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VARNEY'S SWALE (801) a short story by Freeman C. Button, Jr.
This short science-fiction-western comedy was written several years ago by my Dad. My father has a weird sense of humor, by his own admission, but he's a lovable guy. He is a sensitive soul, so if you decide to comment, please only say nice things to "The Redneck," as he likes to call himself, proudly. (Between you and me, there is a LOT of my Dad in the character of Clarkson). Enjoy!
VARNEY'S SWALE (801)
a short story by Freeman C. Button, Jr.
This short science-fiction-western comedy was written several years ago by my Dad. My father has a weird sense of humor, by his own admission, but he's a lovable guy. He is a sensitive soul, so if you decide to comment, please only say nice things to "The Redneck," as he likes to call himself, proudly. (Between you and me, there is a LOT of my Dad in the character of Clarkson). Enjoy!
Varney's Swale (801)
by Freeman C. Button, Jr.
At the top of the high dune the pair of trekkers halted for a short break. Betty sank her bulk to the heat of the sand and was tickled. She belched a big wad of Sandbeery into her cheek pouch. "Ohh--aye," the six-ton Sauran cooed.
Old man Clarkson slapped Betty's long neck lovingly. "Are you feeling this day's hike, Bet'? My legs are telling me it's time to start looking for a campsite."
Clarkson scanned the rolling dunes in front of them. There were a choice of four swales within an hour's walk, two with water and two showed presence of water with greenery. One particular swale caught his speculation. A bold show of bedrock reared a couple hundred feet above the sand. Ever the prospector, Clarkson thought this might be a good place to search for precious gems. Gems, after all, was what these long walks were about, even if the good folks in Learned believed prospecting the Dune Wilds a waste of time.
"Chee ha. Ready to go, Bet'?"
And they continued on, these two, Sauran and Human, native and alien, through an expanse of empty space most would consider frightening. But they trusted each other in all things, out of a necessity, out of a need for companionship, to ward off the vastness of a sparsely settled world.
They made a short stop at one waterhole to freshen themselves, then moved to the evening's final stop.
Betty's huge tail wagged in anticipation of a good swim.
Clarkson removed all their possibles and the saddle. "Go ahead, girl, I'll be right behind you."
They frolicked like two children. The Sauran was born to water and easily out-swam her master. Sometimes she disappeared under water so as to sneak up on the hapless man and overpower him. Eventually Betty's stomach got the upper hand and she wandered the shallows looking for Sandbeery. And the old man's eye for geology became his main focus.
Clarkson swam over to the weathered rock. Right away he noticed a milky colored crypto-crystalline extrusion abnormality. He tried to physically remove the crystal, but lacked strength. A job for a pick, he decided. He splashed water over the crystal. Could it be? He splashed copious amounts of water across the rock wall.
Joyous with glee, he damned near drowned returning to shore. Diamonds. If it was he had the means and the knowledge to test for the most precious of gemstones. The gemstone had passed the water test with flying colors. He layed on the bank to catch his breath. Betty was clear across the pond munching away at just about anything green. Betty, old girl, we might be on easy street because we might have struck it rich. If such was the case, Clarkson thought he'd buy Betty the handsomest boyfriend money can buy. He laughed.
In the next hour, he dug out seven large gems from the rock face, spotted many others too deep to get at for the time being, and found dozens on the bottom of the large pond at a depth of a dozen odd-feet. Already he had more than enough diamonds to retire from full-time prospecting should he so desire. And they were beauties, big lovely gemstones.
For a time at the campsite, just as the sun began to set, Betty was dumbfounded at the crazy dance her master performed around the fire. As the evening lengthened, as was her habit, she bedded down close to and upwind of the campfire. Her master made his bed site beside her to take advantage of her belly heat, and this action of her master brought comfort. But unaccountably, off and on, her master talked into the night.
"Betty, we're gonna be rich. No, we are rich, incredibly rich. And that is cause for thought. We can do a lot of good."
"Betty, let's buy up a lot of land and then donate the land to the state for parks and preserves and such." Faithfully, Betty would turn her head or coo to let her master know she was attentive and not asleep, for she always craved her master's eye.
"Betty, let's donate money to Learned so they can pave Main street.
"Betty, I want to enlarge my living room."
"Betty, I'm thinkin' you're deservin' of a new and larger barn."
Eventually Clarkson fell silent and began to snore, and Betty was allowed to dream the usual Sauran fantasy of lots of water and lots of vegetation to eat.
An hour before the breaking of light, Betty awoke to her master's painful wail, very much surprised to find him riding her back.
"Chee ha, Betty! To the top of the dune. Hurry." Betty raced to the dune heights and halted, panting.
Clarkson was greatly agitated. "Some kind of varmint done took my ear. I got no right ear, Betty. It surprised me some. Hurts my feelings a whole lot. I didn't see a thing. I ain't goin' back down 'till I can see. I don't scare easy, Betty. I'm a tellin' you my hearts a beatin' awful fast."
Old man Clarkson lay against Betty's side for the duration of darkness and on into the morning. Often in pain, he managed some rest, even a couple hours of sleep. Now wide awake he looked down on the swale. "Betty, ol' girl, it's all going to depend upon you. Go down there and stomp all over the place, make it safe for me to come down. Yeah, stomp everywhere so's all the varmints are long gone. Chee ha, Betty!"
Whilst Betty rampaged around their campsite Clarkson jumped up and down atop the dune shouting encouragement. After five minutes he was back at the old campsite. He recovered his boots and waved Betty off. "Go girl, get water and food. We'll be leaving in a few minutes."
Clarkson removed his clothing at pond side, washed himself, his wound, his soiled garments. Dressing quickly, he returned to the saddle and the odd assortment of things one had to have out in the sands of Varney. He was missing a couple of shirts, a spindle of thread and some needles. He shook his head at the mystery.
From the saddle he retrieved his Varney Nav-site Computer and standing in the center of the swale he punched in commands. This gave him a geographical fix on his position to within a few feet. Another command and it was permanently recorded with his travel log. He typed: Position 801 is of a large swale with an old volcanic upthrust in southwest corner. Upthrust is source of diamonds. A pond of some five acres, with water sinkage at north end of swale. Lots of greenery for Betty. Swale has unknown type of dangerous varmint. Not recommended for camping. Distance to Learned: 115 miles.
He stored his log, then called up 'Records and Documents' and by remote mail, filed his mineral claim.
"Betty," he called. "Time to go. Chee ha!"
The trip home would not be an easy task, this trek being the longest westward he'd ever taken. To make the trip easy on Betty, he'd wander homeward from water hole to water hole, logging each and every one. His desert log book, backed up by a computer at home, was a priceless journal for folks wishing to travel this desert. Clarkson shared his log with any and all sojourners and as a result he had become something of a celebrity.
Three odd-hours into their return trip Clarkson thought he'd heard a well-muffled reciprocal engine, and climbed into his saddle for a look-see. "Up, Bet'," he commanded. Now fully a dozen feet higher he could still not see the visitors. Then over the next dune to their front appeared one of the newer Contil All-Terrain Traccers, as yellow as the Sun on one of her hotter days. It skidded to a sliding stop.
Clarkson waved. Clarkson did not hear the bullet which ripped off the ear bandage, nor the bullet which seared a through-and-through path across his left rib cage, tearing a path over two ribs. He was tossed from Betty. The fall was enough to end any thought of combative response. It was all he could do just to breathe. More shots had been fired at him, splashing him with sand. Outgunned, he played dead.
Betty!
Clarkson listened to her pitiful plea for help, screaming in agony. He sensed she was running, trying to escape, but the sounds of gunfire confused his ability to follow Betty's plight. "Ah, no," he groaned.
Some time elapsed before Clarkson heard their approach. Knowing he could not play dead, he feigned unconsciousness.
"Will you look at that. I plumb took his ear off. Got him good in the sides, too."
"Quit playing with him, Jake. Get his gun and see if he's got a wallet."
Jake tossed the wallet to Horner. The gun slipped into his belt.
"Chances are good this guy is not known way down at Hodding. Woody, you are now James Clarkson, owner of the Lucky Lucy Diamond Mine."
"Why me," complained Woody.
"Because you look like him, dummy," Horner stated. "We are going into the mining business."
"Should I shoot him again?" Jake asked. He kicked Clarkson a couple of times.
"Leave him. You've deafened me enough, and he's dead enough," declared a disgusted Horner.
Before moving a muscle Clarkson waited until the strangers were long gone, then struggling to his feet, followed Betty's trail. It came to him in the heat of a full noon, and he stopped to rest and ponder. Betty ought to have fled, but instead she'd charged these strangers with full speed and fury. She'd given up her life to protect him. He could see her body now and the fresh kill was not a pretty picture. "They done took my Betty's crown sail and her tail spikes," he wailed.
"They ought not have mutilated you. Ought not have done such a terrible thing." Clarkson was beside himself with pain and despair. He removed one of the saddle's side straps and wrapped the same tightly about his rib cage.
"They took our diamonds, girl. They must have found my Navigator. I know where they went. I'm as good as dead if I don't go back to our last camp. I need water and my water bags. I'll think of something to make amends to you, Bet,' if I catch up to them." Clarkson blew his nose, turned from the body of his pet, and never looked back.
Prudence dictated Clarkson's arrival time at his old campsite. As it was, because of the shape he was in, it was early into the next day by the time he came up to the Contil at the top of the dune overlooking the swale. Morning was still a few hours coming. From the front of the Contil, he recovered a full blivet of water, then backed out of there, moving to a position on the opposite side of the swale. He had little choice but to hide until strength returned.
Afternoon heat awoke a very sore Clarkson. He pulled himself to a sitting position, took some water, and peeked from his hide. The Contil hadn't moved, and there was no movement from the camp. He spent the remaining hours of the day at his hide, wishing he'd scrounged his med kit and food from the possiblies staked in the back of the Contil. He needed his spyglass.
Day turned into night, and the chill brought Clarkson to his feet. The Strangers had failed to light a fire, and this fact puzzled him, as well as their lack of activity. Well into the night he made another trip to the Contil, and braving discovery, found food in the form of dried fruit and jerkied meat, his medicine kit, the spyglass, a large knife, and his pistol. Well-healed with supplies and confidence, he returned to his hide. Tomorrow, he determined, would be a different kind of day, and the Strangers would regret the day they crossed his path.
Most of the following morning found Clarkson crawling from one position to another about the top of the swale as he spied upon the Stranger's camp. Back at the Contil, after seeing no activity, he became braver, making much noise by pounding his fist on the Contil's hood, then he yelled obscenities at the Strangers. No reaction whatsoever from them.
Drumming up courage, weapon in hand, he headed into the swale, and bold as you please, walked right up to the Strangers' camp. Woody, Jake and Horner lay helplessly prostrate before Clarkson. The Strangers were awake, breathing, but seemed immobilized and were only able to follow his pacing with their eyes. The varmints had gotten to them in a most wondrous manner.
"Let me guess," Clarkson began, "you in the middle, you must be Woody. You don't look much like me. You see, I got two feet. And you must be Horner, the boss of this hoorah." He looked to the last, "That makes you Jake."
Clarkson kicked the man on the right. "How's it feel to kick a man when he can't do anything about it? You're the one that tired to kill me, Jake. And you're probably the one that killed my Betty. You did a piss-poor job of killing me, and done kilt my Betty badly. Betty never harmed a soul in her entire life. Everybody loved my Betty. She deserved better than what she got."
"You read my journal. I know you did. Warned about the varmints in the log. Varmints have got you," Clarkson stated as a matter of fact. His jaw stiffened, "And I'm a letting them have you and good riddance."
Clarkson walked off, then returned to the trio. "I thank you for the borrow of that right fancy Contil."
The End.
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