[The Lone Gunslinger, Chapter 1, Escape] "Hurry up, I ain't got no time for a lazy good for nothing boy. I want that south field planted before sundown, or you ain't gettin' no supper," the man shouts from his perch atop the fence. The man is my Master and owns the farm. He is a foul and petty and cruel creature, but he isn't nearly as mean as the woman is. I would like to say the planting would go faster if he would help instead of sitting on that fence eating apples and watching me. When I say 'Master,' I mean that I am an orphan and have been since I was six years old. I barely know anything else but this farm. The man bought me when I was seven, and I became a bound-orphan. I spent the first year I was an orphan at the county orphanage, and it was a horrible year. I was glad when they sold me, thinking anything had to be better--I was wrong. The oxen pulling the seed-plough staggers under the weight of the plough. The poor beast should have been put down years ago; they are just too old and slow to be working the field. I have to keep stopping to let them rest, and that's going to get me yelled at or worse. "Put the lash to those lazy beasts or I'll put it to you," the man yells. I don't want to do it, but I lay the lash over the poor creatures backs. I do it as gentle as I can; it's not the oxen's fault they are too old to pull a plough. But if I don't, the man will make good on his promise to put me to the lash--I have a few scars to prove the claim. "I'm sorry fellows, it's you or me." I think they understand, and I'm not laying the lash on hard enough to hurt them. The man is far enough away that he can only see that I'm using the lash, not how hard I'm using it. I think the oxen won't have to suffer much longer, but for now pulling a seed-plough is by far easier than pulling a furrow plough. "It's okay fellows, this is the last season you'll be pulling." I would risk cutting their throats before I leave. I don't want to chance these creatures suffering another planting season, but I doubt they will survive the winter, and killing them would ensure I would be hunted as a criminal. I'm at the age that is the most dangerous for a bound-orphan. I will be sixteen in the morning, and my binding to the man will be over. But of course, very few bound orphans ever escape. I know why the man has me in the field putting seed down when there isn't any chance of harvesting this field before the snows. I try to sneak looks back at the barn where I sleep; it would help if I were sure of where to look tonight, but there isn't much I can do about it right now. I concentrate on the field and make a list in my head for later, if I'm lucky... if... if... Trevor wasn't lucky; he is serving a fifty-year sentence now on the farm he was a bound-orphan. Orphans never escape. The day drags on as the oxen lumber up and down the rows, and I plant seed. The man gets bored and heads back up to the farmhouse, and that gives me a chance to watch the barn, but I don't see anything. The woman has probably already finished. They don't bring me any food or water, not that I expected them to; they never do. The food I do get is nothing more than the pig slops before it gets dumped into the pig trough. After I am no longer a bound-orphan, I won't have even the little protection the law gives to orphans. The Two-by-two Law says I get two meals a day, and I get to go to school two days a week. Many orphans don't bother taking advantage of the two days a week school; they use the time to sleep at their desks or visit with other orphans. But not me, I've used every day of school to my advantage. I've never taken a recess or break, and I'm fairly certain I have as good an education as anyone going six days a week. Of course, I've never passed a test in school; the orphan that passes a test is sure not to live past ten years old. I finish the last row and coax the exhausted oxen back to the barn; it must be nearing mid-night. The man and woman are waiting for me and take turns telling me what a worthless excuse of a boy I am. I keep my head down and act tired and confused. I don't want them to know they never broke me. If an escape is possible, I'm going to be the one. The man drops a pig slop bucket on the ground in front of me and I pick it up and stagger sleepily towards the barn; the pig slop bucket is my dinner. My bed is a pile of filthy straw in one of the unused horse stalls. I push the barn door closed and dropped the slop bucket on the ground and watch through a small knot-hole in the wall as the man and woman go back to the farm house. I am tired, but sleeping now would be the end of me. I wait a few minutes to let my eyes accustom to the dark interior of the barn. I have six hours to find it. This is how they make sure a bound-orphan is never set free. Trevor told me about it when I saw him in town a few months ago. The woman will have hidden some cheap piece of jewelry or silver or china--something, anything, in the barn. The sheriff will arrive in the morning, and I'll be wakened to watch them search the barn for whatever they hid under the guise that I stole it from the farmhouse. I have to find what they hid. I start searching. I've already planned my search; I'll do it just like I was plowing a field; one row at a time up and down the barn until I find the item. The search is tedious and slow, and I start to get worried, I can see the barest light of dawn creeping into the barn. I have to force myself to keep going slow, or I might miss it. I finally find it; four silver forks and matching spoons wrapped in a cloth. The silver utensils were buried in the straw under a pile of manure. I almost didn't think to look under manure piles, and only did so in desperation. I don't have much time now. I have to get the silver back into the house. There is a hole under the side wall, and I wiggle through and dash for the farm house. The man and woman won't be up this early; they never are. I am grateful the old hound died two years ago, I would never have gotten past him. The porch is an old thing with many creaks, but I have memorized each board that would creak. Opening the door seems to take forever, but I eventually slip into the kitchen silently. The farmhouse is quiet and never has silence seemed so deafening loud, the slightest mistake and I would be caught. I unwrap the silver and carefully lay each piece on the worn counter next to the sink, and then cover them with an old dish towel. I make sure the towel is crumpled as if thrown casually over the silver. Getting back out of the kitchen takes even longer, and the sun is cresting the horizon as I run back to the barn and slip under the hole in the wall. I will have to wait now for the man and the woman to wake and call for the Sheriff. I lay down on my straw bed and sleep. I'm woken when the barn door bangs open, and the man storms in screaming. "You thief, after everything we've done for you," the man shouts. I jump up from my straw bed. I didn't mean to sleep so long, I wanted some warning before the sheriff arrived, but I suppose this is better, my reaction is genuine, and I am certain to look sufficiently confused. The Sheriff enters behind the man and then the woman sobbing, her hands fluttering as if she were a butterfly trying to flit away. "We treated you like our own son," the woman cries. "Where are they?" the man grabs and shakes me. "Confess, where have you hidden them, thief." I don't say anything and continue to act confused and scared. I think the Sheriff looks bored, I"m sure he has been through this many times. Though, I wonder if the Sheriff is in on the ruse to convict me of theft. "Check his bed," the woman cries. "He probably hid them there." The Sheriff walks past me and kicks at the straw and tosses my few poor possessions across the floor. "Well, boy," the Sheriff says. "Did you steal from your foster parents?" "Steal?" I stutter. "I haven't stolen anything." "Liar," the woman shouts. "Search the barn, he probably buried them in here somewhere." The man grabs a shovel and starts poking at the ground and moving towards where I found the silver buried. I watch the Sheriff's face closely; he raises a brow at the antics. I think he is amused at the act, but in the end it would have been my word against the man and the woman. The woman continues fluttering and crying and tosses the occasional insult at me while the man digs two quick holes and stops right where the silver was buried. The man digs a quick hole, and not finding the silver digs a little deeper. I almost grin at how confused the man looks when he doesn't find the silver. "Let's start from the beginning," the Sheriff says. "Show me where you last saw them." The Sheriff grabs me by my arm and pulls me out of the barn. The man and woman don't follow right away and hover around the hole digging it deeper. The Sheriff stops halfway to the farm house and looks back at the barn. "We only have a few moments, boy," the Sheriff whispers. "Not often a bound-orphan manages this, but it does happen. Tell me the truth, you get one chance, is the silver still in the barn?" I have no choice and shake my head; the Sheriff knows. "Are they in the house?" the Sheriff whispers. I nod my head. "Where?" he asks. "Under a crumpled up towel next to the sink," I reply. "Smart, you might be one of the few to escape," he says. "Keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking." The Sheriff grabs my arm again and starts pulling me towards the house. The man and woman run out of the barn to catch up. The woman runs ahead of the Sheriff and opens the door, and the Sheriff shoves me down in a chair. "Okay, show me where you saw them last," the Sheriff says to the woman. "Right here where I always keep them," the woman opens a drawer. "My dear departed mother gave them to me as a wedding gift." The Sheriff looks in the drawer and then glances around the kitchen. "Did you use them for dinner?" asks the Sheriff. "Yes, that thief must have stolen them after we went to bed," the woman fans herself and wobbles back and forth as if she were faint. "We're just lucky that worthless boy didn't murder us in our sleep; he's always been trouble." The Sheriff walks over and looks at the table and then walks over to the sink. "And you washed them here before you put them away?" asks the Sheriff. "Yes, of course," the woman says. "We need to be searching for them, not standing around in my kitchen." "How many are there?" asks the Sheriff. "Four forks and four spoons," the woman says. "And that's all, nothing else?" asks the Sheriff. "Yes," replies the woman. I can see she is getting angry. "You're sure nothing else is missing?" asks the Sheriff. "I know what's in my house," says the woman. "Nothing else is missing, I demand you arrest that theif." The Sheriff lifts the towel off the silver and looks at the woman. "Case solved, seems you forgot to put the silver away after you washed them." The man and the woman stare at the silver and then me. I recoil back slightly in the chair at the look of pure hatred. The Sheriff walks to the door and opens it, and then stops and looks at me. "You sixteen today, boy?" asks the Sheriff. "Yes, Sir," I reply. "Well then, your binding is over, you want a ride into town or you staying here?" The Sheriff doesn't wait for an answer and walks out the door. I don't hesitate and shoot out after him as if I'd been bit by a snake. The Sheriff leaps up onto his horse and holds his hand out to me. I grab his hand, and he pulls me up behind him. "Anything you want from the barn?" asks the Sheriff. "I just want to leave," I reply. I don't even look back; I just grab the back of the saddle and hold on. I've escaped; I'm free and could cry. The Sheriff doesn't say anything to me, and I fall sleep against his back, and I think it is the best sleep I have ever had, riding on the back of that horse. The Sheriff shakes me awake some time later; the sun is far into the afternoon, and the shadows are getting long. "Can you use a gun, boy?" the Sheriff asks. "They never let me near any guns, why?" "We're being followed," the Sheriff says. "The farmer?" I ask. "You were the only farmer on that farm, boy," the Sheriff says and hands me a revolver. "No, those two at the farm will take several days before they can figure out something else to accuse you of stealing. They will show up in my office before the end of the week demanding your arrest for some other made-up thing." "Who's following us?" "I've been tracking some outlaws for weeks, that's why I was near your farm when those two idiots called," the Sheriff says. "But anyway, I think we just found the outlaws, you're good luck, boy." I'm not sure what is good luck about finding armed outlaws following us, but I don't say anything and look at the revolver the Sheriff gave me. The revolver is heavy but feels good in my hand, it feels powerful--deadly. "Can you follow orders, boy?" the Sheriff asks. "Yes, Sir," I say. "Good, when I say so, you jump down," the Sheriff tells me. "Then you just stay behind me and if you see a bad guy, shoot him, and try not to shoot your foot off doing it." We continue the casual pace for awhile longer until we come to a place where the road starts to curve off to the left. "Now," the Sheriff says and I jump down from the horse. The Sheriff jumps down next and slaps the horse on the rump and makes it run on around the curve without us. I follow the Sheriff into the trees and stay right behind the Sheriff, slightly crouched down, and run through the brush. I would think I should have been afraid, but I wasn't. My heart is pounding, and I wonder that the outlaws can't hear the thunderous beating of my heart. Then I see them, three outlaws watching the road where we would have passed right by them. They were going to ambush us and leave us dead in the road. Now I feel angry. I am finally free of years of being a bound-orphan, and these outlaws were going to steal that from me. The Sheriff starts shooting at the outlaws and... ouch... my ears are ringing from the explosive sound of the gunfire. I raise my revolver and point it in the direction of the outlaws and pull the trigger. I didn't expect the gun to kick like an angry mule, and I'm knocked backwards and land on my backside. I'm laying flat on my back and looking at the trees behind me, upside down and backwards, but I manage to keep hold of the gun. I'm wiggling my jaw to get my ears to pop, and I see movement in the trees behind us, there is another outlaw trying to sneak up on us. I'm still lying on my back, and I raise the gun over my head and point it at the outlaw and pull the trigger. I think my arms feel like they are going to fall off and pain explodes through my shoulders. I don't recommend shooting from that position as there is no place for the recoil to go except down your arms and into your shoulders. I won't pretend like it was anything but dumb, blind luck, but my bullet hits the outlaw and his body lifts off the ground and slams back against a tree and he slumps down. The shooting lasts for a few more moments and then stops, and then the Sheriff is looking down at me. "Well now, that is shooting with style," the Sheriff says grinning at me. "You gotta show me how to do that, can you move your arms?" I wiggle my arms around and nod my head; my ears are ringing so bad I don't think I would be able to talk yet. The Sheriff helps me up, and I follow him over to the outlaw I shot. He bends down and takes the dead man's hand and pulls out a big hunting knife and cuts the man's thumb off and drops it in a little bag. The Sheriff repeats the thumb cutting on the other three outlaws and then heads out to the road. "Let's find that horse of mine, knowing him he might be off chasing some filly around a field." "We just leaving those men there?" I ask. "Critters gotta eat too," the Sheriff says. I shrug and follow the Sheriff. We find the horse up the road about a half-mile munching on some late summer wildflowers and mount back up. The rest of the trip is uneventful, and we reach the town a few hours after sunset. The Sheriff stops at his office and another man with a badge, I assume the man is his deputy, comes out and the Sheriff hands him the bag of thumbs. "Scan those thumbs and collect the bounty," the Sheriff says. The Sheriff takes me over to a hotel and then buys me the first real meal I've ever eaten. The plate is piled with meat and potatoes and green beans, and I inhale the meal like a starving man. The Sheriff pushes a mug over to me, and I down the whole thing before I realize the drink has an odd bitter taste. "First mug of beer?" the Sheriff asks. "Beer?" I think I say, but it sounds like I said bear, and then the beer hits my head and I go down face first. The Sheriff grabs me, and I can hear other men laughing. "Shake it off, you're a man now, gotta learn to hold your bear," the Sheriff says. The Sheriff props me up on wobbly legs an leads me outside. I feel warm and good, and I can't stop grinning. The Deputy meets us outside, and the Sheriff presses some kind of machine against my wrist. "You killed one of those outlaws," the Sheriff says. "The bounty is yours; the credits are registered in your implant." I don't know what the Sheriff is talking about, but I feel too good to care and look at my fingers, I never realized how many fingers I had, they are nice fingers. "He's drunk," the Deputy says. "Yep, and well earned," the Sheriff says. "Is my brother still waiting?" "He is, but you better hurry, he called earlier," the Deputy says. The Sheriff pulls me along, and we walk to the other end of town and just beyond the last building. I spend the time inspecting each of my fingers. We walk out to a field, and it takes a few moments for me to register what I'm looking at, I've never seen one up close; those are Dart Ships. "Tom, about time, is this the boy?" a man says walking over. My mouth drops open, I know what this man is, anyone would know, they are the things of legends, and even in my stupor I would recognize him. "Yep, dropped an outlaw all by himself," the Sheriff says. "He's too old to bond with a team," the man says. "You know where to put him," the Sheriff replies. "The boy survived by himself all these years; he would never make it on a team." The man looks at me the way you look at a horse before you buy it, and I wonder if they are planning to sell me into slavery. I sober up quickly and start looking around for a way to escape. "Cool your spurs, boy," the man says. I think he knows what I'm thinking. "One chance, boy, remember that, it's all you ever get, just one chance." I try to calm down and nod my head. "You know what we are," the man says. "Go with us or take your chances and stay here, what's your decision?" "Don't you want to know my name first?" I ask. "No, I don't want to know your name, you don't have one anymore," the man says. "You will have no team; nobody will mourn you when you die, and nobody will ever remember you after you're gone." I think about that for a minute, and I decide it doesn't matter. Nobody ever called me anything but 'boy' or 'worthless boy', and there is nobody that was going to remember me after I died anyway. If they are going to sell me into slavery, what does it matter, I'm probably good as dead if I stay here. "I'll go with you," I say. "Very well then," the man says. "You can take the oath later at the camp." The man pulls something shiny out of his pocket and pins it on my dirty worn out shirt. I look down; it's a badge and takes me a few seconds to read it what it says. 'Gunslinger'. I look at the man's badge and then back at mine, and notice something odd about mine. "Your badge says 'Gunslingers'" I say. "You're observant; that's good," the man says. "Let's go." The man turns around and walks towards the Dart Ships and the other men waiting. I look at the Sheriff and then hand him back the revolver he loaned me. The Sheriff shakes his head and pushes the gun back at me and then hands me a long rifle and a gun belt for the revolver. "You'll need them," the Sheriff says. "Good luck, boy." The Sheriff walks away, and I chase after the man walking to the Ships.