A Game of Authors by Frank Herbert Page B

can have tea.”
    Medina answered from above Garson. “ Sí, Señorita .”
    There came the sound of limbs breaking. A shower of dirt rained onto Garson. He looked up, saw part of the clay bank give way under Medina. The big Mexican fell on his side, began pulling himself upright with the aid of a vine. More earth caved from beneath his feet.
    As Garson watched, the revolver slipped out of Medina’s upended holster, slid down the clay bank. Garson picked it up, glanced across the stream at Anita Luac. She held a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide. He looked up at Medina on the clay bank. The Mexican had regained his feet. His pockmarked face carried a strange, set look, and he was staring across the stream to the bank above Anita Luac.
    A horse whinnied behind Garson. He turned, still holding the revolver.
    Raul Separdo sat astride a giant black stallion, outlined against the sky above Anita Luac. He held a rifle carelessly across the pommel, its muzzle pointing at Medina. Behind Separdo ranged three other riders, all carrying rifles.
    They looked like nothing more than a raiding party of bandits. Separdo wore a black sombrero.
    Separdo grinned. “What a pleasant surprise!”
    Garson nodded.
    Separdo looked at Medina. “ Buenas tardes , Choco. I see that you have loaned your gun to Mr. Garson. What a pity! I would so enjoy another demonstration such as the one you gave at the lake this morning.”
    My God! He means to kill Choco!
    Garson cocked the revolver. The sound broke loudly on the tense quiet.
    “Ah!” said Separdo. “Perhaps Mr. Garson would like to give us a demonstration with the revolver?” He spoke over his shoulder to one of the riders. “ Pánfil! Un pedazo de madera, por favor! ”
    A piece of wood! Then the name “Pánfil” registered. Have we been betrayed?
    One of the riders dismounted, searched the ground, came up with a piece of wood.
    “Show us how you can hit the piece of wood, Mr. Garson,” said Separdo. “Pánfil!”
    The man on the ground threw the wood into the air.
    In that split second, knowing he could not hit the wood, Garson took a desperate gamble. He snapped a shot at Separdo. The Mexican’s hat jerked from his head. His horse reared. He lost his grip on the rifle, which tipped forward, fell over the bank to Anita Luac’s feet.
    She snatched it up.
    Garson stared at the confusion of milling horses on the streambank. My God! I hit his hat!
    Separdo regained control of his mount, reined it up at the edge of the bank. His face was livid with fury.
    Anita Luac stood beneath him, the rifle held at the ready. Separdo surveyed the scene.
    “You do not like the small target?”
    “I choose my own targets, Raul.”
    Separdo’s hands tightened on the reins. “But Choco hit his target five times.”
    “I thought I might need the other four shots.”
    Separdo nodded. His lips trembled. “Did you hit what you aimed at, Mr. Garson?”
    “Do you want to see another shot two inches lower?”
    Separdo tensed, eyes wide, a wild light in them.
    Behind Garson, Medina laughed. “Try him, Raul!”
    Slowly, Separdo stilled his trembling. A smile like a nervous grimace touched his mouth and then vanished. “Perhaps we should continue on our separate ways.”
    “Perhaps that would be best,” said Garson.
    Separdo looked down at Anita Luac. “I will trouble you for the return of my rifle, Nita.”
    “I think I’ll borrow it for the rest of the day,” she said. “Maybe I’ll find a target to my liking.”
    He stared at her, turned to the man standing behind him on the ground, then looked to another of the riders. “Jorge! Give Pánfil another drink.”
    Then Garson realized that the Mexican who had thrown the piece of wood was drunk, swaying, eyes glassy. One of the riders handed a bottle of tequila to the standing man.
    “Tómelo!” snapped Separdo.
    The man on the ground stared up at Separdo, lifted the bottle to his lips, drained it, threw the bottle to the creekbank.
    “Pánfil was