Read Online Magnificent Guns of Seneca 6 by Bernard Schaffer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bernard Schaffer
Tags: Western
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last.”
Chapter 8: The Preacher
Three days.
Three days in the sun and heat, after Bob Ford fled Seneca 5 with no destrier and no water. Just a damn gun, he thought bitterly. It’s going to be the thing I use to blow my brains out and end this misery.
He slumped against a rock and stayed there long enough that vultures started swirling over him, waiting until it was safe to descend and start pecking at him. Something was approaching. Bob lifted his head as much as he could, but could make out nothing more than a swirl of dust in the shimmering heat. He tried to swallow, but his throat refused. It was like someone had scraped sandpaper down his insides and stuffed it with cotton. He reached for his pistol but his hand slipped off the Devastator’s handle and finally, he managed to raise his arm in the air before collapsing on the road.
His body contracted and extended in the dirt like a worm, a system of gears and cables that had run out of oil and started grinding against one another, glowing hot.
A wagon trucked past him, swerving at the last second before the single mount pulling it trampled Bob. He choked on its dust and gagged on dirt as it filled his nose and mouth and eyes, swirling around him in a filthy cloud from the wagon’s tires.
A strong arm lifted his head up from the ground and someone spoke, but the words were strange and muffled. Bob felt cool water trickle across his chest and dribble over his forehead, watering him like a plant. Water touched his lips. Droplets slid down into the white fissures of his cracked mouth. Everything inside of him began to bloom again. Bob looked up at the man who held him and saw an angel silhouetted by sunlight. “God sent you for me?” Bob said.
“Not exactly,” the man said softly. “But I guess you’ll do for now.”
***
Bob woke up in the back of the wagon, wedged between the wall and an enormous contraption that filled up the rest of the compartment. It was covered by a dirty tarp and Bob clutched handfuls of it to pull himself off the floor. “Hello?” he called out. There wasn’t room enough to stand inside the wagon. Sharp metal corners stuck into him from whatever was hidden beneath the tarp. Bob hammered his fist against the wall and shouted, “Hello? Anybody out there?”
The wagon’s brake screeched and Bob had to brace himself against the doorframe to keep from getting bounced into the heavy metal frame. He reached down to feel the floor and realized his gun was missing and reached around in the darkness to see if he’d dropped it. That was when the side door opened and there it was, pointed right at him.
The man holding the gun was old enough that his long hair ran thick with streaks of silver. His eyes were feline, drawn to sharp points over his weathered cheeks. His long, thin mustache dropped straight down toward the gleaming white preacher collar around his throat. “What’s your name, son?”
“Bob Ford,” Bob said. He put both his hands up through the door and added, “Sir.”
The man wrapped both of his black leather-gloved hands around the Devastator and cocked the handle back. “I’m only going to ask you this one time, Bob Ford. What are you doing out here?”
Bob lowered his eyes for a moment, feeling his lip twitch while his mind spun like a roulette wheel, waiting to land on some kind of answer. “My destrier died and I was stranded. I thought I was a goner for sure until you came along.”
“You with a gang, Bob Ford?”
“No, sir.”
“You with a gang that steals women and sells them off-planet? They get mad at you and leave you out here, Bob Ford?”
“No, sir! But I reckon me and you have a similar interest in finding such men. I come to Seneca to find just such a person and bring him to
Chapter 8: The Preacher
Three days.
Three days in the sun and heat, after Bob Ford fled Seneca 5 with no destrier and no water. Just a damn gun, he thought bitterly. It’s going to be the thing I use to blow my brains out and end this misery.
He slumped against a rock and stayed there long enough that vultures started swirling over him, waiting until it was safe to descend and start pecking at him. Something was approaching. Bob lifted his head as much as he could, but could make out nothing more than a swirl of dust in the shimmering heat. He tried to swallow, but his throat refused. It was like someone had scraped sandpaper down his insides and stuffed it with cotton. He reached for his pistol but his hand slipped off the Devastator’s handle and finally, he managed to raise his arm in the air before collapsing on the road.
His body contracted and extended in the dirt like a worm, a system of gears and cables that had run out of oil and started grinding against one another, glowing hot.
A wagon trucked past him, swerving at the last second before the single mount pulling it trampled Bob. He choked on its dust and gagged on dirt as it filled his nose and mouth and eyes, swirling around him in a filthy cloud from the wagon’s tires.
A strong arm lifted his head up from the ground and someone spoke, but the words were strange and muffled. Bob felt cool water trickle across his chest and dribble over his forehead, watering him like a plant. Water touched his lips. Droplets slid down into the white fissures of his cracked mouth. Everything inside of him began to bloom again. Bob looked up at the man who held him and saw an angel silhouetted by sunlight. “God sent you for me?” Bob said.
“Not exactly,” the man said softly. “But I guess you’ll do for now.”
***
Bob woke up in the back of the wagon, wedged between the wall and an enormous contraption that filled up the rest of the compartment. It was covered by a dirty tarp and Bob clutched handfuls of it to pull himself off the floor. “Hello?” he called out. There wasn’t room enough to stand inside the wagon. Sharp metal corners stuck into him from whatever was hidden beneath the tarp. Bob hammered his fist against the wall and shouted, “Hello? Anybody out there?”
The wagon’s brake screeched and Bob had to brace himself against the doorframe to keep from getting bounced into the heavy metal frame. He reached down to feel the floor and realized his gun was missing and reached around in the darkness to see if he’d dropped it. That was when the side door opened and there it was, pointed right at him.
The man holding the gun was old enough that his long hair ran thick with streaks of silver. His eyes were feline, drawn to sharp points over his weathered cheeks. His long, thin mustache dropped straight down toward the gleaming white preacher collar around his throat. “What’s your name, son?”
“Bob Ford,” Bob said. He put both his hands up through the door and added, “Sir.”
The man wrapped both of his black leather-gloved hands around the Devastator and cocked the handle back. “I’m only going to ask you this one time, Bob Ford. What are you doing out here?”
Bob lowered his eyes for a moment, feeling his lip twitch while his mind spun like a roulette wheel, waiting to land on some kind of answer. “My destrier died and I was stranded. I thought I was a goner for sure until you came along.”
“You with a gang, Bob Ford?”
“No, sir.”
“You with a gang that steals women and sells them off-planet? They get mad at you and leave you out here, Bob Ford?”
“No, sir! But I reckon me and you have a similar interest in finding such men. I come to Seneca to find just such a person and bring him to
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