Buck Johnson: Dragon Roundup

by Wyatt McLaren

  “Skeeter Evans. I’m glad to see you, too.” Buck jumped up and grabbed a stick of firewood. He lunged at Skeeter, missing widely with his first swing. Skeeter was all flying heels and pumping elbows as he fled from Buck across the camp and around and around the dragon-less holding pen. “Skeet, you dumb son of a bitch, I told you to check them fly guards. And now—”

  Just at that point, Snort came trotting up on his showy black korth and took in the situation. “Howdy, girls. Looks like you’re havin’ a little party. How come you didn’t invite me?” Buck snarled and came at Snort who just spurred his korth out of both whacking and throwing range and grinned down at Buck.

  Presently, the storm blew itself out. Buck sat back down on his rock and exhaled forcefully through his nostrils. Skeeter remained on the far side of the camp, keeping a wary eye on Buck and his korth between them.

  Snort climbed down from his high seat on his concho-bedecked saddle. “You two girls oughta kiss and make up. I can’t leave you two alone for five minutes, can I? Come on in, Skeet”

  “I ain’t comin’ in there. Buck’s mad.”

  “It’s all right, Skeet—come on,” Buck assured him. Skeeter took a tentative seat on the far side of the camp, and Buck explained to Snort what had happened. He made sure to emphasize the necessity of rounding up—soon—plenty of the unclaimed dragons that had turned out to be not so plentiful after all.

  Brimming with confidence, Snort announced: “Don’t worry about it, Buck. We’ll git ’em back—plus plenty more good ones besides. Nothin’ to it. Let’s eat.”

  The next morning—this time when it was full daylight—while wrapped in early-morning indolence and still sipping their coffee (which was getting disturbingly low), Buck laid out the plans for the day. Skeeter was to ride north, which tracks in the empty pen indicated was the direction of escape, and try to locate the missing dragons. And Skeeter readily agreed, even though he hated to tackle any task alone, because he was eager to make reparation for the previous day’s offenses. Buck and Snort would ride out in a southerly direction looking for more unclaimed dragons to bring in. It seemed like good plan and good start to the day.

  Buck and Snort loped easily for only about a mile into the low foot hills just south of camp when they spotted a small group of dragons, five or six, maybe seven. They locked eyes and spurred their korths into a gallop. Their unspoken object was to rope the trailing one of the group first and then come back for the rest.

  Snort ran his korth in on the left side of the lumbering dragon, a good-looking specimen of the green-kraken variety. He built one the big loops he was noted for, swinging it around his head several times, and let it fly. It settled neatly over the dragon’s head. Snort got a good solid dally, and his experienced korth immediately turned left, pulling the rope taut and jerking the dragon slightly off balance. And the korth kept pulling. This would keep the dragon from charging and swinging her deadly tail. It would also allow Buck a chance to move in and rope her from the other side. That way, pulled from both sides, the dragon would be unable to charge either rider, and they could then safely drag her back to camp. It was done much the same way you and your partner would rope a bad, hooking bull out in the middle of a pasture.

  So Buck threw his loop, took a dally, and spurred his korth in the opposite direction from Snort. The rope tightened. Buck’s korth kept pulling. The dragon tried to lunge toward Snort. Buck spurred his korth. The korth bellowed and pulled. And the rope snapped.

  As soon as Buck determined he would stay aboard his stumbling korth, he called out a warning: “Snort, look out! She’s loose!” Snort felt his korth surge forward when the pressure on his rope was released. He heard Buck and looked up just in time to see the dragon coming at him with tail raised. He flattened against his korth’s neck. The dragon’s plated and spiked tailed whooshed over him, just inches away, brushing the top of his korth’s head near the end of its malicious arc. The animal squealed and bolted. Snort dropped his rope, now directing all his efforts at keeping his seat and maybe slowing his frightened and plunging mount. Eventually, he got the korth slowed down some and turned him a wide circle back toward Buck.

  The dragon, trailing half of Buck’s rope and all of Snort’s from her neck, lit out for the rest of the group that had disappeared over a rise. She ran full tilt, punctuating the run with occasional short burst of flight and looking back over her shoulder at the disgruntled dragon wranglers. She was likely bending their thoughts toward anger and despondency.

  Buck dismounted and gazed after the departing dragon. “Well, hell!”

  Snort was more than a little irritated. With adrenaline still coursing through his veins, he rode up and chided Buck: “Damn, Buck, didn’t you check that rope before we rode out? You just about got me killed. And you probably took a year off poor Billy’s life.” He was referring to his korth.

  The ropes they used were made of braided strips of dragon hide—very similar to braided rawhide Mexican reatas. Braided dragon hide was the only thing strong enough to hold a dragon, and they generally stood up well under the inevitable rigors of dragon roping. Still, in the course of this kind of work, they took a lot of abuse, being frequently dragged across dragon scales and snagged on sharp dorsal plates. They had to be checked every day for nicks and weak spots. In his eagerness to get started that morning, Buck had failed to do this.

  He knew this little mishap was chiefly his fault, but he was loath to admit it. Buck was also beginning, reluctantly and grudgingly, to accept what he knew they would have to do. It was just that he had always finished any job he started, himself. And it galled him to have to call in more help to accomplish what he had begun on his own.

  So Buck didn’t answer Snort for several minutes. He just stood there staring in the direction the dragon had taken, his lips pressed together and arms hanging and his korth wandering off. Instead of answering Snort, then, he called Skeeter on the telcom. “Skeet, you found them dragons yet?”

  Skeeter came back right off, sounding more than a little bewildered. “No, Buck, I haven’t. I’m just tryin’ to find our camp now. I lost their trail about—”

  Buck gave the switch on the telcom a violent flip. “Shit!” The building black mood was obvious in Buck’s face.

  Snort plucked up his courage and addressed him: “Buck, you know what we’re gonna have to do. I don’t like them lizard boys any more than you do, but we need ’em. You know they’re top hands—and damn fine dragon ropers.” He waited for a response. “Buck, if you wanna make any money out of this deal—and I sure as hell do—you’re gonna need some help.” More ominous silence from Buck.

  Finally: “All right, Snort, spell it out.” He walked over and picked up the reins dragging beside his straying korth. “You wouldn’t happen to have any tobacco, would you? No? All right, then.” Buck climbed back aboard his korth and headed toward camp.

  Snort fell in beside him, saying, “Well, Karlok and Xerlax got their ranch headquarters just a few miles west of here, over that pass you can see there. And they’re always in the market for a little dragon-wranglin’ work—helps buy feed and some fuel for their sky truck. I can ride over there tonight—I’m on better terms with those two than you are—and should be back by mornin’. What d’you say, Buck? It’s sure worth a try.”

  “I’ll think about it.” Buck had already made up his mind. But he still had to justify his decision to himself, and he didn’t want Snort to think he was too ready to cave. Eventually, he gave his barely audible assent to Snort's plan.

  When they reached camp, it was only early afternoon, but Skeeter already had a cook fire going and coffee boiling. He wanted to do everything he could to stay in Buck’s good graces. Skeeter then addressed them in his most ingratiating tone, “Howdy, boys. Chuck’ll be ready in just a little bit.” Then he remarked Buck’s sullen silence and Snort’s cautious hanging back. “’Smatter? Y’all didn’t round up any dragons?”

  Snort gave him a pained look, but Skeeter didn’t take
the hint. “I thought sure you boys’d come leadin’ back three or four dracs to put in the pen.” Buck looked like he was on the verge of an eruption. Snort dismounted, and when he could get Skeeter’s attention, put his finger to his lips. Skeeter looked puzzled, but he shut up.

  Buck and Snort unsaddled their korths, curried them where they had some hair, and then gave them a little meat and hay-like vegetation. While they were doing that, Skeeter cooked and served. Once they had eaten, Snort caught a fresh mount—all the while mumbling under his breath how he “hated to leave ol’ Billy”—and saddled it. Then he swung aboard and said, “I’ll see you boys in the mornin’. And then we’ll damn sure round up some of them dracs.” Having said that, he cut the korth around and trotted off into the early evening.

  Morning came unbidden, and Buck and Skeeter crawled out of their bedrolls. Buck jumped up and scanned the stark western horizon. Sure enough, he saw a rider coming. And he knew it was Snort from the way he listed to the right in the saddle. (When they were kids back on earth, back in, oh, about 2043, a bronc had fallen on Snort and broken his left leg. He had favored it ever since.) So Buck continued to watch while Skeeter worked at getting himself awake.

  Snort trotted his korth in, jumped off, and walked toward Buck grinning. “Buck, we got it made, buckaroo. Karlok and Xerlax are flyin’ in behind me, and they’re ready to catch a pen full of dragons. Said they'll buy ’em too—at double price. How’s that sound?”

  “You sure about that? That’s just not like them tight-ass lizard bellies. What’s the deal?” Skeeter didn’t say anything, but his big ears pricked up at hearing this.

  “Well, I’m not sure. But they gave me their word on it. And paid a deposit too.” Here he pulled a fat wad of Terul-credit notes out of pocket and handed it over to Buck, who whistled in astonished appreciation. And Skeeter’s eyes grew big around. “All they said was they got other ‘interested buyers.’ Said there’s somethin’ big brewin’. Said they’ll buy all the dracs we can round up, and they’ll give us a hand free of charge.”

  Buck pondered this for an uncomfortable few minutes. Then, resignedly, he said, “I guess we don’t have much choice, do we?” He then spotted two growing specks high above the western hills. He knew it was Karlok and Xerlax flying in on their dragons.

  The Terullina brothers flew in and landed. While their dragons furled their wings, they dismounted and spoke in unison: “Good we see you, Buck.”

  More than a little apprehensive, Buck asked, “What’re you two cookin’ up?”

  Lacking a large share of his usual churlishness, Karlok spoke: “We pay good for dragons and help you catch.” Uncharacteristically, he almost smiled at his brother, Xerlax, exposing the ends of a few pointed teeth, nictitating membranes flicking closed and open a couple of times. This always unnerved Buck just a little.

  Karlok continued: “Need many dragons. Pay you double. You like, Buck?”

  “Yeah, I ‘like’—but you scaly bastards better keep your word.”

  “Buck can trust us. Karlok and Xerlax always say truth.”

  Buck didn’t believe that last part, but he was in a bind. “All right, then. Skeet, saddle up. You and Snort go with Xerlax.” He pointed with his chin vaguely eastward. “Me and my buddy Karlok here’ll go south and see if we can find that bunch we ran into yesterday. Let’s ride.”

  Forty-five minutes later, Karlok came flying back to let Buck know he’d located the group of six dragons. They then separated, spreading out about two hundred yards apart, riding carefully and noiselessly, planning to take the dragons unawares on either flank. There was no need to speak—they both knew exactly what to do.

  When the dragons were in sight, Buck kicked up his korth and came up almost alongside the rearmost one. He shook out a loop and threw. It settled precisely over the dragon’s head, and Buck turned his korth. As he was turning, Karlok threw and turned to tighten his rope. With the dragon between and both keeping tension on their ropes, they hauled her back to camp. Once they had the dragon in the holding pen, they set off to do it again. And then again, a total of six times that day.

  On their last return trip, Buck spotted Snort and Skeeter working hard to keep the plunging dragon between them on the ground, their korths pulling in opposite directions for all they were worth. Xerlax flew in above the dragon, roped her, landed, and pulled from the front, just enough to keep the dragon a trifle off balance and so unable to get airborne. Buck watched this display of dragon-wrangling skill with unfeigned appreciation, smiling slightly and giving them a nod.

  As the pen’s laser gate hummed back on, as well as the fly guards, Snort offered his assessment: “Well, boys, this has been a damn fine day. Took a right smart bit of work, but we got ’er done. Let’s see . . . that’s six for you and Karlok, Buck, and four for me and Skeet. Ten dragons at double price. We’re gonna be rich in a few days.”

  Buck had his doubts about that, but he didn’t say anything. Skeeter readily agreed though. At least Buck was getting more willing work out of him than he had in a long time.

  And so it went for the next few days. They all rode out early, before the second sun had arisen, and dragged dragons back to camp as they rounded up and roped them. They kept at it each day till the light failed them. It all made for a cheerful camp at night even though they had now run out of real coffee and had no tobacco. Still, Karlok and Xerlax, being Terullians and always at least a little stand-offish and insolent, had their own camp a hundred yards away. But Buck allowed that that was a good thing because they spent most of their time in camp smoking that stinking tcheka.

  And they had only a few minor mishaps throughout these few days. On the first day, Snort’s big black korth had come up a little lame, and he was forced to get another mount from the remuda. And, of course, he then had to check on “poor Billy” every time they rode back into camp. On the morning of the third day, Buck had had a pretty close shave. They’d found a big bunch of about twenty dragons, and, according to their practiced method, Buck roped the trailing dragon first. Karlok threw his loop—and missed. The angered dragon lunged at Karlok. The dragon caught Buck’s korth in mid-stride and jerked him off his feet onto his side. This had happened too fast for Buck to react in time, so he went down with the animal. And before he could kick out of his left stirrup to ride the high side down, the korth rolled over him. Although bruised and dusty, Buck had managed to come through it mostly unscathed.

  All in all, though, everything went pretty well as expected till the afternoon of the penultimate day.

  They had sixty bellowing, milling dragons in the holding pen, all of them trying to bend the men’s minds toward at least a little anxiety, but things had gone too well for that to work. So they knocked off early that day, just a little after the double suns had passed their meridian. They’d be breaking camp and flying out the next day anyway. They would, that is, if Buck’s ancient sky truck cooperated.

  After a small meal, Skeeter stretched out using his saddle for a pillow and went to sleep. Buck was trying to calculate his earnings after he paid Snort and Skeeter. Snort was restless, eventually jumping up and making this announcement: “I think I’ll mosey over and see what Karlok and Xerlax’re up to.” Buck knew exactly what this meant, but he was in a magnanimous mood and didn’t say anything.

  At dusk Snort came weaving back to camp, glassy eyed, with a little spittle in the corner of his mouth, reeking of tcheka smoke. He stopped at the edge of camp, hooked his thumbs in his pockets, and grinned fatuously. “Howdy, boys.” He made a big show of waving at them. “I got some news you ain’t gonna b’lieve. Big, big news. Yup.” Then he sat right down in the dirt.

  Buck spat and said, “Go help that goofy bastard.” Skeeter walked over and helped Snort to his feet. He then led him to his usual rock for a seat and made sure he aimed accurately as he sat down. Then Snort just grinned and waited.

  “What’s up, Snort? What kind of news?”

  “Big. Damn big. Big news. Big, big, big.” Th
en he toppled off his rock and threw up. Skeeter helped him back up, making sure he touched only the unsullied places.

  Buck liked a drink as well as anybody, but he didn’t approve of tcheka smoking, and he hated excess of any kind. He was just on the verge of laying into Snort when Snort fell off his rock again, asleep before he hit the ground. “I reckon we’ll find out what he’s goin’ on about in the morning.”

  Morning came, and when they woke, so did Buck’s and Skeeter’s curiosity. They woke Snort and made him explain his “big news,” ignoring his pleas for a drink of water. His dry mouth made speaking difficult, but he did his best.

  “Karlok and Xerlax contracted to bring in a bunch of dragons, as many as they could—and they named their own price too—to Kerluk next month.”

  “Okay,” Buck asked, “what’s goin’ on at Kerluk next month?”

  “A rodeo—that’s what.” Buck and Skeeter both stared at him open mouthed, the disbelief palpable. “No, really. They’re startin’ the old Intergalactic Rodeo Association back up. Both of them lizard boys swear it’s true. How do you think they can afford to pay us double? They’ll git twice what they’re payin’ us for these dragons from the stock contractor.”