THREE

Luther Gumpson blinked a few times. An orange blob floated before his eyes, but the blinks disciplined it, ordered it until it was revealed as a human face, the lean face of a brown-haired man.

"Hello," said the face. "How do you feel?"

Luther thought about that. He was used to taking inventories in the morning, but he was usually checking to make sure all his money was in place and his weapons were ready. Now his brain was working on something more elemental—making sure his body, his temple, was still intact. He felt a slight pressure behind his eyes, felt small sparks of pain arcing across the top of his head.

"Fine, in general, I believe," Gumpson heard himself say. His mouth had moved before his brain had advised it. "Who are you?"

The face stood frozen before his, and did not reply. The man seemed to be sizing him up. Probably looking for a fight, looking to kick him when he was down. Why exactly was he down? The last thing he remembered was sitting before the fire, eating his biscuit and hardtack, drinking his whiskey. Now he was here, wherever here was, and this strange man was staring at him, ready to mix it up. Gumpson made a fist and got ready to duke it out.

Or at least he tried to make a fist. His brain sent the signals but his fingers steadfastly refused to move.

"Don’t be alarmed," the face said. "You can’t move just yet. You’re under observation."

The face was not kidding. He literally could not move at all. His eyelids seemed to work, and his mouth, but no muscle that could transport him anywhere seemed up to the task. Gumpson looked around. He was not near his campfire anymore. He was not even outside anymore, by the looks of it. All he could see was a silver room, which was brightly illuminated even though no candles or windows were evident. The light almost hurt his eyes.

After a moment, when his eyes cleared a little further, he could make out movement. Flaming torches were moving around in the background. Well, that was it. Luther, old boy, you obviously are dead. For a minute he thought maybe the old biscuit had done him in, but then remembered the intruders who had appeared from nowhere and blasted him with something. He was not aware of any Colts or Remingtons that could shoot green fire, but maybe that was just what a dead man saw when a bullet was fired at him. Whatever sort of gun it was, it had obviously done the trick. Here he was in a room lit by no visible light, surrounded by what looked like angels. This was not of this Earth; he had to be dead. The only thing he was not quite sure about was whether this place was Heaven or Hell. If it was Hell, he figured it was not so bad. If this was Heaven, it was definitely not up to expectations.

The orange-faced stranger noticed where Gumpson’s eyes were pointed.

"I see your eyes have not quite adjusted. Blink three times, please."

Upon lengthier inspection, the torches were revealed to be people, all milling around like clerks in a bank. They were dressed like no bank clerks he had ever seen, and he had seen more than a few. They all wore what looked like metal suits. The suits obviously weren’t really metal, because he didn’t hear any clanking, but they were shiny like silver. The people in them all seemed to have bright blonde hair, just like the strangers he had seen the night before. In fact, the only people in the room who didn’t have blonde hair were Gumpson himself and this orange-faced man who was looking at him.

"Where the hell am I?" Gumpson said, a choice of words he instantly regretted. "What is going on here? Who are these people?"

One of the blonde-haired men appeared at the side of the orange-faced man. His face suddenly appeared orange, too, as if he was basking in the light of a fire when he peered at his captive. Angels would have blonde hair, wouldn’t they? Gumpson thought.

"Initial scan done," the new man said. "Intelligence below average. No major physical defects. Small mole on left arm could be pre-cancerous, but initial scan inconclusive. Blood stream indicates recent alcohol consumption, but no long-term liver damage detected. Subject has a slight headache, possibly as a result of last night’s encounter, or from the alcohol, or both. Aside from that, he is in good shape."

"Fine. Is that all?" said the other man.

"There is one thing. Subject indicates very high hand-to-eye coordination, involving primarily the right eye and the right hand. Very high. Among the highest we’ve encountered among your type."

The orange-faced man nodded gravely. Fear shot through Gumpson’s mind. He had been dwelling on the insult about his intelligence when he was heartened by the news that his liver was okay, but now this. What was wrong with his hand and his eye? He was a good shot, a quick draw, and hadn’t noticed any problems. He could pick a bottle off a fence at two hundred yards without hardly having to aim. Had he lived some decades before, he could have been one of those Wild West gunslingers all the penny novelists wrote about. What was wrong with his hand and his eye?

"Will I live?" he asked the orange-faced man in a voice that betrayed a tremble.

The man’s face drew close.

"That’s really not up to us," he said and, to Gumpson’s surprise, winked.

Gumpson remembered his earlier confusion.

"Am I alive now? Is this Heaven?"

The man smiled but did not respond. He did something with his left arm and suddenly Luther felt very sleepy.