Buck Johnson: Dragon Roundup

by Wyatt McLaren

  Buck Johnson: Dragon Roundup

  Wyatt McLaren

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

  Buck Johnson: Dragon Roundup

  Korths—which approximately resemble a three-toed cross between an ox and a horse—are anything but quick and agile. They are, however, strong, possessing amazing pulling power, and fast on a straightaway—attributes that come in pretty handy for catching and roping dragons. Still, they aren't the best sort of mount for steep, rough terrain. And that’s why Buck Johnson was now sitting on a smallish boulder, nursing a skinned elbow and a sore shoulder, and cursing his current lot.

  Buck had been attempting to maneuver his barely-past-green-broke korth down the side of a steep draw, having a spotted a likely looking dragon at the draw's head. This young korth he'd cut out and saddled that morning had been showing a lot of promise. He was a quick learner, didn't shy from the rope, and seemed to have stamina. Buck really liked his looks, too. So Buck had decided to get two jobs done at once—putting some miles and training on the korth and maybe roping and bringing back to camp a dragon or two. But things had gone slightly awry.

  As Buck was coaxing the korth over the edge of the draw, the animal decided to come untrained. Having just clambered over the lip of the draw, the korth sat back on his haunches. Buck spurred him to get him moving on down the steep incline, and the korth lunged forward, kicked a time or two, and then commenced pitching in earnest, trying to unseat Buck and get back to the level ground he preferred. But Buck got his feet forward, squeezed with his knees, and managed, just barely, to keep his seat. He also began a series of loud and salty exhortations: “Whoa! Whoa, you ignernt bastard! Whoa dammit!” and so forth—which had little effect on the kicking and squealing animal.

  So Buck kept his spurs dug in and set to work sawing on the reins to pull the korth's nose down and toward his neck to take away his leverage for bucking. But the nose chains weren’t tight enough for this to work very well. Buck had deliberately left them a little loose, and now he was paying for it.

  A korth, unlike a horse, has a bony, almost horn-like, insensitive under jaw, which means a curb chain won't do any good. So korth riders use nose chains instead. Every riding korth has its nostrils pierced on the upper side near the front with small rings inserted through the piercings. Short chains, about the size of a curb chain, are snapped to the rings and then to the lower part of the bit shank. When a korth rider pulls back on his reins, the nostril chains tighten and apply controlling pressure to the upper rims of the pierced nostrils. And it produces much the same effect as a tightening curb chain does on a horse’s chin.

  But because this korth wasn’t well broke and so wasn't accustomed to the nostril chains, Buck hadn't made them very tight, wanting to allow the korth to get used to them gradually. So when he pulled back on the reins, it didn’t produce much effect on the pitching animal. The korth continued to buck farther down the steepening slope, and Buck kept coaxing him to stop.

  When they hit the steepest and rockiest section of the draw’s side, it happened. The korth kicked straight over his head—and stumbled. Buck jammed his feet even farther forward, leaned back, and grabbed the saddle horn with his free hand. But the rebellious animal was too overbalanced.

  Realizing the korth was too far gone and about to topple end over, Buck bailed off over its left shoulder. He managed to keep a tight grip on the reins though. The animal landed on its back with a ponderous whump. And before Buck could get to his feet and get control and get remounted, the korth heaved to his feet and took off at a dead run, dragging Buck behind him, filling his mouth and shirt and trousers with reddish-yellow, sulfur-tasting Terullian dust. Buck just closed his eyes, threw his left arm in front of his face, and hung on to the reins in his right hand with a desperate iron grip.

  Then it ended as abruptly as it had begun. When the korth had almost reached the level bottom of the draw in its rolling-eyed flight, the animal stepped into a hole with its right front leg. (It was probably a nerlak's den—a burrowing, carnivorous animal about the size of a groundhog with scales instead of fur.) The korth's body continued its momentum-driven rush toward the bottom of the draw while its leg remained firmly stationary in the hole. There followed then a sickening crack, and Buck slid to a dusty stop.

  Buck jumped up, spitting dirt out of his mouth and raking it out of his eyes, and shook his head to clear it. At length, he became aware of the screams and bellows of the cruelly crippled korth. The animal lay on its left side holding its right foreleg up at a forty-five-degree angle, the lower part dangling ground-ward, attached by only a few ribbons of scaly skin. The korth was also kicking his hind legs, trying to get back up and amplifying the pain thereby. Buck dropped the reins he had been unconsciously gripping. There was only one thing to do now.

  Easing around to the rear of the pain-crazed korth, keeping an eye on the flailing hind legs and making sure the animal didn't roll on him, Buck reached gingerly into the exposed saddle bag. Presently, he drew out his most-prized illegal possession—a .45 Colt Single Action Army revolver. Buck hesitated for a moment with the pistol dangling at the end of his right arm. Then he pulled the hammer back and put the korth out of its misery.

  Skeeter Evans, who had been repairing a stirrup leather on his saddle back at their camp, jerked his head up on hearing the shot. He knew that sharp sound could portend nothing good. He was just on the verge, never having been a quick thinker or decider, of saddling up to go see if Buck needed help. But before Skeeter had to struggle out of his miring indecision on his own, Buck’s voice crackled through on the saddle horn-mounted telcom: “Skeet, come back . . . Skeet!”

  “Yeah, Buck, what’s up? D’you need some help?” came Skeeter’s delayed and tentative response.

  “Yeah, Skeet, I do. Didn’t you hear that shot? Hell, Skeet, just git over here and give me a hand. Bring a fresh mount. I'm at the bottom of that steep draw northeast of camp, the one we crossed riding in last week. You think you can find it?” Skeeter’s sense of direction was about as well developed as his ability to make snap decisions.

  “Sure, Buck, I can find you.” He didn’t sound all that convincing though.

  Now, the reason Buck and Skeeter were there in the first place was to round up as many unclaimed dragons as they could find and then later, of course, sell them to anyone they could find who needed dragon mounts. The mountainous terrain of the Leptok Territory—home to Karlok and Xerlax, the Terullian flank riders they had used on their latest dragon drive two months earlier—was, according to the reports Buck had heard, just lousy with unclaimed dragons. These were dragons that had never been captured or had been caught and had busted loose or whose identifying microchips had stopped working. Whatever the reason, they were there for anyone who had the gumption to get them. The problem was, though, that they were fewer than Buck and Skeeter had expected, and they were wilder than they had anticipated. (Mountain dragons usually are.) The upshot was that, so far, this hadn’t turned out to be a very successful undertaking.

  Skeeter sat his korth on the flat ground above the draw looking in every direction except down at the bottom where Buck was. He looked lost, but he had brought another korth with him. Buck just watched him for a few minutes, shaking his head and wishing he’d brought Snort Jones along on this venture. Finally: “Skeet! I’m down here!” At this, the korth Skeeter was leading snorted, reared, and almost broke free. But Skeeter took a frantic dally around his saddle horn with the lead rope. When the korth had quieted down some, he went over the edge of the draw toward Buck.


  Buck stayed right where he was, seated on the rock and rubbing his shoulder. He hadn’t made any attempt to move because Buck, like all cowboys whether they ride horses or korths, had a strong aversion to walking unless it was just absolutely necessary. It wasn’t now.

  Reaching Buck and the dead korth, Skeeter reined in and began the lengthy process of dismounting his long, angular frame. “Buck, you look like hell. What happened?”

  “This green son of a bitch here decided to act up and got his leg broke for his trouble.”

  “Well, that’s a hell of a note, Buck. That just beats all.” Skeeter looked truly mournful and as though he really would like to make matters better. “I figured you'd come leadin’ a couple of dracs back to camp this evenin’.”

  “No, Skeet, I reckon not. Help me get this saddle off.” And they set to work doing just that, Buck lifting on the korth and Skeeter pulling on the saddle. They finally got it off and sat down, both breathing heavily.

  Skeeter couldn’t stand silence for long, so he spoke first: “Now what, Buck?”

  “Now we head back to camp and eat some of that crap and go to sleep. Then we head out in the morning to do what we been doin’.” Skeeter gave Buck a sharp glance, but he knew better than to say anything right then.

  They led their korths to the top of the draw. Buck saddled his, and they rode back toward camp in silence for a good long while. Skeeter had been squirming in his saddle the whole time, and he finally voiced the concern causing this agitation. “Buck . . . Buck . . .” Buck turned his head and looked at him. “Buck, I know you don't wanna hear this, but we ain’t gonna be able to do this without Snort. You know he’s the best dragon header on Terul, don’t you? Buck, are you listenin’?”

  “Yeah, I hear ya, Skeet. I been thinkin’ the same thing myself. We just got to turn a profit this time—and keep it.”

  Skeeter decided to let this ride and broach a new subject instead. “Buck, how come you’re still here on this piece-of-shit planet after we made all that money on them dragons we trailed in to Skrintax? How come, Buck, really?”

  “Well, let's have smoke then, Skeet.”

  “Now, Buck . . . you know I’m all out of tobacco.”

  Buck pressed on: “And why’s that, Skeet?”

  “’Cause I smoked it all back there with Quincy Poindexter. You know that, Buck.”

  “Un-huh. And how come you're still here, Skeet . . . huntin’ down rogue dragons with me instead of holed up with that jug of hooch and that fat girl you’re always talkin’ about? How come, Skeet? Tell me.”

  Skeeter squirmed a little, and his cheeks assumed an unwonted pinkish tint. “Well, now, that’s my business, ain’t it?”

  They were good friends—they’d been through a lot, and they’d been riding together for going on seven years—but Buck had a habit of pressing the advantage when he had it, especially with Skeeter. “I don’t know, Skeet. You was all hot to get off Terul and have some fun and then find some easy work. What happened?”

  Skeeter exhaled long and loud and then rejoined, reluctantly: “Buck, you know as well as I do what happened.”

  “Why don’t ya tell me then, Skeet?”

  Skeeter, who had no ability to stop once a line of conversation had been taken out of his hands, was forthcoming, though a trifle ashamed and more than a little contrite. “I spent it all. I spent three weeks drinkin’ up Quince’s illegal whiskey—and he don’t part with it cheap, let me tell you—and then I spent a week with one of them Terullian hootchie-kootchie ‘girls.’ And they ain’t cheap either. And they’re rough, too. They got—well, their parts are—aw hell, Buck, you know what I’m talkin’ about. There. How’s that?”

  “You’re honest. I gotta give you that.” Buck stared in silence at the ringing mountains for a few minutes, lips compressed and jaw muscles twitching slightly. “And you’re right, Skeet—we need Snort.” Not another word was spoken as they rode on in to camp.

  Back at camp, Buck set about feeding their korths, the small remuda of six he’d brought along. Because korths are omnivores, he got both refrigerated meat and a couple of bales of dried Terullian vegetation resembling hay out of the cargo hold of his sky truck. While he was doing that, Skeeter hauled out several arm-loads of firewood that had been sky-trucked in from Lestar 3 because there was nothing taller than thorn bushes on Terul. Skeeter slammed the cargo-hold hatch shut way too hard eliciting an immediate response from Buck: “Damn, Skeet, take it easy.”

  This sky truck was what had drained Buck of his considerable earnings from the dragons they had sold at good price (with the coerced cooperation of Karposh) at Skrintax two months ago. The ion-drive differential had to be replaced, and the forward asteroid shields were in bad need of upgrading—both hugely expensive repairs. So Buck was back to spending his days, all day long, korth-back and wrangling dragons again. Skeeter knew better than to mention any of this. It put Buck in a dangerously foul mood whenever he was reminded.

  Skeeter built a fire as Buck finished feeding the stock. Nights were cold up in these mountains, so they had a real fire, not the usual illusory hologram-created one. Buck and Skeeter both pulled up a rock and sat near the fire as they mechanically munched their tasteless instant food. But there was one comfort in all this. They had managed to convince trader Quincy to sell them a little genuine coffee—at a ridiculously high price, of course. So now they sat and silently sipped.

  Holding his enameled cup near the rim away from the heat, Buck stared into the fire . . . thinking . . . brooding. And Skeeter waited, stealing a glance at him now and then. At length, Buck seemed to have arrived at some decision. He shifted his weight, pushed his hat to the back of his head, and addressed Skeeter just as if he had been a participant in the interior debate. “All right, then, Skeet . . . we’ll do it. I heard Snort’s been breakin’ a few korths for Kernak . . . south of here . . . ’bout a day’s ride, I reckon. First thing in the morning I’ll ride down there and see if Snort’ll give us a hand.” He paused here while his eyes grew harder.

  “But, damn, Skeet, I really can’t afford to pay another hand. You eat enough for three men, and it takes you all day to do half a day’s work.” There was another pregnant pause here, which gave Skeeter’s bruised feelings a chance to mend slightly. Buck was debating with no one but himself now: “We gotta do it, though. We’ve only rounded up five dragons . . . and they’re poor-lookin’ sonsabitches, at that . . . and we been at this a week already. I’ll ride out at first light . . . yep . . . that’s what I’ll do.”

  “You bet, Buck. Whatever you say.” Skeeter then threw the dregs of his coffee on the fire, smiling briefly with pleasure at the hiss it produced, pulled off his boots, and crawled into his self-expanding bedroll. He also made sure Buck couldn’t hear his mumbled complaints.

  It was a good two hours before first light when Buck got up, tended to nature, and saddled his korth. Now he stood holding the reins loosely and gazing southward. He nudged Skeeter with the toe of his boot and encouraged him to get up: “Skeet, wake up! We’re burnin’ daylight. Git up.” Then he checked his saddle bags.

  Skeeter groaned and commenced his standard early-morning protestations, with some justification this time. “Burnin’ daylight? Hell, Buck, the first sun ain’t even up yet! Lemme go back to sleep.”

  “Nope. You gotta git up. I’m ridin’ out now. And you better make damn sure you take care of the stock. Use those extra portable laser panels if you need to. And don’t forget to check the laser fly guards every morning. If those five scrawny dragons fly out of the pen, we’ve got nothin’ to show for a week’s work.” Buck climbed aboard and trotted southward in the pre-dawn greyness.

  Skeeter heaved himself up. “Sure thing, Buck. I got it covered,” he answered Buck’s back, with only a very thin veneer of cheerfulness applied over his annoyance.

  The following day, late in the afternoon, just as Terul’s first sun began its reluctant descent toward the horizon, Buck approached their camp. He’d be
en whistling a jaunty little tune for the last couple of miles. Snort Jones had agreed to work on a percentage basis according to how many dragons they were able to round up and sell, so Buck wouldn’t have to worry about coming up with Terul-credit notes for Snort’s wages. And, having had to tie up just a few ends before leaving, Snort would be riding in only a few hours behind. But when Buck rode in and looked the camp over, every drop of that good mood evaporated.

  “Damn!” The temporary holding pen, made from decrepit portable laser panels, where they had been holding the five dragons was empty—and so was the camp. “That dumb son of a bitch forgot to make sure the fly guards were working,” Buck observed to no one.

  There wasn’t anything he could do about it at the moment, so Buck poured himself a cup of coffee and settled atop the rock that was his usual seat. He took a sip and immediately spewed it out—it was cold and bitter. So he just sat with his elbows on his knees, staring straight ahead, waiting and stewing.

  Eventually, Skeeter came riding in, nodding, almost asleep. When his korth stumbled slightly, Skeeter jerked his head up and his eyes open and spotted Buck. A smile spread across his long, ingenuous face, and he greeted Buck with genuine warmth and relief: “Buck! Damn, I’m glad to see you. It’s gits lonely up here at night. Did you bring Snort?” And then he began the process of dismounting.