One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 2, page 7

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Pí‘oro Kılímo frowned and rubbed his forehead. The kid was obviously a foreigner, so maybe he didn’t understand the order to drop his rifle. He might be dangerous, but he was obviously spooked, from the way he kept glancing toward town. The kid wasn’t injured, so he didn’t need to be healed, but he probably still needed help. Unless, of course, this foreigner was the perpetrator and someone was lying dead in the ditch.

Pí‘oro rubbed his head again, squeezing the skin together till it almost hurt. Well, at least the kid said, “please.”

“Come here, son,” Pí‘oro called, waving his free hand in an inviting gesture. Pí‘oro kept his rifle pointed skyward, but his finger close to the trigger.

The foreign kid nodded and started jogging up the driveway, his own rifle held nowhere near the trigger. “Thank you!” the kid yelled as he ran.

Pí‘oro walked the few meters along the cement path to the gravel driveway, trying to act friendly.

The kid was dressed in baggy denim pants and a ratty singlet proclaiming something in some foreign language--Zhuphíoan, perhaps. He had to tug up his trousers a couple times as he hurried up the driveway.

When he was still five meters away, the kid stopped and repeated, “Thank you.” He wasn’t out of breath at all, but his dark eyes were tensed so tight it looked like he was about to cry.

Something about his square, tan face seemed familiar to Pí‘oro, but the old man just couldn’t place him.

Pí‘oro held out his hand. “Come here, son. Let’s get you out of the cold. My name is Pí‘oro. What happened?”

The young foreigner took a couple hesitant steps towards Pí‘oro. “Hello. My name is Bhanar. How are you?”

Pí‘oro laughed, a deep belly-rumbler. “I’m fine, thank you. And yourself?” What would Vata think? Here I am trading pleasantries when she’s focused on the mission.

Bhanar barely smiled in response, his jaw clenched. “They tried to kill me. They shot at me. They went that direction.” He pointed at town, the same way he’d been glancing.

If that was true, if some Huro-types had taken a pot-shot at this kid and then sped away, there wasn’t really much Pí‘oro and Vata could do, except call a tow truck.

“Give me your rifle, son, and come inside.” Pí‘oro held out his hand for Bhanar’s gun. The kid’s rifle looked like a new model, but poorly maintained. Maybe it was a 7-mm like Pí‘oro’s.

The foreign kid spun to face the road, leveling his rifle, searching for a target. Pí‘oro considered tackling him and taking his gun away before he shot anyone. He stopped after just one step. He’d probably end up getting shot in the struggle.

The sound of an automobile engine drifted across the desert. It came from the east, not from town. It couldn’t be the Huro-types, if the kid told the truth. And then the auto came into view: a Colonial Enforcer cruiser.

That’s just wonderful, thought Pí‘oro. Now the police are going to stick their noses into this and get us all trapped in bureaucratic nonsense for weeks.

Bhanar lowered his rifle and waved his hand at the Enforcers. “Hey! Hey!”

But the Enforcer auto just rolled right on by. Pí‘oro shook his head at the blind incompetence of his government’s employees. But at least he didn’t have to deal with them tonight.

The kid yelled something foreign at the retreating police. It didn’t sound polite.

“Come on, son. Hand me the rifle.” Pí‘oro stepped closer to the foreign kid.

Bhanar looked at Pí‘oro and sputtered something, took a deep breath, and enunciated, “Why did not the police stop? You called the police, correct? To your house?”

Pí‘oro snorted a laugh. What help would the police be? “Give me the rifle, son. Now.” He extended a beefy hand at the foreigner and started forwards.

The kid backed a step away, his eyes growing large. “You did not call the police?”

Before Pí‘oro could answer, Bhanar looked back at the road. Another auto was coming, this time from town. Was it the police returning? No, it was a small, brown sedan--probably a Sonla or some other foreign make. Certainly not typical of drunkard Huro-types.

The kid dropped to the gravel, yelling, “Down!” and pointing his rifle at the auto.

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