Гарри Гаррисон - Rebel in Time

'Massa, I done got de water like you say.'

He shuffled slowly forward as he spoke, head down, shoulders rounded, holding the handle of the pail with both hands as though it were a great weight. Under the lowered brim of his hat he could see the dismounted man spin about and point his gun at him. His mounted companion had also produced a pistol. Troy ignored this, still shuffling forward, humming and talking to himself under his breath as though he were unaware of their presence.

It worked fine. The two men were smiling, waiting for him to notice them. Good. He would provide some good theatre, vintage Stepenfechit, or perhaps a quaking imitation of Jack Benny's Rochester in a haunted house.

'Lawdy!' he screeched when he got close, looking and seeing them. He clutched the bucket to him, trembling so much that the water slopped and spilled over. He tried to roll his eyes, but wasn't very good at it.

Bad as the performance was, it had a receptive audience. The two men laughed and whooped, the one on the ground opening his mouth wide revealing a mouthful of blackened teeth. So great was his merriment that his pistol barrel dropped by degrees until it pointed at the ground. Troy shuffled and looked around, as though searching for a place to hide, watching the other man dismount, waiting until the horse blocked his vision for an instant.

At that precise moment he threw the bucket into the laughing man's face.

As he staggered backwards Troy was on top of him, driving his knee hard up into the man's crotch as he twisted the gun from his hand. The man screamed shrilly as they fell together. Troy rolled as they struck the ground, swinging the pistol up. The other man was still half-hidden by his horse, coming into view, his own pistol aimed. Troy extended his weapon at arm's length, sighted along it and pulled the trigger.

It banged like a cannon and kicked like a mule, throwing his arm high. But his shot had been good. The other twisted, folded, tried to point his own gun, squeezed the trigger, then fell.

As the shot was fired Robbie Shaw cried out hoarsely and dropped to the ground. The stray bullet had caught him. Troy started towards him, then saw that the first man had stumbled to his feet, groaning with pain, but still ready to fight. He reached for the scabbard in the small of his back and pulled out a bowie knife with a foot-long blade, holding it straight out as he staggered forward.

Troy aimed the gun and pulled the trigger — then saw that it was a single shot pistol. He threw it into the man's face, but the other merely brushed it aside, moaning in agony and cursing horribly at the same time. And came on. Troy stepped backwards, his eye on the knife point, stumbled and fell. The other roared and dropped on him.

It was a tiny cracking sound, like two boards being smacked together. Troy saw the black hole appear in the man's forehead, then fill instantly with blood as he fell face downwards into the grass, unmoving.

Stunned, Troy looked over at Shaw sprawled on the ground. He had levered himself up on one elbow; there was a tiny smoking gun in his hand.

'Pepperbox,' Shaw said, smiling grimly as he tucked the gun back into his vest pocket. 'Two barrels, over and under, two shots. I never go anywhere without it. Road agents are… quite common… these days.'

He grimaced with pain and Troy saw the blood soaking through his trousers, running down his leg. Troy moved fast, turning over the dead man next to him and tearing off the man's wide leather belt, then wrapping it twice around Shaw's thigh before drawing it tight. The flow of blood slowed, stopped. Troy rose slowly to his feet and looked around.

'Bit of a butcher's shop,' Robbie Shaw said. 'Two dead, one injured. That's quite a job you did, unarmed. Taking on those two like that, pistols and all.'

'You're not too shabby yourself with that little popgun. I thought that you were a journalist, a man of peace?'

'I am. But this is a hard world. My first assignment in this country was as military correspondent during the Indian wars. Worse than the Gorbals on Hogmanay night. That's where I learned how to shoot. But now, dare I ask, what do we do next?'

'Take care of your wound. We're out of sight of the road so we don't have to worry about somebody stumbling onto us. Anyone who might have heard the shots would have been here by now. The way the attack happened, I imagine that this pair of thugs must have followed us from the city. They wouldn't have started this unless they were sure that they were unobserved. We'll worry about them later. Getting you fixed takes top priority.'

Troy dug into the saddlebags and pulled out the flat box that held his medical supplies. He took out one of the morphine styrettes and palmed it, then went to look at Shaw's wound. Using his clasp knife he slit the trousers open.

'Looks rather nasty,' Shaw said, sitting up and leaning forward to examine the wound. 'Like I'd been shot with a cannon.'

'Just about,' Troy said, kicking the fallen pistol with his toe. 'Single shot, muzzle loader, must have a half-inch bore. Now lie back and let me look at this. Lots of blood, but not as drastic as it seems. The ball took out a chunk of your thigh muscle but it kept on going.'

Under cover of his body, Troy cracked open the styrette and discarded the protective cover. One of the newest ones, double shot. It would not only kill the pain but would put Shaw to sleep as well. He jabbed it into the leg and pressed down on the plunger.

'I felt that! What are you doing?' Shaw asked.

'Playing doctor. I told you to take it easy.'

He kicked a hole in the turf, stamped the crushed remains of the styrette into it, then covered it up again. By the time Troy had unpacked and returned with the rest of the medical kit Shaw was lying back with his eyes closed, snoring hoarsely. Troy went to work.

He had plenty of experience in field treatment, but this time he would have to be the medic as well. At least whatever he did to treat the wound would be better than anything else that might be done in this primitive age. First he dusted the wound well with antibiotic powder, then eased up on the tourniquet. There was only a little bleeding now. He tightened it again, put on more powder, then applied a pressure bandage. That would do. That had to do. No one could do any better. Here, in this field, he had used medicines of a different era. When had antisepsis started? With Lister, yes, 1865, he remembered the date from school exams. He always had a memory for dates.

Troy slipped a bottle of penicillin tablets into his pocket, then put the rest of the kit away. Crows cawed hoarsely in a nearby grove of trees, the midday sun was hot, the horses, reins hanging, grazed the rich grass. The two corpses lay where they had fallen. Something would have to be done about them. Troy grabbed the nearest one by the boots, then dragged it across the field to the shelter of the trees. The crows, calling loudly, rose in a black cloud and flew away.

It was afternoon before Shaw woke up. He opened his eyes and looked around. Troy kneeled next to him and held out a tin cup of water. 'Thanks,' Shaw said, draining it. Troy refilled it, then handed over one of the penicillin tablets.

'Wash this down. It will be good for the leg.'

Shaw hesitated a second, then shrugged and swallowed the capsule. 'Was I dreaming — or was there a brace of toby men here a short while ago? Complete with mounts.'

'The best thing that you can do is forget about them. If we report what happened we will only get involved with the authorities. The fewer questions we have to answer, the less publicity we get, the happier I'll be. If someone had seen what happened at the time, that would have been different. But no one seems to have noticed. So I got things out of sight. The two men are in the woods over there, along with their saddles and bridles, weapons, the lot. The horses are down by the stream.'