A Fistful of Trouble (Outlaws of the Galaxy Book 2), Paul Tomlinson [bts books to read .txt] 📗

He began counting them. A couple of the sheriff’s deputies unhooked the chain from the back of the Trekker and dragged the robot off the road. It took three of them to move it.

“It certainly is a fascinating item,” the Mayor said. Handing over the cash.

“And a very dangerous one,” I said. I counted the bills. “Much obliged.” I tucked them into my jacket pocket and buttoned it tight. “You should have someone check that thing has been deactivated properly.”

“The sheriff knows what he’s doing. I have every faith in him.” The mayor thought about this statement for a second and then yelled over his shoulder. “Hank! You have Scooter check that thing before you lock it up!”

“Yes, boss!”

The mayor took off his hat and dabbed his head with the handkerchief, disturbing the comb-over. “You come across anything else like that robot on your travels,” the mayor said, “I’d be obliged if you’d let me have first refusal. I’d be happy to pay a finder’s fee on top of its actual value. Cover your expenses in bringing it here, so to speak.”

“I will be sure and bear that in mind, Mr. Bacon,” I said. I had no intention of ever setting foot in Vulture’s End again, but he didn’t need to know that. “And I meant what I said about being careful with that robot. You can’t trust them. You think you can control them, but then they go feral and you have to put them down.”

“Quin, my boy, it sounds very much like you’re speaking from personal experience.”

“I am. That thing tried to kill me – more than once.” I wasn’t lying when I said that.

“Don’t you worry about us, sir. He’ll be powered down and then dragged off to the jail we got built behind the sheriff’s office. Stone walls three feet thick, no windows, and a big steel door. We use it for the local outlaws and ain’t one of ‘em ever escaped from it.”

“It sounds like you’ve got everything covered,” I said, “so I’ll bid you adieu.”

“You’re not staying the night?” the mayor asked. “We have a very fine hotel which I can vouch for on account of being part-owner. I’ll give you a very good rate...” He raised his eyebrows. They were like two bloated hairy caterpillars.

“That’s mighty hospitable, Mayor Bacon, mighty hospitable. But I prefer to travel at night when it’s a little cooler,” I said.

“I’m disappointed you won’t stay, I won’t pretend I’m not. But I understand what you mean about the darned heat.” He mopped his cheeks with the soggy handkerchief.

I turned and gave the sheriff a snappy salute then walked back to my Trekker.

*

There was trouble in Vulture’s End that night. I stood in the shadows and watched it unfold.

“Sheriff! Sheriff!” The youth came flying down the main street holding his hat on with one hand, heading for the sheriff’s office.

Sheriff Maddox stepped out of the saloon, a whiskey glass in his hand. “Over here, Jeb. What’s all this ruckus about?”

The youth skidded to a stop. “It’s the robot, sheriff,” he said between gasps. “It’s waking up!”

The sheriff frowned. That shouldn’t be happening – he’d watched the local mechanic Scooter McSwain power the robot down and pull out some sort of fuse thing.

“Don’t go making such a fuss, boy. Even if it does wake up, that jail is strong enough to hold it until morning.”

“You sure about that, sheriff?” the youth asked. “That’s one big-ass robot in there.”

The sheriff opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again. He glanced over to where the robot had lain in the street earlier. He tossed back his drink and set the glass down. Squaring his shoulders, the sheriff crossed the street and opened up his office. I saw the light go on inside and through the window watched him unlock the gun locker. I couldn’t see what it was he took out, but it looked big.

Sheriff Henry T. Maddox stood in the doorway of his office and hit the button to power up his weapon. I could hear the whine it made from my hiding place across the street. It was a big old zap gun, twice the size of the one I carried. The rifle was old, but it looked like it carried a serious charge.

“Will that stop the robot, sheriff?” the wide-eyed youth asked.

“Jeb, this thing will stop a tank dead in its tracks. Come on.”

The sheriff marched off around the corner and Jeb scampered after him. Of course I followed, I didn’t want to miss this show.

The jail had been built behind the sheriff’s office and was separate from it. It was squat and round, maybe thirty feet in diameter, constructed from local stone and with a concrete slab for a roof. There was a big steel door studded with bolt heads and it had a little grilled window. It looked pitch black inside, but you didn’t need to see in to know that the robot was moving around. You could clearly hear the loud crashing and feel the vibrations through the soles of your boots. That jail might have been enough to hold local outlaws, but I doubted it was going to contain the robot for long.

The sheriff’s vehicle, a shiny year-old Charger with a big star-shaped badge on the door, was parked behind his office. The sheriff took up a position behind it, resting his elbows on the hood and aiming the zap gun towards the steel door of the jail. Jeb hunkered down beside him.

Like them, I thought the door would be the weak spot, but we were all wrong. A crack in the wall and a puff of white dust showed where the robot was pounding on the inside. The split widened under the barrage of blows and a stone was knocked loose, clattering to the ground. Another stone fell and there was a hole about a foot across in the thick wall. More cracks appeared. The wall seemed to explode outwards