Worlds of Edgar Rice Burroughs by Mike Resnick, Robert T. Garcia Page B

the solitude and beauty I craved, and so I had rented a cabin that was once owned by a famous writer and set up housekeeping.
    This day was to remain in my memory for a long time, although it began innocently enough. As usual I was off at daybreak, wandering through the hills and canyons, sketching, photographing, and generally exploring in my amateur fashion. I had borrowed a horse but could see no reason for making him carry my weight during the heat of the day and spent most of the time during my excursions leading him by the rope that was attached to his halter.
    Returning to my two-room cabin just before twilight, I watered the horse and went inside to prepare my dinner on the primitive stove. The sun had set and the skies had turned dark long before I finished my meal, and as I peered through the window I could almost see the long-gone warriors of Geronimo seated in council or donning their war paint. I have always been a daydreamer, and so I turned, supporting my chin on my hands, and gazed at the Apache warriors. They were dancing now, all except one who was facing my cabin, and I could imagine the horror their martial war-whoops must have inspired in the breasts of our early cowboys and settlers.
    Then one warrior, the one who had not partaken in the dance, began approaching, which apparitions are not supposed to do. I closed my eyes and shook my head vigorously. When I looked again, the Apache village had returned to the inner recesses of my mind, but the warrior was still coming toward me, and as he did so I thought I could hear the clanking sound of metal upon metal.
    Finally, when he was within a few feet of the cabin door, he stopped, and in a strong masculine voice called out a single word: “Nephew?”
    “Who’s there?” I demanded, drawing my revolver. “Friend or enemy?”
    “From the tone of your voice I assume that I’m not a friend,” he answered in a calm voice. “You’ll have to accept my word that I’m not an enemy.”
    I opened the door, my gun cocked, and was startled by the sight that greeted my eyes. There, not three feet away, stood a tall, handsome, clean-limbed man. His hair was black, his eyes gray, his face ruggedly handsome. He wore only a jeweled harness of unearthly design, and at his side hung a longsword, a shortsword, a dagger, and a strange-looking pistol. Immediately I holstered my revolver and, stepping forward, extended my hand.
    “John Carter!” I exclaimed as he took my hand in his firm grasp. “It could be none other than you!”
    “Then you know of me?” he asked pleasantly.
    “Know of you? I was brought up on the Martian stories! But come inside and tell me what brings you to Earth.”
    “Nothing of great importance,” he replied, following me into the living room. “I returned primarily to see my nephew. I met him in this very cabin once before, and I had hoped that he might be here again.”
    “Do you mean Edgar Rice Burroughs?” I asked, and he nodded. “I’m afraid he’s been dead for a number of years.”
    A look of sadness spread across his face.
    “I had feared as much,” he said at last, “but this is the first chance I have had to visit my native planet since I saw him last.” He rose and walked slowly to the door. “This shall, I believe, be my last voyage across the void which separates Earth from my beloved Barsoom, for I now have no ties to return to.”
    “No!” I said. “You must not deny us more tales of Mars; it would be too great a loss!”
    He turned to me with a questioning expression on his face,
    “Let me bring your adventures to the world!” I pleaded.
    He shrugged his shoulders and sat down. “Why not?” he said with a smile. “Where shall I begin?”
    “Let me see,” I said. “I never found out what happened to Tan Hadron of Hastor. Did you ever see him again?”
    “That,” he replied, leaning back in his chair, “would make a most interesting and unusual story. Perhaps you would like to hear it?”
    I assured