Buck Johnson: Dragon Wrangler, Page 2

shot back, “Well, Buck, you know I don’t like to work much. And I’d work a lot less if I could find any whiskey on this God-forsaken piece of rock we landed on.”

  They could endure the frequent lack of tobacco, but the unrelenting absence of alcohol was a grievous trial for both of them, especially Skeeter. You couldn’t get beer, whiskey, or anything on Terul—alcohol was proscribed for religious reasons, and yeast just couldn’t survive there. Several times throughout every day, you could count on Skeeter to lament long and loud the fact that “you can’t get anything worth drinking here.” He also allowed that that was the main reason most Terullians were so unfriendly.

  “You may be right, Skeet. But I’ll tell ya what really pisses me off is the way Karposh got his money . . . and the way he still makes most of it . . . and the way he got that spread of his. It ain’t right, and it’s time somebody did somethin’ about it.”

  “How’s that, Buck?” Skeeter knew Buck was about to tell him, especially now that his insufferable righteous indignation had been aroused, but he felt obliged to keep up his end of the conversation.

  “Oh, come on, Skeet, you know what he does.” And all the while he was speaking, Buck gazed thoughtfully on the dragon that had just thrown him. “He lures human girls out here, usually from the poorer Lunar Colonies, with promises of good jobs and wealth and easy livin’. But that ain’t what they get—it’s hell they get when Karposh gets his filthy hands on ’em.

  “He puts ’em to work in that cat house he’s got just outside of Tarlek. That’s where we’re takin’ this load of dragons once we get ’em all broke to ride—his lizard boys’ll do the rest of the breakin’ later on.” (All indigenous life on Terul was reptilian to some degree or other.) Now that he had his virtue on, Buck forged ahead. “And, as you’ve seen for yourself, these Terullians have giant—well, their—their equipment is big. Just ruins those girls. When they finally get loose and get off Terul and find a good man, most of ’em can’t have babies. Just makes me sick.

  “But you know what? I’m gonna fix his scaly fat ass. And I’m gonna do it with that dirty red bitch right there.” With that, he strode off toward his sky truck.

  “Where you goin’, Buck?”

  “You’ll see.”

  When Buck returned, he was carrying a tangle of tack. As he untangled the mass of reins and rings and laid it all out, you could see realization beginning dawn in Skeeter’s face. There were four metal rings, two smallish and two rather larger, a set of extra-long reins, and an oversized quirt. Buck inspected it all while carefully laying the various pieces in their respective positions on the ground. And as he was doing this, both Skeeter and the dragon watched him, the one with fascination and the other with apprehension.

  Now, it really is a myth that dragons can breathe fire. It’s been said that in other galaxies they can, but it’s never been proven. They do all live on worlds with hot climates, so they have hot breath, and maybe that’s how the myth got started. Another thing about dragons is that they don’t really have the power of speech—but they almost do. Dragons are almost, but not quite, intelligent creatures. They border on rational intelligence, inhabiting a liminal land somewhere between the dumb beasts and rational creatures like humans and Terulians, for example. So it takes a lot more doing to outwit a dragon than it does to master, say, a korth, the favored mount of most wranglers when they aren’t working dragons. And this is exactly what Buck was counting on.

  When a dragon first hatches, the dragon rancher pierces the upper side of each nostril, where it flares out the most, and the lower lip on each side close to the end of her snout. Then he inserts a ring in each hole thus made on the lower lip and puts plugs in the nostril holes in case they’re needed later. The nostril holes are used later for broncy dragons when they’re being broken to flight. The two smaller rings are inserted into the nostril holes and the long reins attached to these. Then both the mouth reins and the nostril reins are passed through a larger ring on each side. This way, when the dragon attempts to fly, the wrangler pulls back hard on both sets of reins, the mouth reins slowing the beast and the nostril reins pulling her head down so she can’t get airborne—a dragon has to have her head up in order to gain flight speed and take off. It all works much the same as running martingale does on a horse that tries to throw its head up.

  So Skeeter got the red dragon snubbed again, and Buck got this set-up on her. And as before, Skeeter covered her eyes while Buck mounted, and then they were off. But this time, whenever she tried to get her head up to get speed for take-off, Buck pulled her up hard and laid into her with the big quirt. It was working, and Skeeter was pretty sure he knew what Buck was up to.

  Buck worked the red dragon like this for an hour or two every day over the next two weeks while they were breaking out the rest of the bunch they’d contracted for. Pretty soon she never even offered to act up and trotted around like a pet dog. Skeeter was impressed, but still a trifle puzzled. “You think she’ll be that gentle when we hand ’er over to Karposh?”

  “Nope. And that’s what I’m countin’ on. You know how smart these bitches are—she’ll know she don’t have that four-point dragon snaffle on her anymore. She’ll probably come plumb untrained and go jack-batty crazy.” They both grinned.

  Next day, they broke camp and made ready to load the dragons into the cargo hold of Buck’s sky truck. Skeeter had stopped to take a drink of water, which always made him grimace in disgust, and wipe the sweat and dirt out of his eyes. Just then, just as Terul’s second sun was rising, a moving speck on the southern horizon caught his eye. He stood staring for a good long while.

  “Dammit, Skeet, we gotta git these dragons loaded. This ain’t no time to take a nap.”

  Skeeter didn’t hear him. “Well . . . would ya just look at that? I think that’s ol’ Snort a-comin’.”

  Buck swiveled around on his korth and squinted at the blob that almost had a shape. Soon it resolved it itself into the shape of a man riding a black korth. “I b’lieve you’re right.”

  Snort Jones trotted up on his big korth, stopped, and grinned at them. “Howdy, girls. Got any tobacco?”

  “Well, if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t tell you. You ever had any of your own in your whole natural-born life? Git down.” Buck reached his hand into his shirt pocket.

  “Snort, you always was one to show up when all the hard work’s done. I didn’t even know you was still alive. How the hell are ya?”

  “Why, Skeeter Evans, you have damaged my tender sensibilities. I am literally aghast.” Snort slapped him on the back and nearly toppled him over on his face.

  So they all had a smoke, decried the lack of drink, and shared news each had from his own desolate corner of Terul. After the pleasantries, Buck filled him in on what they had in store for Karposh. Snort heartily approved and was thankful to be able to take part.

  So they got back to loading the dragons, Buck and Snort, both korth mounted, on either side of the bunch and Skeeter pushing them from behind, flapping his arms and shouting obnoxiously loudly as he always did. Skeeter closed the gate behind the dragons, and Buck and Snort loaded their korths in a separate compartment. Buck closed the airlock, and they all clambered into the cockpit.

  While the engines were warming, Buck punched in the coordinates for Tarlek, Skeeter went to sleep, and Snort smiled. Buck then flipped the switch to the anti-gravity coils, chose an acceptable altitude, and pushed the throttle lever forward. Soon, they were gliding over the barren Terullian landscape, the monotony interrupted only occasionally by muted bellowing emanating from the hold.

  Buck set the sky truck down right next to the rock-walled holding pen, with the cargo-hold opening pointed at the gap that served as a gate. They unloaded the dragons and flipped the switch that turned on the laser gate. Then all three turned as one and headed toward Karposh’s compound headquarters.

  Karposh met them at the edge of the wide veranda that shaded the entrance to the building. They were able to make out so
me white faces and glimpse bits of white flesh when he opened the door to come out. He was also tugging his trousers up as he came out.

  Skeeter was always unnerved when Karposh spoke. He just never could get used to the way Karposh seasoned his speech with sibilant sounds and the way his split tongue was always coming out of his mouth too far and too often. Buck had nothing but contempt for Karposh now, so it didn’t bother him.

  Karposh spoke first. “Ssso, my friendsss, you bring me the dragonsss. How much I owe you, my Buck? Three hundred Terul creditsss, jussst like we agree, eh?”

  “You lyin’ sack of lizard shit, you know it was five hundred—and you’re cheatin’ me at that!”

  “Okay, okay, ssso much anger, my friend. Five hundred it isss. But you make me a poor beggar sssoon. We sssee dragonsss now, yesss?”

  Buck couldn’t help himself: “Yesss, we sssee dragons now, yesss, yesss.” He turned on his heel and made for the pen. Skeeter and Snort trundled along behind him, and Karposh waddled along in the rear with his several attendants following.

  When they reached the pen, Buck turned, saying, “Karposh, my man—er, lizard or whatever—I’ve got a nice little Red Kraken here I want you to try. She’s a beaut—easy gaited, fine looking—you’ll like her. Should be an