses,” said Rocky. “I’ll go bring back the horse whose whole rider we buried. It can carry the essentials from the two original packs. I’m sure as hell not leaving this hide after all this.”
“I hear you, friend.”
A sixday later, Mark and Rocky, both bedraggled and bone-weary, waited for a Nurburt trader to inspect their hide. As Runold had stated, the okland hide hadn’t changed in appearance since they’d first seen it on the original owner.
“Not a bad hide,” said the trader. “But not the best. Cutting it in half takes a little off the value. You should have divided it back to belly, instead of along the back. The most desired part for the best boots is the top of the back. By cutting it that way, you lost some of the prime hide for the highest-quality leatherwork. There’s also the musket holes. They’re not as important, but they do limit how the cutting of the hide goes.”
Mark grunted. “We were a little too busy staying alive to worry about shooting holes in the wrong places.”
The trader shrugged and dropped the flap of hide he was examining. “I’ll give you three large golds for it.”
“Three
!?” exclaimed Mark. “I thought an okland hide was worth as much as ten large golds.”
“Maybe in Brawsea, Kaledon, or Landylbury, but not here. Even there, the best price would be for an intact hide and not one sliced in the wrong direction.”
“Maybe we should try somewhere else,” said Rocky.
“As you wish,” said the trader, “but they won’t give you a better price and likely less. A shipment is heading north in two days, so I’m giving you my best price since it’s convenient.”
Mark did a mental translation. Three large golds. Almost four thousand dollars. A thousand apiece, once we find the families of the two killed by the destrex.
Mark and Rocky consulted with each other and decided the offer was the best they were going to get. They accepted.
“How do you expect to find the families of the two we buried?” asked Rocky.
“My only thought is to see if Runold got back and goes to the same pub where we met. You’ll have to hang around if you want to be sure I don’t keep the coin for myself.”
“No. You’re probably more honest than me, so I’ll trust you. If you can’t find any family and there’s another share or two to split, leave word at the main cathedral. I’ll check in about a month. Right now, I need to get home to see if my wife will still let me in and hasn’t taken up with another man. Maybe my share will soften her opinion of me from the last time I was home.”
Locating Runold proved easy. Mark found him in the same pub that very night. To Mark’s surprise, Runold offered no apology for running away, only the lame excuse that his horse had bolted and run so far in the monotonous, unfamiliar terrain that by the time he regained control, he couldn’t find Mark and the others. It was plausible, but Mark didn’t believe it for a second. Nevertheless, Runold knew where to find the two families and for a large silver coin led Mark to them. One wife broke down on hearing the news, while the other seemed almost relieved. Having done what he considered his duty, Mark let Runold know they wouldn’t be drinking together again.
Two days after returning to Nurburt, Mark Caldwell sat alone sipping a beer in the same pub where Runold had recruited him. He was firm in the knowledge that a career in destrex hunting was not in his future. Now he waited for inspiration, fate, opportunity, or whatever would help point him in a direction. In lieu of a specific idea, he had left a message at the Nurburt cathedral—a common custom in rural Frangel, where no regular postal system existed. The rancher he’d worked for in Ursalyn had given Mark a name for possible employment if he ended up in Nurburt. The message simply stated Mark was looking for work and referenced the Ursalyn rancher.
“Are you either Kris Kolumbus or Mark Kaldwel?”
Mark turned warily to face a rangy middle-aged man with only a few gray hairs in his beard and no hair at all on his head.
“I’m Keeslyn Toodman, and I got a cathedral message from someone named Mark Kaldwel who’s looking for work.”
Toodman read Mark’s expression and smiled. “I also got a letter from a distant cousin who ranches Ursalyn farther north. It took a while to get to me, but he said he recommended me to a good worker who might be heading my way. Said his name was Kris Kolumbus. Doesn’t take much puzzling to think someone might use different names for their own reasons. Also doesn’t make any difference to me why they do that, just as long as I don’t have any problem with them.”
“I’m Mark Kaldwel, and it’s my real name.”
“As I said, don’t care what your name is. I need temporary workers for a few months. I bought a small ranch near mine. The previous owner died a year ago, and the wife tried to keep it going by herself and with some relatives. Didn’t work out, and the buildings and fencing need repair. What few horses and cattle she had have scattered into the hills. My cousin says you were good at finding his lost animals, so sounds like you’re a good match for what I need.”
Mark didn’t speak, just held out his right hand.
CHAPTER 20
STAY AHILE
Mark rode with Toodman to his ranch. The countryside was rolling hills covered with grass and scattered tree stands. The former was either grass imported from Earth or another example of parallel evolution on the two planets. The feathery foliage of most trees identified them as Anyarian, except for cottonwoods. These lined the occasional watercourses, now dry toward the end of the summer in Anyar’s southern hemisphere.
“I see a lot of dry streambeds,” said Mark. “Are there problems with finding enough water for your animals this time of year?” He remembered his family’s ranch in Colorado and the two wells that provided livestock with water in years of low rainfall.
“Not a serious problem,” replied Toodman. “There are enough small ponds between the hills. Many of them never go dry, even during the driest years. Other ponds dry up, as their feeder streams quit running. The difference is odd, but no one can give a convincing explanation. There’re even a few ponds that always have water, even with no streams emptying into them.”
Seeps, thought Mark. The low spots must be at or below a permanent water table level. Otherwise, you’d have trouble keeping good-size herds in this terrain.
“One reason I bought the neighboring ranch is that it and my land surround one of the larger permanent ponds—one big enough we call it a lake.” Toodman laughed. “Well, I call it Toodman Lake, but the other owner named it after himself. By buying the other ranch, now I can call it what I want, and no one can argue. Of course, an important reason I purchased the ranch is so I’ll have sole claim to the lake—plus, the land is good, and the widow wanted to move north to live with her family.”
Half an hour from the ranch, they passed several hundred cattle drifting parallel to the road. A cluster of five animals crossed the road in front of the wagon, and the three adults and two calves trotted to join the rest of the herd. It was the first close look Mark had at the Anyar cattle he’d be working with for Toodman. Mark’s father had been an aficionado of cattle breeds, and the Caldwell family heard more discourses on cattle history and breeding than most members were interested in.
Whoa! thought Mark. They’re bigger than the ones I’ve worked with farther north. Maybe these are a different breed—they look a little like reconstructions of aurochs with a touch of wild water buffalo. I guess that might make sense if their ancestors were taken from Earth before modern breeds developed.
He knew the extinct auroch had given rise to most cattle breeds. However, the extant wild water buffalo belonged to a different branch of bovines, one that had led to the domestic water buffalo. He also hoped that if these cattle were descended from the wild auroch and he had to herd them, most of the mythical aggressiveness of the large bovine had been bred out.
Mark saw a couple of riders two hundred yards away, and one waved. Toodman waved back.
“One of our herds,” the ranch owner said. “We’re moving them to another small valley—they’ve pretty much eaten out where we had them. This way, the other pasture can regrow. If we left them there much longer, the grass would take longer to recover.”
Mark nodded without commenting, glad the rancher was aware of managing the range itself and not just the animals. He was also impressed when they arrived at a cluster of structures in the main ranch complex. A large house sat slightly apart from a row of cottages and two long buildings that had multiple windows but only one door.
Toodman pointed out the structures. “The small houses are for permanent workers and their families. Single men live in the two barracks, either in rooms, if they’re permanent workers, or in the large common room, if temporary. You’ll be in a common room. It’s about two-thirds full now, but there will be fewer men when the weather closes in for the couple of months before it warms up. You’ll eat in the smaller building between the barracks—it’s a kitchen and eating area.
“The barns and workshops are kept farther from dwellings to avoid odors and noise. Some men work night shifts with the herds, so they sleep during the day. The foreman and the perm
anent men will clue you in on how things work here. Tir Murklyn is my foreman. He oversees the day-to-day details of much of the work and will show you where to put your things and sleep. You’ll start tomorrow with a crew rounding up the cattle and horses from the other ranch. You all may sleep out on the range sometimes if you’re too far away to get back here for the night. Again, the others will tell you how things work. You’ll need to put together a sleeping roll. The barracks have blankets and waterproof covers you can pick from to form a kit if you don’t have your own gear.”
For the first time since leaving Brawsea, Mark had no expectation of when he would move on. He joined a crew of four other men in rounding up scattered livestock on both the newly purchased ranch and the more distant parts of the Toodman property. The land this far south took more acres than in northern Frangel to support each animal. He hadn’t realized the amount of land the local ranches required to be functional.
The mix of personalities among his coworkers was typical—some Mark liked and others less so, but all were tolerable. By the end of the first sixday, he recognized he was more relaxed than since leaving Brawsea. The work was similar enough to his previous experience with the rancher Nestun and his family’s ranch that he learned and adjusted quickly. The large cattle he worked with proved different only by being more sensitive to approach from the rear. It took only one incident for Mark to understand why the ranch workers didn’t push the animals too hard.
The man in charge of their crew wisely insisted Mark ride one of the ranch horses until he gained experience with the cattle—the argument being that one novice at a time was best. Secretariat became introduced to southern Frangel cattle after two sixdays, and Mark took his turn educating the horse.
Five sixdays after starting, his crew leader left the ranch, for reasons Mark didn’t know.
Toodman found Mark combing Secretariat and told him, “I know you’re relatively new here, Kaldwel, but you’ve got the knack for this work, and the other men respect you—I checked. You’ll take over as the crew leader. I won’t look for another man this time of the season, but the four of you should be able to finish the job.”
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