Tracy jolted up with a start. Crust sealed his eyelids shut. For a moment he had no idea where he was. His body ached like he'd slept on the ground all night in his work clothes. Turns out, he had. When his eyes finally adjusted, the big doleful orbs of a chrome horse stared back at him. He smacked his forehead.

"Mars," he croaked. "I'm on Mars."

The fire had gone out during the night. Daybreak was just beginning, the sun cracking the sky open like an oven, ready to bake the surface of Mars to a dry crust all over again.

A quick perimeter check at the crater's edge told him there were no pursuers after him, at least within eyeshot. His hands went for his .357 JC Maxwell revolvers. Time for maintenance. The storage compartment on Chasm's flank opened and Tracy retrieved his gun care bag. Besides his cigars and the guns themselves, he was so relieved and thankful that he'd had the little bag on his person during the crash.

Tracy knew he was a deft shot. One of the best alive. But what most did not know, was that aiming, a smooth draw, and great ammunition were only the tip of the meteorite. Speed and precision came from a meticulous study of your weapon of choice, and a fervent, almost religious care and devotion to the maintenance of the tools.

He handled Judge first. He did not know why. All he knew was that repetition was important. Judge always went first, then Jury. He primed Judge's hammer at half cock, then pulled and dropped the loading lever, exposing the base pin. Once the base pin was removed, that gave Tracy access to the cylinder. Each piece he disassembled went on the bed roll in the tent so no Rubrum dust soiled the components.

His mouth begged for a cigar, but he never smoked cigars while caring for his guns. Might get ash on them, or in them. Besides, how could he appreciate the smells of the gun? From the lubricants, to the slight afterburn from the sparks left in the barrel, the metallic tang of the frame, or the sweet aroma of the worn, stained, and polished solid walnut grip.

Tracy whistled a standard Blues shuffle in E minor, matching his slow and methodical work.

He paid special attention to cleaning the seven chambers in each cylinder. If he didn't, erosion could occur, gumming up the cylinder, slowing or stopping the rotation altogether. And without a rotation he might only get one shot off, if even that. But a properly cared for cylinder rolled like a bobbing log floating downriver. There was also the ease of ejection to consider. Certain revolver aficionados swore that you never needed to polish the chamber interiors of the cylinder on a well-made gun. But Tracy found that a careful internal polish now and then ejected the cartridges like buttered sausages.

After a quick inspection of the capacitors and batteries, he pulled out a soft cloth and buffed the exterior, getting all of the Martian grime out of each divot.

When he was finished, his guns gleamed like new.

"Up and at 'em, Chasm." As if the horse needed to flex its muscles and warm up its joints. No, just men of mostly flesh needed to do that.

Chasm had burned all of the kinetic energy, putting the surviving deputies far behind him. Even so, they were without a speeder. Their only recourse was to return to Tharsis. Thus Tracy was safe and alone in the Martian wilderness.

He kept the train tracks to his right and the canyon to his left, but stayed far from the lip's edge, no matter how enticing the splendor of the view tempted him. In the far far distance at the edges of his vision plateaus and mesas squatted everywhere, resting like great shelves upon the surface of the red planet, like stilled vagabonds, scorched by years under the sun.

Here and there spiky succulent fauna sprouted. Tracy supposed the semi-terraformed atmosphere, coupled with the frequent intense winds had blown pollen and seeds far and wide, resulting in the natural growth of plants otherwise not native to the planet. He smiled, reassured that he could survive out here.

A bright watermelon colored flower attracted his attention. Beavertail cactus, if he was correct. With a deft touch he examined the exotic bloom among the spiked needles. Even here on desolate Mars, this wandering flower had found a home and a reason to spread beauty. Tracy smiled under the respirator. "Beauty is found in the oddest of places, Chasm."

The horse snorted, as if annoyed with Tracy's romantic approach to life.

"What? You don't think so."

The steeder remained silent.

"Is not a part of the flower's beauty relative to its barren surroundings?"

Chasm knickered.

Tracy sighed. "I suppose you're right, boy. I am a helpless romantic. Obviously. I'm talking to my steeder."

Still, Tracy relished the fact that he moved alone through the red terrain, land that few eyes ever beheld.

The land rolled, up, then down, further down still, and up again, like a tossed ocean of crimson, solidified under the beating of the sun's rays.

Tracy kept quiet for the remainder of the trip. The wind stayed quiet too. Naught but the sounds of his thumping heart and Chasm's beating hooves sounded for thousands of kilometers around.

By midday they tried to find shade, but the light rays overhead obliterated all but the slimmest of shadows. Chasm made good time, as far as Tracy could estimate, but his KEC bar still needed yet more charge.

Tracy pulled jerky from a small pouch in a compartment of Chasm's flank. He chewed as small an amount as he could manage, but did not sate his hunger. There were times when it was good for a man to remain hungry. Hunger drove a man, tugged him along, even when he swore he had not the strength to keep going. Hunger would pull Tracy towards Phoenicis, keep him an honest man. After taking a single swig of cool water from a flask, he mounted up while reciting, "Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness. They will be satisfied."

Tracy navigated Chasm to the next settlement well into the afternoon. They worked from a walk, to a trot, flirted with a canter, and then gave chase into a full unrestrained gallop. The breeze gave Tracy a rush. He smiled dumbly, like a dog who could not resist hanging his head out of the speeder, or letting his tongue flop outside his slack jaw. Here in open country he was free to feel whatever he wanted. But come New Oklahoma, he'd maintain his reservations, steel his resolve for darker deeds.

All of a sudden Tracy felt as if something or someone admired his solitary race. He slowed the steeder to a trot, looking about.

He was being watched.

Gripping the reins between his flesh fingers, his alloyed hand dropped to his side, hovering over the holster that held Judge.

Chasm whinnied, as artificial as a synthesizer compared to a grand piano, but a whinny all the same, confirming Tracy's sixth sense.

They crested a low hill and caught a trio of small people spying on him through a pair of binoculars shared between the three of them. Their fighting over the binoculars was what caught Tracy's attention in the first place. He directed the horse towards them, one hand hovering over his holster.

The figures screamed and bolted away over the far side of the hill. Their stature and high voices revealed them to be children.

Chasm's exhaust pipe puffed, much like a living horse would snort.

"You read my mind, Chasm. Kids? All the way out here in the wild?"

They followed up and over the hill.

A folk tune reached Tracy's ears. Notes streamed from a fancy jig coming from behind a worn and weathered stretch-hovercoach. On the side, scrawled in too many fonts to count were words like essential hemp oils, vegan water, performance injections, ammunition , and the like. A caravan of camels lounged in the sand, listening to the music while resting. What Tracy's sixth sense had taken for a threat was none other than children belonging to a traveling salesman. A husband and wife duo actually.

The man's fingers noodled some mean licks on the electric banjo, while his wife stepped to the time, an electric fiddle tucked under her chin. Too many children to count ran about the campsite, some clapping to the tempo, others playing a friendly game of electroshock dodgeball.

"Ho stranger," said the man, a wry fellow with a wild look in his cybereye. He tucked his long salt and pepper beard into his overalls. Shirtless, the sun had tanned him to a rust color. He looked to be a native Rubrun while his wife was likely a child of East Asian immigrants from Earth. Their own children were Rubruns through and through, the resulting red-skinned, lean-structured humans of the Martian melting pot. They circled Chasm, thrilled to see a cyber steed up close. Chasm snorted, but Tracy knew he was enjoying the attention. He dismounted and let the kids pet the horse while introducing himself to the parents.

"The name's Wapasha, and this is my wife, Jangmi. I'd tell you the kid's names, but even I can't remember them all."

The man grinned like he'd told a funny joke. How could a man blessed with so many children forget any of their names? A snap judgement threatened to furrow Tracy's brows together in disapproval, but kept his face stoic.

When Tracy failed to respond, the salesman cleared his throat. "Who might you be?"

"Name's Tracy. I'm just passing through on my way to New Oklahoma."

The salesman's cybereye traveled up and down Tracy. Tracy became painfully aware how he must appear to them, a tall man in dusted black clothing, strapped with twin coil revolvers, he himself sun-battered, bruised, and bloodstained. As a lawman he was all too keen on noting the body language of others so as he might pick out those hostile towards him. Applying that knowledge to himself could smooth over any tension bound to arise from an armed stranger appearing amidst the traveler's camp. Tracy moved his hands away from his guns, palms up, as if anticipating a hug, and let his shoulders slack a bit. Couldn't do anything about his must though.

Tracy's demeanor seemed to put them at ease.

"Depending on how fast your steeder is, you've got about a day and a half left until you see the city. But fear not, friend. We've got all your necessities right here." The man went on to describe all of the odd knicks and knacks they sold. His head wobbled as he spoke, as if it was barely balanced on his neck and could fall off at any moment. Tracy didn't hear what the man had to sell. He had too few creds, and once Wapasha pushed back his wicker hat to get a better look at Tracy, his thick whisker eyebrows were too distracting.

"Thanks friend. Wish I could help myself to your wares. But I'm low on funds. Crashed my ship yesterday."

The man's eyes nearly popped from his head. "You don't say."

"That's terrible," said Jangmi. "Are you stranded here?"

"On the planet? Yes. But I've got me a steeder now. Once I get back to civilization, I have an acquaintance to meet. After that, I've got to return back to Terra."

"I'd love to help you out, seeing as you lost everything in a crash. But I've got mouths to feed too. Got anything you could trade?"

Tracy put on a lopsided grin. "I appreciate the concern and offer to barter, but everything on my person is essential to my mission."

Wapasha squinted for a moment. "You said you was Terran?"

Tracy nodded, jaw muscles tightening.

"What kind of mission you on?"

"I'm a U.S. Marshal, tracking a fugitive."

Wapasha's eyes shone like Rubrum's twin moons. "Well why didn't you mention it? Tell you what. My pack of kids love a good storyteller. And I bet they'd chomp at the bit to hear tales from Terran. You entertain them for any length of time, keep them out of the wife's hair, and you got yourself a home-cooked meal. What say you to that?"

Tracy relaxed his jaw with relief. Apparently not everyone hated Terrans. Yet, he hesitated. Did he have stories appropriate for kids? But it did not matter. As soon as the kids heard he might tell stories of Earth, he was as good as obligated to tell.

Two of the older, taller children latched onto his arm. One climbed on his back. The rest crowded around his legs, guiding him to the campfire. He stepped with care so as to not trip over a child and fall headlong. They asked him fifty questions before he was even seated on a smooth rock.

How did he get a steeder? How fast did the steeder go? Why did he carry blasters? What words were etched on the guns? Was he a good shot? What was the star pinned to his chest under his duster? Was he a famous star? How many Terran movies had he been in? Why was he alone? Did he like traveling by himself? Why did he wear all black? How come his skin wasn't red like them? Why did he have a cyber arm? Did it make him stronger?

He answered as many questions as they shot, but he never satisfied their curiosity. Each reply only seemed to draw out yet more questions.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

They grew bored with his answers and he felt bad. Surely he could entertain children for more than a few minutes. Was he really that dull? He tried to recall when he was a child, what would his grandfather do? An idea burst into his mind. He chuckled.

"You kids want to see a magic trick?"

Their faces beamed, and suddenly they scrambled over each other to get as close to him as possible. He held up his palms and wiggled his fingers. Then, holding out his flesh hand, he covered most of his thumb with his other hand, then pretended to pull off his thumb. Only, the ruse didn't work because this age-old trick required two flesh thumbs to give the illusion that he was pulling his flesh thumb apart.

The kids saw right through it. "Hey! That's your cyberthumb. You're doing the trick wrong." Many of them crossed their arms, annoyed. Some rested their chins in their hands, disappointed. Others rolled their eyes, fed up.

"Oh. Is that not how the trick goes?"

"No."

"Sheesh. So indignant. Let me try with the other then."

Careful not to let them see, he wiggled his cyberhand and at the same time flipped the latch that kept it attached to his arm. Then he jerked hard, sending his alloyed hand flying off into a small boy's lap. The kids gasped, heads swiveling from the hand to the arm.

Tracy's eyebrows shot up and he winced and hissed, cradling his arm as if in pain. The kids chewed their fingernails, eyes big discs, unsure if they should offer the stranger help, or retreat from the hand. The kid who the hand landed on recovered and retrieved the hand, his own two shaking as he held it up to Tracy.

"Uh oh," said Tracy.

The child whispered. "What's wrong?"

Tracy furrowed his brows as if concentrating hard.

The metal hand sprang to life. First the fingers wiggled, then it flipped around and scuttled along the boy's arm, down his back, and charged the crowd of children.

With a roar they screamed and bolted in every direction. Some cried. Other's got over the surprise quickly and shared a hearty laugh with Tracy as he directed the hand back over to him and reattached it.

The boy sat slack jawed.

"Fooled ya, huh son?"

He nodded and Tracy ruffled his hair.

The salesman and his wife heaved with laughter. Tears of mirth streamed down Jangmi's face. "Our kids haven't had a good healthy scare like that in a while."

"Good for their hearts to jump into their throats now and then," said Wapasha. "Circulates the blood."

Tracy beamed, proud that he was not boring in the slightest. Though the kids did not gather as close to him for the remainder of their shared time. "I've got to take it apart every now and then. Preventative maintenance. And actual maintenance. Most people don't know it still works when it comes apart. For a time anyways."

He'd pleased the family with his severed hand stunt, so they invited him to share a meal around the fire. Boiled pea and lean beef stew gave off a thick steam. They also offered Tracy rye muffins sweetened with an agave nectar spread, along with a pile of seasoned radish chips. He washed it all down with fresh camel's milk.

Throughout the entire meal, the boy who Tracy had dropped his hand on gawked at the metal limb.

While trying to eat, the children felt the need to impress him with the pet jerboas they'd captured, shoving the hopping kangaroo-like rodents in his face, giggling until Jangmi shooed them away.

Tracy ate every last crumb, licked his organic fingers clean, and tipped his tin bowl to get the last drops of the stew. He sighed with satisfaction, patting his stomach with his smartarm.

The boy continued staring at him, then whispered in his sister's ear.

"How did you lose your real arm?" The little girl was the spitting image of her father, but more feminine and pretty.

"That's rude," said the eldest daughter, who appeared to be a pre-teen.

"It's okay. My feelings ain't hurt."

The family leaned forward, just a bit, eager to hear the tale.

He lost himself in the story, forgetting where he was. He stared off into the light pink evening sky, the exact color of a healing wound. Tracy relived the vivid memory as if he was there right now.

"We had captured some fugitives. A real dirty group of guys, mobsters, involved with...slavery. After we locked them all away, one of my jobs was to go into their estate and rummage through the compound with some deputy marshals and seize all of their belongings. They made a lot of creds and they filled their compound with all kinds of lavish things.

Well, we didn't catch them all. A cousin of one of the fugitives came sniffing around the compound. We didn't realize he was on the property. The criminals had a secret safe built, and this cousin was there to retrieve the real goods before we found it. I noticed some of our law enforcement gear was out of place, and several doors were open. I moved into the open vault, ready for anything. Or so I thought. Wasn't totally ready though. Should have trusted my gut. Nausea overwhelmed me. Went in anyways. The cousin heard me coming down into the vault, pulled a fast one on me. No sooner had I stepped into the vault did he set the megaton door to whisk shut. I overreacted and threw my arm into the path of the closing vault door."

Tracy brought his flesh hand down in a chopping motion while doing his best imitation of a guillotine. "Wham! Took it clean off."

Several of the kids turned shades paler, almost gnawing their fingernails to nubs.

"Almost was a goner. Lost a lot of blood. Not a whole lot of oxygen in the vault. Couldn't comm to my deputies either. No service in the vault. So I writhed there on the floor until I passed out. Luckily my buddies found me before I died.

"Hina didn't take well to the smartarm at first. I guess she never quite has."

"Why?"

He leaned forward, holding the arm out for all to see. "A part of me died that day. It was ripped clean off. Violently. All it does is remind Hina that she almost lost me. Which would have been too many losses to bear. And everyday I'm away from her is another day Hina could lose all of me."

"Who's Hina? Is she your sister?"

"Hina's my wife."

A kid with a lisp gasped. "She mare-weed a marthall?"

"Lawmen can't be married."

Tracy folded his arms, frowning. "Why not?"

"Ma says because you're always fighting outlaws and space pirates. Always getting shot at. And no woman wants that."

"Doesn't mean I don't love, or don't know how to love."

"But Pa says lawmen don't settle down because they're married to their jobs. Are you married to your job? Is she a nice job?"

Tracy chuckled. "No I ain't married to her. Dedicated, sure. But I got a wife. Same as your Pa."

"You got kids too?"

Tracy held back a wince. He fumbled for the right words, but as he did the kids noticed his hesitation. "Not quite."

For the first time since he arrived, the kids didn't interrogate him further on the matter. It was as if they could see the pain behind his eyes and knew they'd crossed a line, albeit by accident. They intended no harm.

A boy broke the silence. "Why do your blasters have them names?"

Tracy wagged a finger at him. "That is a perfect tale for another time."

The kids whined, but by then the sun had gone down and Tracy needed some shuteye. He had a long ride ahead of him tomorrow and intended to gallop into New Oklahoma and capture Roy by the evening if he could.

He unrolled his bed, pitched his tent, but did not settle in for the night just yet.

The traveling salesman prodded the fire with a stick, agitating the embers, sparks rising into the night.

"Share cigars, Wapasha?"

"Sure"

He handed one to Wapasha. The man smelled the thin stick of tobacco. "That's delightful."

Tracy nodded.

"Ever smoke one?"

"A while ago. Tobacco is hard to come by out here."

"Thing you don't want to do is inhale it. That's a misconception. Just enjoy the taste, then push it out."

They both took long draws and puffed smoke clouds for a time.

"This is quite dandy."

Tracy retrieved another, even though he ran low. "Here."

The salesman rolled it in his fingers before pocketing it. "I'll fix you with some supplies tomorrow."

"Thanks, but I'll be just fine."

"Don't be modest. Your presence was a welcome treat."

Tracy blushed and was glad his complexion hid it. Or so he hoped. "As a lawman I rarely have that effect on people. Usually the opposite. I'm often interacting with people that don't want anything to do with me. In fact they'd rather finish me off."

"After a fugitive, huh?"

"Yessir."

"Who, if you don't mind my prying?"

"Rip-Roaring Roy."

Dying fire twinkled in the traveler's mechanical oculus, but he did not respond.

"Heard of 'im?"

The man stroked his long beard, lips lost in the wild wisps of hair. "Been a long day for both of us. Best we get some shuteye."

Tracy hadn't the faintest idea how the conversation turned sour so fast. "Wait a minute. Hold on now. We only just started these."

Wapasha grumbled, bit his tongue, then said, "My little'n, the one you played your hand trick on. He'd have died earlier last year of a nasty fever, but for Roy's intervention and help, fugitive or no. Bunch a Terran shale and stonesweat, that's what it is."

The man tossed his used cigar into the embers, dropped the new one on the ground, then retreated into his stretched RV coach, leaving Tracy alone with the dying fire.

Tracy tossed and turned for hours. He could not get comfortable, partially due to his revolvers still tucked in their holsters resting on his hips. Normally he lay the holster and guns by his side. But the abrupt odd ending to his last conversation weighed on him. And the crackle of the dying fire reminded him of soft footfalls sneaking up on him in the dark.

Long before morning light and with no sleep, he gathered his things and mounted Chasm, leaving the family behind. He could have used whatever supplies the man originally offered, but he understood that he'd struck a nerve when he mentioned the fugitive. Tracy needed sleep, but not eternal slumber. Mars grew more hostile with every path he crossed.