Kiska

Throughout the cold, wet morning, Jarl Hawkins—ex-geographer from the planet Earth, ex-partisan from the planet Jubal, and marooned on the planet Vanir—rode his gray horse up the narrow valley, zig zagging from the side of the mountain to the fast-moving, high-country river, searching for sign, either of the giant bear or of the old witch.

And, as his horse crested the small hill, Jarl caught his breath—there, to his right, standing quietly on a rock outcrop, was another potential adversary, one far more dangerous than the giant grizzly. It was a Ghost Raider, far from the White Plains.

Jarl brought his horse to a quick halt, trying to keep an eye on the plains' nomad and scanning the nearby brush for other Raiders, all at the same time. The Raider was a woman—about his own age—standing tall on the outcrop, holding a small stack of kindling and flintlock shotgun. But the woman, alerted by his horses' hoofs on the rock bank, held her gun at an angle that required only a slight movement to point it directly at Jarl.

She wore a tan buckskin dress and knee-high moccasins, edged with hundreds of tiny beads. She had high cheek bones and gray-blond hair that reached past her shoulders. Feathers were woven into her hair and hung from her ears. Her face was a deep brown, tanned by the wind and sun, and streaked with two old, wide, flaking bands of paint, one red and the other yellow.

The woman's weapon was a short, sawed-off, double-barrel shotgun. Both hammers were cocked. She moved it, just a little, so it pointed directly at Jarl's chest. Her hand was rock-steady. Jarl tensed, waiting for the impact of the lead projectiles.