Guns of Mars 2
A Martian action-adventure by The Legend Chuck Dixon
CHAPTER 1.2
He quickly untied the reins of his thoats from the rock he’d hitched them to. He secured the long rifle in the boot under his saddle alongside the scabbard of his long saber. His thoat croaked and bleated as he swung into the saddle. The animals were thirsty. Hell, he was thirsty too.
He kicked his heels into the flanks of his mount and it rose on its ten legs to canter in a general northerly direction, the smaller pack animal following at the end of a lead line of braided hide.
The rim of the bowl would serve to hide him from the pursuer for the next hour or so. The cracked clay surface of the dead lake would not raise any dust to betray his position before that. With any luck, Kal would be out of sight in the gathering dark by the time the bounty man crested the slope. Kal recognized that his run of luck was nearing its end after three days of riding hard with little rest and dwindling supplies. If he could only reach Argon or Samarium, one of the two settlements that lay north against the edge of the ice cap! Or perhaps a camp of fellow tharks where his name was not known.
He was Warhoon, a tribe not welcome among the more civilized of the tharks. There was no hiding his allegiance, as the signature bands of Warhoon tattoos about his arms attested. The distinction between tribes was less important the farther north he rode. The need for water sourced from ice melt erased the differences between tharks, and even between tharks and men. In this pitiless country, thirst was a greater concern than tribal or species loyalties.
And there was little chance his reputation had preceded him to the settlements. But word would soon follow him and then there would be more than just this single human dogging his trail. Until he found a place remote enough, backward enough in which to hide, there would be no rest for him.
All because he had dallied with the bitch Tagas, the first daughter of a Warhoon elder hetman. He’d only agreed to the arrangement because he saw advantages for himself in the union. A warrior of little distinction and less property, he had few prospects of ever being more than a handy sword and lance for the many conflicts the tribe engaged in.
Then the harpy Tagas had become taken with him for some reason. It was she who proposed they become mates. And, after consuming enough briga, a drink made from fermented tojan root, he agreed to the match. But there was not enough briga on Barsoom to make Tagas attractive enough for more than a few ruts. And so, Kal mounted up and rode off leaving his bride to wail at his absence and her father to roar himself raw with rage.
