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Buck Johnson: The Dragon Drive?

Wyatt McLaren

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Wyatt McLaren

This is a work of fiction. The characters are nothing more than inventions of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, places, or institutions on Earth is purely coincidental.

This story is included in the five-story collection titled Dragon Wrangler Collection I.

Buck Johnson: The Dragon Drive?

Buck Johnson had his hat brim pulled down nearly to his nose. He’d been squinting so long he now had a low-grade headache. Terul’s second sun was just beginning to slide below the stony horizon, and Buck had been facing into the glare of a double sunset for over three hours. And he was sick of it—sick of the glare, sick of the heat and sulfurous dust, and especially sick of trying to herd almost two hundred refractory young dragons in a straight line toward Skrintax. And now that he thought about it, he found that he was also mighty sick of the smell of dragon dung.

He should have been riding point like the top hand he was. But, no, here he was in the drags, bringing up the rear, pushing sullen dragons where they didn't want to go, hot and dusty and dry, all because his korth had come up about half lame. And it hadn’t helped that Skeeter Evans was in the depths of one of his contagious depressions, refusing to do anything very difficult or even slightly undignified. And they were only two days out—which didn’t portend anything good for the rest of the drive.

But, finally, dusk and a little relief were approaching. So Buck called Skeeter on the telcom embedded in his saddle horn: “Skeet. Skeet! Dammit, Skeet, can you hear me?”

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