“Oh, I guess I’ve done my share,” said Phule, who’d spent many a long childhood summer at the family’s country estates, where riding to hounds was still a traditional pastime. Not even the most curmudgeonly of the family elders ever complained that the hounds and their quarry were all simulated, and most of the horses mechanical… tradition was tradition, even if it had to be helped along a bit by modern technology.
The man behind the desk wasn’t listening. “City boy, huh?” he muttered, casting a skeptical look at Phule’s Legion uniform and rubbing his chin. “I guess we can find somethin‘,” Buddy said at last. “Worse comes to worst, we can recalibrate one of the spare cayuses so this boy won’t fall off and hurt himself. If’n we modulate the spirit circuits on these bots far enough down, we can make ’em so gentle they won’t wake up a sleepin‘ baby. Not that we get all that many sleepin’ babies askin‘ to ride, har har.“
“Uh, that really won’t be necessary,” Phule began again.
But Buddy had already picked up his communicator. “Hey, Jake,” he said. “Got us a city boy here, needs a hoss he won’t fall off of and get a boo-boo. Can y‘ fix ’im one up? Uh-huh. Yeah, that’s fine. All right then, stranger,” he said turning back to Phule. “It’ll cost you an extra five hundred setup charge. Jake’ll have it in just ‘bout an hour. Go on down to the tenderfoot bar and have a glass of sasparilly and it’ll be ready just about when you’re done. And I sure do ’predate the business.”
“Much obliged, Buddy,” said Buck Short, with a wink.
“But I didn’t…” protested Phule.
“Oh, think nothin‘ of it, stranger,” said Buddy. “Any friend of Buck’s gets the full A-Number-One treatment, and no mistake. You jes’ come on back in an hour’s time and Jake’ll have you the gentlest robohoss you ever laid eyes on, all ready to go.”
His eyes glazed over, Phule allowed Buck to lead him out of the livery stable and down the street.
“What makes you so certain my butler’s been captured by the Indians?” Phule asked the weather-beaten cowpoke on the robohorse next to him.
Buck Short spat into the weeds beside the trail. “That’s purty much the only plot option hereabouts,” he said, soberly. He sported a four-or-five-day growth of beard, a plug of tobacco in one cheek, and crossed eyes that made it hard to tell where he was looking-especially when he was about to spit. He looked more or less at Phule, and said, “Ain’t like there’s anybody ‘cept the Injuns in the capturin’ business on Cut ‘N’ Shoot, ‘less’n you done heard some-thin’ I ain’t.”
“I see,” said Phule, dubiously. “Let me rephrase that, then. What makes you so sure he’s been captured at all?”
“I reckon if he had any selection, he’d be back in the saloon, jes’ like the rest of the boys,” said the cowpoke. “He ain’t got a job, he ain’t in the saloon-you figger it out, pilgrim.”
“In other words, there’s nothing else to do in these parts,” said Phule. “Why is the planet trying to attract tourists, then?”
“Weren’t none of my idea. Alls they do is drive up the prices,” Short said, looking either at Phule’s left ear or somewhere off behind him. “And the stores is full of fancy-pants city stuff, cappychino ‘stead of reg’lar coffee, furrin wines instead of good ol’ country rotgut. Don’t know what the durn place is comin‘ to.”
“Sorry to hear that,” said Phule. “So if Beeker and his lady friend have been captured by the Indians, what do you suggest I do about it?”
“Same as any red-blooded hombre would do,” answered Short. “Git on yer horse and go find ‘em. Then make ’em sorry they done it.”
Phule looked down. “Well, it looks like I already am on my horse,” he said.
“Smart feller,” said the cowpoke. “I reckon you know what to do next, then.”
“Right,” said Phule. But almost before the word was out of his mouth, Buck Short had spurred Dale-8 toward the nearby town, and was out of earshot. Lacking any other plan, he sped up his own horse and rode to overtake Short. “Which way are the Indians?” he asked, as he pulled abreast of him.
“How the tarnation am I supposed to know?” said the cowpoke, testily. At least one of his eyes glared at Phule. “Do I look like an Injun to you?”
Phule couldn’t quite tell whether he’d grievously insulted Buck, but he hastened to calm the cowpoke down. “Sorry, friend, I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said. “I just need to find the Indians-and the fellow you think they’ve kidnapped. Do you know anybody I might ask who would know where they are?“
“Maybe you ought to ask OV Ben,” said the cowpoke. “He’s out on the range, usually. You jes’ head west out o‘ town, aud when you get to Brownsville, take that right-hand road. Then look out purt’ sharp, and when you see a big cloud o‘ dust off to the west side, that’s sure as shootin’ gone to be OF Ben’s herd. He’ll be there with ‘em. You tell ’im Jeb sent you.”
“All right,” said Phule. “Thanks, Jeb.”
“Tarnation, / ain’t Jeb,” said the cowpoke, glaring at Phule with an insulted expression. “What’s wrong with your memory, pilgrim? I done told you, my name’s Buck Short.”
“Excuse me?” Phule squinted, puzzled. “Then why do you want me to say Jeb sent me?”
“ ‘Cause that’s the word,” said the cowpoke, with the air of a man explaining the obvious. “Same as if you wants to start a robohorse movin’, you got to say gitty-up, instead of let’s go or move yer arse. You can’t go changing words around and ‘spect things to work like they’re ’sposed to.”
“I see,” said Phule. “I head west out of town, take the right-hand road in Brownsville, big cloud of dust-Old Ben’s there. I tell him Jeb sent me, and he can tell me the way to the Indians.”
“Yer durn tootin‘,” said Buck Short, with obvious approval, and with that he turned his robosteed and headed on into town, leaving Phule to find his own way to OF Ben and the Indians.
Chocolate Harry scowled at the requisition form Lieutenant Armstrong had just handed him, then looked up, and growled, “This is gonna be really expensive, y’know? I mean, none of this is standard Legion materiel. I’m gonna have to go to an outside supplier. And you gotta be kiddin‘ about when you want it by…”
“The captain’s footing the bill, and Lieutenant Rembrandt set the deadline,” said Armstrong, stiffly. “If you want to dispute an order from your commanding officers, it’ll be your neck on the line. You’d be a lot better off just getting everything ordered, first. Then if you want to waste your breath arguing with the captain, you can do it after he gets back without delaying the project any more. And if he does change his mind, you can send the supplies back afterward-and tell everybody you told them so.”
“Uh, right on, Lieutenant,” said Chocolate Harry, with a grin. Mentally, he was already calculating which of the supplies he could divert to his own purposes. Was there a way to make some kind of booze out of “fast-setting, low-watering, E-Z-Gro Kentucky bluegrass seed”? If it could be done, he wouldn’t bet against one of the Omega Mob figuring out a way… Harry grinned and reached for a Supply catalog as Armstrong left the Supply depot, apparently satisfied.