This desert was inhospitable. Nomads and outlaws even avoided this place. The Jara Waste it was called. It really was a waste, a waste of time. That’s all Laksho had however. Time. After the death of his father, all he could do was keep moving. Unfortunately, the death of his father meant that numerous political factions, which had various interests in the West, would have liked to see Laksho dead. Laksho knew this. He also knew he was being followed.
“I ran out of biscuits,” he said talking to himself, stumbling through the desert. “Too bad that’s not my biggest problem right now.”
He stopped a moment to look around. “What I need is water.”
He took the only water bladder he had and opened it just like he’d done for the fourth time that day. It was still empty.
“Now why should I expect this to be any different now?” he asked himself.
Thirsty and frustrated, he threw the leather bladder down. Now that he wasn’t focused so intensely on his own thirst, he took another moment to soak in his surroundings. His ear twitched and he immediately drew his sidearm. His nickel-plated Colt Peacemaker glistened in what bit of sunlight was making it through the thick, dusty wind. Three masked men in black came riding over the hill behind him. Finally, he thought, he could end this little game of chase. He had no intentions of going back to New York to sign over his shares of the Union-Pacific railroad. The three men stopped their horses and dismounted.
“Laksho, we’re the-”
“Stop!” Laksho interrupted. “I know who you are and I know what you want.”
The leader of the group stepped towards Laksho. “The railroad just-”
“Not going to happen,” Laksho interrupted again while checking the cylinder of his revolver.
“Leave me alone or meet your maker!”
The three men looked at each other for a moment. Laksho knew what was about to happen. The railroad police were oftentimes ex-military men who got bored. Many of them took up the railroad badge because the railroad was willing to hire, let's say, men of less desirable quality. These men were willing to cheat, steal, or kidnap anyone who stood in the way of the railroad. They had one purpose here, however. Capture or kill. It was time.
Just then the wind picked up and a huge wall of dust shrouded everyone’s vision. The three railroad police split up. They knew splitting up would increase the chances of at least one of them surviving. Laksho backpedalled in order to keep all three targets in front of him. Backpedalling in sand was difficult, even for strong men. The three killers surrounded him quickly. One gained enough courage to close in on Laksho. Laksho caught him, however, and put two shots in him. He went down hard. Laksho thought it was odd how sand can still make a thud sound sometimes. The other two men took that opportunity to throw ropes around Laksho. One got around his torso, including his upper arms. The other rope wrapped up his gun hand.
The closest railroad man punched him right in the face. Laksho thought he might actually die at this moment. He probably would have simply given up at some point. Good riddance, he thought. Out of nowhere he heard a fast whizzing sound go past his head. The railroad man behind him fell to his knees. Laksho looked back to find an arrow in the man’s chest, right at his heart. The other railroad man immediately stopped and began to scan for this new threat. He took an arrow to the knee and fell down.
“Aw hell!” the man said. “This is what adventure gets me. I guess New York is-”
The next arrow hit the man right in the throat. He went down.
“I guess New York isn’t in your cards, fool!” Laksho said, though he knew the man didn’t live long enough to hear him say it.
Laksho stood up and removed the ropes from his body. A lone native dismounted his horse and approached. He was an old Apache warrior from the looks of him.
“Thanks, but I didn’t need your help,” Laksho said.
He holstered his Colt revolver. The Apache warrior threw a single bladder of fresh water. Eyes wide open in disbelief, Laksho stumbled in the sand to catch it.
“Now this… “ Laksho opened the bladder and took a few gulps of the cool water, “ this is what I needed. What’s your name, Apache?”
“My name is Vishwa!”
Author: Deepak Chopra and Shamik Dasgupta
Artist: Abhishek Singh et al.
Title: Ramayan 3392 AD Vol. 1: Mahavinaash Age
Year: 2007
Author's Note
I've decided to return to the Western setting yet again. I seem to have the most fun writing in this style and it comes really easy. This story is a retelling of a scene in the Ramayana: 3392AD graphic novel where Lakshman is attacked by three agents who are attempting to take him. Lakshman is eventually saved by none other than Vishwamitra. The plot here follows the original story almost exactly the same. The names are changed but similar to the original. Once
again the biggest changes are pretty much the plot devices and the setting that
enables this story to be told in this Western style. The names are again simply
very similar or modified versions of the original names. I chose to retell this
particular story because it was easy to retell in this Western style, partly
due to the setting of the original story is Lakshman in a desert. The image I
chose here is a very simple image of an Apache warrior on horseback. I think
this image fits this story very well, even though I had trouble yet again
finding an image that was reusable. This story fits the purpose of my project
quite well, in that it’s another Western story to go along with my others.
