The First Gunslinger on Mars

He had stopped the air from leaking out of his suit, but he couldn't stop the blood from leaking out of his leg.  It probably wasn't too bad - just a graze, really - but it didn't take much to kill you, out on the surface.  A rover malfunction, a damaged suit, an injury: any of these might have been enough on their own, and he'd had all three today.  But he was still alive, at least for now; that's more than could be said for the three scavengers laid out around his rover.

They had probably picked up his trail shortly after he had entered the canyon, three days ago.  By the second day, he had notice their rover, a long ways back, but slowly gaining on him, and by yesterday, their dogged pursuit and radio silence had made their intentions clear.

Everyone knew the stories, of course, about the raiding parties in these lawless side canyons.  The main canyon of Valles Marineris was the heartland of Mars, with growing cities and sprawling farmland, each cell tented to hold in its air.  But here in the rugged canyons that rose up toward the highlands, hard folks lived in harder holes, waiting for opportunity to pass their way, as he had.

His rover had nearly made it through this dangerous stretch of country - dangerous even by the standards of Mars - when a failed wheel forced him to stop.  By the time he had it changed out, they were nearly upon him.  But with his destination just over twenty kilometers away, he figured that he would be there before they could close the gap...

[To be continued.]