“Sorry to hear that,” said Phule. “So if Beeker and his lady friend have been captured by the Indians, what do you suggest I do about it?”

“Same as any red-blooded hombre would do,” answered Short. “Git on yer horse and go find ‘em. Then make ’em sorry they done it.”

Phule looked down. “Well, it looks like I already am on my horse,” he said.

“Smart feller,” said the cowpoke. “I reckon you know what to do next, then.”

“Right,” said Phule. But almost before the word was out of his mouth, Buck Short had spurred Dale-8 toward the nearby town, and was out of earshot. Lacking any other plan, he sped up his own horse and rode to overtake Short. “Which way are the Indians?” he asked, as he pulled abreast of him.

“How the tarnation am I supposed to know?” said the cowpoke, testily. At least one of his eyes glared at Phule. “Do I look like an Injun to you?”

Phule couldn’t quite tell whether he’d grievously insulted Buck, but he hastened to calm the cowpoke down. “Sorry, friend, I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said. “I just need to find the Indians-and the fellow you think they’ve kidnapped. Do you know anybody I might ask who would know where they are?“

“Maybe you ought to ask OV Ben,” said the cowpoke. “He’s out on the range, usually. You jes’ head west out o‘ town, aud when you get to Brownsville, take that right-hand road. Then look out purt’ sharp, and when you see a big cloud o‘ dust off to the west side, that’s sure as shootin’ gone to be OF Ben’s herd. He’ll be there with ‘em. You tell ’im Jeb sent you.”

“All right,” said Phule. “Thanks, Jeb.”

“Tarnation, / ain’t Jeb,” said the cowpoke, glaring at Phule with an insulted expression. “What’s wrong with your memory, pilgrim? I done told you, my name’s Buck Short.”

“Excuse me?” Phule squinted, puzzled. “Then why do you want me to say Jeb sent me?”

“ ‘Cause that’s the word,” said the cowpoke, with the air of a man explaining the obvious. “Same as if you wants to start a robohorse movin’, you got to say gitty-up, instead of let’s go or move yer arse. You can’t go changing words around and ‘spect things to work like they’re ’sposed to.”

“I see,” said Phule. “I head west out of town, take the right-hand road in Brownsville, big cloud of dust-Old Ben’s there. I tell him Jeb sent me, and he can tell me the way to the Indians.”

“Yer durn tootin‘,” said Buck Short, with obvious approval, and with that he turned his robosteed and headed on into town, leaving Phule to find his own way to OF Ben and the Indians.

Chocolate Harry scowled at the requisition form Lieutenant Armstrong had just handed him, then looked up, and growled, “This is gonna be really expensive, y’know? I mean, none of this is standard Legion materiel. I’m gonna have to go to an outside supplier. And you gotta be kiddin‘ about when you want it by…”

“The captain’s footing the bill, and Lieutenant Rembrandt set the deadline,” said Armstrong, stiffly. “If you want to dispute an order from your commanding officers, it’ll be your neck on the line. You’d be a lot better off just getting everything ordered, first. Then if you want to waste your breath arguing with the captain, you can do it after he gets back without delaying the project any more. And if he does change his mind, you can send the supplies back afterward-and tell everybody you told them so.”

“Uh, right on, Lieutenant,” said Chocolate Harry, with a grin. Mentally, he was already calculating which of the supplies he could divert to his own purposes. Was there a way to make some kind of booze out of “fast-setting, low-watering, E-Z-Gro Kentucky bluegrass seed”? If it could be done, he wouldn’t bet against one of the Omega Mob figuring out a way… Harry grinned and reached for a Supply catalog as Armstrong left the Supply depot, apparently satisfied.

Twenty minutes later, Harry’s brow was furrowed, and a string of increasingly foul curses had crossed his lips. Finally he lifted his wrist communicator to his mouth. “Yo, Double-X, get your butt in here.”

“Uh, right, C.H.,” came the reply. A moment later his clerk ambled in the door. “Whassup?” said Double-X, leaning against the file cabinet.

“What’s up is the company’s going into the goddamn golf business,” growled Harry. “Armstrong brought this list of stuff over, and there’s next to none of it we can get from the regular sources, which means I can’t get my regular rake-offs. How am I supposed to make a living?”

“What’s supposed to happen is you get a Legion paycheck,” said Double-X, smirking. He quickly dodged behind the file cabinet as Chocolate Harry threw the catalog at his head.

“You ain’t so good at this job that I can’t get somebody else to do it,” bellowed the Supply sergeant. “Now shut up and listen. We got to get the stuff on this list, and I’m putting you on the case.“

“Aw right, Sarge,” said Double-X, taking the list from Harry’s outstretched hand. He glanced down the page, then asked, “Usual deal, right-biggest kickback gets the sale?”

Chocolate Harry paused a moment before answering. “Usually I wouldn’t even think twice about it,” he said at last. “But this time, no-it’s gotta be delivery speed.”

Double-X whistled. “Man, this has to be serious. I never knowed you to pass up a little extra pocket money.”

Harry shrugged. “Well, you know me. I like my gravy, just like the next guy. But the whole company’s under the gun, so just this once, I’m gonna take one for the team. Whoever gets us the stuff the fastest gets the deal, and that’s the whole story.”

Double-X nodded. “Sure, Sarge.” He paused, then asked softly, “Cap’n‘s in some kind of trouble, ain’t he?”

“Man, you didn’t hear it from me, OK?” said Harry, looking around the Supply shed that, as usual, was empty except for the two of them. “We got to play it close to the vest, Double-X. The rest of the company is gonna find out soon enough, when they have to put things together. But for now, we’re bringing this stuff in on the QT, and it’s gotta be smooth. I’m trusting you, ‘cause you’re the one dude I know can keep things quiet. Got it?”

Double-X’s face was serious, now. “Yeah, Sarge, I’m your man. I’ll get the stuff so fast you won’t have time to wonder where it’s comin‘ from.” He took the list and went over to his own desk. Before long, he was fast at work on his console.

“I reckon OF Ben’s the only one ‘round here’d know thet, stranger,” said the cowpoke sitting on a wooden bench by the saloon entrance.

“OK, if you say so,” said Sushi. “Where do we find Ol‘ Ben?”

The cowpoke pointed down the street. “That-a-way, out on the range. Head west out o‘ town; when you get to Brownsville, take that right-hand road. Then when you see a big cloud o’ dust off to the west side, that’s OF Ben’s herd, sure as shootin‘. He’ll be right there with ’em. You tell ‘im Jeb sent you.“

“All right,” said Sushi. “Thanks, Jeb.”

“Tarnation, I ain’t Jeb,” said the cowpoke, exasperation personified.

“I don’t get it, man,” said Do-Wop, scratching his head. “If you ain’t Jeb, why you want us to say Jeb sent us?”

“ ‘Cause that’s the word” said the cowpoke. “Same as if you wants to start a robohorse movin’, it’s gitty-up, ‘stead of move yer arse. You can’t ’spect anything to work the way it’s ‘sposed to if’n you go usin’ the wrong words.”

“That almost makes sense,” said Sushi. “West out of town, right-hand road in Brownsville, big cloud of dust. Jeb sent me.”

“That’s the ticket, sonny,” said the cowpoke, benignly. “Say, you oughta buy a feller a drink when he gives you good advice like thet,” he said, turning one of his eyes on Sushi. The other seemed to be aimed somewhere off in the distance.

Sushi began, “I don’t know if we’ve got the-”

“Always time for a drink,” said Do-Wop. “Say, what’s your name, buddy?”