Another first draft.
Sep. 21st, 2004 11:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
camwynThis one's short, though, so I shan't LJ-cut. And lord, does this ever need editing. Right now my pulp voice is hopelessly contaminated and I can't do Lester Dent style to save my life. I've read three Edgar Rice Burroughs novels (two Mars ones, one Tarzan) in two days and ALL MY MENTAL SENTENCES HAVE SEMICOLONS IN THEM NOW. I'll fix the voice and tone when I get home.
***
Constable Rowe of the North-West Mounted Police leaned forward in his saddle, struck by curiosity as a tiny figure picked its laborious way across the landscape. Some fifty yards separated the Constable's horse from the northern border of the State of Montana; so far as Rowe could tell, another two hundred lay between that invisible line and the oncoming rider. It seemed from where the Constable sat that the figure was that of a child astride a pony, though how such a thing could be he didn't know. There wasn't a town nor a settlement for miles, not on either side of the border.
And at this time of year- well. The October winds bit savagely through Rowe's tunic. The pint-sized rider didn't seem to wear the sort of bulky clothes that could possibly protect him against the chill. More out of curiosity than anything else, Rowe reached for his field glasses. An exclamation escaped his lips as he brought the sight into focus.
No child this! The mount was small indeed, with the graceless nose and shaggy coat that marked the Mustang breed. The rider guided his beast over the uneven ground with a deft, expert hand that Rowe could not possibly imagine in any child. Too, the little figure stopped the pony now and again to lean forward, examining the ground ahead with the greatest of care- or sometimes to consider this bush or that. He had the air of a tracker, a hunter; and though he wore no sensible parka, only a hooded jacket of light buckskin, no child of Rowe's experience ever took such care.
Some change came over the rider- perhaps he'd found something he'd sought. He picked up his reins and tapped the little Mustang's flanks with his heels, urging the beast forward. That brought Rowe back to himself. Child, youth, or anything else, the wee rider and his mount were headed *north*- and that made them his responsibility.
He urged his own horse forward, the black's long legs closing the distance to the border in long, easy strides, and waited. Not for long- the pony covered the uneven ground with surprising ease of footing. Grudgingly, Rowe felt compelled to step up his estimation of beast and rider both. This was no easy country to travel in, on either side of the parallel.
"Ho, there," he called when he judged the two had drawn close enough. The rider shifted a little; the Mustang pony stoped in its tracks. Rowe felt a small surge of gratification at the response. "If you don't mind my asking, sir-" for the rider, whatever the size or age, was clearly male- "do you know where you are?"
The small rider pushed back the buckskin hood to reveal a lined, homely face. No, indeed, not a child but a man- one who'd seen his share of years on the open range. Even so late in the year, the sun's signature was baked into every inch. His shock of dun-coloured hair stirred in the October wind, but the Mountie scarcely noticed. What had his attention was the minuscule man's eyes. A striking, pale hue, the colour of burnished silver, they fairly twinkled with good humour as he spoke. "Well, now, I couldn't say for certain. I'm sure hopin' I'm no more'n two days' ride behind my best horse, though."
His words had a whang to them that spoke of cattle country far to the south. Rowe thought he'd heard it before- perhaps in the speech of a Wyoming cow-man.
"I'll tell you, though, I'd sure be obliged to you if you could say jest how far north I am," the little fellow continued. "It's pretty hard goin' in the parts of Montana I've just been. Am I in Canada yet?"
"No, but in about three more yards, you will be," Rowe returned. "Would you mind stating your name and business before you get any closer?"
The slight figure reached into his buckskin jacket. Rowe tensed, his hand going to the butt of his revolver- but no gun was produced. Instead the other man's quest object was found and proffered: an envelope, once sealed, now oepn. Rowe dismounted to take it. Inside he found-
"What is this? It looks like a, a-"
"Bill of sale," confirmed the little fellow. "See, the last feller I worked for was a horse rancher name o' Granby. Reckoned I'd earned one of his prize mares for services rendered, when it came time fer me to move on. Sold her t'me for one good old silver dollar, and that's the papers to prove it. Problem is, one of the other fellers had his eyes on her too, and he didn't want to do things legal-like."
Rowe scarcely heard the words. His mind was locked on the paper before him. 'Richard Granby hereby sells to-' He looked up sharply. "Good Lord, man, is that your name?"
"Yep." He grinned, revealing startlingly white teeth.
"Your actual name?"
"'Fraid so."
Rowe shook his head. "How on Earth am I supposed to pronounce that?" he wondered aloud.
The wee American laughed. "Well," he said, "if you're like most folks, you'll just give up, and call me Mouse instead."
"Fine with me," said the Constable, who was suddenly very glad his parents had merely named him Adam.
***
Constable Rowe of the North-West Mounted Police leaned forward in his saddle, struck by curiosity as a tiny figure picked its laborious way across the landscape. Some fifty yards separated the Constable's horse from the northern border of the State of Montana; so far as Rowe could tell, another two hundred lay between that invisible line and the oncoming rider. It seemed from where the Constable sat that the figure was that of a child astride a pony, though how such a thing could be he didn't know. There wasn't a town nor a settlement for miles, not on either side of the border.
And at this time of year- well. The October winds bit savagely through Rowe's tunic. The pint-sized rider didn't seem to wear the sort of bulky clothes that could possibly protect him against the chill. More out of curiosity than anything else, Rowe reached for his field glasses. An exclamation escaped his lips as he brought the sight into focus.
No child this! The mount was small indeed, with the graceless nose and shaggy coat that marked the Mustang breed. The rider guided his beast over the uneven ground with a deft, expert hand that Rowe could not possibly imagine in any child. Too, the little figure stopped the pony now and again to lean forward, examining the ground ahead with the greatest of care- or sometimes to consider this bush or that. He had the air of a tracker, a hunter; and though he wore no sensible parka, only a hooded jacket of light buckskin, no child of Rowe's experience ever took such care.
Some change came over the rider- perhaps he'd found something he'd sought. He picked up his reins and tapped the little Mustang's flanks with his heels, urging the beast forward. That brought Rowe back to himself. Child, youth, or anything else, the wee rider and his mount were headed *north*- and that made them his responsibility.
He urged his own horse forward, the black's long legs closing the distance to the border in long, easy strides, and waited. Not for long- the pony covered the uneven ground with surprising ease of footing. Grudgingly, Rowe felt compelled to step up his estimation of beast and rider both. This was no easy country to travel in, on either side of the parallel.
"Ho, there," he called when he judged the two had drawn close enough. The rider shifted a little; the Mustang pony stoped in its tracks. Rowe felt a small surge of gratification at the response. "If you don't mind my asking, sir-" for the rider, whatever the size or age, was clearly male- "do you know where you are?"
The small rider pushed back the buckskin hood to reveal a lined, homely face. No, indeed, not a child but a man- one who'd seen his share of years on the open range. Even so late in the year, the sun's signature was baked into every inch. His shock of dun-coloured hair stirred in the October wind, but the Mountie scarcely noticed. What had his attention was the minuscule man's eyes. A striking, pale hue, the colour of burnished silver, they fairly twinkled with good humour as he spoke. "Well, now, I couldn't say for certain. I'm sure hopin' I'm no more'n two days' ride behind my best horse, though."
His words had a whang to them that spoke of cattle country far to the south. Rowe thought he'd heard it before- perhaps in the speech of a Wyoming cow-man.
"I'll tell you, though, I'd sure be obliged to you if you could say jest how far north I am," the little fellow continued. "It's pretty hard goin' in the parts of Montana I've just been. Am I in Canada yet?"
"No, but in about three more yards, you will be," Rowe returned. "Would you mind stating your name and business before you get any closer?"
The slight figure reached into his buckskin jacket. Rowe tensed, his hand going to the butt of his revolver- but no gun was produced. Instead the other man's quest object was found and proffered: an envelope, once sealed, now oepn. Rowe dismounted to take it. Inside he found-
"What is this? It looks like a, a-"
"Bill of sale," confirmed the little fellow. "See, the last feller I worked for was a horse rancher name o' Granby. Reckoned I'd earned one of his prize mares for services rendered, when it came time fer me to move on. Sold her t'me for one good old silver dollar, and that's the papers to prove it. Problem is, one of the other fellers had his eyes on her too, and he didn't want to do things legal-like."
Rowe scarcely heard the words. His mind was locked on the paper before him. 'Richard Granby hereby sells to-' He looked up sharply. "Good Lord, man, is that your name?"
"Yep." He grinned, revealing startlingly white teeth.
"Your actual name?"
"'Fraid so."
Rowe shook his head. "How on Earth am I supposed to pronounce that?" he wondered aloud.
The wee American laughed. "Well," he said, "if you're like most folks, you'll just give up, and call me Mouse instead."
"Fine with me," said the Constable, who was suddenly very glad his parents had merely named him Adam.
