Free 7th Sigma by Steven Gould Page B

before, it had taken him over twenty minutes to get the cinch off, so he doubled the end back in a slipknot. He didn’t knee Suze in the belly as Mr. Kenney had recommended, but he waited, watching her breathing, and tightened the strap again, and then again.
    On this last one Suze whuffed, turned her head, and looked back at him reproachfully.
    He’d made even better time than he’d thought. He reached Nuevo Santa Fe’s south gate by noon, in time to stable Suze and get the cabrito tacos at Griegos.
    Marisol had given him a script for the medicine and he only had to wait a half hour at the TMS pharmacy before receiving several disk-shaped inhalers, nasal sprays, and some pump-operated “rescue” inhalers. “These ones are tricky. Outside the territory they use pressurized ones, but they’re metal.” The pharmacist talked about their use and gave him a ream of instructions for Ruth to read.
    Next he took an order and check to Retterson & Morales, building supplies. The dojo walls were as high as they were supposed to be and the concrete roof beams had been laid in place. “Our freighter will deliver the roof tiles before the end of September,” they assured him.
    He felt odd being back in the capital—the bustle seemed louder, more frenetic. The loiterers seemed scarier. He felt like it had changed on him, but he realized it was really he who’d changed.
    He saw people he’d known slightly, who would have greeted him a year ago. Now they glanced at him and squinted, like his face was teasing their memories without effect. He was feeling sad about this when he ran square into César Castellanos.
    â€œKim-BULL. Where you been, man? I thought sure the Rangers dragged you off, but then they came around again last week, so I knew they didn’t.”
    Kimble had been about to name his new home but stopped mid-word. “Perr—they’ve been asking for me? By name?”
    â€œThey were asking for Kim Creighton, but someone must’ve recognized you from the new photo ’cause now they’re asking for Kimble, too.”
    â€œThey have a new photo?”
    â€œThey’ve got the old one, but they also have one of those aged-by-computer ones. That one looks a lot more like you.”
    Kimble fought the urge to look around for Rangers. He took out the floppy cloth hat he’d been wearing while riding and put it on his head.
    â€œSo where have you been?”
    He thought he could trust César but he didn’t want Rangers showing up at Ruth’s door. “Better you should be able to say, ‘I don’t know.’ Right? I mean, why add one more thing you’d have to talk about at confession.”
    César laughed. “But you’re all right? I mean, you look good. You’re nowhere near as skinny as you were.”
    â€œI’m good. I’ve got a good place to live, good work, and good schooling. And I’d rather not be dragged back to my good-for-nothin’ old man and ruin it.”
    They talked about mutual friends, acquaintances, and enemies. César’s voice was deeper and he informed Kimble that he was walking out with Jessica Potter from his parish.
    â€œWhat’s that on your lip?” Kimble kidded.
    â€œThat’s my mustache.” It wasn’t a very definite mustache.
    â€œThat’s a relief,” said Kimble. “I was afraid it was a caterpillar. A very sick caterpillar.”
    â€œWell, Jessica likes it so you can just shove it up your—”
    â€œGreat seeing you.”
    Before talking to César he’d planned to leave the next morning but now Kimble moved through the mid-afternoon crowds to the stables, trying to exude casualness. He panicked a bit at Southgate, when he saw an entire troop of Rangers lined up through the gate, not mounted yet, but apparently headed out. Their saddle holsters all held the composite gyro rifles and they all had