Jimmy McParlan knocked on the bottom of the boards and peered up at them. “Hey, Elijah,” he said. “Shock wear off yet?”
McParlan slid into his seat and waited for the carriage to start moving before he removed the tablet from his belt and turned it on. He looked at the photographs he’d taken of his rescuer. The interface was broken but he could still access information already stored there. He loaded the photographs and began searching the database for Seneca. The computer verified the man’s physical description, and started to provide details about a particular outlaw that made McParlan’s eyebrows rise.
Elijah Harpe’s open flesh sizzled in the harsh sun and his blood was filling up in the boot of his broken leg. His head rolled forward and stayed there until they would hit a bump, and he’d suddenly cry out. Jem ignored the noise, whistling an old severian miner’s tune as he worked the reins. Elijah reached for Jem’s sleeve and said, “Put a bullet in me. Give me your gun. I’ll do it myself.”
Jem yanked his arm away and swatted Elijah across the mouth with the back of his hand. “Keep your filthy hands off me.”
McParlan knocked on the window below. “Stop the carriage.”
The Marshal limped around the side of the forward carry and frowned at Harpe’s leg. “You know how to make a tourniquet?”
Jem looked into the distance and said, “Nope.”
“Mind stepping down here for a moment, boy?”
Jem shrugged and came down, walking around the front of the destriers while still keeping an eye on Harpe. “That prisoner is going to bleed out in a few short minutes if you don’t tourniquet that leg,” McParlan said.
“Sorry, Marshal. Seems I plum forgot how to fix one up,” Jem said. “I reckon ol’ Elijah is going to perish.”
McParlan smacked Jem’s hat off of his head and put his face close to the younger man’s, giving him a clear view of the dark recesses of his empty eye socket. “I dragged that bastard halfway across the galaxy to see justice served and I ain’t about to let you piss it away just because you think it’s some kind of sick fun.”
Jem looked down at his hat and then back to McParlan. His hands were near enough to the handles of either Defeater to draw them with the slightest effort. McParlan saw the muscles in Jem’s arms flex and said, “Oh, is that it? You thinking about stepping up in the world of crime, Jim?”
“Jem. Not Jim.”
“I know what I said. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I just don’t like his kind, is all.”
“Good, cause I don’t either,” McParlan said. He reached down to pick up Jem’s hat and cleaned it off, making sure the brim was straight. “In our line of work you don’t just kill these bastards. You make them suffer. A judge is going to sentence him to a lifetime of hell on a penal colony where every maniac sideshow freak is going to be lined up to play with him. It’s our job to deliver him there.”
“Who said anything about this being our line of work, Marshal?”
McParlan opened the carriage door and said, “Get that tourniquet on him.”
Jem cut a long leather strap from the destrier’s harness and snapped it in his hand. He tapped his vest, “No badge, Marshal. That means I don’t take orders from you.”
“You never know. I’ve got an eye for talent.”
“That ain’t the one you lost, is it?”
“No, that’s the foot I broke off in the last smart ass’s rear end. Get that tourniquet on him.”
The VISITOR’S STATION outside of Seneca 6’s fortified security gate was just a computer screen attached to a wooden post. Jem touched the screen and waited. Beyond the gate, dozens of people crowded the sides of Pioneer Way. The closest building to the gate was the Sheriff’s Office and Jem only looked long enough to see that not much had changed.
He looked up at the cameras mounted to the gate, waiting for an answer. He rubbed his chin, feeling the stubble in the palm of his hand, and tapped the screen again and the words SECURITY AUTHORIZATION CODE appeared. Jem typed in his old residential identification code and watched the gate for signs of movement.
The gate’s clear electrical field rippled and a stooped-over man shuffled through it carrying a clipboard. He looked from his clipboard to the wagon and frowned, pushing his thick glasses up on his nose to squint at Jem. “Where did you get that code, young man?”
“It’s the same one I’ve used since the day I was born. I’ve been away on business for awhile, but I should still be on your records.”
“Clayton?” the gatekeeper said. “Jem Clayton?” Jem nodded and the man looked over the information on his chart. “Well, I see you still listed here, but it shows you haven’t paid your occupancy tax in over ten years. You owe quite a bit of money.”
“I don’t seem to recall any occupancy tax. How long’s that been in effect?”
“Over ten years.”
Jem reached into his shirt pocket for his small clip of flash money. “And I thought all the robbers were out in the wasteland. Here you go, sir. I reckon that should settle us up and still put me ahead for a few years at least.”
The gate keeper frowned at the folded bills. “I don’t think I’m authorized to accept such a large sum, partner. You probably need to take that to the Sheriff. He’s the one who collects the taxes around here. You can come in, but don’t let me find out you didn’t go see him and settle up.”
“Not a problem. Who is the Sheriff nowadays?”
“Walt Junger, of course.”
Jem shifted in his seat and kept his smile plastered tight to his face. “Is that right? What about that old rascal Billy Jack Elliot? He’s the deputy, I suppose?”
The gate keeper bristled, “I’d prefer you call him Mayor Elliot, mister. Or even Judge Elliot. He’s both.”
“Judge and Mayor? Don’t that just beat all. And here I was worried about what had become of my old home town. We’re just on our way to see those boys. I’ve got a carriage full of prisoners and lawmen and sickly folks who could use some services. Can you send the doctor around to the sheriff’s office?”
“I can,” the gate keeper said, cocking his head sideways. “By any chance, was your daddy Sam Clayton?”
“Yes, he was.”
“You look just like him.”
“That right?” Jem said. “Did you know him?”
“Did I know him? Shoot, boy, we was like best friends! He never told you about Fred Walters? Listen, I have something at my house that might be of interest to you. I live in Tom Master’s old house.”
“The deputy?” Jem said.
“Exactly. Stop over and see me and I’ll show it to you.” Walters entered a few codes into his box and the electrical static of the security gate went silent as it opened. “The Sheriff’s Office is the first building on your left,” Walters said.
“Thanks, but I remember.”
A child burst into Anna Willow’s office, “Dr. Willow! Come quick!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Mr. Walters gave me a penny to come fetch you. Said you’re needed at the Sheriff’s Office.” Anna grabbed her black leather medical bag and locked the door behind her. Maybe someone finally got sick of that bastard’s greed and shot him, she thought. Lord, forgive me for even thinking that. On second thought, forgive me for not being upset by the idea.
Anna stopped at the sight of the man standing on the Sheriff’s porch. He spit a cheek full of cut into the dirt and turned to look at her. Anna’s knees buckled slightly and she said, “Sam?”