GUN SALAD

It had been ages since Roulette had ridden a horse. Life in Trigger City hadn’t presented many opportunities to pursue that particular hobby, and the Dustsnuffles she’d met in Truvelo, while similar in some ways, made for bulky, ponderous mounts. Only horseback riding could provide that singular feeling–the thrill of velocity, the sensation of the wind rushing through her hair. Once upon a time, it had been her favorite thing. 

How had she allowed herself to neglect that part of her life for so long?

The thunder of her petite palomino’s hooves brought the answer to mind: it was impossible to hear it without thinking of that day. The day Gunn’s stallion charged down the road toward their little ranch.

…The day that man had murdered her father in cold blood.

Outwardly, she was flying across the plain. The horse she’d claimed had taken to the presence of a rider quite well, and responded to her every nudge as if it were an extension of her own body. It bore her to the west at a pace that was almost alarming.

She should have felt weightless. Free. Ecstatic.

Inwardly, though, she was mired in the past. Even now, all these years later, she still suffered under the yoke of her own helplessness. She kicked lightly at the horse’s flanks, thirsting for more speed–not for the fun or the exhilaration of it, but out of a desperate desire to escape. If she could just keep moving, if she could just keep up that momentum, then maybe…

…Maybe…

“Roulette!”

She cursed, giving the mare’s mane a tug. Then she eased her posture and relaxed her thigh muscles, prompting the panting beast beneath her to slow down.

“What?!” she called, whipping her head around a little more sharply than she’d intended. Fortunately, neither of her companions was near enough to register her tone. Their horses were lagging far behind; she reckoned it was a wonder she’d heard them shouting after her at all. As the minutes passed, though, they drew closer and closer, and the reason behind their relative sluggishness became painfully clear: 

When it came to riding, Marka didn’t seem to have a clue what he was doing. 

He sat awkwardly astride the great black stallion he’d coaxed into carrying him, his legs clamped tightly to its sides as if he half-expected to be bucked off at a moment’s notice. Even worse, the big man looked as though he were trying to stay perfectly still, leaving his mount to guess at his intentions.

Morgan, meanwhile, looked comfortable and relaxed. Roulette had the impression that he’d only been trailing behind to give Marka some pointers–pointers that, unfortunately, had yet to sink in.

The girl couldn’t help but chuckle. “Sorry to leave you in the dust there, Marka,” she said. “It’s been awhile since I had the pleasure of ridin’ like this. I got a little caught up in it.”

“Yes, I noticed,” he replied flatly. “I think the two of you forget that, as a Truvelan, I had no opportunity to master a beast like this. I have nearly fallen off many times.”

“Oh, don’t get all sour about it, Marka,” Morgan chided, patting fondly at the broad, muscular neck of his own horse. “Out on the range, this is just how we get around. If Roulette’s experience is anythin’ like mine, she practically grew up in the saddle.”

Marka glanced down pointedly at the bare back beneath him. “I see no saddle here.”

“It’s a figure of speech,” Roulette giggled. “You’re right, though. You don’t have a saddle. We can only ride bareback so well because we spent years learnin’ how to shift our weight around on tame horses. I figure it must feel practically impossible to ride with no saddle or reins to help you guide yours.”

“Not to mention how much my ass hurts…” Marka grumbled.

“Well, Marka!” Morgan crowed, leaning out to give his shoulder a firm slap, “That was downright crass! I’m proud of you.”

“The most important thing is to relax, Marka,” Roulette continued. “Only tense up when you want somethin’ done, and think hard about what exactly it is you’re flexin’. Horses are smarter than you might think, and they’ll learn your body language if you let ‘em. Sittin’ up there all still and stony will only confuse ‘em.”

“What if he decides to throw me off?” he asked, staring skeptically at the back of his horse’s head.

“He won’t. Or, err, he shouldn’t, anyway,” she stammered. “I’ve never met a gentler pack of horses in all my days, and we spent a good hour or so buildin’ a rapport back by the cliffs. As long as you don’t hurt him or annoy him, he’ll treat you right.

“But wild horses don’t know how to behave for a rider, just like you don’t know how to make ‘em behave. So you’ve got to learn together: be calm, but commandin’. Be loose, but intentional. Be relaxed, but firm when it counts. Does that make sense?”

Marka paused to scratch his head. “I think so.”

“Good.” Roulette looked off toward the massive mesa to the west, then, seeking some landmark she could use as a goalpost for him. Its vast cliff face stretched to either end of the horizon, though, utterly dominating the scenery; it looked as though they might have to go around it, loathe as she was to admit it.

That’s when she saw it: a narrow chink in the mesa’s facade–a shady little canyon that, if they were lucky, would take them all the way through to the next county over.

“See that canyon over yonder?” she asked, indicating the gap in the mesa. “Try guiding your horse over that way, quick as you please. If you were listenin’ to what I said, it should be no trouble for you.”

Marka nodded, relaxed his posture some, and urged his stallion forward with a tap of his heels. The beast lumbered forward slowly at first, and its rider wobbled erratically in place… But as master and mount forged ahead together, and as Marka’s confidence grew, the two got more and more in sync. The stallion broke into a gallop, and she could hear the big man whooping in triumph as they sped off toward the distant canyon.

Roulette looked to Morgan and smiled. “Guess we should catch up, hmm?”

“Guess so,” he replied. “Fancy a race?”

“You’re on. First to the canyon?”

He didn’t reply. Instead, the dirty dog spurred his horse into a dead run, laughing all the while.

“CHEATER!” she called after him, and prodded her palomino to action. She carried on behind the others at a brisk pace, all of them riding across the open field within a hundred feet of each other, and soon found that she didn’t care whether she won or lost; the euphoric feeling rising in her chest was victory enough, and it sustained her all the way to the mouth of the canyon and beyond. Marka maintained the lead the whole time, guiding his stallion around curves and over rough terrain without apparent difficulty.

Seems my pep talk was just what he needed, she thought with a grin. Maybe it’ll be him I challenge to a race next time!

She passed Morgan just as they were rumbling beneath a natural arch, granting her a view of what lay ahead of them. To her delight, it looked to be a straight shot to the other end of the mesa: the canyon proceeded for another several hundred feet, culminating in a sliver of blue sky that marked its western exit. Another minute or two of galloping and they’d be out on the plains again, and well on their way to whatever the next county had in store for them!

The thrill of it all encouraged her to pick up speed. She started pulling up toward Marka’s side, coming up nearly even with him as they plunged forth into a wider corridor. That’s when she noticed, to her great surprise, that they weren’t alone–somebody was standing off to the side of the canyon in a little alcove, and they were holding something aloft. Something red and blinking.

“MARKA! LOOK OUT!” she cried.

 …But a deep, booming voice overrode her warning.

“DO YOU KNOW HOW FAST YOU WERE GOIN’?”

What happened next defied all logic. The stranger's weapon projected something into the air–a pair of numbers rendered in that same strange, red light:

33

Marka turned his head to look. And the moment he did, disaster struck. Roulette looked on in wide-eyed disbelief as a big metal weight materialized out of thin air, its handle forming right around the circumference of Marka’s neck. The sudden weight tugged him back off his horse immediately, sending him plummeting to the ground, and as the boxy metal object skidded across the canyon floor–dragging poor Marka along with it–Roulette caught a glimpse of the text inscribed on the side nearest her:

33 lbs