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is the place where that hippie went. And this is where he changed Time, the
future and the past. Where he did the dirty deed that we must reverse."
"What about that Time Ticker of yours, Mr. Time Cop?" asked Bill.
"Ah, yes. Little problem with that item!" Elliot pointed down. The mechanism
was on the ground, dial faces cracked, obviously inoperative.
"Well, at least you can try and fix it!" said Bill, screaming with
incredulity. "I mean, we've got to do something to find out where we are!"
Elliot was staring off into the distance. "Hmm. I believe we are about to
experience a valuable clue into
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Bill, the Galactic Hero on the Planet of The Hippies From Hell that matter,
friend Bill."
"Clue?" Bill turned around in the direction Elliot was facing. Sure enough,
approaching them was a rooster-tail of dust.
And the cause of that upraised dust was definitely not roosters, though Bill
and Elliot would certainly have cause to wish they had been, later.
CHAPTER 9
They came in a clattering of hooves and a flurry of war whoops, an advancing
effluvium of poorly dried animal skins, horse puckey and buffalo chips wafting
out before them.
They rode strange and ferocious four-legged animals that Bill recognized from
WESTERN
HISTORICAL HORROR comix as being gorses or horses or something like that. The
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warriors mounted on the gorses' backs or was it morses? had eyes that were
glaring wild, while their faces and bodies were streaked with war paint.
Trailing backward in the wind were feathered headdresses like proud animal
manes, flashing brilliantly in the sun.
Ca rack!
Something whooshed close to Bill's ear.
Woo-HOOOOOSH!
Pointed feather shafts hurtled past them, burying their barbed heads in the
sand or thunking into cactus.
"Arrows!" screamed Elliot. "They're shooting arrows at us, Bill!"
"Bullets with feathers!" howled Bill, already turned about-face and starting
on the first footfall of a frantic run. "They're shooting feathered bullets at
us, Elliot!"
With a clatter of hoofbeats, the pursuing war party sprinted the few remaining
yards, splitting in two as they did so to surround the fleeing time travelers.
Bill found himself suddenly confronted by a pair of fierce-eyed savages,
pointing particularly sharp-looking lances at them.
Bill thought it wise to stop in his tracks and throw up his arms in immediate
surrender. Elliot did likewise, but added the even wiser maneuver of falling
on his knees in total and abjectly quivering defeat.
Seeing that this was the best of all possible recourses in their present
hopeless situation, Bill tumbled as well.
The wild-eyed savages hauled on the reins of their steeds, pulling up just
short of the visitors. The lances were not withdrawn however; rather, Bill, to
his extreme discomfort, found a razor-sharp length of steel attempting
frontier barber duty at his throat.
"Ugh!" said a commanding voice behind them.
"I thought so," said Elliot, having difficulty talking, since an identical
length of metal had been jabbed next to his throat. "Indians!"
"You mean, the kind that were playing cricket against Sir Dudley's team?" said
Bill.
"No, no, Bill. Red Indians. North American plains Indians of
nineteenth-century, lost-but-not-forgotten, Earth! I don't wish to brag, but I
did rather well in history in Time School."
"How do you know for sure?"
"We appear to be somewhere in an unpopulated area of the American Southwest,
these guys sure look like something out of my favorite John Whine movie, FORT
SCROFULA and besides, 'Ugh' is a definite Indian word of surly greeting."
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Bill, the Galactic Hero on the Planet of The Hippies From Hell
"Utter rubbish," said the same voice. "I was merely expressing my extreme
disgust at your repulsive presences!"
Bill turned around.
Standing tall in his saddle was a particularly noble-looking redskin, his
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