The Outlaw

Fearghus looked to the North, shielding his eyes from the sun as the sands began to obscure his surroundings, stirring up from the earth in great orange waves. He pulled the black bandanna over his nose and with a nudge from his spurs, urged Thicket away from the patch of dessert thistles she was munching at. Reluctantly, teeth full of the spiny, turquoise flowers, Thicket obeyed and headed East.

Fearghus pushed down the brim of his hat to protect his eyes from the sand.

Crazy Gynts, Fearghus thought. Even the natives must know the kind of Hell this planet is. Or maybe they smoke too much sand-weed to be bothered.

There was little civilization here besides the small space port and the cluster of buildings around it that barely passed for a town. It was an irrelevant planet, used infrequently to refuel or grab a beer, if one was truly desperate. The only visitors who stayed more than a few days were Gypsies. Gypsies, and outlaws like Fearghus.

The sands buffeted against Thicket’s metallic hide. Her front legs, left shoulder, and most of her face had been replaced with steel and gears. It had been the only way Fearghus had managed to keep her together after the shape he’d found her in. You’d think saving the animal’s life and all would make her grateful, but Thicket had the worst temperament of any horse Fearghus had ever met, and he’d met a lot. Met a lot, rode a lot, shot a few, ate one — that had been rough. But, desperate times, and the rest.

The tiny wooden hut looked so out of place next to its neighbor — a large green shipping crate — that Fearghus rubbed his lids to make sure the sand wasn’t making him see things. But there they stood, side by side, and atop the shipping crate, a dark figure silhouetted in the sun, blurred by the sand storm.

Fearghus rode Thicket as close as he dared and then pulled on the reins to stop her. She snorted in protest.

“I don’t like standing out in this shit any more than you do,” Fearghus told her as they waited.

The figure leaped down from the shipping crate. Her dark skin stood out against the bright sand which went completely ignored by her as she strode toward Fearghus and his mount. She wore an ensemble of leather and thin hand-woven cloth that covered only the bare necessities — which apparently didn’t include her right breast. She had a sharp, gem tipped spear in one hand, painted and tied with feathers, and a brown leather holster around her hips, complete with a mean looking pistol.

Fearghus had loved that pistol.

Curse this woman.

“Fearghus Fyfe.” She spat out his name like an insult.

Fearghus pulled his bandanna down around his neck. “Theda,” he replied. “I’m in a pinch. Need somewhere to lay low.”

Theda narrowed her burnished brown eyes at him.

“Beast,” she said, pointing to Thicket with her spear.

“Her name’s Thicket.”

Theda walked around the horse to get a better look at her metallic muscles. “Why?”

“Because I found her in a thicket.”

She grimaced, raising her spear to point at him. “Why metal?”

“She was hurt real bad. Had to patch her up.”

“You doctor?”

“No.”

She sniffed. A dangerous gesture in all this sand, Fearghus thought.

Theda nodded at him, then started walking back towards the shipping crate. He’d been accepted, for now, but Fearghus made no move to follow her.

She stopped to throw him a look over her shoulder. “What?”

“Where’s your…”

She narrowed her eyes again. Feargus chose his next word carefully.

“Cat.” Demon.

“Hunting.”

Good. Maybe the thing won’t be so sour with a full stomach.

Fearghus urged Thicket on after Theda. Inside, the shipping crate had been laid with boards and long green leaves. It wasn’t exactly hay, but Thicket didn’t seem to mind. She stomped at it with her hoof before deciding it was as good a bed as any.

There was a wooden wall dividing the shipping crate with a small door. Doors were a luxury most native Gynts found extravagant and unnecessary. Fearghus eyed the door and Theda eyed him.

Fearghus looked away first, patting Thicket’s nose and ears before standing and leaving the crate — he didn’t so much as glance over his shoulder.

I’ve got enough secrets of my own. She can keep hers.